The Lost Daughter: A Memoir

by Mary Williams

  I thought I hiked the Appalachian Trail because I wanted adventure. I knew then that I hiked it for other reasons as well. I did it because my mother stopped loving me. Not because she was a bad person but because she was tired. I did it because my adoptive mother saw greatness in me. Not because it was there but because it could be. I hiked the trail because my sister’s life was taken. Not because she deserved it but because she lost her way. I hiked the trail in order to free myself from those things in the world that made me tired, overwhelmed me and led me astray, in order to see clearly these women to whom I owed so much. This in turn helped me clearly see myself.

  I chose to end my hike in Crawford Notch, New Hampshire, in a beautiful valley at the entrance to the White Mountain National Forest, just as the leaves were beginning to turn colors. I sat in a deck chair and watched the sun set, the clouds spilling over the mountains. I wished Deborah could have been there to share it with me. I felt her presence as strongly as I did when we were girls, crammed into a little green car, looking up at the blank screen, waiting for a story to begin.

  CHAPTER 14

  AFTER COMPLETING THE AT in early 2008, my relationship with Jane was strained. She had become, unfairly, the reason for everything that was wrong in my life, for my growing feelings of disconnect that filled me with anxiety. I began to reject her advice and support. I pulled away from her even as she struggled to reel me in. At the same time, my Oakland family was weighing heavily on my mind. A small, newly discovered place in my heart believed I needed to reconnect with my Oakland family; a much bigger place was as opposed to the idea as ever. I had already invested so much energy in becoming a badass who didn’t need anybody. I didn’t need my family in Oakland, nor my family in Atlanta. And in my mind there’s only one place real badasses went when they wanted to leave everything and everyone behind: Antarctica.

  My love affair with Antarctica began unexpectedly some years before in an IMAX theater in Atlanta, watching Shackleton’s Antarctic Adventure, a film about Captain Ernest Shackleton, one of the greatest figures of the Heroic Age of Antarctic exploration. He set sail on the vessel Endurance with a crew of twenty-seven to attempt the first crossing of Antarctica from sea to sea via the South Pole. But an early spring brought icy seas that froze his ship fast for ten months in the frigid waters of the Southern Ocean.

  With the advent of spring, the men were hopeful that the climbing temperatures would release the sea’s grip on their vessel. But the spring brought heartache not hope. Instead of releasing them, the fracturing ice put tremendous pressure on the hull of the ship, eventually crushing it and leaving the men stranded on an ice floe. And so began a two-year, seemingly insurmountable struggle that would end with all the men rescued and Captain Ernest Shackleton being hailed as one of the greatest leaders under hardship the world had ever seen.

  I sat in the dark, mesmerized by the grand, otherworldly beauty of Antarctica rolling off the screen like so much confection. How could a place be so beautiful yet so alien? So peaceful yet foreboding? I completely understood Shackleton’s desire to insinuate himself into Antarctica’s good graces despite the fact that to nestle close to such a place, for many in his day, was to welcome in heartache, hardship and often death.

  In my eyes, Shackleton was the ultimate badass. And what girl doesn’t love a badass? Sure he could use a bit of a makeover. The greasy slicked-back hair with a part down the middle reminiscent of Alfalfa from The Little Rascals did little to highlight his hotness, but still I was smitten. After the film, I headed to my local bookstore and bought everything I could find about Shackleton and Antarctica.

  The opportunity to visit the continent did not present itself for several years. It was during some random Internet surfing that I stumbled across a Web site looking for people interested in working in Antarctica. I applied immediately. Several months later, I was hired, pending a very intense physical qualification process in which I would have every orifice poked, prodded and critiqued like a baked squab at the judges’ table on Top Chef. In the end I passed with flying colors.

  I was hired as a general assistant. A GA, in addition to being one of the lowest-paid positions, is a jack-of-all-trades post that also has the added perk of lots of travel on the continent. Antarctic jobs are very competitive and I couldn’t believe I’d made the cut on my first try. I had done it. I was now a participant in the United States Antarctic Program.

