Winter @ 66° South: Hello Casey.

At some point as the flight drew closer to Wilkins Aerodrome, I was awoken to get changed into my survival gear. In the event that there is a complication with the flight, we need to be dressed in our many layers of insulated clothing.
The aircraft has an interesting configuration. There are a few seats at the rear with a stretcher table for medical evacuations, the centre is stripped of seats and it is a big open space where you can lay on the floor, attempt yoga, dance if you are inspired, or if you are me, sleep. We used this big open space to get changed together with the flight crew and then took our seats for the approach. Dense cloud was shielding any view of the sea ice as we flew over it, and then suddenly I could see the blue ice of the continent.
Blue and white stripes stretched out below us, reminiscent of a peppermint hard candy. We touched down smoothly onto the groomed ice runway, as big snowflakes lashed the windows outside.
With my small backpack, and guitar in hand, I pulled on my goggles and stepped out into the driving snow to walk down the steps of the aircraft. Was it really only 6 hours ago that I was standing in my quaint street on a sunny Hobart morning?
As I walked toward the shipping container terminal building, a steady line of people passed me, Some dished out high 5's, others hugs. These were the same expeditioners with whom I'd spent a few weeks with in February, but now under hats, hoods and goggles, I couldn't work out who was who. I stopped to greet my departing colleague and wished him all the best, and then headed for the shelter.
The snow intensified. The visibility worsened. Within minutes everyone was aboard, a small amount of cargo and my bags were unloaded, and Snowbird1 taxied into position, accelerated down the runway, lifted off and disappeared into the low cloud.
Well then.
I looked around at the six expeditioners with me, who had come along to see off the summer crew.
Here we are. No more flights out. This is us.
Welcome to winter.
I piled into the back seat of a Hagglunds, our oversnow vehicle, and we set out on the 4 hour drive to Station. Visibility was zero and we were navigating along the travel route by GPS and radar.
I'd love to tell an incredible story of this journey, but alas the bumping and jolting quickly put me to sleep.
The guys woke me to see Station emerge beneath the clouds from the top of the final descent. the soft light bounced off the icebergs in the distance, and the muted greys that washed across the sky gave an air of peacefulness to this scene. I could just make out the grease ice forming in the bay. The tiny coloured lego-like blocks scattered on the distant peninsula were Casey Station.
I had arrived.