To ski or not to ski. That is the question that greets me each morning as soon as my eyes pop open. Generally, the desire to ski overrides the need for additional sleep, rest, quiet time for reading, letter writing, etc. It seems my body wakens in advance of my common sense.

My early morning routine for the last month has been to be up at 5 a.m. pulling on long underwear and wool socks. I pad downstairs to the deserted dining area to complete my dressing while orange-juicing the accumulated overnight thirst. Gortex wind pants slide up my legs; feet are jammed into boots. From the pockets of my windproof jacket I extract and fill two small bottles to fill with water for gulping back dehydration during my morning workout. When leaving the immediate confines of the station, station policy dictates that the traveler (whether by boat, foot or ski) sign out on a big black chalkboard. The yellow-paint partitioned columns prompt the traveler for name, destination, time out, time in, radio and boat number. My default scribble is “Maggie glacier 0530 0700 no no.” I leave the building, often crossing paths with the breakfast cook who starts working in the galley at 5:30.

My next routine of day calls for a stop in the other main building on station called GWR. The acronym stands for garage, warehouse, and you guessed it — recreation. Some of Palmer’s recreational facilities are on the second floor. The lounge is comfortably furnished with deeply overstuffed couches and chairs beckoning one to sink in with a good book from the floor to ceiling bookcases or view a video on the big screen TV. Fresh popcorn can be made in a machine just like in a theatre. The lounge adjoins the poolroom and bar, and has a large sliding glass door that opens out to a deck for enjoying nice views or the sunset. A similar door at the other end of the deck takes one into the gym packed with a treadmill, Lifecycle, elliptical trainer, rowing machine and weights. For my favorite means of recreation, I stop in the warehouse on the first floor. A double sided 12-foot-long, 10-foot-high shelf is crammed with recreational gear (skis, snowshoes, tents, sleeping bags) and a vast array of hobby/craft stuff like yarn, embroidery thread, fabric odds and ends, tie-dye, silk screen, candle-making, drawing and painting supplies. I select my toy of choice from amongst the dozen pairs skis and poles hanging from the shelving. To complete my attire, I put on sunglasses, a warm headband on my ears and a pair of wool mittens with leather over mitts.

A short walk up the sort of snowplowed rocky road brings me to Palmer city limits, what is called the backyard. Here I can put on my skis and enjoy Mother Nature’s unimproved snowy lanes before making the climb up the glacier. I cross country ski, which is very different from downhill skiing. The boot attaches to the ski only at the toe. My boot has a squared extension on the front and three holes are found on the underside of that extension. Those holes fit onto 3 metal pegs on the part of the ski called the binding — as in binding the skier to the ski. Once boot and pegs are properly matched, a metal clamp is tightened down on the boot and the skier is now attached to the ski at the toe only, leaving the heel free. On the bottom of the ski are fish scale like ridges. Those ridges allow the ski to make contact with the snow and grip as the skier kicks along on the snow. Cross-country skiing is sort of like snow running with special boards on your feet. With my boots clamped into the bindings, I do a few stretches to limber up and pole push to glide down a short hill.

The backyard of Palmer Station is several acres of snow and rocks bounded by Arthur Harbor to the west and Hero Inlet to the east. The rocks along the shores provide nesting crevices for Wilson storm petrels and Antarctic terns. Even from several hundred yards away on a wind-free morning, if I stop I can hear cheep-cheep of chicks. I love to watch the acrobatic flight of the terns overhead. It is not uncommon to see snoozing seals on the sea ice in the back of the inlet. There are some low-lying areas of the backyard that afford good protection from the wind. In several of those spots, station personnel have tent homesteaded in lieu of sleeping in the station bedrooms.

A steep uphill climb and a pair of snowmobiles mark the backyard property line to the north. Primarily used to service an antenna (for atmospheric science, not television reception) on the glacier, the snowmobiles occasionally act as Palmer ski lift, towing skiers up to the top of the glacier. At 5:30 in the morning I have a difficult time finding a ski buddy, much less a lift operator, so I just ski up on my own power.

Kick, pole, kick, pole. The motion warms my sleepy muscles, as does the uphill climb. Kick, pole, kick, pole, pant, pant!! The first part of the glacier rises 500 feet above the backyard. I often stop at the antenna, about the half waypoint and listen for the baying penguins and snoring elephant seals on the nearby islands. I also take my last view of the station. Beyond the antenna, the glacier begins to flatten out and soon thereafter the station is out of sight and I am out of sight of station. Utter solitude! As the terrain flattens my ski rhythm alters to a smooth kick, pole, glide, kick, pole, glide. Ahhh — it does not get much better.

My path is somewhat chartered and lies within the bounds of black flags on either side of the ascent. Stray beyond those flags and one is literally in uncharted territory. Glaciers are sheets of ice in motion. As the mass of ice advances, tears or ruptures, called crevasses, in its surface may appear. Crevasses can be wide enough and deep enough to eat the unwary traveler. With normal winter snowfall and the unusual late spring snowfall we have been experiencing, the accumulated snow may conceal those crevasses. Such concealed crossings across crevasses are called snow bridges. Fortunately, there are folks on station with extensive mountaineering experience who have identified the safe, crevasse free areas of the glacier for travel and marked it so with the black flags. My early morning ski is dummy-proofed which (as Kevin would say) is a good thing, as my common sense does not awaken until late morning.

Within about 30 minutes of skiing, I reach the far limit of the flagged safe zone. At this point I drink my water and drink in the scenery. Some mornings I see nothing due to driving snow or low clouds. Other mornings I have a splendid view of Arthur Harbor and the islands about which we may dive later in the day. Some days I act as ice scout reporting back on which areas are ice-free, even though the immediate water around Palmer is full of ice. On rare days my view to the north is clear and I can study the jagged peaks of Mt. Francais or dream of skiing over to, up and down Mt. William, which looks like a monstrous snowdrift. I point my ski tips in the opposite direction and head back to station, basically retracing my steps. The trip down is always faster given the gravity assist and sometimes not as controlled as the journey up. I have suffered few serious wipeouts but I am purposelessly cautious and un-daring (except for an occasional pass over a little ski jump) so as not to compromise my ability as a researcher — a.k.a. break a bone!

Well, I hear my pillow beckoning me and I am certain a pair of skis will chime in a few hours so I had better run along.