View From Inside My Pickle
(This is the first and second part of Pro Research. Pro Science. Propane. If you've read the first part you can scroll down to the bolded sentence of "Here’s how it happened: (continued right now). Thanks for tuning in).
Pens and Pencils. I’m the Office Depot of Antarctica.
The Supply Department where I work is broken into about eleven different categories to efficiently run the 1,100 person base of McMurdo Station. There’s electrical supply and vehicle maintenance supply. The computer techs have their own supply warehouse, as do the carpenters, the scientists, the insulators, the pipe fitters and the doctors. If this interests you, I don’t know, but shit man, even the plumbers have a warehouse to get their elbow joints, gaskets and toilet plungers.
For the people who work in these supply centers, when they say, “I work in the plumbing, vehicle, electrical…etc” warehouse it’s really quite clear what their job entails.
My job is called Central Supply. The name doesn’t say it all. We don’t issue centers of donuts or football players called “centers.” The center of the universe isn’t stored in one of my outdoor storage areas and if you want me you can’t find me left of center wondering about you.
When asked what I do in Antarctica it’s just easiest to pass on the three little words that seem to keep the folks happy, it’s safe, it’s simple, my job is just “pens and pencils.”
For the most part from 7:30 a.m. to noon, I am Office Depot, the Walmart greeter and the Kmart clerk. Besides the pens and pencils which are the backbone of Central Supply my department also handles notebooks, erasers, paperclips, whiteout and a black marker so large it is simply referred to as BAM or Big Ass Marker. From 7:30 to noon I wait for those in need to come to me and gather up their little office supplies so they can write about plumbing, vehicles, electricity and scientific stuff.
At noon we go to lunch.
Then, at one o’clock when the four of us from Central Supply return from eating the mess of food from the galley, it’s like we changed identities. Clark Kent stepping into the phone booth as mere pushers of pens and pencils and then arriving back to work as heavy lifting, big truck driving Supermen and one woman.
At one o’clock the idea of working in an Office Depot is as ancient as the image of a blind man rattling pencils in a tin cup during the depression. Pens and pencils are history captured in a black and white photograph. Five-cent soup and Okies heading to California.
This week in the normal course of a week of Central Supply duties we saved the National Science Foundation $60,178.40. At some point I expect to receive an award for this, like a buy one get one free coupon at the local tavern, most likely, though, it will go as unnoticed as another day of cold weather in Antarctica.
We didn’t do this by pushing long life pens and mechanical pencils. Saving over 60K took place after lunch.
Here’s how it happened: (continued right now)
The problem came when the propane on station was running low. Each year the scientists, field camps and other personnel run through about 80 tanks of propane. After the propane is drained from the tank, each 100lb tank is then sent back to New Zealand and refilled for the low, low price of $32.23.
However, this year there have been some problems. Most notably, I still haven’t received my new boots (now received—one size too large). And this has also led to smaller issues, like, if we don’t even have enough planes to send Phil his new REI boots, then how are we going to send 80 bottles of propane from Antarctica to New Zealand and then from New Zealand back to the frozen continent—to boot.
The decision was made to either close down all of Antarctica on account of not having gas for the grills or call in the Pens and Pencil crew.
After outfitting the community with Sharpies, Bics and Paper Mates, once lunch was wrapped up we tackled the propane problem.
Apparently there was a science group in Antarctica some years ago that thought propane was going to be their new wave of the future. When it comes to hamburgers and hotdogs, propane in your backyard is a delicious way to cook at a barbecue. Propane, it’s a gas. But, when it comes to Antarctica, propane is a liquid.
Now I’m no scientist, but I’ve learned to have a finer appreciation for a little thing called LPG or low pressured gas ergo: Propane. Your back yard black barbecue garden variety propane is hot to trot because it has a boiling point of minus 43 degrees. This means that liquid in your propane tank is boiling like water on the stove when it reaches any temperature above minus 43. Just like water turns to vapor when it reaches about 212 degrees, propane turns from liquid to gas at the ice cold point where you and I would freeze our ass.
