Blazing Ice (6 page)

The contractor fired me that day for “violating the corporate safety culture.” It hired me back the same day when I explained the fellow's authoritative anger was probably more aroused when, in the face of abusive language, I turned my back on him and refused to engage in conversation. Funny how organizational culture worked.

Back at the pier to finish the offload, I found the crew had all heard about the incident. “What happened?”

“Ah, nothing. No more bagpipes on trucks is all.” I shrugged.

The corporate safety culture was founded in statistics. But I had my own notion of what safety meant: does someone get hurt?

The number of times someone gets hurt is the safety
metric
. A favorable metric benefits the contractor: monetary reward, perhaps greater productivity, maybe a prize. When a COO, or a safety director, proclaims his intention to reduce the Total Recordable Incident Rate (TRIR) to a more acceptable number, I listen for clues. Is there a compassionate interest in a real human being?

Two months following the ship offload incident I accepted the job to head up the traverse project. I found myself in a large meeting room in the contractor's Denver office. A dozen of us, including my boss, gathered to hear about “A New Culture of Safety.”

The safety director stood at the front of the room before a screen displaying his PowerPoint slide show. He showed charts and numbers depicting Total Recordable Incidents reported by the previous contractor. He broke them down by category and type, explaining what was
recordable
and what was
not recordable
. And he explained how the Incident Rate was calculated.

“Now this is the existing culture of safety,” the safety director said, “and this is how I want to change that culture …” He turned to face a new slide on the screen.

“Of course we don't want anyone to get hurt,” he interjected, looking back over his shoulder. The new image bore simple black text across a plain white background: “NO MORE FRONTIER ATTITUDE.”

“I don't want to see any more frontier attitude in this program,” he read from the screen. “That's gone. A thing of the past.”

I was supposed to explore for a route from McMurdo to South Pole. Lewis and Clark were supposed to find a route linking the Missouri River to the Pacific
coast, through their own frontier. Our mission was not as grandiose as theirs. We'd be well supported by any comparison. And we, as a country, weren't trying to colonize the place, nor prepare the way for civilization's march. But we
were
tackling a continent. “Frontier” meant remote, unexplored, dangerous, and wonderful. The dot at the bottom of my grandfather's 1918 Rand McNally globe is surrounded by a watery Antarctic Ocean, enclosed by an archipelago of islands, all labeled
unexplored
. That wasn't that long ago.

Yet in this room paneled with acoustical walls and lit by filtered fluorescent lights, “frontier attitude” meant something undesirable.

I raised my hand: “Would you explain what you mean by ‘frontier attitude,' please?” He remembered the bagpipes, though his expression remained blank.

“‘Frontier attitude' is responsible for the culture of safety that exists in the Antarctic program, the culture that has produced the high TRIR.” He fished for words. “I don't want to see any
cowboys
in the program.”

When he spoke the word “cowboys” his shoulders rose to his ears, his palms turned out towards me. He gave a couple of quick nods to co-opt my understanding.

I knew what he meant. He implied a reckless character. But a lot of displaced cowboys and cowgirls came to the Antarctic program. They were among the most versatile, resourceful people down there. They could make a bad situation into a better one working with almost nothing. I needed cowboys on my crew. But I decided to shut up. The impression I was forming disturbed me: Did these guys just not get it? Were they that much out of touch with the nature of our work, with the nature of that place?
How far out of step with them am I?

When the meeting broke up, my boss caught me deep in thought in the long hallway separating the massed cubicles from the meeting room. “There's something you should know,” he said, softly. “When your name was discussed for the traverse project manager, the COO spoke strongly against you. He said, ‘I have heard his safety philosophy directly from his own mouth. He is opposed to our corporate philosophy. I don't think we want him for the job.'”

I cursed, silently.

“What did you think of the meeting?” my boss changed the subject.

I looked around to see who else was in the hallway. “I think the safety director just told me Antarctica is not a frontier.”

