(Jan 31-Feb 2, 2026)
Every year in early February, the mayor of Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania gets dressed up, wakes a large rodent, grabs him by the scruff of the neck, and makes a spectacle of him in front of an impressive number of cameras. If the rodent scurries back into his burrow, it is an omen indicating at least six more weeks of winter. So the story goes.
For nearly two weeks, a group of scientists and engineers had worked tirelessly from an icy field camp, drilling a 1,000-meter hole through the ice. They were largely insulated from the outside world, focused entirely on the work, until the media cameras arrived on the final day of January. This was supposed to be the triumphant culmination of six years of effort to place their instruments beneath the ice. Instead, their equipment became irreversibly stuck.
They were shocked. Devastated. And deeply sleep-deprived—suddenly held up for the world to see.
Then just like that, on February 1 the massive effort to airlift people and equipment off the ice began. It’s interesting how the ice always looks a little whiter under someone else’s boots. The personnel at the hot-water drill camp were beyond exhausted after two straight weeks of work on the ice. They wanted nothing more than the comforts of the Araon: hot prepared meals, warm showers, and real beds.
Many of us, though, had not set foot off the Araon in five and a half weeks. We were getting stir-crazy and would have done just about anything to get out onto the ice. As a result, helping to dig out equipment for sling-loading back to the ship became a highly coveted task.
On the first camp-retrieval day, five assistants were requested. I managed to negotiate two slots for our team, and nominated Jason and Jesse. I stayed back myself. This was their first field season, and neither had yet set foot on the Antarctic continent. Jesse gave me a big bear hug on his way to the helideck that morning. Jason wore the biggest grin I’ve ever seen on him.
After a long day of work, most of the heavy lifting had been completed. Jason and Jesse were ecstatic—and completely spent. Jason slept for thirteen hours that night without discussing volcanoes or playing ping-pong beforehand. Probably a first.
That evening, Sukyoung—one of the lead Korean scientists—asked whether I could find five more assistants to finish breaking down the camp the following day. Mahren, Brenna, and Romane—three young women from the U.S. and Canada—overheard the conversation and looked in my direction like a trio of curious penguins.
“I bet they’d be happy to go, and I’m sure we can find two others,” I said to Sukyoung, nodding toward them. All three immediately signaled their enthusiasm. Sukyoung seemed satisfied and walked away.
Five minutes later, she returned and explained that they would prefer helpers with more physical capacity—including me—because the remaining work would be demanding. I understood the concern being raised, but all three women had field experience, and I was confident they were more than capable of wielding a shovel.
I pushed back, saying as much. Eventually, we compromised on including two of them. Mahren, Brenna, and Romane conducted a series of high-stakes coin tosses. Romane was voted off the island.
You may be surprised to learn that Antarctic field science has historically been white-male-dominated (that’s sarcasm, for those who don’t speak it fluently). Scientists today talk a good game about inclusion and diversity, and in my own experience I’ve rarely witnessed overt sexism or racism. I’m also certain that was not the intent here. Still, this exchange carried some uncomfortable undertones and left an unnecessary bad taste in my mouth.
On February 2—the actual Groundhog Day—we gathered for our usual 07:30 helicopter operations meeting. The weather looked cooperative enough to finish the job before clouds rolled in. Personnel would be ferried to camp in three flights.
I mentioned the previous evening’s exchange to Scott and Taff from the British Antarctic Survey, who were also planning to help with the final camp pull-out. They looked at me, slightly puzzled, and agreed there was no reason all three women couldn’t go. It meant swapping Jesse for Romane, but I was confident Jesse would understand. He got an ice-camp adventure the day before.
I found Mahren in the galley and told her all three women could join. I hadn’t finished the sentence before she leapt out of her seat and sprinted upstairs to find Romane.
The rotors began turning around 08:30. Mahren, Brenna, and Romane were on the second flight out to camp, along with Scott and me. It was the women’s first helicopter ride. To my surprise, the third flight included two petite Korean women as well. Maybe some attitudes had shifted—and maybe I’d helped nudge things in that direction.
For the next several hours, we dug out pyramid tents and the communal mess tent. It was indiscriminately hard work in the sunshine. Everyone pulled their weight. Mahren, Brenna, and Romane each told me—more than once—that this would be the day they remembered most from the trip.
And just like that, on Groundhog Day, ten scientists and engineers retreated back into their burrows aboard the Araon. There was little trace left of the roughly twenty tons of gear that had occupied the ice. We were already guaranteed at least a few more weeks of winter on this voyage, so no one was particularly worried about the prognostic implications of scientists seeing their shadows.
In my work as a mountain guide, I’ve often said that my favorite part of the job is empowering people through new experiences. Our team accomplished a tremendous amount of science aboard the Araon this season, but these days were probably the most meaningful to me. Between Jesse, Jason, Mahren, Brenna, and Romane, I played a small role in giving five people experiences they’ll never forget.
I had a big smile on my face this Groundhog Day as well.
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