An hour later we had stuffed ourselves with food, used the bathroom, and had completely reorganized our gear, eliminating most of the clothing we had brought from Scotland. Caner had us stow these items in our suitcases, which would be locked away at the airport and reclaimed in six months when we passed through on our return trip home. In its place were an assortment of lighter weight thermal undergarments and waterproof leggings, baggy pants shells, fleece trousers and sweaters, and two bright-orange jumpsuits designed to deflect the wind. We packed everything in duffle bags except for what we’d be wearing on the flight over. Stripping down to our boxer shorts, we redressed in layers, zipping ourselves up in the orange jumpsuits. On our feet we put two pairs of socks and double-lined rubber-insulated boots, and on our hands skin-tight gloves and elbow-high mittens. A wool scarf, wind-shielding snow hat, and tinted goggles completed the outfit, sealing every inch of exposed flesh on our bodies.

Slinging our bags over our shoulders, we grabbed our new ski jackets and followed Caner outside to an awaiting four-wheel-drive jeep, its rear axle sporting triangular-shaped traction belts, its front outfitted with skis. He drove us to another runway where a C-130 transport was being loaded through its rear cargo hold. Maneuvering around pallets of supplies, he parked as close as he could to the open entrance.

“This is as far as I go, gentlemen. Find a seat on board and try to catch some sleep. Oh, and be sure to remove your boots. This is a lightly pressurized transport plane, and your Wellington boots, unlike your feet, aren’t designed to expand.”

Accepting his parting gift—a set of earplugs—we exited the jeep and made our way up the ramp with our gear and into the body of the military-outfitted Hercules. We passed the in-flight bathroom (a port-a-potty strapped to a cargo palette at the center aft of the plane) and located two vacant spots on rows of bench seating that faced one another. Stowing our gear, we removed our boots and sat, leaning back against a wall of webbed straps like paratroopers. Our window—one of only six in the cargo hold—was a mere four inches in diameter.

True leaned over and punched me on the shoulder.

“Ow. What was that for, you big lummox?”

“That was for marrying my sister and gettin’ me stuck on this ridiculous trip.”

Men in beards as thick as True’s filed in along either side of us, squeezing us in like sardines. Some were private contractors, a few were scientists, and none seemed especially happy to be on board.

Another twenty minutes passed before the cargo hatch was closed. A few minutes later the plane rumbled across the gravel and dirt tarmac, gaining lift on its massive wings. The noise from the Hercules’s four engines sent True and me on a pocket-to-pocket search for our earplugs.