714 lines
39 KiB
Markdown
714 lines
39 KiB
Markdown
---
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created_at: '2015-04-18T21:18:49.000Z'
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title: A Mysterious Death at the South Pole (2009)
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url: http://www.mensjournal.com/magazine/print-view/a-mysterious-death-at-the-south-pole-20131125
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author: curtis
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points: 70
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story_text:
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comment_text:
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num_comments: 12
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story_id:
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story_title:
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story_url:
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parent_id:
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created_at_i: 1429391929
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_tags:
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- story
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- author_curtis
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- story_9401090
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objectID: '9401090'
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year: 2009
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---
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During the 24 hours that Rodney Marks's life was slipping away from him,
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he had plenty of time to contemplate his predicament. He knew he was
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trapped, cut off from adequate medical attention, about as far from
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civilization as one can get on this planet. He knew that during the
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long, dark winters at the South Pole – where for eight months of the
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year it's too cold to land a plane – small problems become big ones very
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fast.
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****
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[RELATED: A Voyage to the South
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Pole](https://www.mensjournal.com/uncategorized/voyage-to-the-south-pole-20131113/)
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As the 32-year-old Australian astrophysicist lay on the old navy gurney
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in the biomed facility of the [Amundsen-Scott
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base](http://www.nsf.gov/geo/plr/support/southp.jsp), Marks may have
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been thinking about the Russian doctor who had to give himself an
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appendectomy during a South Pole "winterover" in 1961, or of Dr. Jerri
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Nielsen, who in 1999 diagnosed and treated her own breast cancer with
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supplies dropped in by parachute. But unlike them, neither Marks nor the
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base's lone physician had any idea what was wrong with him. He had woken
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up at 5:30 that morning vomiting blood, and the burn that had started in
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the pit of his stomach was now radiating throughout his body.
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It was already Marks's second visit to the makeshift hospital that day,
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and he arrived scared, anxious, and wearing sunglasses to protect his
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unbearably sensitive eyes. There was no one medical condition that the
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base physician, Dr. Robert Thompson, could think of that would explain
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what was happening to Marks. The doctor's only link to the outside world
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was an Internet connection and a satellite phone, and both were down at
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the time – the base's position at the bottom of the planet meant it lost
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its signal for much of each day. The doctor spent hours clutching for a
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diagnosis, at one point grabbing hold of alcohol withdrawal and even
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anxiety as possibilities.
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Thompson injected Marks with a sedative, which calmed him enough that he
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decided to return to his own bed and rest for a while. He lay beside his
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girlfriend, Sonja, sleepless and afraid, listening to the shifting ice
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groan beneath him. Then he retched again. More blood. His breathing was
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now uncontrollably fast. Pain throbbed in his joints, and he began to
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panic. He made his way back to Biomed, this time stumbling through the
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dimly lit tunnels, disoriented, as if in fast motion.
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By the time he arrived, he was hyperventilating and combative. Thompson
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gave him another injection – this time Haldol, a powerful antipsychotic
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– just to regain control of him. As it took effect, Marks lay down
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again, but this time he began to lose consciousness. He moaned quietly
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with each exhale and squeezed Sonja's hand lightly. Then his heart
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stopped.
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A stationwide alarm summoned the trauma team, a few trained volunteers
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whose real jobs could be anything from scientist to mechanic. Darryn
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Schneider, a fellow physicist and the only other Australian at the base,
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was the first to arrive. He took over for Sonja, holding the ventilator
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mask over his good friend's nose and mouth, desperately pumping air into
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Marks's lungs.
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Then, just before six in the evening, as the trauma team scrambled to
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save him and the rest of the 50-member crew were sitting down to dinner,
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Marks took a deep, sighing breath into his chest – it was his last. It
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was May 12, 2000, a full five months before a plane would be able to
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retrieve his body.
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Once it was finally flown to Christchurch, New Zealand, that October, a
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startling discovery would be made, one that would set off an eight-year
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investigation and a bitter tug-of-war between a New Zealand detective
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and the [National Science Foundation](http://www.nsf.gov/), which
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administers all U.S.-based research at the South Pole. The search for
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answers as to what killed Rodney Marks would also open a window into the
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highly peculiar, sometimes dysfunctional, community of people that
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operates in isolation there for eight months at a time. Ultimately, the
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NSF would make sweeping changes in how things are run at the South Pole
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and who it sends there.
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At the time of Marks's death, though, there was little reason to
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anticipate such far-reaching ramifications. The rest of the crew assumed
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he had suffered a heart attack or aneurysm. The NSF itself even issued a
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statement within hours, saying he "apparently died of natural causes."
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But there was nothing natural about the way Rodney Marks died.
