My first glimpse of Antarctica

I spent two days in Denver getting ready for our big trip. We — a group of about 130 people — were to be the second flight into McMurdo this season. Eventually (once we knew our jobs), we would relieve the “winter-overs” – a stalwart group of about 100 isolationists who’d stayed at the station all winter long through cold and darkness and without shipments, mail or escape. Although we were scheduled on the second flight, we were wondering if we’d catch up to the first. A C-17 planeload of people were swilling suds in New Zealand waiting for a flight, with Antarctic storms grounding their flight two days running. We too were hoping for bad weather; I’d love to find Frodo on the company dime!

But we were here to work, our Denver employees reminded us. And work in Antarctica requires orientation.  Orientation was the typical power point marathon, about what you’d expect in getting about 100 of us clued in on basics about the program, safety and expectations. There was paperwork to fill out, travel funds to collect (yay!) and a food safety class to attend under a tree at the Raytheon headquarters.

Of course, my favorite part about getting oriented was meeting my fellow ice people, and getting the skinny on McMurdo life over beers and good meals. Eat “freshies” while you can, they tell me. Apparently I’ll be scraping a lot of chicken from future plates.

In New Zealand, I slurped up as much green as I could at the Christchurch’s botanical garden, my eyes pulling at the landscape so hard, there was a suck noise like a kid at a chocolate milkshake.

I’d been reminded to wash my eyes in as much green as possible before the whitewashed landscape of Ant. My ears perked up too, and I filled them with Michigan summer night chorus of frogs and crickets and the Denver/New Zealand song of laughter among new friends.

I didn’t blame her; my room looked like the aftermath of REI fire sale.  Fleece and camp crap every which where. When it came to packing for six months in Antarctica, I was way out of my element.

So I did what any good dummy should do, and asked for help from the experts. Say, Antarcticans, what should I bring to your fair continent? The responses varied widely.

Bring Liquor, one said. Bring Whiskey, another said. Stuff your USAP parka with bottles of liquor, another said. See? Wide and varied responses.

One feller took an unexpected turn with “bring Burt’s Bees products.” Moisturizing is key on the Ice, he said. And while marinating your liver in booze is also key, soaking your hands in liquor won’t help.

Besides the booze, everyone said the same thing: don’t be a zealous new kid over-packer. You can get everything here, they insisted. But I overpacked anyway, unwilling to sacrifice my romantic notion of penguins and polar ice for Starbucks and strip malls.

As usual, the truth is somewhere in between. And my rebellion only means I’ll have to lose about 10 pounds before the flight to Antarctica.

LIFE CHALLENGE  

Published: Thursday, August 6, 2009 7:11 PM EDT

Former News Advocate reporter ready to embark to Antarctica

By KEN GRABOWSKI
Associate Editor

MANISTEE — Some people go through life fearing to do anything out of the ordinary, while others push the “excitement” envelope to the maximum, as they are always looking for a new challenge to test their abilities to the fullest capacity.

Former Manistee News Advocate reporter Allison Batdorff is someone who falls into the latter category, as she is always looking for new and exciting challenges in her life. The 33-year-old journalist has taken on a wide variety of jobs, and experiences in her young life that have virtually taken her around the world.

However, after virtually circling the world from a lateral direction, she now appears to be taking on the challenge of tackling it from a perpendicular perspective. The reason for that is later this month, Batdorff is about to embark to McMurdo Station in Antarctica where she will remain for the next 6 to 12 months working as part of the support staff at that scientific center.

Batdorff won numerous writing awards during the time she was a reporter for the Manistee News Advocate from 2000 to 2004. During her time at the News Advocate, she took on many unique challenges that resulted in award winning stories. Some of the things she tackled were paddling the length of the Big Manistee River in a canoe, walking and camping in a small tent along the North Country Trail in the middle of winter, and going for a ride with Coast Guard Station Manistee in their 47-foot boat during extremely hazardous weather conditions.

