Читать книгу Water, Ice & Stone - Bill Green - Страница 13
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Ohio: West and South
Ohio has had its autumn glory. The leaves of the burning bush beyond the sun room had hung like blades of fire for more than two weeks. At Hueston Woods, from the stream-carved valley of Little Four Mile Creek, you could look up walls of late Ordavician shale and limestone into the canopies of orange maples and plum-colored beech, into a crisp expanse of sky that lay as cloudless as a blue canvas behind the brilliant trees. This morning, though, out over the long lake that cuts northwest through the woods, color is only a memory; the world is gray. Still, I am not regretting what has passed. The electron-rich chlorophylls and beta-carotenes; the skeletons of anthocyanin molecules, these will come again, gathering pale light, returning it to us transformed as gold and magenta in the gladdening liturgy of fall. The world moves, cycles through time, offers its gifts afresh.
I AM SITTING ON THE WOODEN DOCK that extends over the drab waters of Acton Lake. The lake itself is nothing unusual, though I often wish that it were. It is not as if, fifteen thousand years ago, the fluted, rock-bearing snout of some south-extended glacier had begun to pool and retreat in the wakening Ohio spring, leaving behind a strand of sweet water—the reflecting waters of mastodon herds and cold adapted spruce. Unlike the fingered extensions of Lake Erie and Lake Michigan, or even the kettle lakes of Champaign County to the north, Acton Lake had no such romantic origins. It was created by human hands, the work of convicts impressed not long ago into the service of the state. Nothing exceptional.
And yet it has all the features of the ideal lake. In summer it stratifies. Layers of warm, light water drift on the cool, denser strata below. These upper waters mingle with the atmosphere. Winds from among the corn rows press the surface, sending molecules of oxygen through the tearing lake skin, riding the currents deep into the mixed layer. Streams bring an abundance of the nutrient elements, especially nitrogen and phosphorus from the neighboring farm fields and silicon from the channel rocks. Carbon, the most important element of all, comes to the lake from the air, from carbon dioxide, and from the weathering of ancient carbonates—carbonates layered long ago by shallow seas that once crept over this land, back when the Earth’s surface was arranged in unfamiliar ways. There is nourishment aplenty for the drifting phytoplankton and zooplankton and for the microscopic rotifers turning like pinwheels in the lapping shallows, and on up the food chain to the bluegill, to the rugged, omnivorous carp that wants for nothing. Acton Lake, in the parlance of limnology, is eutrophic, well-fed, teeming with life.
In summer, beneath the warm, oxygen-rich surface, lies another lake. Limnologists call it the hypolimnion, but it is really another world. In the depths of the hypolimnion, water meets mud, not sky; the lake is chill and dark. Things sink in a summer-long procession of death and decomposing. Gradually the dissolved molecular oxygen in these lower waters gives out, followed by anything to which oxygen is attached: nitrate, nitrite, sulfate, finally even carbon dioxide. The order is always the same. In their place noxious gases evolve: ammonia, hydrogen sulfide, more than likely a trace of methane. It is as though the hypolimnion came from another planet, from another Earth-age, from an Earth fecund with the unoxidized molecules of life. To this hidden lake the settling organisms yield up their cellular nitrogen and phosphorus and carbon. The knot that photosynthesis has tied is quietly undone, unraveled in lightlessness, as respiration releases things back into the unformed, into the possible. With no oxygen, the muds begin to decompose, to release manganese and iron and more phosphorus from their locked positions in the once robust but now failing fabric of metal oxides. By August the lower lake is a chemical brew, an exotic, stygian place, lurking just below the casual swimmer’s feet. These two lakes, irreconcilable yet interdependent in the drifting, slow exchange of matter, coexist by virtue of their different densities, one curious lake perched above another.
It is in the seasons of a lake that you can sense the miracle of water at work. As summer approaches and the surface warms, the molecules of the liquid quicken their motion. Energetic and vibrant, they spin from confining clusters and, like dancers in the quickening tempo of the dance, carve out more space for themselves, room to turn and pirouette, tiny maneuvers. A warmer parcel of water expands, occupies more space, becomes less dense, a thing of lightness. It fills the surface and isolates below it the cooler waters of the deep. Sheltered from the summer air, from the sun’s light, the lower lake lies in its chill repose. Its molecules are held more tightly, held in the thrall of hydrogen bond linked upon hydrogen bond, a vast and sprawling bridgework of more rigid design. These molecules of the lower lake are more compact, more grave and circumscribed in their motion, less given to the wild kinetic flights that higher temperatures occasion in matter. Epilimnion and hypolimnion, so utterly different. And yet, like a volume of Rutherford and a volume of Yeats casually stacked upon a cluttered desk, they are written in a common, endlessly variable language. The atom’s emptiness; the wild profusion of Innisfree.
