Jeremy Smith

Somewhere outside the office a whistle from the ventilation system rises and falls in pitch. Closer, a muffled thudding roar comes from the window. Visibility is down to a couple of metres. The building across the road, in fact the road itself, have disappeared.

This is blizzard. It's the biggest this winter. There have been many in the past few months but none as strong as this. Some lasted a couple of days, some a few hours. Most involved winds of around 60 knots (about 110km/h). This morning's wind has gusted to 98 knots, beating last year's maximum, though not the all-time record of 130 knots in 2003 that picked up light vehicles and blew them as far as 500m.

To be called a blizzard, technically the temperature must remain below freezing point, wind speed above 34 knots and visibility below 100m for an hour. No arguments today. For the first time this year no attempt was made to launch the morning weather balloon. Above 80 knots there is little hope of getting the big, hydrogen-filled sphere and its dangling sonde into the air without it being dashed to destruction.

The roof had started rattling and roaring in the wee hours, waking me and persuading me that a toilet visit would be timely. The water in the bowl rose and fell disconcertingly in response to the venturi effects of the storm outside. By breakfast it was clear that getting to my office would be difficult in the dark.

I ventured out at 10.30am after arranging to phone back confirmation of my arrival. I walked quickly, just keeping my footing with the storm on my back. There is a rope beside the road to hold and follow in a violent white world with no up or down. A few days ago our flag had flown at half-mast in memory of a man who died here in a blizzard 26 years ago within a stone's throw of shelter after losing his way. Perhaps with that reminder, most people this morning found things to do in the accommodation building and didn't try to reach their workplaces.

Little John, our electrician, who weighs only 50kg, would have been bowled down the road. There is a saying that it is safe to walk in winds whose speed in knots does not exceed your weight in kilogrammes. But even big Clinton, our diesel mechanic who weighs in at 110kg, was not prepared to test its truth today.

In one way the wind has helped us. The soft drifts I floundered through yesterday are gone, scattered hundreds of kilometres down the coast and out to sea. Substitute snow from the high ice dome east of us flies past without settling. But wind also forces powdery snow through the smallest cracks, so drifts lie in porches where we hang our coats and boots. Our sea ice, the frigid carapace over coastal waters that we use for winter travel, will in part have blown away. There might be damage to towers, roofs, vehicles.

For now I am anticipating two more immediate prospects: struggling back at the end of the day, then opening a comforting bottle of red wine. On a day like this just getting between our safe, heated buildings is enough for me. It's not easy to imagine having no buildings at all (let alone red wine) or at most only one small hut for an entire winter, like the explorers of less than a century ago. Blizzards notwithstanding, we have it easy these days.

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