Marble Point Put In
At 7:30 a.m. on October 21st, six individuals—nearly strangers—gathered inside a tiny white shack. This humble structure serves as both a heliport and a sanctuary from the 30-knot winds howling outside. Katie, Martha, Sean, Jimmy, Jake, and I, Sarah, were weighing the last of our bags in preparation to open Marble Point Field Camp, a helicopter refueling station located 52 miles northwest of McMurdo Station. Each of us brought a unique skillset to help bring this dormant camp back to life, a station that had been quietly resting through the Antarctic winter.
Two helicopters carried us across the Ross Ice Shelf, passing the Royal Society Mountain Range. The ice shelf seemed to stretch endlessly, a vast, ever-changing landscape of crystal blues, deep purples and stark whites. It felt like I was stepping into a world I had only ever imagined, a place I’d dreamed of from the far side of the ice shelf. We flew together, the six of us, but only four would return to McMurdo. Katie and I would stay behind, tasked with fueling helicopters, feeding the scientists and carpenters, and ensuring this quiet little camp remained functional and alive for the months ahead.
Marble Point has a unspoken role and goal to feel like a home. It’s a place where the familiar comforts of life are preserved even in the coldest, most inhospitable of environments. I felt that warmth immediately when I entered the first bunkhouse, where a group of traversers would typically stay. Andee’s chocolates were thoughtfully placed on every pillow, even though only two of us would sleep there for a few nights. The kitchen holds a jar of frozen chocolate chip cookies, carefully preserved so that we wouldn’t have to go a single day without a treat. Books left by previous residents are scattered around—some on shelves, others on the coffee table, waiting to be picked up. Each of these books is a token, left behind by people who decided that their stories were worthy of staying here. I know I can trust them.
Above the dining table, a rectangular window offers a view of the Wilson Piedmont Glacier. The glacier’s sheer cliffs drop into crevasses that seem to stretch upward, defying gravity from a cold hard ground. The frozen landscape is a beautiful contradiction: fragile yet unyielding, calm yet wildly alive. It watches over us as we cook and eat, a silent witness to our small, human moments. The glacier glows in a way I can’t fully describe—its color shifts between dazzling blues and soft yellows, a visual hum that fills the space with light. And there’s something almost spiritual about the way it holds the sky above it, unblinking, unchanging.
Tonight, we feast and celebrate our arrival. Katie pulls out the meals she prepped last year—tortellini with fresh tomato sauce, cucumber salad, guacamole. We drink champagne from mismatched mugs and laugh, letting the warmth of the food and company seep into us. The kettle screams as it boils water for tea, and I can feel the tension of the day easing away. There is a softness in the air here, a kind of shared humanity that transcends the cold. It’s simple, really, but also deeply grounding.
Today, we did a “hot landing,” meaning the helicopter rotors were still spinning when we began unloading our supplies. There was work to be done immediately. Jimmy got the generator up and running, warming the buildings quickly. One of the generators had a significant leak, so we learned how to swap out pipes and juggle between generators. Jake hopped into the tractor—Crunch—and flattened a spot for helicopters to land. Sean helped shovel snow and remove the boards from the doors and windows. Martha and I took it all in, while shoveling steps into snow walls and learning with every task. Katie led the charge, making sure everything went smoothly, a steady presence that kept us all moving.
And then, there’s the bathroom. We shit into bags, knot them up, and drag them across the yard to a steel barrel. It’s strange, yes, but it’s a necessary part of the rhythm here. It feels like the not fun part of having a dog, but there is no dog. Thats ok though. We’ve found our own way. There’s something liberating about this. We’ve taken the complexities of daily life—so often hidden—and laid them bare, and there’s no shame in it. As for peeing, there’s a foam toilet seat with a blue wooden cover. The pee funnels into a hose, and it all goes into a barrel. When the barrel is full, a helicopter picks it up and takes it back to McMurdo. It’s not glamorous, but it’s effective. It’s part of the experience, and I’ve come to accept it with a sense of quiet dignity. There’s a certain confidence in living simply, in embracing what’s necessary and moving forward with grace. I’ve learned to appreciate it.
We’re tucked in a little section above the McMurdo sound, smothered inbetween the Asgard and Olympus ranges. Generally there is a traverse that consists of catipillar challenger tractors bringing hundreds of thousands of gallons of fuel. This year, the sea ice was too thin, so no fuel arrived. As we flew in, we could see the open water, the ocean in its rawest form. It’s a reminder that even in a place like this, nature is unpredictable, sometimes fragile. We have 25,000 gallons of aviation fuel here, and we’ll use about 22,000 of that this season. With no fuel delivery, there’s a concern for next year, but for now, I feel fortunate to be here, to be part of this strange and fragile place. We take it one step at a time.
The walls here are covered with maps—mostly Antarctic maps, but a few South Asia maps, too. Someone must’ve planned a different kind of adventure. The artifacts left behind by people who’ve been here for over 70 years are scattered throughout. There’s debris from the U.S. Navy, who tried to establish this as the U.S. main station back in the mid-1900s. I’m grateful for the quiet here, for the peace of this place. There’s history in these walls, a legacy that feels timeless. And I’m part of it now.
Lucy, a previous fuelie, left small fauna paintings around the camp—two of them in my room. They’re a gift, an invitation to look more closely at the world around me. My room is small, but it will be my sanctuary for the coming months. I almost regret bringing so much, but now, I see where everything fits. My work clothes—now smelling of fuel—will hang in the mudroom, where they belong. Some boots, skates, and skis will join them. Speaking of which, the glacier looks like it would be perfect for some skiing. There’s also a pond of glacial runoff that looks ideal for skating. Soon, my hockey stick will be flown in. Maybe someone will play with me here. Maybe not. But I’ll enjoy the solitude, too.
And here’s something I haven’t mentioned yet: there’s a bike here! It’s old, battered, and perfect. Who needs smooth tires when they’re frozen solid? No brakes are needed when you’re in a place with no cars or vehicles. It’s the perfect companion for exploring this quiet place. I’ll take it for a spin soon enough. There’s a workshop here, stocked with tools and a heated space to tinker. I’ll spend time there, getting to know it and it getting to know me. Extra points because I found a soldering iron, perhaps some slight metalsmithing work will take place, stay tuned.
In three days, the rest of the crew will leave, and it’ll be just Katie and me. Holy balls. I’m looking forward to the isolation, though a little hesitant of what to expect. It’s a strange feeling—this mix of excitement and uncertainty. But for now, I’m soaking up the company while I have it. Katie’s right next door, and I’m glad for that. I’m glad to have someone here to share this with.
I wish my friends could see this place. I wish they could feel what I’m feeling—the crisp air, the quiet beauty, the sense of adventure. Maybe someday, they’ll visit. Maybe someday, someone will play in the vast expanse with me here. But for now, I know this is the right place for me, and I’m excited to see where it takes me.
Buckle up. Here we go.
Goodnight.