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.

First glimpse of the continent. Photo: Jacque Comery

Snowbird 1 camouflaged in the snowstorm that we landed in. Photo: Jacque Comery

Getting ready to jump into the Hagg to drive to Casey. Photo: Jacque Comery

On our way - right before I fell asleep! Photo: Jacque Comery

View to station from the Hagg. Photo: Jacque Comery

Casey station in the evening light. Photo: Jacque Comery

Casey and the sea beyond. Photo: Jacque Comery

The call up.

The 11th of March will remain a memorable day forever.
I was strolling along the dock on, in the early Saturday afternoon sunshine, seagulls squawking and threatening to explode my pounding head, a result of much red wine at the farewell party aboard the retired French icebreaker L'Astrolabe. Idly wandering about, I was happy enjoying a final lazy weekend before boarding the Aurora Australis bound for Macquarie Island, to work on my Drinking Water Quality Project for the Australian Antarctic Division.
Then came the call...
A Station Leader was required at short notice to overwinter at Casey Station. How short is short you ask? Be ready to fly Tuesday morning was the answer. My response was something like, "I will  think it through and call you back", but I was already 50% in by the time I ended the call.
Weighing up my commitments, I couldn't see a good reason not to do it. I confirmed I was keen and was locked in by Saturday night.
The next 36 hours was a whirlwind. The team at the AAD all kicked into gear and I embarked upon a day of briefings, packing, scrambling, phone calls, handing over my Macquarie Island project, mixed with medical examinations, drug tests, blood tests, psychological assessments, and of course getting kitted out with my  gear. Somewhere in there the flight got moved forward to Monday, taking another precious organisation day from me.
By Sunday night I was back at home and madly packing.  A few clothes, camera gear, computers and some electronics, and my little guitar. Done!
Monday morning I booked a cab to go to Hobart airport to board the AAD A319  Snowbird1.
I would be flying  down on the very last flight of the season to stay for winter. The next flight out is October.
Pulling the door closed behind me and seeing the taxi pull up in the street I was gripped with a reality check, and minor panic, of epic proportions... what just happened???? Oh yeah, I am going to spend the winter in Antarctica. With so little time, I'd only told my family and a few dear friends of my plans, but I had simply run out of time for any more phone calls.
Rather exhausted, overwhelmed, and frankly a little emotional, I cleared customs and boarded the flight. Just myself and two others on the flight, the three of us sat in the back row of the custom fitted out aircraft, heavy with fuel, for the take off.  Flying out on a southerly course from Tasmania is a strange feeling.  Commercial flights head north, as nothing lies south of Tasmania except the Southern Ocean and Antarctica.
I sprawled out on the cabin floor, and fell asleep.
And I was on my way......

Me at the Antarctic Departure terminal. Photo: Sarah Oliver

The AAD A319 on the tarmac, preflight in Hobart. Photo: Jacque Comery

Taxiing into position and I am still trying to finish my coffee. Photo: Sarah Oliver

Farewell Tasmania. Photo: Jacque Comery

Almost there.... Photo: Jacque Comery