Almost as exciting as Christmas and more anticipated than birthdays are freshies – fresh food delivered once every few weeks by plane to the South Pole.

Things that I often take for granted at home, such as daily postal mail and fresh apples, are now serious causes for celebration. The arrival of an LC-130 carrying packages, flat mail and freshies is heralded with calls for volunteers to help bring in the produce before it freezes and to aid in sorting letters. The boxes of bananas, lettuce and eggs are handled with careful glee, brought up to the galley and dispensed like holiday rations over the course of the next 48 hours.

The last plane to bring in freshies was almost three weeks ago. I knew when I neared the galley that morning that one of the nighttime flights had brought freshies when the smell of fresh eggs frying on the griddle greeted me at the entranceway.

Two days later, most of the fresh food had been eaten. Then it’s back to scrambled eggs from frozen cartons of eggbeaters. When all of our resources must be shipped in by plane and much of our supplies can only be stored at subzero temperatures, these are true luxuries. It is a reminder of our isolation.

I recently got another reminder of that isolation when I made a trip to Spresso, a science-research outpost about seven miles from Amundsen-Scott station. I took a snowmobile there, as did my partner, Erika (for safety reasons, you can’t go beyond sight of the station alone or without checking out).

When we called the communications department to alert them of our departure, they alerted those receiving the outpost’s information because Spresso does seismic readings that would be noticeably affected by human traffic. Then we hitched sleds to the snowmobiles to carry gear we were delivering and a large survival bag for emergencies. We also took radios and extra batteries, which we tucked close into our clothes to keep them warm and operable. I wore everything I had and packed extra hand warmers in my pockets. Later I would use these spares to defrost my goggles.

The route to Spresso is marked by a series of widely spaced flags. Other than that, there is nothing, just a wide expanse of snow and sun, unbroken by buildings or trees. Nothing stops the wind from stirring the snow as it will, creating terrain as bumpy as a choppy ocean, the crest of each drift rising up in 3-foot swells. Driving a snowmobile at anything resembling a decent speed meant that I spent about two seconds in the air for every six seconds on the ground. I nearly sprained my wrist on a particularly bad landing when I thought for one nauseated moment that I would roll the snowmobile. But aside from the need to control the snowmobile there was nothing else to distract me from the scenery as we tore away from the station, Amundsen-Scott growing smaller behind us and Antarctica seeming to grow ever bigger.

For the first time in a little while, I really thought about where I was again. Flying – sometimes jumping – away from the station and into the open space made me feel like I was discovering the continent. The adrenaline created by it was incredible. My arms cramped and my thumbs froze, but I was happy. A sundog – a rainbowlike circle around the sun – hung in the sky at our right as we plunged into Antarctica.

Since that trip to Spresso, I have begun cross-country skiing for a few hours every day after work. I find that on each trip I go a little farther from the station, pushing the limits of my physical endurance. I press past the safe confines of Amundsen-Scott, the station a little more distant every time – never as far as I could go on snowmobile, but far enough to challenge my comfort.

Perhaps what strikes me the most is the quiet. When I stop the swish of my skis for a moment, the only things I can hear is my own breath and heartbeat. In the distance, the constant industry of the station continues, but at just an hour’s trek away, all of that melts away.

I keep thinking back to what it felt like being alone on a snowmobile with the station in the distance behind me and Antarctica opening up around me, a huge emptiness. We really are out at sea at Amundsen-Scott – quite, quite far from shore.

Meg Adams, who grew up in Holden and graduated from John Bapst Memorial High School in Bangor, shares her Antarctic experiences with readers each Friday. For more about her adventure, information about Antarctica and to e-mail questions to her, go to the BDN Web site: bangordailynews.com.