The much-anticipated date, marked on the calendar and discussed for weeks, passes without event. January 28: a sunrise to break the spell of the polar night. I awake under overcast skies, spend a distracted Saturday scanning the southern horizon, and spot only low cloud banks.

The 29th: more clouds. In the long midday stretch, a radio call breaks the silence. It’s Marissa, a kilometer away at TAWO, unintelligible, and in such apparent distress that the entire crew, spread across station, experiences a simultaneous moment of alarm. We’re all standing now, having stopped what we’re doing and moved to our radios, when she keys down the radio again and announces in adrenalized joy that the sun has risen. I walk outside and lean against the metal railing of the deck. A thin band of sun is visible through the clouds: dim, un-warming, and largely obscured, but the true sun, returned north. I gaze to the south, transfixed, until cold drives me inside.

The 30th. I ski out to Bamboo Forest to survey the snow accumulation stakes. There is a big cloud bank in front of the sun, but the whole thing is lit up with yellow and orange light. It is blinding to look at. Spots move across my vision as I remember to break my stare. The air temperature of -40°F makes for good working, but a cutting wind blows from the south. I move up and down the rows of stakes, measuring the height of each and making notes using an oversized pencil that I wield in my right mitt. As I move towards the north, I have the wind to my back, and my face rewarms in the shelter of my fur hood. As I turn south, I gain the glorious display of the illuminated sky but endure the cold edge of the wind in my face. From shelter to sunlight to shelter, the end of each row brings a welcome change.

The 31st. The familiar grey-blue light of winter returns to station. The sun is obscured by an overcast sky.

The 1st of February. We fill an enormous plastic balloon, attach a wet-chemistry ozone sonde, and release it at 11 in the morning. The sun has just risen, and the balloon quickly passes into direct sunlight. We are stupefied by the sight. The spectacle is both absurd–the object of our fascination is a big plastic bag–and undeniably captivating, as the brilliant pleated balloon seems glow: a neon slash across the sky. A time-lapse from Marissa’s camera captures the five of us in the seconds after release.

When we’ve put away the ballooning gear, I take a midday break to fly the big delta kite: the first time since late November. With the return of the sun, there’s enough light to take some aerial photos. It’s a treat to pull down the camera and see camp from above: here, Marie walks away from the Green House berthing building, with the meteorology tower glowing almost pink in the sunlight. Marissa’s photo of me returning from the flight shows the sun setting behind the Big House.