With a few shorthand scratches, I logged the height of the last of 121 bamboo poles, then tucked away my clipboard and headed back towards my stash of gear. There had been no accumulation or scouring since last I’d measured–no change in the reach of these poles above the snow surface–and I’d skied out along perfectly crisp ski tracks from the previous week. I swapped garments, then put on my backpack and started down the flag line towards station. The weekly survey at the bamboo forest–a couple hours to myself, away from station, carrying my survival gear and watching the skies–offers a nice break from standard daily tasks. And the distance offers perspective: even a kilometer out, our outpost–precious food, fuel and shelter–is just a low-slung scatter of debris across a small arc of horizon.

Across the ice, the 50-meter tower rose towards a low stratus cloud deck, pale rime clinging to its aluminum lattice. It stood out, both dark against the pale stratus, and at once bright against the distant  horizon. And somehow, in the interplay of cloud and light, metal and ice, the middle of the tower almost seemed to disappear. An optical illusion, 15 stories tall.