After leaving the News Advocate, Batdorff worked for two and a half years in Cody Wyoming in a bureau position for the Billings Gazette. From there, she spent three years in Japan working for the Stars and Stripes newspaper, and then moved on to Sicily for four months. She has been back in the United States for the past four months working in the Detroit area before this opportunity came up.

Batdorff isn’t going into the position at McMurdo Station as a journalist, but the opportunity was just too much for her to pass up. In fact, she laughs at what she will be doing in Antarctica, but said it is an opportunity she would have done anything to experience in the land down under.

Even though Batdorff will be going for the start of the summer season life, will be quite harsher than what she has ever experienced in the past. Summer in Antarctica is unlike anywhere else in world.

“It’s not like I am going on vacation,” Batdorff laughed. “Even though it is going to be their summer when I am there, they say the temperature can run anywhere from 50 degrees below zero, to 46 degrees above.

After a four-month lull in activity considered typically “interesting,” a local girl finally has something to exciting to report.

Allison Batdorff, of Bloomfield, Michigan, received news this week that she received a position that will put her to work in Antarctica. And while the job itself isn’t typically considered “interesting,” Antarctica certainly is, she said.

“Antarctica – by it’s nature – is a very interesting place,” said Batdorff. “Cold, perhaps, but interesting.”

Batdorff admitted that she still had to clear the requisite medical and dental hurdles, but, if all goes well, she will leave for the icy continent this August and return in February.

An upswing in self-indulgent blog entries is planned, as people are more likely to read about penguins and leopard seals rather than hummingbird sightings at her parent’s bird feeder, Batdorff said.

“I can finally blog about myself again,” said Batdorff, whose blog of late has consisted of snarky opinions on world news and fairly humdrum accounts of her mundane life. “It’s a relief.”

Batdorff plans on buying a camera and flooding the World Wide Web with droll accounts of her life in Antarctica.

“Even if I’m writing about scraping dishes, it’s scraping dishes in Antarctica, which makes it interesting,” Batdorff said.  She will first, however, have to learn to spell the Antarctica without the aid of spell check, as there may be no spell check at the bottom of the world, she said.

“I always forget that first ‘c’,” Batdorff said.

Batdorff has spent the last four months at home with her parents working several food service and bookkeeping jobs. And while she termed the situation “wonderful” and “relaxing,” it certainly isn’t that interesting, she said.

“On the rocks, sir?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says.

We stand there a minute, he on his side of the bar, me on mine, taking in the marina scenery. It’s a blustery day for the wedding expo open house aboard the yacht. This expo happens to be for same-sex marriages. The yacht routinely sails into Canadian waters where same-sex marriage is no big whup. But the cold wind on this day — like American politics on same-sex marriage — is all pointless bluster. And because no one wants Nature’s I-SO-messed-up-what-you-did-in the-mirrors-look, the bar is pretty lonely. I chat up the hydrator. 

“What brings you aboard, sir? Are you getting married?” 

“No, but I’d like to,” he says in a shower of spit.

He speaks in a spit fountain. Bubbling saliva bursts forth from his teeth, arced like the peeing angel on an English lawn. 

“Oh?” I ask, grabbing a Sani-wipe to discreetly clear the droplets from the bar. 

“I’d love to be married, but I can’t find any candidates,” he says. He’s joking, yet serious. 

“Well, you might get lucky here,” I say, helpfully. “You won’t find any commitment-phobes at a marriage expo.”

“No. I won’t. It never works. I can’t meet the right kind of people,” he says. “I see who my friends set me up with and I say ‘who do you think I am?’ One of my friends set me up with a Republican! I didn’t speak to him again!”

More spit accompanies the speech but now I’m keenly interested in his predicament. I instantly want to defend his friends and the concept of opposites attracting. 

“Well your friends are just trying to help, right? And maybe opposites attract? I mean, it’s possible that people with different politics can make it work, right?”

