Despite the conditions having cleared and settled -- the two prerequisites for aerial photography-- I have another weekend on the ground. Sunday nothing flies, and today, Saturday, only long-planned helo flights are operating, Flights to the Pole are spoken for, as is the energy of the Field Safety Personnel. The reason: DVs -- Distinguished Visitors, primarily a party of Senators and Congressmen and women, including Republican Senators Susan Collins, of Maine, John McCain of Arizona and John Sununu of New Hampshire, along with nine members of the House Science Committee.

More photos Click to enlarge

Two things are important. One, that they get a favorable impression of the quality and importance of the work being accomplished here -- they do write the checks, after all, that keep the lights on around here. Two, that they stay alive long enough to do so. Petty concerns such as mine are not a priority. This gives me ample time to settle into base life for a day or two.

And there really is a base life. In a sense, it is a village, albeit one with rules and rhythms all its own, as dictated both by its peculiar location and history. It is a bit of military base, a bit of college dorm, a bit of high level think-tank, a bit of industrial site. And for many, a bit of summer camp and lifelong dream come true.

Socially, this is artificial. There are no children, no old people. There is nobody with any kind of disability: The medical clearances we have all had to obtain are very, very strict. Those with jobs on base have had to demonstrate the highest qualifications of expertise and skill. Those of us with grants to be here have had to jump through a long series of difficult hoops to get to the point where we actually set foot in an airplane. The mere fact of being here indicates membership in a clan. It is unthinkable to pass someone in a hall, around the settlement, or on a road without acknowledgment -- a wave, a nod, a "how arya?," something.

Everybody lives in a dozen or so two- or three-story dormitory buildings. Everybody has a roommate, some have semi-private bathrooms, others communal ones. Meals are also communal, in the style of any institution: Grab a tray, fill your plate, find a chair. (Food is always plentiful, varied, and tasty; not gaining weight can be a problem.) All of these are great social levelers. The class divides of the U.S. are utterly inapplicable here. There is a sense of common purpose that I find very gratifying, despite the artificiality of the social context.

The sense of isolation from the full brunt of society, and the sense of being surrounded by almost family leads to some quite creative hair, makeup, and other visual cues. I wonder what I am not seeing (there might very well be an underground tattoo salon somewhere around here...). A large bulletin board on Highway 1-- the long, wide corridor through the center of Building 155 which houses the chow hall, the store, housing, financial, recreation, and other offices essential to daily life -- lists numerous activities each day, from sewing clubs, marathon training and races, chess, movies, you name it.

In addition there are three bars, a library, a bowling alley, several exercise facilities. Boredom here, like anywhere else, is a conscious choice. The "Rec" office is one of the larger on Highway 1 -- a sign of the priority placed on morale. The activities generated from this office are too numerous to list, but one I witnessed last week deserves mention: Icestock.

Icestock, held every New Year's Day, is the southernmost annual music festival in the world. It has been going strong since at least 1994 -- its true origins are clouded in the dim mists of time. Some of the 13 bands this year were formed for the event, others are of long standing, composed of musicians whose other jobs bring them back here season after season.

Two 40-foot flatbed semi-trailers (18-wheelers) were placed side by side, making a stage. An old cargo parachute made for a decorative backdrop. On both sides, small cargo containers served as kitchens for the annual chili cook-off. During the music, chili judges and everybody else circulated, their opinions of both music and chili well lubricated by Speights (a popular New Zealand beer). Music varied in genre from garage band and singer-songwriter to several different rock formats. My personal pick was a seven-member bluegrass/acoustic band called 39-Pound Hammer, whose harmonies I found compelling.

This may be off the map in more ways than one (in a Mercator projection, the Antarctic is just a white stripe at the bottom), but that doesn’t mean when it comes to enjoying life we are out of the loop.

Tomorrow: Crypt, catacomb, chapel of ice