As autumn approaches, there comes a subtle tug toward unity, toward the mingling of waters and the merging of worlds. In the crisp air of late September and early October, and particularly at night, as the stars rise and fall above cloudless skies, the warm surface lake radiates heat away into the autumn air. Its temperature becomes more nearly that of the deep waters. If you run the cable of a temperature probe through the water column from top to bottom, the thin needle barely moves: constant temperature, constant density, all the way down.
In this fine state of balance, a gentle night wind, sloughing the clattering leaves of the maples, is enough to set the poised waters streaming. Masses of stagnant hypolimnion plume upward, mushroom and bend, curl like ancient scrolls through the upper lake. In exchange, the surface waters plunge downward and spread along the fetid sulfidic muds, bringing with them a veritable hailstorm of that fateful and aggressive molecule, oxygen. At fall overturn, the hypolimnion becomes stripped of its methane and sulfides. Encountering oxygen, iron and manganese are oxidized and rain as solids from the lake again, as they must have in ancient seas. The upwelled phosphorus and nitrogen, not to be lost in the economy, spark a fall bloom of algae, a momentary green suffusion on the surface lake. Things enter from below, long stored away; the lake’s past comes to light.
Winter stratification in late October seems anticlimax. Beneath the thin veneer of ice that spreads across the surface, the lake is more homogeneous. Today a gray lake stretches flat under gray sky, a dormant sheet, as expressionless as shale. The brilliant canopy of trees has become an outreaching of spidery black limbs, and the drama of overturn has long passed. You can see ice beginning to build out from the docks, in the tentative, molecule-by-molecule way that ice builds, freezing, as ice does, from the surface down.
When I return the lake will be frozen and perfectly still. Like Bonney and Fryxell. Like Vanda. For now, I start the car, turn it south toward home, and leave Acton Lake in its dormancy, hoping that in a few months I will see it again.
When I tell people there are lakes in Antarctica, they think surely I am joking. “Lakes there?” they ask. “How can that be? It’s all ice and snow. Penguins running around.” Then, when I assure them that it’s true, they ask, in a more assertive tone, “But they’re frozen, of course?” And I say, “Well, yes, there’s ice on the surface, but below there’s liquid water, sometimes as deep as two hundred feet.” Then they ask—and this is inevitable—“Are there fish?” I say, “No, not a single one.” “Hmmm,” they respond, incredulous, “a lake without fish. Does anything live in them, at all?” And they emphasize “at all.” “Only algae and bacteria,” I say. “Nothing you can actually see with your eyes. Except for the mats of algae, which are tiny columns and pinnacles on the bottom, far below the ice.”
But then it is precisely what is not there, what has never been there, that makes the lakes—indeed, the whole continent on which they lie—so strange and so important.
For me these absences, and the simplicity to which they give rise, were the key. The lakes are the most isolated inland waters in the world. Landlocked, they are without spillage or outflow; each has only a few streams, and these hold water for only a few weeks out of the year. They are ice-covered, so that very little in the form of dust or snow enters them from the air. And, of course, there is never rain. That in itself makes them magic. How can you have a lake without rain? A lake without fish, maybe, but a lake without rain? A land without rain. A whole continent. Such living things as there are are mostly microscopic—algae, bacteria, yeast, a minimalist’s tableau. And into this setting, stark and largely inorganic, Martian almost, the elements come—nitrogen, phosphorus, the metals—unheralded, but replete with possibilities, with lives to be lived.
It would be no exaggeration to say that I was obsessed with the lakes, and especially with the metals that coursed through them like bits and pieces of an invisible wind. In this seemingly fantastical concern, I was not unlike Borges, who once wrote of a silver coin he had dropped into the sea. The coin had become, in consequence, a kind of persona in the drama of the world, its destiny unfolding alongside that of the poet Borges himself. I had my coins, too, by the countless billions.
I knew, for example, that the Onyx River in Wright Valley had brought tons of cobalt and lead and copper into Lake Vanda over its long history. Yet there were virtually no metals in the lake. I knew this. But where had they gone? What was removing them? What thin veil of purity had caught them in its mesh? And whatever veil it was, did it fall elsewhere across the Earth and its seas, purifying as it went? Did the Earth, or this tiny piece of it, regenerate itself? At what speeds? By what agencies? Last year I had set particle “traps” in the lakes, had left them there for a whole year. They were nothing more than clear plastic tubes, capped at one end and suspended below the ice. But in time, if all went well, I would get them back and I would know the answers.
I had hardly slept, had tossed in and out of dream all night. In the dream, winds came down the long valleys, sweeping thin snow before them, turning everything white and opaque, until my hand became ghostly, disappeared before my face. Creaking metal, the movement of giant frames through the air, bending, moaning with the uplift; the boom of canvas, of tent walls filtering the perpetual light. I rose under mountains, in the salt-weathered hollows of boulders, in narrow passes—the continent rising away from me, as it does, a great plain of ice and solitude, of Edwardian figures with their sledges, dragging, barely moving against the hard blue sky. Then I awoke, looked up at the cherry wood of the bed, at the darkness of Ohio, and remembered I was still here. “It’s time to pack,” Wanda said. “Time to wake the girls so they can see you off.” In the basement the furnace rattled as I dressed.