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Antarctica belongs to no one. Seven countries officially have
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territorial claims on the continent, but the U.S. has never recognized
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any of them. Supported by a 1959 treaty of cooperation, 29 countries
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have set up scientific research stations there, and an ever-changing
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population of up to 4,500 scientists and support staff from all corners
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of the globe call it home for anywhere from four days to 14 months at a
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time.
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Nearly all who come to work in Antarctica will first touch down in
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[McMurdo](http://www.nsf.gov/geo/plr/support/mcmurdo.jsp), the
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continent's only working township. Resembling a small town in arctic
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Alaska, it sits at the edge of the ice, where it meets the Southern
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Ocean. Getting off the plane in Mac Town for the first time is a
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startling experience. The eight-hour flight from New Zealand aboard one
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of the cavernous military cargo planes leaves ears ringing and backsides
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numb. After landing, sensory overload gives way to the blinding absence
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of color and a Hoth-like landscape: a smoldering volcano in one
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direction, the [Royal Society
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range](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Royal_Society_Range) and Mount
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Discovery across McMurdo Sound, ice and snow everywhere.
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Nearly a thousand miles from McMurdo, at 90 degrees south, just 100
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yards or so from the always slightly moving geographic pole marker, sits
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the Amundsen-Scott research station, the loneliest habitation on Earth.
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Named for the first two explorers to reach the South Pole – separately
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in 1911 and 1912 – the American base is run by the National Science
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Foundation. In the mid-'50s, the intensifying Cold War goaded the United
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States into establishing a presence on the continent, so the navy
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announced it would build and man a permanent base at the South Pole. It
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launched [Operation Deep
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Freeze](http://www.history.navy.mil/ac/exploration/deepfreeze/deepfreeze1.html)
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in 1955, primarily as a research endeavor. [The
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Dome](http://antarcticsun.usap.gov/features/contenthandler.cfm?id=1984),
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in which Marks lived, replaced the original station in 1975. It
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comprises three separate two-story structures that sit beneath an
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18,000-square-foot, 50-foot-high geodesic shell, which acts as a giant
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windbreak, sheltering the living quarters from the deadly sting of the
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elements. The buildings themselves look like red portable sheds stacked
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on top of one another, each with a thick walk-in-freezer-style door.
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Amundsen-Scott is populated year-round by scientists – most working for
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American universities and studying the atmosphere, astronomy, or
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seismology – and a support staff that includes everyone from cooks to
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carpenters. Nearly 250 people are based there in the summer, but the
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population shrinks to just a quarter of that for the austral winter:
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February through October.
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The first week of February is frenzied as the remaining summer crew
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clears out and the winter crew receives its vital resupplies. The real
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cold arrives in March, and the base becomes a very different place: Soon
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the sun no longer makes it above the horizon, and it becomes so cold
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(temperatures regularly hit minus-80) that a plane's hydraulic fluids
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would freeze solid within minutes of touching down. After the last plane
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leaves, there's no way in or out for eight months, and the continent
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goes dark and quiet, just the way a winter Polie likes it.
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Understanding what type of person would volunteer to work at the South
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Pole during the winter is something that has intrigued everyone from
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social scientists to NASA. The physical screening is rigorous – it's
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often said that everyone handed a winter contract has perfect wisdom
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teeth, and some bases won't even consider you if you have an appendix –
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but psychological screening is far less straightforward. Through a
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series of tests and interviews, the NSF tries to hire people with a rare
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and delicate balance of good social skills and an antisocial disposition
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– basically, loners with very long fuses.
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Some of the first behavioral studies on the South Pole winterover were
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launched after the sudden onset of schizophrenia in a construction
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worker in 1957. He had to be sedated and quarantined for almost an
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entire winter. Lore has it he was put in an improvised mental ward – a
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specially built room padded with mattresses. Because incidents like
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these can spiral out of control quickly this far from civilization,
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putting entire crews at risk, NASA saw a South Pole winter deployment as
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an interesting analogue to long stays in space.
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"We're social animals," says Lawrence Palinkas, professor of social
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policy and health at the University of Southern California and the
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author of several behavioral studies on social dynamics in Antarctica on
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behalf of NASA. "The separation from friends and family is stressful.
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But the lack of stimulation – of new scenery, new faces – actually
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causes people to have difficulty with cognitive thought. Even in
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well-adjusted groups, we estimate between 3 percent and 5 percent will
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experience some form of psychological problem – sleep disorders,
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depression, alcohol addiction."
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It's this ability, even willingness, to live in such extreme conditions
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for such an extended period of time that sets winter Polies apart. They
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have an odd sense of adventure and actually seem drawn to the isolation
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and risk. "These are people who thrive on being the last cog," says
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Harry Mahar, health and safety officer for the NSF's polar program from
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1992 to 2004. The power plant technicians, for instance, "are the type
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of people who, in their off year, would run DEW line sites \[for distant
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early warning of missiles\] up in the Arctic or power plants in the
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middle of the Pacific, and they're damn good mechanics." That's a good
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thing: If the generators at the South Pole go down and can't be fixed,
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the crew probably won't survive.