For reasons you might be figuring out, propane works great, let’s say in Texas when ol’Hank Hill is peddling his wares, but in Antarctica propane is a pain. Not if, but when it gets too cold—below that magical number of 43 degrees Fahrenheit , the propane has to be heated in order for it to heat. Or, since propane is a low pressured gas a gust of wind, accompanied by cold weather will snuff the propane flame.
As I said, I’m no scientist, but a group of scientists who were using very large tanks of propane to fill up smaller tanks of propane switched their heating method to something a bit more environmentally friendly like wind and solar power. Since the sun shines 24 hours a day and the wind they call Mariah blows 25 hours day this only made perfect scientific sense. Plus it lessened the “footprint” of empty containers of propane in Antarctica.
Okay, now then, this gets confusing—even to me. The propane that did not work efficiently for one science group turned out to be what Little Boy was to World War II—the bomb—to others in Antarctica. However, when your tank runs dry of propane in Antarctica, you can’t run down to your local Tesoro for a quick fill up.
To get a single tank of propane filled in Antarctica is difficult. Generally the empty tanks are loaded onto the American Tern, the resupply ship that comes to McMurdo once a year, filled in New Zealand for $32.23 and then returned either to McMurdo by air, ship or magic—the details, as I said, are a bit sketchy.
Anything that sails to Antarctica on the American Tern arrives to McMurdo at a cost of 30 cents per pound. All objects flown into McMurdo have an average cost of three dollars per pound.
But propane, this is a bird that doesn’t fly so well. Maybe you recall an airline named ValuJet who saved the customer money by flying their clientele on top of gasses sitting in the cargo hold—and I’m not talking about the airline food variety of gas. People saved money, the ValuJet stock soared until the day a ValuJet plummeted into the Florida Everglades after an oxygen tank that was being carried in the cargo hold caught fire.
In time ValuJet merged with another airlines, shaking its name faster than you can say “Bad PR” Or “Exxon Valdez.” The ValuJet name maybe forgotten, but the death of 110 people left a lasting impression with the FAA. Tanks of gas are dangerous and they can’t fly on passenger aircraft.
Propane boils at minus 43 degrees and what all this chit chat boils down to is the only way propane could get filled in Antarctica would be to make a flight of hazardous cargo to and from New Zealand without any passengers. The how, what, when and whos of this equaled a lot of cold cash.
We had 80 empty tanks of propane in McMurdo. Each empty tank weighed 70 pounds. If a tank was filled in New Zealand at $32.23 and then flown back to McMurdo it would have weighed 170 lbs. A cute little child’s toy named Barbie once said, “Math is hard” and I couldn’t agree more, but check out this formula. Pull out a calculator and punch in 80 tanks times 240 lbs (the total weight of the empty tank leaving McMurdo (70) plus one full tank (170) returning from New Zealand). Take that number and times it by the three dollars per pound it cost to fly this gas and you’re only some of the way to the sum of this propane equation. Next take the figure of $32.23 times 80 and add that to the first total for the grand prize of $60,178.40.
This figure sound familiar? This is how Central Supply earned their two for one drink coupon. But it wasn’t easy, in fact, it was scary.
Behind the veneer of this tough talking typing truck driver Superman there is actually someone who has fears. Sharks are my phobia. Getting electrocuted sends shivers down my spine and fire is one of my greatest fears.
Keep in mind the FAA’s regulations for flying with propane gas cylinders—it’s forbidden because of fire.
Fear.
When I was told (not asked) to be part of the team to fill up 80 tanks of propane (apparently some of the big wigs on station also knew how to work a calculator) it was liked being told “And then we’ll sever the veins in your wrist and drag you behind a boat so you can be our living chum so we can save money and study sharks.”