In a few moments I was downstairs. The sun stood large and red on the horizon beyond the water tower, just about to begin its climb through the morning sky. We were all standing at the door—Dana in her yellow sleeper; Kate, who barely came to my waist, in pink. Wanda was dressed in the flowing muumuu she had bought that year in Hawaii. We were hugging and holding back tears and I was feeling that odd mixture of excitement and guilt, even dread that accompanies these journeys. So much seems to fold and entangle itself in this work. So much that is never said. Anticipation of things to come; regret for things missed. How many Christmases do you get with your children when they are still filled with wonder, knowing the winter snows are tossed in magic?
The van from the university drew up to the curb. Mike let the engine idle, jumped out, ran across the lawn, and lifted Katy over his head. Wanda hugged him and said, “You two look after each other. Don’t do anything foolish down there. I want to see everyone back here safe and sound.” Dana was wiping away tears. “Write me, Daddy. Call on my birthday,” she said, “like you did last year. We’ll keep the Christmas tree up for you. I promise.” “Write to your mother,” Wanda said to me. “She seems so concerned this time. And don’t forget the shell.”
We drove down High Street, jogged right, then left, and up the winding road to Boyd Hall. Walt, Tim, Varner, and Dr. Yu were waiting at the front door, and we all greeted each other with day-of-departure enthusiasm. Upstairs, the laboratory’s floor-to-ceiling windows let in a pale light that scattered across the benches and the instruments—the water baths and spectrophotometers, the burettes clamped and covered on the metal stand—and reflected onto the chalk board with its lists and equations and onto the sturdy wooden crates that were neatly lined against the wall. We locked the equipment boxes with their water samplers and filters and pumps and pipettes, and slid the dead weight of the sediment corer into its hinged container. We gathered the black carrying cases that held the pH meters, the oxygen meters, and probes. We stuffed books into knapsacks: Standard Methods for the Examination of Water and Wastewater; Aquatic Chemistry; Wetzel’s Limnology. Large, ponderous tomes, but for us essentials, tools of the trade.
After we had checked everything against the list on the board, we carried it all downstairs. Mike, Walt, Tim, Dr. Yu, Varner, and I, like a line of porters and sherpas, wound our way down the narrow staircase of the old building, past the brass pendulum that swings in the stairwell, past the polished reading room, and out the door. We nearly filled the back of the van with our supplies. And this was only the beginning. The cold-weather clothing would come later, in New Zealand, and the camping gear and supplies would be carefully chosen in Antarctica, at McMurdo Station. “Expedition,” Mike said. “To the valleys of Mars and beyond,” Walt continued, raising his arm with a flourish. I turned to look at Boyd Hall. The gray limestone was adorned with a single word carved in large letters above the door: SCIENCE, it read, almost wistfully, as though somehow there were still only one. We moved slowly up the empty drive that runs by the small Gothic chapel and by Peabody Hall and then drops suddenly down toward the shallow pond, crosses the stone bridge, and climbs back again, past the art gallery and out to the highway. We were under way.
At the airport we unloaded the van, stacked the trunks and cases and knapsacks neatly by the counter, and then walked in aimless little circles while we waited. Brilliant surfaces, reflections, whispers, the serious self-confidence of airports—somehow, in our checkered shirts and hiking boots and faded jeans, our “geochemical attire,” as Mike called it, we did not fit.
“Would you please open these boxes, sir?” There was a stern voice speaking behind me. “I hear something. It’s ticking.” I listened for a second, crouching down, pressing my ear to one of the containers. There was no denying it: tick, tick, tick, tick, slightly muffled, but absolutely steady … and loud. I felt betrayed. By my own equipment.
A small crowd began to gather as I rooted beneath a mound of pipette tips and filter papers, things that sounded like dry leaves, that flew up and fluttered when I touched them. My hands clutched something cold, round, heavy. People were bending down. The circle of onlookers had grown. “It’s the clock drive,” I said, pulling it up with both hands. “For the water-level recorder. For the streams.” My voice was rising. I was in my own country, speaking English, making perfect sense, at least to myself, and yet I occupied the center of an expanding circle of incomprehension. How to explain this?
