Deep Ice

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Henry’s watch alarm nagged at him for fifteen seconds. Then silence, except for the sound of windblown ice crystals testing the orange-and-blue nylon of the tent. But Henry Scott Gibbs had reset his internal clock. He knew there would be no aurora tonight, and probably not for a couple of nights.

September on the Ross Ice Shelf. This time of year the Antarctic winds herald the coming of summer with relentless squalls that rise from nowhere and linger or disappear seemingly with a will of their own.

Sometimes he’d try to be invisible from the wind after he’d set his automatic cameras to monitor the ice-fire rings of blue and green that hung overhead, painting the snow with eerie undulating light and shadow. He had to make sure the cameras were working. Couldn’t afford to waste film if they weren’t. So he had to wait and sleep in short shifts, waking every hour until the sun’s slow rise, and then moving on to a different location.

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