There are chainsaws in Antarctica.

“An Adelie penguin stands its ground against towering machinery—nature’s own way of saying, ‘I was here first,’ in the land where humans try to make their mark.”

There are chainsaws in Antarctica—a continent with no trees. Not just a few chainsaws, mind you, but a whole arsenal of them. We’re talking about some serious machinery, like the Stihl 022 with a 22-inch bar and a chain so pristine it could give a new razor blade a run for its money. Bar oil sits next to the saw in a bright red dulmar. Oil that is supposed to be a lubricant but has sat so long it is now a sap.

Once upon a time, explorers like Scott Amundsen were battling the harsh elements and resorting to eating dogs to survive. Fast forward to today, and we’ve got 2-stroke engines revving up for action in a land where the only thing that grows is a frost-covered beard. Chainsaws! For heaven’s sake!

It’s a testament to human ingenuity—or perhaps hubris—that we’ve brought this heavy artillery to a land where nature itself seems to say, “We really don’t need you here.” Chainsaws in Antarctica are more than just a practical tool; they’re a symbol of our determination to assert ourselves in a place where we are decidedly unwelcome. Each roar of the engine is a reminder of how we carve out our presence, literally and figuratively, in a landscape that doesn’t naturally accommodate our ambitions.

So, when you hear the familiar rumble of the saw, don’t forget your hard hat. It’s not just for protection against the nonexistent timber but also a reminder that we’re no longer following in the footsteps of early explorers. Instead, we’re marching alongside 2-ton diesel machines, and chainsaws are our badge of modern conquest on a continent where our very presence is a bold assertion of human will over nature’s indifference.