I stood up, pulled off the top of the instrument to expose the rounded drum. Varner reached into his knapsack and produced a roll of chart paper. Dr. Yu, who understood intuitively that this was about to become a public demonstration for the “authorities,” handed me the yellow float. I attached it to the instrument. You could now see the drum, with its lined chart paper, slowly turning. You could see the pen lean inward against the paper, touch it, leave a trace. You could see the way the yellow float, which dangled at my knees, controlled the pen, moved it up and down against the drum. “Imagine this is a stream,” I said, looking out over the crowd, and I pointed down, down at the carpeted airport floor. “When the stream rises, it lifts the float.” I lifted it slightly. “And the float lifts the pen.” A thin red line shot upward like a spike on the white graph paper. “Like this.” A woman in the back smiled. Then smiles all around.
There were more questions about the meters: pH, oxygen, conductivity. They had a look of menace about them, needles drifting mysteriously across the white calibrated landscapes of the faces. I lifted each of them in turn, held them up for the clerk to see, played with the knobs, watched the readings come into view. Readings of nothing. “You can put those things away now. Sorry for the bother. You understand.”
We were shortly airborne, the plane lifting slowly west, following for a moment the course of the broad Ohio River. I folded my hands on my lap, rolled my head back against the seat, and looked out onto the scattered fleece of morning cloud, onto the plane’s detached shadow sliding flat far below across the Earth.
This atmosphere through which we climbed, which lifted us like a great gentle hand, has such a thinness, an insubstantial quality to it. It is little more than a tenuous gathering of small molecules: nitrogen, oxygen, water vapor, argon, carbon dioxide, jostling, colliding, glancing off one another like tiny billiard balls. No strong intermolecular linkages, no hydrogen bonds, no clear polarities as in the water of a lake. Just the weak force of gravity like some invisible shepherd drawing together his flock. A streak, a wisp, a swirl of matter strewn around. With a few bits of data, a few equations, you can count the molecules, the atoms. In the whole atmosphere, there aren’t many.
And yet in a way this little is so much. The whole biosphere, the whole tangle and undergrowth of life—the profligate lignins and cellulose of plants, the matlike hemes and porphyrins, the helical proteins winding and unwinding—comes from this, this drifting reservoir of the unjoined and disunited. Our breathing binds us to this air, and thus to each other, to everything living, in a common breath, a common exchange of oxygen, from lung to limb and back again, transformed. The sun’s energy, burning on the equator, is sped poleward in giant cells and lariats of air that never weary or cease, that warm the farthest ice-laden sea. This atmosphere connects all with all; with alacrity, it dispatches dew and dust alike. How disastrous it would be if this were not so, if over the great forests oxygen hung in reactive clouds, undispersed and lethal, inviting fire and ruin; or over the cities the vapors settled dark and heavy as rain. But the atmosphere, sweeping, mixing, transferring, never storing very long, will not allow it.
The lower atmosphere, this troposphere, literally the “sphere of turning,” is a wild and errant place, a place raging with storms, the fickle, unpredictable weather of our world. Even on a calm day the plane protests, seems to bend and creak. In the troposphere the power of destruction abides, the hurricanes moving massive waters toward the dark shore, the tornadoes capable of razing whole towns: Xenia, Ohio, obliterated, reduced to cornfield rubble in an instant.
But more than this, the troposphere is motion, and transit and life. Imagine a cabin on a winter’s day, motes of carbon and steam curling from its chimney. The smoke trails off but never just lies in luxuriant streaks above the Earth. It billows and stretches, dips groundward, rises again and drifts into cloud. The troposphere is an engine of turbulence and change, powered by the fusion furnace of a distant sun. From the heated Earth, warm air rises and on rising cools, then descends again. It is thus that the green kite slips away on the April breeze; the fly ball, helped by an updraft, carries beyond the hapless fielder’s leap; the lilies, the grasses, bend on the spring air; the firefly in the folds of the summer yard eludes the child with the jar; the gem of Venus is pushed aside by cloud. In the troposphere we hear the wet trees slap against the attic roof, bearing us far into sleep; and the maple seed glides like a wooden blade in whispers from the parent tree.
Gaining altitude now, we have left all this. We are in the calm near the stratosphere. Here you can see the plane’s contrail. The white exhaust hangs, begins to bead like islands, an island chain stretched across blue. Below, rivers and lakes flare like metal and glass, signal mirrors in the brown suede of landscape. Over the Grand Canyon, the pilot dips left and then right, exclaiming on the color of the stone—the reds and reddish browns that iron and oxygen together make. Descending beyond the San Bernardino Mountains, a prairie of housing tracts begins to grow out of sere grass, and blue sky gives way to whiskey, the photochemical hue of Los Angeles, with its aldehydes and ozone, its nitrogen dioxide taint.
On the ground at Los Angeles, before the flight to Hawaii, we drive to the beach, ride strong November waves, toss a football at the surf’s lacing edge, stretch ourselves before the long confinement. Near sunset we are back at Los Angeles International Airport. Blue runway lights stretch through dusk to the sea. The silvery planes launch outward on their westward climb over the Pacific, roll in the last pink of the evening sky, like large slow fish, then disappear.