  As with my decision to through-hike the Appalachian Trail a few years before, some of my friends and family were a bit baffled by my decision to work in Antarctica. While it is true I am not a fan of the biting cold (biting cold being anything below 50 degrees), I was willing to endure the hardships of Antarctic weather in order to walk in the steps of my hero.

  • • •

  I stepped out of the secure confines of the C-17 Globemaster III, a large military transport aircraft operated by the United States Air Force, into the tail end of winter on the world’s highest, driest, windiest and coldest continent.

  The day was clear and sunny but a marrow-freezing -28 degrees in September. Brutal. My forehead and ears felt like high-powered blowtorches were burning them. My lungs rebelled against the chilled air, and within seconds I was wheezing and coughing like a two-pack-a-day asthmatic. It had been 110 degrees when I left my apartment in Tucson, Arizona, over a week earlier.

  My first steps onto the frozen continent brought to mind something I’d read somewhere about hell. Turns out the prophets’ original depiction of hell was not fire and brimstone. It was a frozen wasteland. A place where a snowball would feel right at home.

  Despite being dressed from head to toe in specialized extreme cold weather gear (ECW), I was still cold. I took a few obligatory photos, then made a beeline for the large orange (unheated) bus that was waiting to take us to McMurdo Station, which would be our home on the ice for the next five months.

  McMurdo Station, also known as Mactown, looked like a small, rundown mining town—not the space-age research base I’d envisioned. There was a fire station, a small hospital, a power plant, dormitories and many other utility buildings in dire need of fresh coats of paint, scattered around in a seemingly haphazard fashion. The roads were unpaved.

  Soon after arriving, I met my new boss, Jesse, a funny, sweet-faced young beauty with long brown hair. Our workplace was easygoing and a lot of fun. We listened to music all day as we went about our duties. Our workspace was in an old building that looked like a funky New York loft inside. Our second-story window provided a majestic view of the sea ice and the Royal Society mountain range.

  My job involved preparing gear packages and survival bags for the scientists and workers to use in the field. I also scheduled training sessions for them on topics such as how to safely drive across a crack in the ice. I learned that safety in the field all boils down to the Boy Scouts’ credo: Be Prepared. The gear packages we prepared consisted of tents, sleeping bags, stoves, survival bags, first aid kits, tools, extra clothing and food. The survival bags had enough food for two people to survive for three days. There was also reading material in each bag. My coworkers competed to imagine the most twisted books to include: Alive, The Donner Party Chronicles and Into Thin Air. In reality we stuffed bags with Sudoku puzzles and Larry McMurtry westerns.

  The most important piece of gear issued to every United States Antarctic Program participant is Big Red: a seven-pound, goose-down-insulated parka with a fur-lined hood, thirteen pockets and a gray patch on the back that reflects radar. The patch comes in handy should Search and Rescue need to find you (or your corpse) in a whiteout.

  Big Red’s raison d’être is to keep you alive. But after a few weeks on ice, you quickly learn its limitations and advantages. Physically overexert yourself in the field in Big Red, on days that are relatively warm, and you are in danger of overheating and committing one of the cardinal sins of cold weather survival: sweating. Sweating in cold weather can be deadly because it can quickly lead to hypothermia.

  These ub
iquitous coats are reused every season, and many show the wear and tear of years of hard use: torn cuffs, frayed collars, stains, patches, faded color. But as with a good lover with a wild past, you quickly come to overlook these imperfections.

  Since everyone wears the same coat nearly every day, a Velcro name tag is adhered to the front pocket in order to distinguish one from another. But in Antarctica, opportunities for entertainment are limited. Thus some folks took great joy in switching the name tags on the coats. So every once in a while someone goes to retrieve their coat from the coatroom after lunch only to find that they have either lost twenty pounds or Big Red has gone through a miraculous growth spurt. And with over a thousand coats on base, it will be a bitch to track your coat down. Ha. Ha. Hee-fucking-larious.

