Read the second and final part of Nathan Bahl’s Antarctica stories — the Pole community, how they live in such close quarters, how they interact, how laws and rules are enforced, and the challenges of living months without sunlight or the outdoors — here Sunday, Oct. 19.

There’s fire on the horizon at the moment — a fierce, glowing orb sliding across the white expanse, lighting the clouds with a spread of color.

At the first announcement of it, we ran to the windows. The fire was slow, languid in motion, luxurious in sight and a paradox of brilliance and subtlety. We squinted, shielded our eyes and stared ceaselessly. It was the first of the sun that any of us had seen in six months. The dark at the bottom of the Earth had officially broken.

We’ve been “closed” at Amundsen-Scott South Pole Station since Feb. 15, isolated from any physical outside contact. At the bottom of the world, 60 of us have volunteered to be tasked with carrying our research station through the Antarctic night to the dawn and the upcoming summer. Since the first “winterover” group at the South Pole in 1957, fewer than 1,400 people have spent the winter here. More people have climbed Mt. Everest. And I — a graphic artist from the little town of Blue Earth — am lucky enough to be one of them.

Outside, the wind has picked up again. I have a trip to make to the RF building where we store our radio and satellite communications equipment — I need to reset a computer system. At home, to do this would likely mean getting up from my desk and walking down a hallway. Here, I bundle up in multiple layers, throw chemical warming packets into my mittens and boots, and crank down my hood in preparation for a mile-long hike. I’m glad for the new daylight. (It beats crawling over the drifts in the dark as I have for the last few months.) But the springtime dawn has not warmed the temperatures in the least.

At 70 below, you can hear your breath crackle in the cold. The frigid air fights its way down into the deepest parts of your lungs. Cotton, wool and canvas are king as most synthetic fibers freeze solid.

We’ve stopped operating our vehicles as the temperatures are more likely to cause failures and breaks than not. Each step elicits sounds from the snow that you can hear only on the most severe of winter nights in Minnesota — squeaks and wails as the ice crystals slide over each other. All of this before I walk into the wind.

At 22 knots, the wind is a constant pressure at my back and seeps cold into my shoulders. The windchill floats at minus 120 F. I do everything I can to keep the half-inch opening in my hood that I look through clear of the Antarctic bite. Turning into the wind briefly leaves your eyes feeling as if they are freezing (a few minutes, and they would). Goggles are useless at these temps, fogging and joining in the ice build-up around your hood and face. The computer system I need to restart is vital, however, so off to walking I go.

Not part of the plan

Amundsen-Scott South Pole Station is a far cry from growing up in Blue Earth. Ending up here wasn’t exactly part of my original life plan.

I had studied graphic design, which I put to practice for the state for a good spell. After first hearing about working in Antarctica a decade ago, however, I couldn’t get it out of my mind. I had no details beyond that people could work there — just the mention of it from another traveler in a random conversation while driving out east. As I looked into life in Antarctica, though, the idea grew on me.

Research in a variety of fields (astronomy, geology, atmospherics, biology and many others) is the primary purpose of the U.S. National Science Foundation’s pursuits in Antarctica. The kick, for me, is that in order to support research in the midst of such a remote and dangerous environment, each of the three U.S. stations is a self-supporting community that provides power, warmth, food and communications.

All the individuals necessary to support any small community in southern Minnesota have a role here. Everyone, it turns out, except for graphic designers.

With my professional career a no-go for the Antarctic continent and my chances of obtaining a science degree in short order slim, I sought the grunt work that was available. I applied to Raytheon Polar Services (the private contracting agency working for the National Science Foundation) for the first time six years ago.