A Rapper leaves Antarctica.

The weather began improving on our third day at Union Glacier base camp. Word came that the IL-76, long overdue to fly in provisions, would make a run the following afternoon. The mood around camp lifted immediately, especially among those teams that had been waiting almost two weeks to leave. These people were beaten down. But it would be inaccurate to portray all teams in that same light. Some Climbers seemed to thrive on the harsh circumstances that are Antarctica. They had tested themselves and passed the test. They had seen more than they came here to see. These Climbers, and there were many of them, laughed loudly as they exchanged stories in the dining tent. Certainly, I would count my team among them.

Doug addressed us the next morning at breakfast. There would be ample room on the flight out.  We were going home. We broke camp and stacked our gear on the ice. It was a sunny day with little wind at Union Glacier, so the temperature was a comfortable 25 f. As the ETA drew near Climbers were joined by ALE staff, also anxious to witness the return of their lifeline to the outside world. "There it is," an excited voice announced. A small shiny figure, a few hundred feet above the glacier, eased gracefully up the far side of the valley, setting down some eight kilometers away.

The shuttles began ferrying Climbers and gear over to the airstrip while ALE staff readied for the incoming group, Marathon Runners who had come to participate in the planet's most extreme version of their sport. A course had been laid out by a snow cat fitted with an ultrasound apparatus to detect subsurface crevasses. Three laps around the course would add up to a Marathon. Most of these runners were holed up in the warming hut when our shuttle arrived at the airstrip. In stark contrast to base camp, high winds clawed at the ice here. The temperature was easily below zero f, and reliable footing was hard to come by. I studied the faces of the new arrivals as we waited for the instruction to board the outbound jet. They were wide-eyed and silent. Some added layers of clothing. Others fidgeted with their goggles. Almost all wore an expression that asked "what have I gotten myself into?!"  A Spanish film crew was scurrying about with lipstick cameras mounted on poles. They weaved through the tight confines of the hut shooting the perspective from above. If I had to guess I would say frostbite became a central theme in their storyline.

My seventeen year old son, Chase, tries to teach me the expressions used by Rappers. This comes in handy when I find myself Improvising the part of a Rapper on stage. Being as middle-aged and white bread as a person can get, such words strike comedic contrast when they come out of my mouth. It's a real crowd pleaser. Money. It was Chase's voice that came to me as the IL-76 lifted off. We were all dressed in heavy down, packed together like chicks in a nest. A soothing darkness beat back the dim lights of the navigator's instruments. I could feel myself drifting off as the jet raced down the ice, that early dream-state when voices come to you. The nose of the aircraft lifted and the landing gear went silent. In that moment I heard Chase declare "we out this bitch!"