Scientist or Handyman

When most people picture a scientist, they imagine white lab coats, sterile laboratories, and expensive high-tech instruments. Precision, order, and carefully controlled experiments. And yes, that part exists. We do measure, calibrate, analyze, and mix reagents with exact care. But in the high Arctic, science comes with an extra layer: the need to be part mechanic, part handyman, and part MacGyver.

Out here, nothing is convenient. Batteries die faster in the cold, saltwater corrodes metal, and when something breaks there is no hardware store to buy replacement parts. The next time to get deliveries is from a cargo ship in a years time. Even the first step in taking a simple water sample often has nothing to do with instruments or calculations; it starts with getting the boat up and running. With no gas station in sight, this means pumping gasoline from heavy metal barrels into the our tanks. We use a fuel pump powered by a car battery to get the job done, but it’s still a messy, job, with inevitable splashes and fumes. All with the knowledge that if you don’t get it done, the science doesn’t happen.

Once the boat is running, the improvisation doesn’t stop. Hauling a three-ton vessel in and out of the water without a commercial harbor requires a hydraulic winch, Dyneema ropes, and a trailer we’ve had to modify more than once. New wheels bolted on so it can climb the steep, rocky shoreline. Ropes tied and retied until they finally hold, while still allowing us to steer the behemoth. It’s never sleek or effortless—but more often a sweaty trial and error until, with a relief, the boat is safe on land.

Even at sea, our equipment doesn’t always behave. The CTD, an instrument we use to measure temperature and salinity at different depths, normally runs smoothly on a winch with a meter counter. But when the winch motor burned out, we had no choice but to take over. By hand. Lowering the instrument 250 meters into the water and hauling it back up again, swapping every 75 meters to keep our arms from giving out. Eventually, we managed to replace the motor with a spare one we found lying around. Not exactly by the manual, but in the Arctic, if it works, it counts.

Installing new instruments can sometimes feel more like construction than science. Last week, we anchored a temperature logger into a massive rock along a steep shoreline. That meant lugging out batteries and an impact drill, boring holes into solid stone stone, and mixing not-too-expired epoxy on the spot, to secure the sensors firmly in place. Less like the delicate image of a scientist in a pristine lab, and more like a field construction crew.

It’s the same story across tasks, big and small. Protecting cameras from sandblasting Arctic winds by rigging homemade blinders out of aluminum. Splicing ropes to keep gear from drifting away. Making a new anchor out of an cut I-iron beam. Scavenging spare parts to keep a winch alive just one more season. Out here, the scientific method often includes an unwritten first step: make it work.

Because in the end, all the neat graphs, polished papers, and tidy datasets rest on this foundation of messy, gritty work—fuel pumps, ropes, tools, duct tape, and sheer determination. So yes, sometimes I’m the scientist you might picture in a lab coat. But most days in the Arctic, I need to bring out my inner handyman.