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Rodney Marks was a typical Polie in both his proficiency and his quiet
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confidence. "Brilliant" is a word colleagues often use to describe him.
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His aptitude for science was obvious at an early age when he landed a
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scholarship at a prestigious private school in his hometown of Geelong
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on Australia's southern coast. (He spent his free time as a youth
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surfing and rooting for his local Aussie rules football team.) He
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discovered astronomy at the University of Melbourne, and a Ph.D. in
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physics soon followed, as did a number of high-profile fellowships and
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research positions with Australian and American universities. Meanwhile,
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music had also become a big part of his life, and he eventually formed a
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band called the Changelings, with a nod to the guitar-driven prog rock
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of the early '90s. He practically lived in his green Sonic Youth
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T-shirt.
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In 1993, at age 24, Marks approached one of his professors looking for
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an "interesting" Ph.D. project and learned of a South Pole study being
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conducted in collaboration with the University of Nice. A few months
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later he had become fluent in French, and a year and a half after that
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he stepped out onto the ice at the South Pole for the first time, for a
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two-week stint. Marks's specialty was radio astronomy, a highly accurate
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method of viewing the cosmos that relies on capturing the radio waves
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that objects in space transmit. Antarctic winters provide ideal
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conditions for the telescopes that are used, which operate best in the
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stability of a very cold atmosphere. In 1997, he reported for duty for
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his first winterover in Antarctica, an experience he enjoyed so much he
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signed up again just two years later.
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Before the start of every winter, the NSF sponsors a staff training.
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It's a typical team-building retreat, with a ropes course, trust falls,
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and enthusiastic "facilitators," but it also serves as the first step in
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weeding out people who might not cope in such close quarters and so far
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away from home. It was at the 1999 retreat in the rocky hills above
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Boulder, Colorado, that Marks first met the other people with whom he'd
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be spending the 2000 winter. He was one of several returning winter
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crew, and he preferred dispensing advice to newbies during smoke breaks
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to sitting in a classroom talking about his hopes and fears for the
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season.
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Six-foot-two with long, sometimes dreadlocked hair, Marks stood out from
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the other scientists physically, but also in the way he was able to
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mingle effortlessly between competing personalities. He was slightly
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self-conscious about his mild case of Tourette's syndrome, though it was
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hardly noticeable to others – some twitching, a sharp clearing of the
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sinuses from time to time.
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This was the first year that the NSF handed all operational duties at
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the base to [Raytheon Polar Services](http://rpsc.raytheon.com/), a
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Colorado-based division of the defense contractor. For the training,
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Raytheon used a company whose staff was experienced in working with
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police and fire departments, specializing in high-stress group dynamics.
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They were used to dealing with people who had a healthy respect for
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authority; the winter Polies were different. During the two-day session,
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they questioned every nuance of every exercise and flat-out refused the
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trust falls, claiming they were sure their colleagues would not catch
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them.
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On the last day of the retreat, one of the facilitators pulled aside
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Darryn Schneider, Marks's fellow Aussie physicist. "You know, you guys
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are one of the most screwed-up groups of people I've ever come across,"
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he told Schneider. "We work with SWAT teams, and you guys just made them
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look touchy-feely and friendly. There's no way you'll ever function as a
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group."
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"That's exactly why we will function," Schneider shot back. He too
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already had one winter on his résumé and knew that social survival at
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the South Pole went against all conventional wisdom: Problems are not
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swept under the rug; they are placed under it very deliberately. It's
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the art of containment, rather than resolution, that gets Polies through
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the eight-month-long night.
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But Polies also have quite a bit of help in this department: alcohol.
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With not much else to do, social life at Amundsen-Scott, particularly
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during winter, revolves around drinking. Everything from beer to tequila
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is brought in alongside vital scientific resupplies at the start of the
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winter, and it's said that every year at least one belligerent alcoholic
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emerges on base. In 1996 a worker was thrown into detox three times
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before he was finally forced to live in the medical facility, isolated
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from the rest of the population. The next year, there was such a booze
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shortage that the staff wound up giving each other beer as Christmas
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presents. In 2000 one staffer was rumored to have racked up a $10,000
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bar tab. The Dome even had its own moonshine still that got inherited
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from one crew to the next.
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The beating heart of the base was the bar, 90 South. There, the staff
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drank and danced until all hours of the night, underneath the colored
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Christmas lights and disco ball. Graveyard crews would roll in at eight
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in the morning, post up on the bar stools, and do shots to wind down
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before going to bed. Over the years the bar had accumulated decades'
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worth of oddities – stuffed penguins, neon signs, dozens of cabin-fever
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escape paperbacks. It was the one place on the base where Polies could
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forget where they were.