He considers this, reconsiders and parries. 

“My parents are opposites and they’ve been married over 50 years,” he says. “But they both are Democrats.”

Hmmm. It’s a toughie. But you got to keep trying to connect, right? Even with people who are your opposites. Otherwise you get too lonely, too uncompromising, too set in your ways. I ask his opinion, trying not to focus on the white blobs collecting at the corners of his mouth. 

He says he agrees. Then sighs.

“It might be too late for me. But I have to keep trying. It’s freezing up here.”

He wanders away with his glass of ice water, carrying his lavender marriage expo goody bag.

I feel bad: bad for him, bad for his friends who likely bear the brunt of his ire, bad for his dates who probably can’t get past the overactive salivary glands.

I feel bad for thinking childish thoughts like “Say it, don’t spray it! I want the news not the weather.”

And yet, this man inspires me. For all his cynical talk, he came to the marriage expo, his romantic nature obviously intact.  He came up to the sun deck on a windy day when everyone else stayed inside.

 U.S. Soldier Kills 5 of His Comrades in Iraq

Mardi Gras in New Orleans

Mardi Gras in Madison

Stu insisted that I blog about last night’s adventures. This could prove difficult. My memory is still a bit fuzzy. Let’s just say my morning’s inbox was filled with replies to e-mails I don’t remember sending.

But, hey, it was Fat Tuesday and these things happen. And while Madison isn’t one of the world’s carnevale hotspots (it was 35 degrees yesterday), here are some reasons that make Wisconsin a good place for pre-Lenten fun!

How Madison’s Fat Tuesday Puts the Sin in Wisconsin: A List

1. People wear both feathers and masks for Wisconsin Mardi Gras! Ski masks and goose-down parkas.

2. No watered-down drinks are served! (because they’d turn to ice and the bar would be BUSTED!)

3. Madison celebrates Fat Tuesday at a German Restaurant called the Essen Haus. “German Mardi Gras?” you ask. Yep. Me too. I got beer steins, hot pretzels and a cajun band for my answer. But without this, I never would have learned that “Fasching!” is German for Mardi Gras. Fasching sounds more like a perversion than a party, but when in Wisconsin…

4. People don’t take off their clothes on Mardi Gras. They keep them on. Wisconsin weather makes shrinkage a significant factor in the Mardi Gras equation. Nobody wants to see your shriveled weinerschnitzel — even at the Essen Haus. Beads may prompt someone into strip-teasing off a scarf, but that’s about it.

5. Bars are overrun with packs of rowdy software salesmen, pushing 50 yet who never really left the frat house. They put the fat in Fat Tuesday. This is their night.

6. You meet people with names like T-Bone, Flinner, Lefty and Fuzzy Periwinkle (see above). A text from Carol at 9:35 at night: “I’m overrun by old dudes. Help!” 

7. Beers are served by the boot. One boot holds two liters of beer. A pair of boots hold four liters of beer. After drinking a boot, you feel like you’ve been kicked in the face with one. 

8. The boot has rules. It must be passed from person-to-person without resting on the table Spilling means spanking. There’s flicking before and after sipping. And the person who passes the boot to the one who finishes it has to buy another one. It’s all very difficult to remember. So when in doubt, chug the boot so you won’t get stuck with the bill.

9. This is the only place where you can shout “Hey! Cow!” and the waitress will bring you beer.  Spit-free even! Spotted Cow beer is a local favorite. So is name-shortening. 

10.  Instead of a washboard, the cajun band plays a snow-blower. Okay, not really. But the triangle player had to quit the set after his tongue stuck to his instrument. 

Happy Ash Wednesday! I’m happily giving up beer boots for Lent!

Bahia Honda State Park

Day One: 20 degrees to 50 degrees (Detroit to Marathon Key)

Pam didn’t ring the bell when she came to pick me up for the airport this morning. She pulled in the driveway and popped the trunk, not moving from her toasty car with the heat vents blasting. Can’t say I blame her. It was a Michigan February, the air clocking in at a nippy 20-degrees. So why was I smiling? I was flying south for the winter, a dreaded snowbird migrating down to Florida for a week or so.