No sooner are we aloft than the continent of cliffs and lights drops into black water and begins to fade. I sip bourbon from among the melting ice, feel the warmth flow from my fingers into the cool glass. Through the gentle haze of ethanol and plain weariness, I am wondering how 1 came to be here, in this 747, above this sea, gazing out on the shifting veils of the evening, heading toward Antarctica.
I cannot exactly trace the path that leads here. Perhaps there is no path, only matted brush, a few indecipherable tracks. Things get lost and memory is always part fiction. But I can say that at some point I found geochemistry and without much plan or forethought it began to occupy much of my time. In geochemistry the chemical elements were not mere symbols on a chart, beautiful as those symbols were—hydrogen, helium, lithium, beryllium, singing out almost as I spoke their names. They were voyagers among rivers and mountains, visitors to the atmosphere, dwellers in the abyss. In geochemistry the elements came to life, propelled by the forces of wind and water and sunlight, constrained and animated by the laws of physics and chemistry. I began to think of them as immortals roaming the planet, tiny gods whose adventures would make a mythologist blush. In geochemistry I heard the biblical voice from long ago:
The wind goeth toward the south,
and turneth about unto the north;
it whirleth about continually,
and the wind returneth again according to his circuits.
All the rivers run into the sea;
yet the sea is not full;
unto the place from whence the rivers come,
thither they return again.
And with the wind and with the rivers go the elements, moving, holding their own counsel, forever reshuffled, enduring, locked into this assemblage a moment, then into that. Never very long anywhere. Yet their intersecting journeys make the world, make it build and fall apart.
I could not work on even the smallest geochemical problem without placing myself in the space of the atoms, as they moved in time, as they traced the great cycles. What would it be like to be an atom of manganese, I wondered. To be iron or copper? To be calcium or lead or carbon? To have time open up to you all at once, like a landscape seen through the opening doors of a country church? How do these destinies, so different from our own, unfold?
With these questions, thoughts of the Antarctic lakes came to me. The lakes were tiny, inconsequential in any global sense. And yet like Blake’s grain of sand, they held a world. If you could write the biography of manganese in Lake Vanda, for example, if you could record its history from the time that water first pried it from rock or set it aswirl in the milky dissolving of carbonates, from the slow collapse of ferromanganese minerals, to the time that it came to rest in the prison of lake sediment, then perhaps you could say something, suggest something, about manganese on a grander scale. Perhaps you could say something about its magellenic trek through the world oceans, or its capture in the brown disk of a manganese nodule. Maybe. More than anything else, as I remembered them from those days with Hatcher and Benoit, the Antarctic lakes were tractable; they were geochemical microcosms. They opened onto something larger than themselves.
Hatcher and Benoit. Names that go back nearly twenty years. In some way the journey might have begun then, with them. It was quite by accident that I was living then in a small trailer on the outskirts of town. Sharing it with Hatcher and Hall. My dissertation research on the solubility of gases in molten salts was nearly complete, all except for the writing and I think I was looking for an excuse to postpone that. So when Hatcher told me Benoit was thinking about doing some chemistry in the lakes of the Antarctic Dry Valleys—“Maybe dissolved oxygen, ammonia, sulfide,” he said, “things of biological interest. He’ll need a chemist. How would you like to go?”—I said, “Sure, I could use a break from the lab, the dissertation. When do we leave?”
We left in August of that year, in the Antarctic spring. The LC-130 Hercules cutting with all its strength into the polar night out beyond the watery, unmarked “point of safe return.” We carried enough fuel in a huge bladder so that the plane could circle back, return to New Zealand, if the weather proved too severe for landing. Sometimes in August, you couldn’t tell the white mountains of Antarctica from the sky.
There was nothing much at McMurdo then: the building where we slept, a piece of corrugated sheet metal curled over the volcanic ash of the island; the ship’s store; the mess, the garage smelling of diesel, the machine shop, and the hangar for the helicopters. Jamesway huts hunkered low to the ground, rounded against the wind, separated far enough so that fire couldn’t spread easily. But there were reminders everywhere of Scott: the rambling hut on the peninsula where he had spent part of the winter of 1911. Just walking by I could taste the acrid seal blubber burned in stoves nearly a century ago. Had they been gone only hours, I wondered. Could they still be warned? Called back? But the wooden cross high on Observation Hill spoke of death: “To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield,” it read, facing out in a great embrace toward the Ross Sea, The Barrier, the Valleys, the bodies of Scott and his men—Bowers, Evans, Oates, Wilson—buried out there in fine desert snow. Moving with the moving ice that collapsed into the sea.
In the McMurdo Biolab there was a tiny room that passed for a library. From there I had once put through a phone patch to my parents. They received it in Pittsburgh at three in the morning. It had gone through a ham operator somewhere in Indiana. “Are you all right, Bill?” my father had yelled, his voice cracking and confused with sleep. There was an edge of panic in his words that I had never heard before. “Are you alive?” It took us more than a few minutes just to connect, just for my heart to slow down. And by then he had handed the phone across the bed to my mother. They had never carried on a one-way conversation, with its awful pauses and clicks and “overs.” Neither had I. Not through eleven thousand miles.