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When Marks and Schneider finally arrived at the Dome in November 1999,
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the start of what was supposed to be a yearlong stretch, they quickly
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claimed their stools at [90
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South](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B8OMS7vYzuE). Like most of the
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others, Marks was a drinker. He was always up for a night at the bar,
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and he wasn't afraid to sneak a bit of "toast juice," the high-octane
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ethanol-based concoction produced by the still. Sometimes he drank just
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to suppress his Tourette's.
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When not in 90 South, Marks could usually be found in the attached
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galley, at one of the tables near the "dish pit." Or, during special
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occasions, on a small stage in the corner, playing his beat-up Gibson
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guitar, belting out a cover with his South Pole band, Fanny Pack and the
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Big Nancy Boys. His girlfriend, Sonja Wolter, 33 at the time, played
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bass. The two fell in love during the summer-winter transition, just as
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she was about to be shipped out at the end of her contract. They wanted
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to stay together so badly that she quickly applied for a winter position
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and was accepted just a week before the last plane out. For the start of
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the winter, he had dyed his hair purple, and she had dyed hers green. A
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few months later they were engaged. It was common for Polies to take an
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"ice wife" just for the winter, but this was different. By all accounts
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Rodney and Sonja were soul mates.
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The base is normally a brutally cliquey place, and crews tend to
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segregate into three separate populations – scientists, operations
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(those responsible for the day-to-day running of the base), and skilled
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laborers. But the winter crew of 2000 was unusually tight-knit;
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migrating from one group to another didn't provoke the sort of contempt
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it had in years past. Marks, in particular, had a knack for making
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others feel at ease. "He had a Ph.D.," remembers Gene Davidson, a Kiwi
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responsible for telescope maintenance that winter, "and yet he would
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play poker, smoke cigarettes, and drink whiskey with the carpenters and
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plumbers."
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South Pole astronomers have the coldest commute on the planet. The
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observatory where they work is a full kilometer from the main station,
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in an area officially known as the Dark Sector. Like most base
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astronomers, Marks would bundle up and make the round-trip on foot every
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day.
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He worked for the Smithsonian program called AST/RO ([Antarctic
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Submillimeter Telescope and Remote
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Observatory](http://www.spaceref.com/news/viewpr.html?pid=18494)) and
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spent most of his time collecting data on how to further improve viewing
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conditions using an enormous infrared telescope. His work was highly
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regarded, and he was making profound breakthroughs in the way we view
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the cosmos from Earth. On Tuesdays, he held an astronomy class for his
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fellow Polies, sometimes taking everyone outside and introducing them to
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a night sky he knew intimately. Colleagues described him as having a
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combination of wildness, imagination, and dedicated self-discipline that
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makes for great science.
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It was during the walk home from the observatory one Thursday night in
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May that Marks first sensed there was something wrong with him. At about
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6:30 he and Sonja arrived in the galley, where he ate a light meal and
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drank a can of beer. He mentioned to her that he wasn't feeling well and
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that he was having trouble seeing clearly. By 9:30 he had retired to the
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room they shared and fell asleep. That night in the galley was the last
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time most of the winter crew would ever see Marks alive. He would spend
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the next 21 hours fighting for his life.
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Schneider's blog entry for friends and family back home, written the
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following night, after he had spent nearly an hour trying to save his
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closest friend on base, would read: "We did everything we could, but
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Rodney did not come back. He had friends around him at the end. We have
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no idea what happened."
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While Schneider and others tried to douse the embers of the day's events
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at the bar, Marks's remains were placed in a body bag and stored in a
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service area known as the fuel arches, connected to the main station
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through one of the tunnels. The ambient temperatures there were plenty
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cold to preserve the corpse, but his friends felt he deserved a more
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dignified resting place. Like the explorers that came before them, they
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considered their work heroic, and Marks was one of the best South Pole
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scientists they'd ever known.
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The station carpenters found and milled an old stash of heavy oak for a
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casket, and the machinist crafted the metal fittings. Schneider and one
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of the cooks upholstered the interior with an old tablecloth, and Sonja
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made a maple plaque with a brass inlay of Marks's favorite
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constellation, Scorpio. Once finished, they placed his body in the
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casket, then used a traditional wooden Nansen sled to haul it out to the
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geographic South Pole for a quiet ceremony. It was a Sunday afternoon,
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and the entire crew gathered under an ink-black sky as someone read a
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statement from Marks's mother and friends said a few words. Marks was
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then lowered five feet deep into the ice.