I envisioned coming home from the coldest continent on earth with one of those fiery melted faces you see on Oprah Winfry. You know, one of those inspirational “How to Overcome Adversity” shows
“Well--after my boyfriend poured gasoline on the bed. I thought I’d died, but the doctors were able to take skin from my calf muscle and make lips.”
I don’t know why the tanks full of propane that had sat in Antarctica for sometime now became available for use or even why I, as the pens and pencil guy, was one of three people charged with filling these tanks, but I do know I asked a lot of questions.
A tank of propane weighing 170lbs would weigh 230 pounds if it was full of water, because propane weighs less than water. To figure out how much propane to put in any tank you take the tanks WC or water content weight and times by .42 (the weight of propane) added to the tare weight of the tank and this equals how much each tank full of propane should weigh. Any questions? Any mistakes = ValuJet.
For three days Bill, Tony and I stayed outside at the base of Observation Hill and filled 80 tanks of propane. After each tank reached its weight of 170 lbs, I’d turn off the pump, unhook the nozzle and the put a large black “X” on each bottle I filled. The “X” signified absolutely nothing except for “X” the unknown quotient. The bottle that didn’t kill me was “X.” The tank that didn’t have me appearing on the Dr. Phil show was “X.” X was just X. This story is just X. And X saved the company a potential $60,178.40 or maybe it just saved X.
The only tank that had any meaning was the last one I filled. That tank was the obituary notice that didn’t have to be written—a job well done. Propane tank #80 was “Phil’d on 1/20/05.”
I know I was in the middle of telling a story of some such thing or the other, but yesterday a plane arrived full of packages and the Zamberlan Italian Goretex Fine Quality Since 1929 boots finally arrived.
After walking around Antarctica in these worn down, beat up, held together with duct tape, shoe and super glue, no tread, slip and slide-sure-they-served-their-purpose-but-gave-up-the-ghost-many-moons-ago Montrail Hiking Boots, I was thrilled.
Normally I don't like to order clothes over the Internet, but my shoe size has never wavered even a half size since graduating from High School (Class of '85 still rulz). That's why I knew these Cocoa Sized 10 $199.95 boots would fit my feet like a glove.
To insure the best quality, I didn't even shop around for the best price, I just trusted the store who has never let me down in the past to keep my toes comfortable and warm--REI.
Then, when I put the new boots on my feet, there was a problem. The boots were too big. The box says size 10 and, at one time the shoe said Size 10, then someone who manufactured the shoe said, "oops, we mean Size 11" so a sticker was stuck to correctly indicate the size of my shoes, even if this size doesn't correspond with the box, the receipt and more importantly, MY FEET.
What's strange is even at the REI website, their shoe converter says a size 44 European is a size 10 1/2 in the USA shoe size. And I have a sneaky suspicion the letter "H" that's on the size on the box means "a Half" size, therefore, REI should have known these were size 11s!http://www.rei.com/rei/gearshop/sizefinder/cannondale.html
After waiting a month and a half to wear my new shoes--I had to make a decision. Keep wearing my crappy shoes, freezing my feet and send back my new boots.
Or trust REI sticks behind their screw up. Wear my boots for a month and then walk into the REI in Utah and say, "Well?"
See you in a month...REI.
Pens and Pencils. I’m the Office Depot of Antarctica.
The Supply Department where I work is broken into about eleven different categories to efficiently run the 1,100 person base of McMurdo Station. There’s electrical supply and vehicle maintenance supply. The computer techs have their own supply warehouse, as do the carpenters, the scientists, the insulators, the pipe fitters and the doctors. If this interests you, I don’t know, but shit man, even the plumbers have a warehouse to get their elbow joints, gaskets and toilet plungers.
For the people who work in these supply centers, when they say, “I work in the plumbing, vehicle, electrical…etc” warehouse it’s really quite clear what their job entails.
My job is called Central Supply. The name doesn’t say it all. We don’t issue centers of donuts or football players called “centers.” The center of the universe isn’t stored in one of my outdoor storage areas and if you want me you can’t find me left of center wondering about you.