That year Hatcher, Benoit, and I visited all the lakes. Some in darkness, when you could still see stars in the deep chutes of stone and wind that were the valleys, and sunsets that turned the sky emerald and mauve. There were Russian scientists at Lake Bonney, when the hut was still there, before the lake level rose and they had to take it out. Pinned down by October winds and blowing snow, we talked of Tolstoy and Turgenev, the Petersburg of the czars. There were boxes of frozen steaks, a small oil stove, a Primus, a few plywood bunks, lots of vodka and tobacco. Beyond, in the valleys, there was absolutely no one. There never had been. The nearest things to life were the mummified seals, crawled up from the Ross Sea, bones and flesh still intact. They had been lying there a thousand years almost unchanged.
In those days there were no field radios. They just put you in by helicopter on the frozen lake and said good-bye. When the day for pickup came, you waited. Sometimes you waited for a week until the weather broke, until the winds died down so the choppers could move up valley without being blown right back out. We were living on K-rations, in tents that were dots of green and red in the landscape. Early in the season—September, October—we could work outside only an hour or less. Even under the hood of the parka, the tip of my nose turned to frozen flesh, white and blistered when I looked at it in the silver blade of my knife. It seemed I could watch my own spit freeze before it hit the ground.
And there was the wind, constant and depressing. It could make you want to hug yourself and rock in the little tent, burrow into warmth and memory. Anything not to have to face it. But sometimes it could be a conspirator in play. On Bonney, we all “surfed” the ice on plywood squares—even Benoit and the Russian geologist Boris Lopatin—using our outstretched arms and our parkas as sails, finally crashing into the opposite shore. “Craaazy capitalists,” Boris Lopatin had said, laughing uproariously, holding up a glass of vodka whose surface had frozen solid.
I kept a small journal that year. On September 15, there was an eighty-knot wind pouring over the snout of the Taylor Glacier, down the east-west axis of Lake Bonney, slamming into the wooden hut where we slept. The hut rocked back and forth, moaned, uprooted two of its steel wires, and seemed on the verge of being tumbled down the valley. But then the wind suddenly stopped. According to my journal, I got up, walked outside over the scree slope and down onto the lake ice. It was forty below zero. The sky was a cloudless blue and beneath my feet the prismatic ice, cut crystal, was ten feet thick. You could drive a locomotive across it if you wanted. I chopped some of it with an axe, carried it back to the cabin in my gloved hands, put it in a large pot. I melted it, boiled it, made coffee in a metal cup, and drank it with my gloves on. Then I went out again. There was a granite boulder the size of a person kneeling. It was shaped like the Virgin, hollowed that way, a hood of stone around her smooth oval face. Over coffee, I stared at it, wondering how long it takes wind to carve rock that way, to abrade it grain by grain into a figure in prayer. A thousand years? A million? Time lay all about me, visible in the naked stone.
Suddenly there are strings of light turning in the black water below. The plane rolls and they disappear, then rolls again and they return, bright now, the city of Honolulu glittering in the midnight sea.
In the terminal the dense sweetness of flower leis is all around. The women in their red and blue muumuus drift as in a dream, slow, soundless night motion, the torpor of islands. Far beyond the airport, lighted houses and street lamps climb the flanks of the Koolau Range, leaving in black cleavage the unbuilt ravines and the upper wooded slopes of the mountains.
Gazing up, I can imagine Keith’s place, a single light on the farthest ridge, overlooking the volcano. I spent a year working with Keith: the endless talk about the sea, about the vents, the pillows of lava that move out there in the dark, their chemistry. We talked about how the oceans formed, how the islands themselves came to be: the seafloor spreading beneath us, the fire of the mantle welling up and moving away, cooling, leaving its magnetic message in the frozen stone, the plates always shifting over the broken shell of the Earth.
The islands came from all this tectonic motion, this eternal building from within. The Hawaiian myths spoke of it, spoke of the goddess Pele, the goddess of fire spilling lava, raising land, vast mountains domed and hissing above the cold sea. “Born was Pele, in the night,” the creation chant said. “Born was the coral, the mother of pearl, the shellfish, the conch.” The chant spoke of fire and water and calcareous stone. The new theory of plate tectonics embellished upon this, saw it all unfold in time, gave it dates and causes, tied it to the larger frame of the Earth. The geophysicist Tuzo Wilson argued that the Pacific Plate was gliding above a hot spot in the mantle. As the plate passed, fresh lava welled up from the “spot.” It was streaked red and orange with heat along the seafloor, cooling, building its way higher. Several million years ago land finally emerged, struggling against fog and rain and cutting surf. You can see the track of the Pacific Plate, its northwest drift, in the line the islands make in the empty sea.
