The squeak, squeak, squeak of boots on snow, is a sound I will remember
from Antarctica. The sound is the sound of boots on snow so cold and
dry that it creaks like styrofoam being stepped on. On a cold night at
the beginning of October I stood out in the middle of a snow camp,
tents set up all around me, protected by walls made of blocks of this
dry, dry snow. Mostly everyone else was asleep or getting ready for
bed, snuggling down into their big sleeping bags. Except I was awake,
and the photographer was awake. I stood still in the middle of the
camp, listening and taking notes, while he walked around the camp and
from every angle, taking pictures. Had I been blind, I would have been
easily able to follow him with my ears-squeak, squeak, squeak, crunch,
crunch, squeak, crunch.
The wind howling in the galley door is another sound I will remember
from Antarctica-wind screaming in on really stormy days, at a higher
pitch that I can sing, sounding so much like a piece of machinery gone
haywire, or an animal caught short, surprised or afraid. I'll
remember the wind whooop, whoooop, whoopping through the electrical and
telephone wires. In one spot in particular, behind the galley and
between the two buildings that house the town's two bars, the winds
whipped and howled, moaned and moaned and moaned, around the buildings,
into nooks and out again, eddying and swirling, dancing, and buzzing
through the wires overhead, playing the wires, as if they were the
strings of a deep base, and pushing me along, pushing me, hurrying me
along, so much so that I had to lean back into the strength of it to
keep my balance.
 I'll
remember the wind at the windows, knocking in a thick, padded, muffled
kind of way, so that you might imagine there was someone out there,
wanting you to open up, open up, let them in. And the wind whistling
down the hollow shaft of a bamboo pole, a pole staked out in the snow
and topped with a green flag to show the way down the road, or the way
from my tent site to the outhouse. It was whistling just as if the
bamboo were a flute of sorts, and the wind was blowing into it playing
a merry tune.
I'll remember the sound of small cotton flags slap, slap, slapping in
the wind, slapping up against themselves and slapping at the poles they
are tied to.
I'll remember the almost nothing sound of wind across the ice, smooth
and moving fast, blowing from nowhere to everywhere, taking with it
your breath, the snow at your feet, the fur of your parka hood, all of
your heat.
Analysis:What I have tried to do in this short experiment is
gather up some of the most characteristic sounds of the time I have
spent in Antarctica so far. I tried to describe the sounds-compare them
to something else unlike themselves, but I also tried to create the
sound in words as well-words like whoooop, whooop, whoooop or slap,
slap, slap. I am trying to create a sense of place through the use of
these sounds.
Writing Exercise:Either recall or go to a special place of
yours and first make a list of all the sounds that you can remember
that are most characteristic of that place. They try to come up with
the exact words for the sounds-what the sound sounds like (whooop,
whooop, whoop), then try to relate it to something (like styrofoam
being stepped on). Write about 250 words.
Illustration above is "Inacessible Island and Windblown Ice."
Copyright 11.24.97
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