When asked what I do in Antarctica it’s just easiest to pass on the three little words that seem to keep the folks happy, it’s safe, it’s simple, my job is just “pens and pencils.”
For the most part from 7:30 a.m. to noon, I am Office Depot, the Walmart greeter and the Kmart clerk. Besides the pens and pencils which are the backbone of Central Supply my department also handles notebooks, erasers, paperclips, whiteout and a black marker so large it is simply referred to as BAM or Big Ass Marker. From 7:30 to noon I wait for those in need to come to me and gather up their little office supplies so they can write about plumbing, vehicles, electricity and scientific stuff.
At noon we go to lunch.
At one o’clock the four of us from Central Supply return from eating the mess of food from the galley, but we've changed. It’s like during lunch Clark Kent stepped into a phone booth as a mere pusher of pens and pencils and arrived back to work as heavy lifting, big truck driving Supermen and one woman.
At one o’clock the idea of working in an Office Depot is as ancient as the image of a blind man rattling pencils in a tin cup during the depression. Pens and pencils are history captured in a black and white photograph. Five-cent soup and Okies heading to California.
This week in the normal course of a week of Central Supply duties we saved the National Science Foundation $60,178.40. At some point I expect to receive an award for this, like a buy one get one free coupon at the local tavern, most likely, though, it will go as unnoticed as another day of cold weather in Antarctica.
We didn't save this kind of cold cash by switching people over to cheap Bics and mechanical pencils.
Here’s how it happened: (continued in a couple of days in the mean time--here's some penguins)
The Antarctica I pictured before coming down here was beautiful.
The National Geographic version of Antarctica is a place of icebergs, penguins and snow covered landscapes. On the flight down here, I ran through names trying to decide what I would call my pet penguin. With thousands of penguins in Antarctica, certainly one little tuxedo’d creature would be my best friend fetching snowballs and sliding on its belly with me down ski hills decorated with snow angels. In my version of Antarctica, snowmen with magic hats who talk like Burl Ives would join me on hikes as we hopped from iceberg to iceberg with Fred, the penguin, waddling and swimming trying to keep up.
The reality is: I live on a dirt mound.
Maybe it’s not really dirt. The brownish grit could be lava dust from Mt. Erebus the active volcano about 40 miles from my back door. This silicosis soot is so fine it chews through leather and wears down boots. The dust gets caught in your lungs, boogers are brown and grit is in your chewing gum.
Robert Johnson sold his soul to the Devil and I’ve lost the soles of my boots to Antarctica. When I leave town and go on a hike stepping out into the white void of Antarctica, it’s like my soles have been greased with Vaseline and I’m taking a hike on linoleum. Zip. Zing. I’m on my ass again.
The new boots I ordered on December 9 from REI were supposed to arrive in Antarctica on December 23. Mr. Jacobsen, it seems as though we have a bit of a problem—not with REI, but with Antarctica. It got too hot.
Hot is relative and balmy in Antarctica is 33-41 degrees. The ice and snow up in the hills above McMurdo turned into water and the town became flooded with runoff. With more dirt exposed on the roads my soles wore down faster and my spirits began to sink as my toes became soaked in all of the running water.
The “heat” also ruined the McMurdo airport. Our airplanes (C-130s, C-17s and C-141s) land on an ice runway. The runway is 14ft of ice on top of the Ross Sea. Typically the runway will support the larger C-17s through Christmas meaning supplies come into town on a regular basis.
Even though we’re very far removed from the modern world, the first year I was here fresh fruit and vegetables appeared in the Galley on a semi-regular basis. Package mail could arrive in as quickly as ten days if sent from the U.S.A.
This year it’s different. This year there’s a problem. When the runway melted the only planes that could fly into Antarctica were the C-130s because they can attach skis to their landing gear and skate into town like a flying Dorothy Hamill. Problem is, even though Dorothy Hamill could carry the 1976 Olympics, the C-130 can’t slide into Antarctica carrying non-essential supplies.