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New Zealand is Antarctica's nearest neighbor. It's so close, in fact,
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that when icebergs recently calved off the Ross Ice Shelf, Kiwis were
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flying out in helicopters and landing on them. Christchurch, on the
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South Island, is a small coastal city of about 400,000, but its
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population swells slightly every spring as people from all over the
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world pass through on their way to Antarctica, and then again in the
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fall as they return to catch commercial flights back to their home
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countries. Murder rates are low, and veteran detective Grant Wormald,
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44, spends most of his time overseeing theft and fraud investigations.
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As a young man, Wormald was given an opportunity to work as a station
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manager in Antarctica but had to pass it up when career and family
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obligations got in the way. "It was something that appealed to me," he
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says. "I hear it's surreal – like going to church in a big way."
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In June 2000, four months before flights in and out of Antarctica would
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resume, Wormald's office received a curious fax from the local coroner:
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an order to begin investigating the death of an Australian citizen
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stationed at an American base in Antarctica. Marks's case was fraught
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with jurisdictional ambiguity, but New Zealand law states that the
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coroner is entitled to hold an inquest on the basis of a body simply
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being present in the country, and Christchurch was certain to be the
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first place Marks's body would land. Jurisdiction would soon become the
|
||
least confusing thing about Marks's death.
|
||
|
||
Anywhere else in the world, following the unexplained death of someone
|
||
so young and healthy, Marks's office and sleeping quarters would have
|
||
been cordoned off and preserved for investigation. And although
|
||
Raytheon, the facility management company, is reported to have requested
|
||
this, its authority was simply too remote to impress upon the
|
||
grief-stricken crew, who felt sure Marks had died of natural causes. A
|
||
few items were collected from his office and bedroom and put aside, but
|
||
anything that didn't look suspect went straight into the garbage. After
|
||
being cleaned up, both areas continued to be used just as they had been
|
||
before his death: his office by other scientists, and his room by Sonja,
|
||
who lived there for the rest of the winter.
|
||
|
||
At around midnight on October 30, the first plane off the ice landed in
|
||
Christchurch carrying Marks's casket. Also aboard were Darryn Schneider
|
||
and Sonja, who wearily made their way to a hotel where Marks's mother,
|
||
Rae, and his two sisters were waiting to meet them. The five eventually
|
||
moved across the street to Bailies, a Polie hangout where both
|
||
Shackleton and Scott once drank and where more people who had worked
|
||
with Marks showed up. The impromptu wake carried on well into the
|
||
following morning.
|
||
|
||
Along with a few others from the base, Schneider stayed in Christchurch
|
||
just long enough to talk to police, but without any autopsy results yet,
|
||
it was largely fruitless testimony. Had they known what the autopsy
|
||
would reveal, they probably would have stuck around, if not been
|
||
required to.
|
||
|
||
Six weeks later, on December 19, the forensic pathologist made a
|
||
shocking announcement: Rodney Marks had been poisoned. His blood
|
||
contained lethal traces of methanol, a highly toxic wood-alcohol-based
|
||
chemical Marks used to clean the high-tech telescopes, but in amounts
|
||
far beyond what would be expected with normal contact – about a small
|
||
wineglass's worth. It was, the pathologist believed, "virtually certain
|
||
to have been ingested."
|
||
|
||
The news was all the more tragic because of testimony that base
|
||
physician Robert Thompson had given a month earlier. He had revealed
|
||
that while Marks lay dying, his potential lifeline was sitting dormant
|
||
in a corner of the room – an Ektachem blood analyzer. Its single, tiny
|
||
lithium-ion battery had died, and therefore, the machine lost its
|
||
calibration every time it was turned off. Once turned back on, it took
|
||
up to nine hours to recalibrate. Thompson had known about the
|
||
malfunction, even reported it to Raytheon, but for some reason never
|
||
attempted to fix it and decided against simply leaving it on. It was by
|
||
no means a necessary piece of equipment in the physician's day-to-day
|
||
duties, but it was there for a reason: emergencies just like this one.
|
||
|
||
A working Ektachem machine would have recognized an abnormal anion gap
|
||
in Marks's blood, the causes for which make up a fairly short list,
|
||
including methanol poisoning. Had his condition been caught in time,
|
||
reversing the effects could have been a simple matter of running a
|
||
mixture of ethanol and saline through his body. Even if it hadn't saved
|
||
his life, it would have immediately raised the question of how methanol
|
||
could have possibly gotten into his system.
|
||
|
||
"[Murder at the South
|
||
Pole](http://english.ohmynews.com/articleview/article_view.asp?at_code=381541)"
|
||
is the kind of headline that newspapers can't resist. Shortly after the
|
||
pathology report was released, Wormald made a short, simple statement
|
||
about what he and the coroner knew so far. Like any good detective, he
|
||
wasn't prepared to rule anything out so early in the investigation,
|
||
including homicide, and the media pounced.