  So how did one improve the odds of not losing one’s coat? You must bond with it. You must become intimately familiar with the myriad characteristics that make your coat unique. Scent, texture, battle scars. Everything. Some became so bonded with their coat that they could walk into a full coatroom and in seconds, like a mother penguin searching for her lost chick among thousands, distinguish their coat from dozens of others.

  I had such a relationship with my Big Red. My coat was one of a few in nearly pristine condition, its only issue being a sticky zipper. Such coats are highly sought after by some Antarcticans. I loved my coat. It got me through Happy Camper hell and any number of forays into the field relatively unscathed.

  One afternoon, I decided to wash my beloved coat. While it was in the dryer, I made the foolish mistake of leaving the laundry room for ten minutes to go to the restroom. When I returned, the dryer was empty and placed on top of it, like some sort of sick offering, was a strange, mangy Big Red. I had fallen victim to the switcheroo. It’s a harsh continent.

  • • •

  The work of the first month centered on getting the station ready for main body. Main body is the group of contract workers and scientists that descend on McMurdo Station a month after the early birds. The season began with 320 of us. It felt fairly crowded at that number. When main body arrived, our ranks swelled to 1,100. Gone were the days of long showers, short lines for meals and relative quiet in the dorms.

  McMurdo Station felt like a big polar summer camp or frat house. Many rooms even had bunkbeds. Most of the residents were outdoor types who had climbed mountains and traveled the world. Many were social outsiders who found it difficult functioning in the rat race.

  Every day the air was charged with excitement as we adjusted to the fact that we were actually “living the dream.” But walking around in a state of wonder is not the safest state of mind for life on the ice. There was a spate of injuries that first month. We were all trained and given the proper gear to work with and live safely, but accidents happened. A friend of mine broke her wrist after flipping a snowmobile. Another sprained an ankle playing soccer; another sprained a wrist after slipping on an ice patch. And yours truly strained her back while shoveling snow. I was promptly put on muscle relaxants and painkillers. I was back to work in a day or so.

  A lot of the injuries can be directly attributed to the cold. Muscles are tenser in cold environments and, when injured, heal slower. Because I often worked outdoors, I suffered from some new ache or pain each day I was on the ice. My knees swelled up for no apparent reason. My neck decided the weight of my head was just too much to support. Some days I felt as if my body had been switched out with that of an eighty-year-old ex-football player with arthritis.

  I held on to the advice from others that my body would eventually acclimate. I had serious doubts. The cold is relentless in its assault. It envelops you like Saran wrap. Insinuates itself into any opening in your clothing. It is like a hungry vampire, but instead of blood it wants to suck all the warmth from your body. All the vitality from your muscles. All the swagger in your step.

  Luckily our station was nice and warm inside. This wonderfully warm space can make you forget you are on the coldest continent in the world. Like the time I wanted to go to the library, which was housed next to my dorm. I grabbed my coat and strolled outside without a hat or gloves. It felt like an invisible ice giant was trying to kill me by strangulation. Within less than a minute my forehead, ears and fingers were screaming for mercy. I had to turn back.

  During the worst of the cold in those early days, I spent all my free time indoors. Those days while I sat on the couch I was perfectly happy to acknowledge my defeat and watch a DVD on my laptop. I was Antarctica’s bitch!

  When I initially told Jane of my desire to work in Antarctica, her first question was a very baffled, “Why?” I told her that, among other things, it would give me the chance to confront my fear of the cold. I promised I’d stay in touch via e-mail, which I did. I wrote lengthy missives each month, entitled “Soul on Ice,” which tickled Jane immensely.

  • • •

  Despite Antarctica’s claim to fame as the highest, coldest, driest and windiest continent, it is surprisingly rich in wildlife. There are seals, penguins, birds and whales. There is nothing living on the continent that doesn’t have the ability to swim or fly away when the katabatic winds start blowing and the temperature begins to drop.

