Hector and I drive for nearly half a day, circling a behemoth construction site that turns out to be the very place we’re trying to find. The parking lot is churned mud despite the southern heat, identified by a small, temporary sign and lent structure by the sheer determination of a young man in an orange vest who kindly directs me away from the splotchy puddle topography of the inner lot to a still-firm spot on the outer-edge. I note the rain-drop applause of a small audience inside once my helmet hangs on the bars and I scoop Hector from the kennel without asking the man whether his presence will be controversial. Most people see the charred rabbit and assume he serves some unspoken purpose, to have been so afflicted and survived long enough to enter a grocery store, church, or no-pet motel. This proves to be the case at the gate- the woman there can hardly look at him. Inside, I see the facility has been cracked open like a backwards egg, the yellow exterior parting to reveal sloped, liquid-white.
‘The facility that houses ‘The New American Ice Cap’ is built to allow for constant and, optimistically, limitless expansion. Its perimeters are thick and modular, insulated with the same technology that allows humanity’s fragile shuttles to pierce the atmosphere and built on treads that permit impressive, if not fittingly-glacial, movement.
Vertical expansion, when it occurs, requires that the ‘egg’ be cracked for a great deal longer than is normal and is marked by festivities that are both extravagant and a little forced. Aside from that which is provided by the project’s sole investor, Amy Lind, these open houses are the primary source of funding for ‘The New American Ice Cap,’ raking in thousands of dollars from a population that can’t quite connect their enthusiasm for an ice park to the increasingly warm summers.
Lind is, herself, somewhat controversial in the realm of sustainability. She claims science has sided with the project, that the egg’s harnessing of solar and wind power to maintain the sub-zero acreage is nearing self-sufficiency. Most sources without connection to Lind suggest quite the opposite. Outages are increasingly common in ‘The New American Ice Cap’s’ satellite towns as the frozen mountain sucks power from the grid, purring like a contented refrigerator in the dusty alcove of an old house.’
The ‘egg’ is well-cracked by the time Hector and I pay our outrageous $30 entry pass. We’re buffeted by intermittent bursts of frigid air that rush through the gates, swelling a sign past the entry gate that describes the technological marvel that is today’s intended purpose. The event is an all-sides expansion, the culmination of years of planning and the catalyst for which is the project having closed on a strip of land over the border of Georgia that had been inhibiting growth for half a decade. Though the flower-petal walls of the egg appear to be stationary, they are, in fact, moving backward to meet the second wave that stands behind them. By the end of the day, a lid will be placed on the facility and the enclosed campus will have grown exponentially. Tickets to witness this ‘Eclipse’ are beyond my budget but will likely fund ‘The Great American Ice Cap’ for a few more years alone.
In the meantime, southerners have come out in droves to clamber about the sides of the ice mountain- to throw snowballs, sled, and nest expensive beers is even pricier snow. The entire mountain has drooped and spilled from the cracks, flooding the outskirts for miles around. Informational clips, largely ignored, claim that the saturated ground will be re-frozen by the end of the month and provide a stable foundation for the growing ice cap.
Hector shivers under my arm as we approach the base of the cap itself. It’s gargantuan despite the molted slush and the swirling pillar of vapor that has begun to form a cloud overhead. If not for the behavior of Lind, who can be seen pacing back and forth across the metal slats of a temporary tower embedded halfway to its peak, I would think she may have created something that would change the shape of the nation. If her nervousness and her clear disdain for the events attendees are suggestive of the project’s status, I get the sense that she may be in over her head.
I rent a lawn chair where the air feels most comfortable. Hector vacillates between obsessive consumption of ice and a desire to be warmed, hopping between the snowbank and my lap in a rhythm that closely matches Lind, above. She addresses the crowd each hour, smiling through gritted teeth and reminding everyone that the mountain will have to be vacated quickly when the perimeter is in place. The countdown to this evacuation inevitably rolls back as further malfunction prevents the closing of the walls.
A week later I read that the cracked egg has been abandoned, that Lind has disappeared overseas. Consulting engineers and ecologists argue over the long-term effects of the ice cap’s thawing, whether its even feasible to close the thing now that the run-off has softened that terrain. A lake forms on the border of Georgia and Alabama. Locals take to calling it the ‘Water Lily,’ a term that will, no doubt, find its way into Shitholes when I next flip by the entry.
-traveler