|
||
|
||
"Common sense told us there were only four possibilities as to how
|
||
Rodney came to ingest the methanol," Wormald explains. "One, that he
|
||
drank it willingly and knowingly with the intention of getting a high;
|
||
two, that he took it to end his life; three, that he took it
|
||
accidentally; and finally, that someone had spiked his drink, possibly
|
||
as a prank or even knowing that it would either make him very ill or
|
||
kill him."
|
||
|
||
Considering what Marks had going for him when he died – a fiancée, a
|
||
sterling reputation among his colleagues, and a bright future – suicide
|
||
was ruled out almost immediately. And for those who knew Marks, it was
|
||
equally inconceivable that one of his fellow Polies would intentionally
|
||
do him any harm. "I never noticed anyone acting differently afterward,"
|
||
says telescope mechanic Davidson. "And I can't think of anyone who would
|
||
have disliked Rodney that much or had anything against him, or even had
|
||
anything to gain by it." It was looking more and more likely that
|
||
someone had simply made a tragic mistake, but who, and how?
|
||
|
||
Wormald would eventually learn that Marks's work space was notoriously
|
||
messy; bottles of lab agents like methanol and ethanol were often strewn
|
||
about alongside a dozen or so empty bottles of alcohol. The methanol
|
||
used at the South Pole is similar to a car's windshield-wiper fluid,
|
||
while the less toxic ethanol, a common ingredient in the base's homemade
|
||
moonshine, is more like rubbing alcohol. Both are colorless and nearly
|
||
as odorless as vodka and almost indistinguishable from one another in
|
||
taste. Mistaking the two was certainly a possibility, especially by
|
||
someone under the influence of alcohol.
|
||
|
||
But it's unlikely that person would have been Marks. He certainly knew
|
||
how lethal it was and that ingesting even a small amount could be fatal.
|
||
|
||
"I've gone over it many times in my mind," says Davidson. "He was too
|
||
smart to drink it knowingly. If anything, maybe someone else didn't know
|
||
the difference between methanol and ethanol and put the wrong thing in
|
||
his drink, saying, 'Here, drink this. It'll give you a good buzz.' I
|
||
always come back to the idea he was slipped it, and maybe the person
|
||
didn't even know it." Wormald agrees: "Rodney was lucid for 36 hours
|
||
before he died. If he had known what was ailing him, he would have told
|
||
somebody."
|
||
|
||
Given the contained nature of the incident and the fact that he had a
|
||
finite list of witnesses, Wormald was feeling optimistic about his
|
||
investigation. But then he hit a brick wall with the NSF.
|
||
|
||
In 2002, Wormald made a formal request for the contact information of
|
||
the 2000 winter crew along with any other facts the NSF had gathered
|
||
during its own investigation. He got no immediate response. (Eventually,
|
||
the NSF declined, citing privacy concerns.) He requested the results of
|
||
lab tests done on what little evidence was collected in Marks's room and
|
||
work area. Nothing.
|
||
|
||
He was puzzled by the lack of cooperation but had no authority to compel
|
||
the NSF to comply. "Had there been evidence of a criminal act, things
|
||
would have been very different," he says. "The FBI would have been flown
|
||
in, maybe even the Australian police." But although Wormald hadn't ruled
|
||
out manslaughter or even homicide, he simply didn't have enough evidence
|
||
of foul play to justify classifying the case as such. Wormald's
|
||
investigation came to a near standstill as almost every request he made
|
||
was met with silence.
|
||
|
||
Even before Marks's death, the NSF was under pressure to update its
|
||
outmoded base. It knew it had issues with drinking among its Polies.
|
||
Now, with news of an inoperable Ektachem machine and the fact that a
|
||
wood-alcohol-based chemical killed Marks, it had a potential PR crisis
|
||
on its hands. The organization seemed to be in lockdown.
|
||
|
||
Over the next four years, Wormald persisted with his own investigation
|
||
as the NSF and Raytheon drip-fed him information, including the fact
|
||
that the moonshine tested negative for methanol. But little else shed
|
||
new light on the case. The NSF also never announced the results of its
|
||
own investigation, effectively absolving itself of any culpability in
|
||
the matter. The agency appeared ready to move on.
|
||
|
||
But Wormald wasn't. "I'd like to think that if my children went to work
|
||
down there and something went wrong, someone would be responsible for
|
||
finding out what happened," he says. "I know Rodney's family wants to
|
||
know why the machinery that would have diagnosed his illness wasn't
|
||
working and whether anyone will actually be held accountable – whether
|
||
anyone even gives a shit. Someone should be required to give a damn."