Non-essential supplies include fruits, vegetables and my boots. I haven’t seen an apple in over a month. I’ve forgotten how an orange smells when you first break into the peal as a mist of vitamin C soaks your fingers. Tomatoes, I miss the most. I want Mexican food and salsa that doesn’t come in a can. And, I’d like to be able to walk across town without my shoes (lined with Duct tape and held together with crazy glue and shoe sealant) absorbing water through the toes and dirt through the cracks.
Last week I was given my date of departure, I’m supposed to leave Antarctica on February 18. The day before I was given my date to leave I hadn’t thought about leaving. The instant I held that piece of paper it was like the words “February 18” were a bright spotlight and I was in a tunnel. Why wait for that date? Can’t I leave now?
It’s not just me, the mood around here kind of took a dive in the last month. Morale is like momentum in a football game. You don’t know when the momentum shifts or which team has momentum. But, if your team is the one with momentum it can come from behind and win the game. Great accomplishments can happen with momentum and morale on your side.
I don’t know when morale changed sides. It might have been when we called home for Christmas and couldn’t thank our relatives and friends for the gifts they sent at Thanksgiving thinking this would allow enough time for their gifts to arrive. Maybe morale slipped at Christmas dinner because there wasn't a line to stand in for a salad, because there weren’t fresh vegetables.
Morale lifted a bit when the Coast Guard Ice Cutter the Polar Star quickly pulled into harbor after cutting through over 80 miles of ice to reach McMurdo. And then morale took a hit as the Polar Star continues to sit in our bay because the propeller shaft is leaking hydraulic fluid. Right now there are divers underwater and we’re optimistic the ship will get fixed. If it doesn’t? Well, we’ll get to that ice bridge if we have to skate across it.
In the mean time planes were delayed because we were socked in with a light but constant storm. When the snow quit falling, the C-141 sitting in Christchurch broke down and still, my boots sit in New Zealand. Maybe Monday.
Then, one little penguin came waddling into McMurdo. His name is Fred. McMurdo really needed Fred.
There have been a few penguins around the outskirts of McMurdo, but Fred really hit the ground wobbling. He came to visit. Fred marched through McMurdo like Billy tracing a pattern through a Family Circus cartoon. Fred mapped a dotted black line on the high roads, low roads and dirt roads. Over the radio his position was announced, "Fred is in the 191 OSA" or "Fred is cruising towards Scott Base." His coordinates weren't announced for curious onlookers to trace his steps and take photos. We kept track of Fred, because this place may have turned into an outreach suicide program for Heaven's Gate if a truck had made a penguin pancake.
For now there is little complaining about missing boots, fruits and Christmas gifts, people, me, we are saying, “Of course there are problems. Isn’t it great there are problems?! We’re in Antarctica. I’ll stay here until March 18 if I must. It’s not supposed be easy. It’s about the Penguins. It’s about Fred.”
“You got a 10-18 for me Ilko? Over.” I ask on the walkie talkie. Ilko is my boss and he doesn’t really like it when I use the truck driving lingo while I’m out doing my daily deliveries at Central Supply. But today I’m driving the biggest, baddest-assed, greenest vehicle on an entire white continent—a Pickle.
“What’s a 10-18? Over.”
“A 10-18 is ‘anything else to do’. Over.”
“No. Over.”
“No, Ilko. A ‘No’ would be a 10-19. A 10-19 means ‘nothing for you—return to base.’ What you should have said was ‘That’s a 10-19 on your 10-18.’ Do you Roger Wilco, Ilko? Over.”
“I’m turning off the radio. Over.”
“That’s a 10-4, but you should have said ‘10-3’. Over…………..hello?………………..Hello…………………..sounds like you did a 10-3 and are giving me the Ol'10-77 of negative contact……………hello.”
