Despite all the dangers of its rugged surface, our simulated Mars base is inhabited by magic….
Music in Video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c3M2tG2_OhI&list=PL749a2DgtgKDDzPf8qF8f6Cz_-1EYAEV4
Space
2022-09-16T15:53:26Z
We’re back in southern climes, and our month on “Mars” is already a dream, a muse, a fading memory.
It is predominantly red in hue, with features carved eons ago by magnificent but vanished glaciers and continually polished by scouring, grit-filled, violent winds. And despite all the dangers of its rugged surface, it’s inhabited by magic.
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Rod Pyle is a space historian and author who has created and offered executive leadership and innovation training at NASA’s Johnson Space Center. Rod has received endorsements and recognition from the outgoing Deputy Director of NASA, Johnson Space Center’s Chief Knowledge Officer for his work.
Already, that striking island is receding into a softer, almost sensual memory. Yet specific impressions remain, as sharp as the ancient reefs that permeate the landscape. Wherever you look, the vista teases you with false promises of both nearness and far-off features; navigating distance by eye is impossible, as there are no objects familiar to a city dweller such as myself. No trees, no bushes, no power lines, no buildings, no
And at this, the mind rebels. Lateral visual estimates may be inaccurate, but this is not particularly disturbing. But the wildly erroneous impressions of z-axis distance — that is, distance from yourself to another object — agitate the primitive brain after a time. That hike you thought to be long and challenging ends up being just a mildly exerting stroll, and when you arrive at your destination, the reptilian brain calls out, “Wait up! This isn’t right!” The visual physics of the place challenge the ancient hunter-gatherer in us, telling us to be cautious, be careful, and step warily. Nothing is quite as it seems here, and that awakens the caution in the irrational mind.
As we counted down the days to the large weather front that was supposed to go blasting past us in our final week, each of us had lots to do to shut down the camp for another year. We went about our chores, looking at the sky a few times per hour to see what might be coming. But despite some heavy clouds and biting winds, the weather stayed fairly mild (by arctic standards, anyway). Planes still were not flying, but where we were, conditions were moderate.
After the plane departed, quiet descended once again. We weren’t even running the generator now, a producer of white noise that had been with us for about 16 hours a day throughout our stay. We returned to camp and finalized the winterizing procedures at our leisure — most of the hard work was done.
As I wrapped up my stay, I thought back on the previous night, with clear skies and a moderate wind. While cold, it had been glorious. The generator had been turned off about 10 p.m., and as complete and total silence descended over the base, the skies began their nightly conversion into a Maxfield Parrish painting. A vivid stripe of yellow painted the horizon to the west underneath an increasingly red, ruffled cloudbank; by 11:30 the sun was dipping just below the hills and the eastern skies were infused with gentle lavenders, purples, and pinks.
Back to the following day: we were soon back at the airfield, waiting for the plane to arrive for its last trip. A mountain of refuse awaited loading. The Otter landed and we loaded up quickly — by the time we were done, there were four of us crammed into the back of the cabin with the rest of the plane filled with triple-bagged refuse, much of which did not bear thinking about.
Four more days of travel lay ahead. The Otter would drop us at Resolute Bay, where we would spend the night in dormitory-style facilities, then a long flight down to Hall Beach to pick up fuel in a larger ATR 42 turboprop plane (there was an acute fuel shortage
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