Chapter 9
Beardmore Glacier Camp
Trans-Antarctic Mountain Range
The camp received notice the next morning to expect a German flight crew, which was going to be transiting the camp after dropping a group of scientists in a nearby mountain range. They had a reporter with them who was to meet a group of skiers attempting to reach the South Pole, by way of the Beardmore Glacier. The German media had the blessing of the NSF, and, therefore, its support, but the skiers were NGA’s and, technically speaking, were not welcome at any U.S. stations, and were banned from any sort of hospitality other than humanitarian assistance if they should find themselves in peril of their lives. In actuality, Non Governmental Agencies, especially adventure travelers, were welcomed as heroes by station personnel at all bases.
The Dornier aircraft made as gentle a landing as could possibly be expected and taxied gracefully to a stop at the edge of the camp by the fuel bladder, where it seemed to have the expectation, politely, of being satisfied. It was an attractive aircraft, and the crew was either well matched to the plane, or else something of its nature wore off onto those who flew her. They appeared at the hatch with broad smiles, showing none of the natural reticence of people arriving as strangers at another’s home.
In contrast to the flight crew was the reporter who accompanied them. He wore a stubble beard of jet-black, which formed a broad arc around what could barely be perceived to be a chin recessed beneath it. His nose took on the aspect of an unripe and misshapen strawberry, or one that was beginning to turn color on one side, thanks to the sunburn on pale skin. The dissonant features distracted from what should have been his main attribute, the small, but piercing eyes that distrusted, and were distrusted, by all whom they encountered.
Jake was waiting by the fueling station for the aircraft to power down. As everyone else was busy, he formed the welcoming committee. Susan was presently on the lower reaches of the mountain, not needing his help.
The pilot, who like the rest of the flight crew, was wearing bright-red mountaineering bibs under a red parka, went to a small cargo hatch in the rear of the plane, took out a package, and then followed the others into the hut. Assuming that Jake was in charge, he presented the package to him.
“Please accept on behalf of crew,” he said.
“Thanks,” Jake said, somewhat at a loss. “What is it?”
“Don’t know,” he was answered with a wink. “But, be careful whatever.”
Curious now, Jake opened the box and took out one of twelve bottles of clear liquid.
“We was coming south through Americas when stopping at Tierra del Fuego. Bernard there,” the pilot said, pointing to his crewman. “Got it off Indians.”
Bernard, the navigator, shrugged and smiled sheepishly.
“We understand it is illegal in the United States,” he explained, “which may have something to do with things appearing quite differently after a couple of shots.”
That got the cook’s attention. He came over and began to sniff at the bottles with a connoisseur’s interest, and when he recognized that he held a rare and extraordinary treasure, he shook with an exaltation that came out as half snort and half laugh. He cradled one of the bottles in his arms as a mother would her firstborn.
“Sweet,” Jake said, approvingly. As a mountaineer of note, Jake had been able to secure the position of guide for Susan Engen’s project through the same application process, as either cook or mechanic might do. He was in the employment of the NSF by proxy, as the support staffers were all hired by a civilian contractor. Unlike the scientists, his purpose for being there, other than to get paid, was strictly limited to either fun, adventure, or both, and he categorized activities under those headings, though he allowed for the possibility of one overlapping the other. He did not, however, take those priorities any less seriously than the scientists did theirs.
As a professional adventurer, himself, Jake understood the intimacies of frontier hospitality to an exceptionally high degree. It would have been an unforgivable breach of etiquette not to open up and polish off at least one of the bottles before engaging in any other business. That would not be a problem for him, since he didn’t have any other business.
“Prost,” the pilot said, looking Jake in the eye as was proper while toasting.
“Skoal,” he replied, which was not a technically correct response as it was a Scandinavian salute, but the Germans allowed it. Jake offered the bottle to the reporter as a matter of course.
“Scheiss,” the reporter said, scowling in what was not really a toast at all, but he took the bottle and applied himself to it liberally.
By the time the researchers from the mountain began filtering in at the end of the day, the hut was in a regular state of mayhem. Connie and Walt came in first, and being college students, were able to recognize a party when they saw one and required no prompting to join in. Dr. Atkinson came in next and was scandalized. He had already left for the day when the call came to alert the habitants of the pending visit, and it took several explanations to satisfy his inquiry as to how the camp came to be in this state. At the pilot’s insistence, he tried the liquor and in order not to offend, declared it to be not without merit, though he still considered the whole affair to be an entirely disreputable display. Alistair, however, was charmed. After two years away from civilization, he hadn’t lost his edge and soon had the students uproarious with his off-color anecdotes. Walt was trying to organize a Can-Can line on one of the tables.