Getting started, the hardest part of any job
,
became easier with a generous boost from Patrice Godon and the French Antarctic Program. I might've met Patrice a year earlier, but something got in the way.

I was off contract following the third year of the tunnel project and at home when an unexpected e-mail from Steve Dunbar landed. When I heard from Steve, and that was rare, I paid attention.

“Do you think any of these scenarios will work for you?” he asked.

Steve managed USAP Field Science Support these days. His note came at the head of a long e-mail string originated by unfamiliar names. It mentioned timetables and places foreign to me, and had circulated between high levels of the USAP and the French Antarctic Program. I scrolled down until my eyes lit upon my name.

Sent:
Monday, September 10, 2001
To:
Stephen Dunbar
Subject:
FW: Participation of NSF personnel to Dumont d'Urville/Dome C
Steve-I assume John knows he's going?
BRIAN STONE
Research Support Manager
National Science Foundation
Office of Polar Programs

Do I know I am going where?
Dumont d'Urville and Dome C? I'd overhead those names from passing conversations going the other way in a McMurdo hallway since 1993 when I first started in the program. Russ once said something about digging out a buried airplane there. But Brian Stone was asking the question. He'd worked logistics for the support contractor before his cometlike rise took him to NSF's Office of Polar Programs. I paid attention when Brian Stone spoke, too.

Below Brian's note to Steve, I found my name again. This time Erick Chiang addressed Dave Bresnahan. I knew
of
Erick Chiang, but I could think of no reason he would know me.

David
—FYI and planning for John Wright. I have forwarded the message to Mario to make sure that he is aware of the plan. Let me know which option is preferable.

I think we will have to get John to and from TNB.—
Erick

The aspen leaves on our mountainsides were turning autumn gold and red. Though the sun warmed our south facing valley, inside we wore sweaters. Soon I'd leave my family for winter's work. This morning my wife joined me at the computer.

At the bottom of the e-mail string was a lengthy note from Patrice Godon, head of the Technical Department, French Polar Institute, to Erick Chiang, NSF Office of Polar Programs. Godon recognized an agreement in which the USAP would provide an observer-participant for the French traverses. He offered three scheduling options for the then coming austral summer, November through February, to accommodate that observer-participant.

“Apparently I'm being considered for that observer-participant role. That's exciting,” I told my wife.

“And you
love
traversing, honey. What does an observer-participant do?” She met the prospect enthusiastically.

This was the first I'd heard anything about imminent plans for the USAP traverse development. Brooks Montgomery, a USAP mountaineer, had joined a French-Italian traverse in 1995 that ran between those same two places. He'd retrieved a payload package from a downed research balloon that dropped near the French route. His trip log described their daily routine, progress, their
equipment to some extent, and a bit about the terrain. He told of long stretches of rough ground, rough enough that he didn't want to go again.

“And you want to do it?” my wife asked.

“Well, yeah. I've never been to those places.”

“But you're going down to finish the tunnel. Can you do both?”

Poised to complete the tunnel job that year, I found myself torn between tunneling and traversing. We studied Godon's schedules. After a couple days soul searching, I wrote back to Steve:

I have read your sending and agree that Patrice Godon's Option 3 would be optimal for an observer to get the most return in helpful information for the USAP.

As to Brian's question: No, I did not know I was going anywhere. On August 02, I accepted the contract to complete the SPole Tunnel project. The SPole Tunnel Project—starting in November—will be in full swing during the December to early February dates put forth in the three options. “Full swing” historically has not meant smooth operations, rather a succession of crises. My concerns for the well-being of the crew, as well as for the successful completion of the project, are heightened. And I take my responsibility for the crew's safety personally.