My grandfather was a Teamster and so is my best friend in Utah, Smed. My grandpa drove all kinds of trucks and Smed drives the big rig for UPS. Smed knows he’s my idol because the open road is his office and the only thing he has to answer to on the white lined black top is a CB, his satellite radio and whoever is working at the local truck stop when he stops in to buy gas and assorted sugars to power him down the lonesome highway. Smed doesn’t have a life; he has THE life.
What I once envied has become part of my life. I’m a truck driver, breaker breaker. More specifically my job requires that I drive three different kinds of forklifts: a Bendie, a loader and The Pickle. The first two pieces of machinery are pretty common. You might see a Bendie at your local Home Depot. It’s forklift that is perfect for indoor use, can turn corners in a tight aisle and lift 4,000 pounds. High School dropouts, ex-inmates and pimple faced college school students earning extra cash until their Fine Arts degree start bringing in the real dough, drive Bendies.
The big yellow Loader is the outdoor workhorse of the vehicles I drive. The loader is like a football defensive lineman. Sure it’s big, maybe even too big for some jobs. It can lift 6-8000 pounds and when I work in the loader it’s like being Superman. On top of all that steel, I feel bulletproof and can lift objects with super human strength.
The loader has the ability to move an object in limited ways with only two controls. One knob moves the load up and down, the other knob tilts the load forward or back. Up and down and tilting forward and back seem ideal, and it would be if you were working on top of a smooth surface, but I’m driving this equipment on rocky terrain, ice and snow—in Antarctica. The angle I have to approach a load can be tilted, tight and small. Look at a globe, I’m upside down.
Call in the Pickle.
The Pickle was not designed for comfort or speed. It was designed for polar use by the Navy. The wheels are large to navigate the terrain, the seats are uncomfortable because people were tough in the 50’s and 60’s and they didn’t complain about ergonomics.
In a Pickle, when you pick up your load, it is lifted and perched directly in your line of sight. Safety be damned, either run people over or drive backwards.
Getting the load to move up and down or tilting it forward and back—child’s play. The third function of a Pickle can also move its forks to the left and right. Imagine driving a forklift into the back of a semi-trailer truck. This is where the Pickle is the shining dill.
Three days ago we were moving thousands of rolls of toilet paper locked deep inside a Milvan (a Milvan is as tight as a trailer on the back of a semi-truck). With only three inches to spare on either side of my Pickle tires the only way to line up the forks is by implementing function #3: shift left and right. With the Pickle function #3 I shifted left and right and moved 10 loads of toilet paper, out of five Milvans. Each rack of toilet paper had 10 boxes of toilet paper and each box held 96 rolls of toilet paper. Do the math and that’s a shit load of TP. Thank you Pickle.
Now then lets say I’m sitting in my Pickle approaching a rack of Acetylene bottles (highly explosive weighing in at 1900 pounds) and Antarctica has put me in a pickle in my Pickle by blowing a snowdrift in front of an orange cage of gas. The forks are cockeyed and one false move means the fork goes through the Acetylene bottle and I literally go out in a blaze of glory. In a loader, yes, breaker breaker, that’s a 10-3 time to sign off your life.
Not in the Pickle, though. Which introduces you to the fourth movement in this little wonder machine my 10-4 good buddy. The Pickle has a rotating rack. One minute you think you’re all elbows and assholes tilted this way and pitched that, but when you move over to the fourth control switch you can rotate the forks clock or counter clock-wise.
With the Pickle it’s not one thing, it’s the combination of all things that makes it the biggest, baddest-assed, greenest vehicle on an entire white continent. Comparing a Pickle to a regular forklift is like calling a Leatherman just a knife. It’s like saying Sir Edmund Hillary climbed a mountain, when he really was the first to climb Mt. Everest. Calling a Pickle “just a forklift” is like saying you have to go to the bathroom, when what you really need to do is take a 10-100.