A two-stroke engine and humanity—both depend on a delicate, vital balance, each one living by the same paradox: the very fuel that brings us to life can also be the thing that stops us in our tracks. In a two-stroke engine, fuel flows into the carburetor, blending with fresh air to create the spark that lights up the combustion chamber. This spark ignites a perfect explosion, each burst of power driving the piston and spinning the crankshaft, turning potential into motion. The fuel is its heartbeat, the life force that propels it forward, each pulse an invitation to keep dancing, to keep moving. The exhaust port clears away the spent gases, making space for more—more energy, more rhythm. But, just as life can be full of momentum, it can also be stifled. When the airflow is restricted, when the fuel runs rich and thick, the engine becomes clogged with excess. The spark plug is smothered, the rhythm falters, and the engine is choked by the very fuel meant to sustain it.

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.

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, named “Crunch”. We stood in the icy glare of Antarctica, tools in hand, trying to follow along as he drove his daughter home from school.

"See that big ass building back there? That used to be a hotel!" my crewmate remarked as we passed a pile of ashes, surrounded by a few bricks—the remnants of what once was the foundation of a classy hotel in the Swiss Alps of Ruidoso, New Mexico. As we made our way to our campsite after a day’s work, we found ourselves on a road that used to be a scenic drive lined with homes on both sides. Don’t get me wrong, it’s still scenic—the ponderosa and oak-covered mountains rise in the distance, and the sun breaks through the clouds—but now, if you look to the left, past my crewmate, or to my right, outside my mesh-covered rectangular window, you see metal roofs on the ground. Roofs that once covered someone’s home, now resting on a few inches of ash and debris from what were once furniture, photographs, and appliances. These metal roofs are silent markers, showcasing the homes of hundreds, if not thousands, of families who were evacuated and would soon return to a new, unexpected reality.