  A katabatic wind, as defined by Wikipedia, is “an Antarctic wind that carries high-density air from a higher elevation down a slope under the force of gravity. The density of cold air over the ice sheets and the elevation of the ice sheets brings into play enormous gravitational energy, propelling the winds well over hurricane force.”

  In Antarctica, it’s all about the weather.

  We were all interested in what the weather was doing. A good day and a bad day can mean more than just being cold. It could determine if we worked or not. Recreated or not. Got trapped in buildings. Got physically cut off from the outside world. We learned quickly that we were at its mercy.

  So we all became obsessed with the weather. We wanted to know more than if it’s cold. We asked questions about wind chill. Because if the temperature was a balmy -3 degrees, wind chill could make it feel like -50. Was it snowing and if so what was the visibility? If visibility was less than a hundred feet, you could get disoriented and lose your way. What was the wind speed? Was it strong enough to blow doors off vehicles, blow in windows or blow you across the sea ice like a lost rag doll? Enquiring minds wanted to know.

  Throughout the day we were kept updated on the weather. McMurdo Station categorized the weather into three Conditions.

  CONDITION 3 is observed when all of the following is true:

  wind speed < 48 knots

  visibility > ¼ mile

  wind chill temperature > -75F

  There are no restrictions. You are free to travel around and outside of town. You can work outside and recreate.

  CONDITION 2 is observed when any of the following is true:

  48 knots > wind speed ≤ 55 knots

  100 feet < visibility < a quarter mile

  -100F < wind chill temperature ≤ -75F

  Recreation is limited and travel outside is restricted to town.

  CONDITION 1 is observed when any of the following is true:

  wind speed > 55 knots

  visibility ≤ 100 feet

  wind chill temperature ≤ -100F

  You cannot go outside for any reason.

  The McMurdo weather categories were fine, but after nearly two months on the ice I had been able to pseudoscientifically categorize the weather into five distinct categories that the average person can understand:

  CONDITION COLD: You can wear that cute REI down jacket you brought from home, jeans and a pair of light gloves. It feels like a chilly but pleasant mid-December afternoon in New York or Boston.

  CONDITION REALLY COLD: It’s time to break out Big Red, the huge down-filled parka assigned to all visitors to Antarctica. You have a fleece on under Big Red, a pair of wind pants, a warm hat and mittens. Dressed like this you feel pretty insulated from the worst of the cold.

  CONDITION DAMN COLD: Big Red is
zipped up to your nose and the hood is fitted around your head, depriving you of peripheral vision (not that there’s anything to see but blowing snow mixed with black volcanic sand). You must start wearing your extreme cold weather (ECW) gear, which includes glove liners and gloves, wind pants, long underwear, a fully engaged balaclava, polar sun goggles and special foot protection called “bunny boots” made for extreme weather in Antarctica. Most people have never experienced weather like this and may ponder if it is similar to a blustery winter day in Alaska, right after pondering why in the hell you thought working in Antarctica was such a great idea.

  CONDITION NO. WAIT! SERIOUSLY?: You need all the ECW gear the National Science Foundation has to offer, plus that scarf Grandma made for you last Christmas and a strong belief in a higher power. The wind seems to be coming at you from all directions, battering you like a piece of Alabama catfish. Despite your ECW you are still cold. When you’re caught in this, it doesn’t take a Ph.D. in Adverse Atmospheric Dynamics to know that it’s time to seek shelter.

  CONDITION UNCLE!: If you are not an emperor penguin with an egg nestled between your gut and your little clawed feet, you have no business being outdoors. All the ECW gear in the world will avail you nothing. In fact, nothing short of the McMurdo building is going to protect you from the big bad katabatic that keeps blowing and blowing and blowing.

  • • •

  After the main body had arrived, I learned that I was scheduled to attend the season’s first Happy Camper training. All employees and scientists who do work that takes them out of Mactown and/or into the deep field have to go through Happy Camper training. Happy Camper is a euphemism for Survival Training. I asked a veteran for any advice she could give me regarding Happy Camper. She cackled and said, “Get right with God.”