“We are the smartest people in the Metro Detroit area,” one passenger said, shivering in a tee shirt as she clunked her six carry-on bags down the aisle of our budget airline. Her comment prompted a collective murmur of agreement — even a couple of high-fives. 

Yes, we were smart. Goodbye, gray freeze of winter. Enough with the sickness and runny noses.  The winter whining. The daily scrape and grind of shovels, scrapers and snowplows. We were brilliant for leaving the state and congratulated each other accordingly. As we landed, a cheer greeted the news from the flight deck: our destination was a sunny 53 degrees.

Once we reached Ft. Lauderdale, the snowbirds were easy to spot among the native population. They looked like candy canes: pale and pasty (arrivals) or sunburned  (departures). They were the ones rationalizing mid-day margaritas and heinous tropical prints with the same unarguable logic – it’s vacation and it’s warm. We snowbirds were also the only ones smiling at the fifty-degree weather, which was unseasonably cold for Florida. We were like those peppy birthday cards “50 is Nifty!”  but the locals just look cold and unhappy.

an unhappy local

Day Two: High 55 degrees

Arrived late last night on the Keys Shuttle bus. Most of my fellow shuttle-buddies were Midwestern, including a couple of fellows from Michigan. We all got a little choked up when we saw the sun, and trees with leaves on them.

Floridians say it’s too cold. Fifty degrees and I’m searing my retinas, grinning stupidly at the orb in the sky. But Florida residents are inside and scowling. The burrowing owls won’t show themselves and the local news is full of strange tales of frozen iguanas falling out of trees. Florida people are bundled up in sweaters but I’m wearing shorts. Think I’ll take a dip in that water. (It’s not even frozen!!)

Day Three: High 61 degrees

I was the only person swimming at the beach. I know, I know: Never Swim Alone. But no one else would go in with me. In fact, the closest people came to the water was to shout at me “How’s the water?” but before I’d answer, they’d laugh and say something like “Cold enough for you?” and walk away. Weird. Get the feeling I look like a tourist.

Day Four: High 63 degrees

Hmmm. Getting a complex. The guy on the fishing boat came right up to me and said, “You’re not from around here, are you.” I was cool with that until I realized he wasn’t asking a question.  At the time, I was merely riding in the front of the boat. Okay, so I was the only one in a tee shirt, and yes, I was probably also grinning like a fool — pulling my Labrador-out-the-car-window pose — as we bounced over the windy chop, but come on! The sun was shining! It was over 60 degrees!  Life is grand in Snowbirdland! 

Point if you love Snowbirds!

Day Five: High 71 degrees

We cooked up our catch last night. Surprisingly delicious for fish called “grunts.” Told someone “grunts are good eating,” which I thought sounded very local. But the response was they only ate BIG fish like grouper and snapper. Lah tee dah. So much for fitting in.

Another beautiful day. More ocean swimming. Snowbird plumage transitioning from pasty to peeling.

Day ????: Highs in the 70s to 80s

Losing track of days and time. Deliriously happy. Brains frying in the coco-buttered sun. Drinking beer in the daytime. Napping now and again. Speaking (and writing) in shorter phrases. Words don’t do justice to this wondrous place of warmth every day. It can’t possibly be February! This place is under some kind of enchanted fairyland spell.

Brain dead beach fun

Day ?????: Highs in the 80’s

Relaxed. My face is relaxed. Grunts are more than dinner; it’s a way of life. We have sun. We catch fish. We eat fish. We are happy. We must never leave.

Day Nine: Highs in the 70

Crap. We’re leaving. Smashing my snorkel gear into a suitcase. Frowning into my mojito. Scanning the classified ads in the local newspaper. Am I too old to start a rewarding career in airbrushed tee shirts? Considering a real estate investment.