In the years that these islands of basalt have waited, all things have come. In the beginning there was just rock and steam, Pele’s struggle against the tide. Now these outcrops are full. The soft air, the smell of mango, papaya, and ginger, the rustle of palm leaves, the glow of the night sky over the Koolaus, up by Keith’s house, tell you this. For these islands have been port to any spore that drifts or floats on tropospheric winds, to any passenger come on the pinions of brilliant birds. It is deep green maidenhair up and down the creased mountains, the petals of flowers adrift, perfume far into the desert night of the sea, the islands in nacre garlanded, the bays and inlets, the broken mouths of volcanoes aswarm with the lightning of sudden fish. I want to stand here and take all of this in, let it bathe me like a fine island mist, this spectacle of matter, the golden elements, concentrated on these shores. Knowing what is soon to be, knowing that in a few days, a few weeks, all of this will hardly seem possible—islands of burgeoning and blooming, the scent of living things compressed, of moonlight falling silver over it all—I question my own footsteps. I question my movement to the plane out on the tarmac waiting.
It was after midnight when we took off. From the window, the lights of Waikiki rose as a thin necklace at the throat of Diamond Head. Soon only the wing was visible, as gray as an industrial rooftop, cutting the palpable blackness. I glanced around the plane. Behind Mike, Dr. Yu, and me, seated in the vast midsection, 1 could see Walt, Tim, and Varner. Walt was still awake. Peter Medawar’s Advice to a Young Scientist lay facedown on his lap. He seemed content with his decision to come here, to “do science,” as he put it.
It had not always been this way. I had expected Walt would go on to study literature or philosophy, aesthetics maybe, somewhere on the West Coast. I think it was the fieldwork that drew him in and made him change his mind: The sampling on Acton Lake, the stream measurements he had made on phosphorus. The lake and the land, they were connected in subtle ways, ways he hadn’t thought about. The lake reflected the land, summed it up, told its story through time.
In lakes you can see things happen. Somehow they are just the right scale: not so large that change is imperceptible, not so small that it can be dismissed as merely local. One summer the arcing leaps of the sturgeon are less common. Then the cisco and sauger pike, the white fish and blue pike begin to disappear. Someone notices that the dissolved oxygen is lower. Then the decline accelerates. The mayfly nymphs, once so abundant in the sediments, turn up dead, and in their place bloodworms and fingernail clams abound.
I remember having a conversation like this once with my father. It was under the soft lights of a ballpark, the grass partly in shadow. He was standing there with his arms folded, looking off toward the outfield stanchions and the absolute darkness that lay beyond the fence. Out where the waters of Erie began. “Where are the mayflies this year?” my father said. “I’ve never seen so few. No clouds of them out there around the lights.” He sounded surprised. For a second he was no longer watching the game. I didn’t know what he was thinking, but he sounded very sad. A few missing mayflies, I thought. What does it matter? But I said nothing.
Like my father, Walt knew about these things almost intuitively. He knew how a lake could change, what it could say, what it could tell us about the way we lived on this Earth. When he saw that, intuited it in his numbers, it was too much. He was hooked.
For Tim, things had been clear now for some time. He had discovered analytical chemistry, had taken to the lab and all of its delicate operations with a deftness and good cheer that I had never seen before. His work had a kind of meditative stillness about it. A saintly quality. As though every act were being offered up. You hardly knew he was there, and yet everything got done. Meticulously. Almost without effort. Nothing wasted. I would just scratch my head and say, “How did he do that? So quickly?” I knew every number was exactly right. And with Tim there was something else: years of camping and fishing with his father in Canada had given him the resourcefulness of the outdoorsman. He could probably make a canoe with tree bark and fish with carved stones.
Then there was Mike, black hair down to his shoulders, a slight roll to his walk, that dense thicket of beard like Raphael’s Aristotle. Mike, alone of all of us, you could imagine on the first polar expeditions with Scott or Shackleton, always indefatigable and good-humored, ready to put his life on the line. Varner called him a gentle giant, even though he stood only five feet ten.
Dr. Yu, the oldest in the group, was a visiting scientist from Qinghai Province in China. He knew geochemistry, wrote poetry about the high, barren, windy emptiness of the Tibet Plateau, and was an expert on the salt lakes of that region. He would understand the Dry Valleys instinctively.
Varner was different. From the time I met him, he seemed a man of reason. Not easily excited. A skeptic, cautious. Even now he looked uncertain about our project. Maybe the flume he was designing to measure stream flow would work, maybe it wouldn’t. He would give it his best. But he could not even imagine the valleys and the mountains of Antarctica, he said. He could not imagine the streams or his own science there. The glaciers seemed like absolute fictions. I think, secretly, he thought I was slightly mad in wanting to go back to the lakes year after year. “Once should be enough,” he said. “Maybe more than enough.” Sometimes I think he doubted there were lakes there at all.