Therefore, I do not project my availability to participate on the French traverses. This is a difficult pill to swallow for it is my heart's desire to participate in a meaningful way in building the USAP's surface traverse capability.—
John

That same day, Steve returned a thoughtful consolation:

I understand the position you are in quite well. It is often ironic that the reason one is offered these opportunities is because one is responsible, and that responsibility often precludes one's participation in the opportunity. Brian Stone was sorry to hear that you are unavailable. He wanted me to pass along the consensus at NSF that you are our best resource for traverse issues and that they will keep you in mind as other opportunities arise.—
Steve

I never got to go on the French traverse, but I did get to go to France.

Like traverses of other nations, the French link a coastal facility to an inland station. In this case, their link runs between Cape Prud'homme/Dumont D'Urville to Dome C, six hundred miles inland on the Polar Plateau. The United States hoped to establish a similar link across the one thousand miles between McMurdo and South Pole Station.

The USAP had no solutions at the start and little time in its three-year schedule to cycle trial with error. We had to specify and purchase the traverse fleet for use in the third year before we ever took to the field in the first. French solutions became our starting point.

In June 2002, five of us converged on Brest, France. “Us” included Dave Bresnahan of NSF, George Blaisdell and Jason Weale—both engineers with the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers Cold Regions Research and Engineering Laboratory—and Ralph Horak and me, both contract employees for the support contractor. Ahead of us lay two days of conferences with Patrice Godon, leader of the French traverse.

Besides me, Dave was the only one who wore a beard. His was salt and pepper. Mine was considerably whiter. Both were neatly trimmed. Dave was a stern looking character with bushy eyebrows and piercing blue eyes. He stood as tall as me, often intimidating folks at their first encounter. I never found him intimidating.

Ralph, a Yankee from New Hampshire, was my old traverse buddy. He was a portly fellow, and dry-witted. We took turns playing the straight man off one another, and that always made me smile. When I started the tunnel job at Pole, I turned the sea ice traverse business over to Ralph. We'd spent one memorable day stuck out on the sea ice. A sharp piece of it flattened a six-foot balloon tire on our fifteen-ton Delta truck. While we snoozed in the cab, waiting hours for a helicopter to fly us a spare, I broke the silence:

“Ralph, all my adult my life I've had but one birthday wish. And that is to be left completely alone on that day, to see no human being, and to spend the day contemplating the meaning of life and my place in it.”

“That so?” Ralph yawned.

“That is so. Ralph, today is my birthday. And this is the closest I have ever come to realizing my wish. Here, on the frozen surface of McMurdo Sound, miles from anybody, I am stuck in this cab with
you
!”

“Better luck next year.”

Ralph chuckled. He didn't offer to get out of the cab.

Ralph and another traverse buddy, Steve Carr from Port Townsend, Washington, would join the French traverses in the coming season as observer-participants. Together, they'd report their lessons learned to all of us. Meanwhile, I'd be occupied with crossing the Shear Zone.

Patrice Godon met our group at the Brest airport and drove us across town to the offices of the French Polar Institute. Here was a long, modern two-story building with plenty of windows, perched atop a low hill surrounded by lush, green foliage. Maritime scents filled the air.

Patrice was an athletic man of middle age, clean-shaven, poker-faced, and ruggedly handsome. He ushered us into a second floor conference room where we seated ourselves around a long table. Scale models of sleds and other devices decorated the table top.

Patrice spoke English well from an agenda he'd already prepared. He included a summary proposal to deliver fuel to South Pole Station. His dogleg traverse, beginning at Dumont d'Urville and running by Dome C, took Ralph and me by surprise. Supplying Pole was our mission.

Dave later explained that Erick Chiang had asked Patrice to prepare a study of the option. It was not entirely a cold pitch. But as Dave pointed out, Dumont D'Urville and Cape Prudhomme didn't have the infrastructure to support such an operation.

“Then I trust he got paid for his study,” I remarked. “They'd have to drag all that fuel uphill right away, and then go another several hundred miles past Dome C. It'd be longer than the USAP route. That's a lot more fuel burned and a lot less fuel delivered for the effort.”