|
||
|
||
Finally, in 2005, the NSF agreed to forward questionnaires to the
|
||
remaining 49 members of the 2000 winter crew on Wormald's behalf. He got
|
||
just 13 back and remains convinced that the pressure of losing future
|
||
employment was simply too great for the rest of the crew. But Polies are
|
||
also notoriously transient and hard to track down. Also, they were as
|
||
eager as the NSF to put the incident behind them, accepting it as a
|
||
freak, tragic mistake. Even those closest to Marks, including his
|
||
fiancée, Sonja, decided early on that to keep chasing answers was to
|
||
degrade the memory of their friend.
|
||
|
||
In September of last year the official findings from the coroner, based
|
||
largely on Wormald's investigation, were finally released. The 50-page
|
||
report is little more than a neatly packaged catalog of theories and
|
||
speculation, concluding that "Rodney David Marks died as a result of
|
||
acute methanol poisoning, probably occurring one or two days earlier, he
|
||
being either unaware of the overdose or not understanding the possible
|
||
complications of it."
|
||
|
||
But buried in that report is a detail that has gone largely overlooked
|
||
throughout the investigation – a detail that points to what may be the
|
||
most compelling theory yet as to how Rodney Marks was poisoned.
|
||
|
||
The revelation is made in a section of testimony by Harry Mahar, South
|
||
Pole health and safety officer at the time. Mahar mentioned to
|
||
investigators "an unusual-shaped bottle of liquor" he'd heard that Marks
|
||
had brought back to base from an R\&R trip to New Zealand just before
|
||
the start of winter.
|
||
|
||
Schneider remembers the bottle too, and says it was among several empty
|
||
ones found behind Marks's computer after his death. He recalls it had an
|
||
exotic-looking black-and-white label with writing in Portuguese or a
|
||
similar language and a picture of a shrimp. He believes it was thrown
|
||
away with the other bottles.
|
||
|
||
One Polie who remembers the bottle but wishes to remain anonymous says
|
||
that as soon as he learned Marks had been poisoned, it hit him that this
|
||
bottle could have played a role. He had a theory, and he shared it at
|
||
the time with a fellow crew member and investigators, but it was roundly
|
||
dismissed as wild speculation. The Polie explained it in an e-mail to
|
||
'Men's Journal':
|
||
|
||
In certain parts of the world, he wrote, "people are aware of the
|
||
dangers of tainted alcohol from places like Southeast Asia. There are
|
||
regular warnings for travelers." He included a link to a Lonely Planet
|
||
travel forum from this June: "Deadly Brew Kills Foreigners in Bali" was
|
||
the headline. That, in turn, linked to a report of 23 people dying after
|
||
drinking a local palm liquor that had been spiked with methanol to
|
||
increase its potency.
|
||
|
||
Turns out, every year there are hundreds of similar cases, everywhere
|
||
from Southeast Asia to Africa to the Himalayas. Just last May, an almost
|
||
identical story made its way out of Everest base camp when a popular
|
||
Sherpa died after drinking methanol-tainted whiskey. The World Health
|
||
Organization reports as many as 300 deaths per year relating to the
|
||
"lack of quality controls, especially in the preparation of illicit
|
||
liquor." All of these deaths are the result of acute methanol poisoning.
|
||
|
||
Detective Wormald says the bottle was "not ruled out as a possible
|
||
source." He even asked about it on the questionnaire he sent out to crew
|
||
members – a handful of Polies acknowledged its existence in their
|
||
responses – but he says "no identification of source \[of the bottle\]
|
||
was made."
|
||
|
||
The anonymous Polie is quick to admit that even he feels that his theory
|
||
is "out there," but that it was essentially the only wild card he could
|
||
think of. He still doesn't understand why it wasn't pursued more
|
||
vigorously, even if just to rule it out. He went as far as forwarding to
|
||
investigators the names and contact information of some of Marks's
|
||
friends back home who he thought might be able to help pinpoint the
|
||
bottle's origin. "I felt like I was being accused of making stuff up,"
|
||
he explains. "I don't think they followed up with any of the individuals
|
||
I suggested. I was essentially told to forget about it."
|
||
|
||
And so he did. But if he's right about his theory, it points to a great
|
||
potential irony: that not one drop of the methanol that killed Marks
|
||
came from the gallons of it that surrounded him at Amundsen-Scott.
|
||
|
||
Had that one bottle made it off the ice in one piece and been tested, or
|
||
even if investigators were able to determine where it had come from, we
|
||
might know for sure how Rodney Marks died.
|
||
|
||
Last year Darryn Schneider flew to Antarctica for what would be his 10th
|
||
deployment. It was a straightforward four-month summer stay, but these
|
||
days, trips to the pole are bittersweet for him. The old Dome that he
|
||
called home for a cumulative two years of his life has since been
|
||
repurposed as vehicle and refuse storage. The South Pole he remembers
|
||
has all but disappeared.