Cocktail hour getting earlier by the day

Day Ten: 31 Degrees

This time it was groans that greeted the news from the flight deck: we would arrive to 31 degrees in Detroit with a chance of snow.

“Great. Already the S-word and we haven’t even landed,” gripes a passenger.

The S-word awaits us at touchdown in sad, clumpy piles. The passengers also look sad and clumpy. Even the loud Hawaiian shirts are quiet. One soul asks the flight attendant if the captain could take off again and return us to Florida. Those still in their sandals feel the strange sensation of their toes retracting back into their feet when the blast of cold air hits them in the jet way. Once the teeth start chattering, the complaints aren’t far behind about the weather, the wind, and the luggage taking too long on the conveyor belt. The jaws start clacking and I get the feeling like we never left.

back to Michigan ice

(Counter Reset) Day one: 27 degrees

A beautiful sunny day. Crunchy snow underfoot.  My brain appears to be ramping up again — like my clacking jaws, it is trying to stay warm in the cold weather.  A girl comments on my healthy (red) glow, asking jealously “have you been somewhere?”  I know what she means: somewhere warm and lovely, somewhere not here. But all snowbirds must return to its nest, winter plumage of wool slowly returning. So is the smile. It’s good to be home.

Fog adds drama. Fog adds mystery. Fog brings about questions like “Am I going to trip on the cobblestones and break my face?” Our brains knew Erice was there — our feet were attached to something — then again, the medieval city was not there. Thick, pea soup fog obscured everything. We’d see a sign saying “castle,” and look at each other confused.  It’s a dense fog when you lose a 700-year old castle. We’d hear chittering voices yet see nothing until we’d have a near collision with groups of tourists in the street. People held tight to each other — the limited sight distance was freaky enough, but the fog also dropped a slick coat of break-your-face sauce on the cobblestones. It was a surprisingly pleasant way to see — and not see — the city. Funny, as we and everyone else had made the trip for the view. 

Erice, pronounced “Air-eee-chay,” is on top of a big mountain that shares its name. On a clear day, you can supposedly see forever — or at least pretty darn far. From Erice’s 750 meter perch, most folks see the nearby cities of Trapani and Marsala, miles of pink coastline and the islands offshore. This is the view climbing up to Erice BEFORE we popped into the cloud:

Erice is also known for its cute medieval architecture and its cult history of Venus worship. Venus, the Roman goddess of love, gathered devotees for over 2,300 years, inspiring the construction of countless temples, the slaughter of countless animals and Botticelli’s famous “The Birth of Venus.” The painting, in turn, inspired one of humanity’s age-old questions: “How would I look on the half-shell?” The Birth of Venus was also the birth of the body-image issue. 

But Erice’s locals didn’t worship a cookie-cutter Barbie-doll Venus — theirs is home-grown. Temples honor “Venus Erycina,” named for them and representing their vision of love — a vision free of Sandra Bullock and romantic comedy nonsense. The people of Erice apparently were pragmatists (living on a mountain will do that)  and were rather isolated from social norms. Their Venus is thus the embodiment of “impure love” and the patron saint of prostitutes. She was so popular that the animals  walked up to her altar and waited to be sacrificed in her name, according to Roman writer Claudius Aelianus (ca. 175–ca. 235), known as Aelian (and Wikipedia).

 There was indeed something magical about this Erice — from what I could see. And the native animals were unnaturally friendly. One wild kitty ran right up to me and plopped into my lap. I almost tucked it into my camera bag –free souvenir! — but opted against it. A cat from an isolated town known for impure love wouldn’t last too long in our neighborhood.

Before we left, my friends who had been to Erice before pressed me to return, assuring me that if I did I would see – figuratively and literally — why people fall in love with Erice. But even with the fog, I’d felt the town’s charms and the power of Venus. If I’m getting on the half shell, I want some fog, the thicker the better!