It still seemed odd that he had decided to come. We had been friends for many years. In college we had taken chemistry together, had run through the infamous “qual scheme” in laboratories that were stifling and dark, that smelled of rotten eggs. “So this is chemistry,” Varner had said wryly, shaking his head, as though some life decision were being made right there on the spot. That year we heard the great chemist Linus Pauling speak of disarmament and peace and then glide, almost without pause, into the theory of the hydrogen bond. “It was recognized some decades ago,” Pauling began, “that under certain conditions an atom of hydrogen is attracted by rather strong forces to two atoms, instead of only one, so that it may be considered to be acting as a bond between them.” Then he stopped for a second, as he often did for dramatic effect, and then, with his arms spread wide, his face lifted to the crowd, he said, “This is the hydrogen bond.” During the hour, he spoke of the properties of liquids, the structure of proteins, the origin of life, all the while returning to the little bond with which he had begun, the bond that influenced everything. “A man of passion, brilliant,” Varner had said without emotion, as though he were offering a pure description.
A chemical engineer by training, Varner had once earned a big salary blending polymers, turning plastics into corporate gold. But a decade into his chosen career, he began to have doubts. He went back to school at nights, became a high school physics teacher in Akron, working for less than a third of his engineer’s pay. No regrets. He was living a good life in Akron, in the big restored house he had bought eighteen years ago, not far from the Firestone mansion. He had his backyard garden, with its early tomatoes, and the barn swallows nested nearby. Varner was a putterer, a repairman, a man of the neighborhood. But he was also a gifted engineer. If anyone could turn a piece of plywood into a flume and have that flume get numbers, it was Varner. It really didn’t matter that he was not a hydrologist and had probably never even taken a course in hydrology. He had the engineer’s “feel” for physical objects, for devices and gizmos, for things that made the world turn. So Varner would build us a flume, tell us how the streams ran in time.
How the streams ran was at the heart of our work. We wanted to know how the streams gave rise to the lakes, how the lakes were prefigured in the waters of the streams. And we wanted to know what the streams carried, what dissolved things swam like secrets in the current: how much manganese and iron and cobalt, how much phosphorus and nitrogen, how much calcium? If you could measure the streams you could track the journeys of the elements, imagine them in the small compass of the lake like migratory birds.
As the project leader, I had parceled out the work according to interest and skill, but mostly according to interest. The fire had to be there first; the other would follow. Walt would study phosphorus and nitrogen, would try to measure how much of these elements the clear glacial melt streams brought to the lakes each year. We were interested especially in phosphorus, because in lakes this is the element of life, and sometimes of death. Mike would look at how the lakes had evolved through time, at their chemistry and salt structures, at how quickly the streams brought calcium and magnesium and sodium and potassium to them. Chemically the lakes were all different. Even when they lay cheek by jowl in the same valley, they were different. Why, we wondered. To explain the lakes we had to understand the streams. We had to know how fast they flowed, how quickly they delivered their precious cargo of ions and salts and clays. Getting the flows right was Varner’s job, and so much depended on it.
And then we had to retrieve the particle traps from Lake Vanda—this was up to Tim and Dr. Yu—gather together what bits of matter had settled into them, and decipher that. I worried about the traps. We had left them suspended for a year, tubes dangling at the end of a thread. Yet if all went well there would be signs and messages in them. For while the streams spoke of arrivals, of the elements coming down to the lake, the particles spoke of departures, of things leaving. In the two there should be balance.
A deep voice from the cabin interrupted my last-minute audit. We were crossing the equator now, it said, and I glanced out the window as though there were actually something to see: A thin blue line, perhaps, like the one they pasted on the spyglasses of nineteenth-century sailors when they first came into these parts, or even a few soft zeros marking the mystical latitude of the Earth’s halving.
What had brought me here, then, hurtling over the dark Earth, heading south? As with every journey, this one began with a few conscious steps, and I could record those. They have dates and dollar amounts and postage. But they are only a small part of the whole. Time and chance happeneth to us all, saith the Preacher. So what is it that comes before the easily recollected numbers, the presence of certainty? What lies in a time before Benoit and Hatcher, before I had even heard of the continent? I might just as well have laughed at the thought of this southern extreme the day Hatcher first mentioned it. But I didn’t and I wonder why. What did the word Antarctica reach into and touch? What resonances did it stir in what had long been stored away? Things I didn’t know had been there to begin with.
I went back to sipping a Jim Beam and searching for some visible evidence of our half-world position—something physical besides the wing light’s pulsing with the odd glow that it cast before being swallowed up. You had to laugh at that. A whole universe filled with night and then the winglight, like a little prayer. But there was nothing there. Only the rising winds. And far below, the empty sea.