|
||
|
||
January 2008 was the ceremonial opening of Amundsen-Scott's third and
|
||
latest incarnation, a striking outcrop of steel and glass, perched on
|
||
stilts 12 feet above the ice. It's three and a half times the size of
|
||
the Dome, which is now nearly buried under 34 years' worth of spindrift.
|
||
The new 65,000-square-foot facility cost $150 million to build and
|
||
required nearly a thousand cargo planes full of materials. It's an
|
||
engineering achievement: Its stilts can be jacked up as snow accumulates
|
||
below the structure, and the two units of the main building can move
|
||
independently as the ice shifts in different directions beneath their
|
||
feet. It towers above the old Dome like an enormous gravestone.
|
||
|
||
These days Schneider finds himself wandering its cavernous hallways
|
||
feeling a bit lost. Even though he has spent four seasons at the new
|
||
base, which became partially operational in 2004, he misses the "old
|
||
pole" and the old way of doing things. "One of the observatories where
|
||
Rodney and I worked was just shut down last month," he said earlier this
|
||
year, while still on base. "Rodney's death also had an influence on
|
||
getting rid of the old biomed facility, but the real turning point was
|
||
when they finally got rid of the bar. The NSF did not like the culture
|
||
of 90 South." A new bar was built, but after it became illegal to smoke
|
||
in a government building, it was converted into a TV lounge. "This was a
|
||
place that was supposed to replace the old 90 South, and now it's a
|
||
place where people do Pilates," Schneider says. There's no more
|
||
moonshine still either. The NSF hauled it out onto the open ice and made
|
||
a show of running it over with a tractor.
|
||
|
||
Schneider says things have been slowly changing for a decade now, and
|
||
old-school Polies like him are an endangered species. He was puzzled by
|
||
the introduction of a follow-up psych test, mostly dealing with
|
||
addiction and mostly handed to those who spent time in 90 South. He also
|
||
began to notice that fellow veterans were no longer being asked back in
|
||
favor of more rule-abiding new blood.
|
||
|
||
"The government just underestimates the importance of the culture,"
|
||
Schneider says. "It's strange; you would think they would keep some of
|
||
these old-timers around because of their institutional knowledge.
|
||
Tradition used to mean a lot down there."
|
||
|
||
Despite the changes, there's one tradition Schneider refuses to let die:
|
||
a living memory of his good friend Rodney Marks. After the winter crew
|
||
of 2000 buried him in the ice, they planted an Australian flag over his
|
||
grave, a temporary marker to help them find the casket again at the end
|
||
of the season. When his body was flown back to Christchurch, a flag was
|
||
all that remained at the South Pole to mark the tragedy. Schneider
|
||
decided it should stay. Since then, each time he returns to
|
||
Amundsen-Scott he removes the old, brittle, sun-baked piece of cloth and
|
||
replaces it with a new one. For nearly 10 years now, he and three of
|
||
Marks's other close friends have acted as unofficial stewards, making
|
||
sure there's always a Commonwealth Star waving at Marks's last resting
|
||
place in Antarctica.
|
||
|
||
"The NSF hates it and continually fights to get rid of it," says
|
||
Schneider. "I guess they don't want there to be a reminder of the
|
||
incident. But I want that flag there, and Rodney's family likes the fact
|
||
that that point in the ice is marked. The fact that the flag moves
|
||
farther away from the base each year, as the ice moves, is a very
|
||
graphic reminder of the passage of time since this terrible event in our
|
||
lives. At some point it might die, but the ephemeral nature of it makes
|
||
it a powerful memorial."
|
||
|
||
With or without the flag, it's doubtful anyone will ever forget the
|
||
curious death of the South Pole scientist in the winter of 2000. One
|
||
crew member's blog from 2006 says it's now lore that the fuel arches are
|
||
haunted by Marks's ghost; as recently as 2004, Schneider overheard some
|
||
Polies who never even knew Marks talking about his "murder." "People
|
||
love putting rumors out there, and South Pole stories become mythical,"
|
||
he says.
|
||
|
||
Ultimately, Rodney Marks may have simply slipped through the cracks –
|
||
disowned by the NSF for the sake of its reputation; overlooked by his
|
||
native Australia; left to rest in peace without resolution by a coroner
|
||
and a detective exhausted by an eight-year battle with the NSF; nothing
|
||
more than a stark reminder to his fellow Polies that at the South Pole,
|
||
shit happens.
|
||
|
||
Polies have a saying: "What happens on the ice stays on the ice," and,
|
||
to them, to try to help outsiders understand what life is like there is
|
||
an antithesis to why one goes there in the first place. Perhaps Rodney
|
||
Marks himself would be perfectly happy remaining one of the South Pole's
|
||
great enduring mysteries.
|