What is it about the poles? The North Pole is an abstract point on a frozen sea -- rapidly becoming less frozen, and that is scary. The South Pole is an abstract point on an even more two-dimensional ice cap. Without instruments to alert you that you are at the pole, you wouldn’t notice the difference in any way. But somehow it matters.

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I didn’t get to Pole my first deployment here in 1999. I didn’t ask for it, largely because I knew it would represent a large expenditure of program resources that have to be justified all the way up the line, would not be critical to the visual imagery built into my proposal, and would make my proposal that much harder to say ‘yes’ to.

This time was different. Absolutely central to what I sought was the energy and conflict inherent in the ice of the polar plateau at 10,000 feet being strained through the Transantarctic peaks, descending tumultuously to sea level in vast glaciers such as the Beardmore, colliding as an irresistible force into the immovable object of the Ross Ice Shelf was. Thus, the field plan for my stay on The Ice includes a pole-return item.

The vast majority of the pole flights are in LC-130s. These are four-engine turboprop military transports with about as much attention to creature comforts as an average dumpster. They are however, extremely versatile, reliable, and able in abusive conditions. The last bit is more of a priority in polar conditions: comfort is a minor detail. The ‘L’ part means they ‘land’ on skis as well as wheels.

Hercules --Hercs -- are essentially flying trucks, and this are almost completely windowless; it would have been pointless as an artist and photographer to remain with the passengers in the cargo bay. I had to be ‘cockpit observer’. And what a ride it was. The ice shelf gave way slowly to mountains, clawing at the sky ever more energetically as our flight’s track crossed theirs at a strong bias. It sounds dull: rock, ice. Nothing else. This is a symphony of the utmost range and articulation to everyone who has seen this spectacle, including the flight crew I share these hours with, and they have flown this route repeatedly. My camera was busy, but it wasn’t alone.

The clear sky closes in about 50 miles from the pole. A few miles out I return to my seat in dungeon class with the rest of the cargo, and when I emerge from the plane after we taxi to a stop it looks a bit like a flat, snowy plain with some industrial structures and equipment scattered about. That seems all, although I know that is NOT all.

Knowing that I would have only minutes on the ground (actually ice two miles thick) since the Herc cannot shut down its engines during off loading and reloading, I have arranged to be met by a snow machine to zip me to the pole proper for my obligatory photo op. It turns out that Al Baker -- the NSF science representative at Pole -- is my chauffeur. He takes my portrait with my camera, which is beginning to get a touch sluggish at -15 F. We zoom back to the Herc, and we are off. It is all a bit surreal.

As the Herc taxis about on the ice and during the ascent, I have some time to think about this as I sit in the isolated cargo bay. I would have loved some time to wander about the base and learn something about the people there and how they live and work. How much would I have really learned though in an hour? Three? Would I have learned more about the pole by camping miles away where the station couldn’t be seen? Would 89. 50 be far enough at 10 miles? A whole degree at 89.00 -- 60 miles.

I don’t know precisely why, but I have found the experience of standing at the South Pole very moving. I don’t think it is solely due to my immersion in the history of the first men to see this place -- I have been in comparable situations without that being a factor. Somehow just having set foot at the pole brings a sense of closure to being on The Ice. Sometimes it is precisely our emotive and irrational sides that complete the picture and make us fully human.

Monday: Crack in the heart of The Ice