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Less-than-ideal ice floes for the base camp, a crash landing by one of the first planes, days of delays for subsequent flights due to bad weather and a guy running up hills with tires tied to a rope behind him.
In other words, just another ordinary opening week at the Barneo ice camp – which exists in every real-world sense despite Russia’s official decree it doesn’t – at 89 degrees north.
About Post Author
I'm a professional transient living on a tiny Norwegian island next door to the North Pole, where once a week (or thereabouts) I pollute our extreme and pristine environment with paper fishwrappers decorated with seemingly random letters that would cause a thousand monkeys with a thousand typewriters to die of humiliation. Such is the wisdom one acquires after more than 25 years in the world's second-least-respected occupation, much of it roaming the seven continents in search of jazz, unrecognizable street food and escorts I f****d with by insisting they give me the platonic tours of their cities promised in their ads. But it turns out this tiny group of islands known as Svalbard is my True Love and, generous contributions from you willing, I'll keep littering until they dig my body out when my climate-change-deformed apartment collapses or they exile my penniless ass because I'm not even worthy of washing your dirty dishes.