Tractors, Spoons, and Satellite Phones
Katie gripped the scratchy satellite phone, straining to catch each garbled word from the man on the other end of the line. He was 13,000 kilometers away in Georgia, calmly giving us step-by-step directions to fix our broken 956 Caterpillar loader. We stood in the icy glare of Antarctica, tools in hand, trying to follow along as he drove his daughter home from school.
To set the scene: Katie and I are stationed at Marble Point, a remote field camp in Eastern Antarctica. Our job is to fuel all helicopter operations in the McMurdo Dry Valleys, a place of stark beauty and scientific importance. A few days earlier, our tractor had broken down while we were moving drums of, well, urine. It stopped dead in front of the main shack we call our house, and without it, basic operations at camp were grinding to a halt.
With nobody within 50 square miles and little mechanical expertise between us, we had one option: a satellite phone, a wrench, and the patience to follow directions. Adrianne, the man from Georgia, was our lifeline. His calm voice came through in bursts, crackling with static. Despite the interruptions and delays, he walked us through each step.
Between the crackles of static and the frustrating “What?” “Hello?” and “Can you still hear me?” We started by removing the outer air filter and, using a kitchen spoon, pouring motor gas—“mogas”—onto the inner filter. Apparently, this would vaporize and make it easier for the tractor to start. Why? Don’t ask me; I’m not a mechanic. Trading tools for spoons, we hoped for the best.
After cranking the engine several times, though, it became clear that wasn’t going to do the trick. We knew if we kept trying, we’d risk draining the batteries, and that would be a whole new can of worms. So, after some brainstorming and a few fumbled words over the sat phone, our guide came up with Plan B: propping the exhaust open with a chunk of snow and loosening the nuts on the fuel injectors one at a time.One by one, the injectors came to life. They sputtered, then sprayed, each tiny explosion feeling like a small victory. With every sputter, the engine’s rhythm grew stronger, almost as if the machine itself was cheering us on. The tractor coughed and lurched, and we could feel it starting to wake up.
This step was fascinating to watch. At first, the injectors started bubbling. Then they began seeping. And finally, fuel sprayed out like tiny fireworks, as if cheering themselves on for getting closer to starting. My heart thumped in time with the injectors as the engine began to gulp and sputter, teasing us with the hope of roaring back to life. I wasn’t sure if the noises were good or bad, but at that point, any noise was better than silence.
We kept adjusting, tightening bolts here and loosening others there, as Adrianne narrated our next steps from the other side of the world. His voice cut in and out, interrupted by snippets of traffic noise and the occasional hum of his car. It was hard not to laugh at the absurdity of it all: two women in Antarctica, bundled up against the cold, working on a massive machine while a man driving through suburban Georgia talked us through the process.
With Katie and me tweaking here and there—loosening this bolt, tightening that nut—the beast of a machine finally roared back to life. It might not sound like a big deal, but out here, fixing that tractor ourselves was monumental. If we hadn’t, we would’ve had to put in a work request for a mechanic 50 miles away across the Ross Ice Shelf. That mechanic would’ve needed a helicopter escort to Marble Point—a logistical nightmare for the program, not to mention a blow to our pride. After all, we were sent here to be jacks-of-all-trades, and calling for help felt like admitting defeat.
This wasn’t just about fixing a machine. It was about solving problems against the odds, finding ingenuity in the face of unfamiliarity, and embracing the bizarre reality of modern communication. A satellite phone call spanning continents had saved the day, bridging the gap between two vastly different worlds.
It’s a funny thing, really: the challenges that feel impossible in the moment often become the stories we laugh about later. Two women, a tractor, a kitchen spoon, and a man on the other side of the globe—sometimes, that’s all it takes to make a little bit of magic happen in Antarctica.
Finally, after what felt like hours of effort and several near-misses, the tractor roared to life. Relief swept over us as the machine shuddered forward, belching exhaust into the freezing air. It wasn’t just a victory for the tractor; it was a victory for us.
This wasn’t just about fixing a machine. It was about solving problems against the odds, finding ingenuity in the face of unfamiliarity, and embracing the bizarre reality of modern communication. A satellite phone call spanning continents had saved the day, bridging the gap between two vastly different worlds.
It’s a funny thing, really: the challenges that feel impossible in the moment often become the stories we laugh about later. Two women, a tractor, a kitchen spoon, and a man on the other side of the globe—sometimes, that’s all it takes to make a little bit of magic happen in Antarctica.