Jake was still engaged in his role as Master-of-Ceremonies when Susan entered the hut. He saw her come in and, seeing how tired she looked, for a short moment thought he heard a whisper of conscience speaking to him. She wasn’t wearing the sling anymore, but her recovery was not entirely complete, either. As her guide, he felt responsible for her general well being, suspected that he had been derelict in his management of it, and decided upon an immediate rectification for any real or imagined failings on his part.
He considered the nearly empty bottle in his hand disdainfully and set it aside in favor of a fresh one. Before she could shed her parka at the door, he had his arm slung over her good shoulder, and gesturing with the bottle held firm in clenched fist, made glorious professions of pure platonic attachment. He poured forth all sorts of nonsense in a rush which made her laugh at his earnestness. The funnier she found it, the more ardent became his declarations. He gave her a loud and long kiss on the cheek.
“What the hell happened to you?” she asked, pushing him away.
“I’m sorry,” he said, looking deeply into her eyes and seeing right past them, not noticing that he was keeping his balance by leaning on her. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have let you fall. Then you would still be okay.”
“I am okay,” she said. “You’re the one who’s a mess here.”
“No you’re not. I know you’re not. Not with everything going on. But we’re going to fix everything, right?”
Susan could see an ill-advised indiscretion coming as the door opened again, and Lt. Richards was there, stomping his feet and knocking off snow from his boots before coming in.
“You!” Jake roared over the din. “She’d be fine if it weren’t for you!”
The Lieutenant looked around the hut, trying to take in what was going on and find some sort of context for the unprovoked attack from someone with whom he had previously gotten on quite well.
“All right now,” Susan said, steering Jake away from the door, toward the back of the room. “You stop that, right now!”
She adopted the manner of the domineering spouse, which she took up in response to his farcical advances in the hope that it would get through to him. It did.
“Uh-oh,” Jake said when they were away from the entrance. “Am I in trouble?”
“You’re damn right you are,” she said, grabbing him by the collar. “Don’t you dare decide for me when I have a battle to fight, and don’t you dare try to fight it for me. I can take care of myself.
Do you understand?”
“Sorry,” he said sheepishly, sobering up for a moment.
“Give me that,” she said, grabbing the bottle away from him. “What is this crap anyway?”
“I don’t know, but it sure is good.”
She took a long drink from the full bottle. She held it out and looked at the label while it settled, and then brought it to her lips again.
“Not that bad,” she conceded. Suddenly, a drink seemed like a very sensible idea.
“Forgiven?” he asked.
“Get the hell out of here,” she said, but kindly. She kept the bottle.
When he was gone, Lt. Richards found his way to her.
“I’m sorry if I did, but did I do something?” he asked her.
“No. I mean, yes,” she said. “You didn’t do anything yourself, but he is upset about what you are here to do. We all are.”
She didn’t want to have this conversation, but with Jake putting his foot into her mouth, she wasn’t left with much choice.
“I know,” he said. “I feel…”
“Stop,” she said before he could say it. “Let’s not do this right now. Here, take this.”
She held out the bottle for him and he was too much the gentleman not to take what was offered.
“Whoa!” was all he could say, after letting the mysterious distillation slide down his throat.
“I know what you mean,” she said, smiling and taking back the bottle. “What do you say to a truce for the night?”
“I never felt like we were…” he began before she interrupted him again.
“Just say ‘yes,’ okay? Please?” she asked him. She was tired and the stress of the previous weeks was wearing on her. A night off from worries would be a welcome distraction.
“Okay,” he said, but his eyes made it clear that he didn’t feel a truce was necessary, not on his part.
“Good,” she said, handing him back the bottle. “Thanks.”
The impromptu party continued on towards its natural apex when the door of the hut opened from the outside. There in the threshold stood the three forgotten travelers who were on their way south to the Pole. They were as surprised as the revelers in the hut.
“Hullo,” one of them said to the hushed room. “You don’t mind if we come in, do you?” he asked.
The room exploded in cheers and greetings. The three were pulled inside with poundings taken on the back. Their sledges and skis were left where they had been dropped and in minutes, they were as drunk as the rest.
The reporter looked embarrassed, but determined to make up for it by monopolizing the three as much as he could. As the party went on, he remembered that he should make a report and asked the weatherman who worked the radio if he could borrow the wireless. He was taken to the bench where the transmitter sat, entered in the obscure frequency he required to reach the relay that was set up, and made contact. He gave the particulars of the arrival to the voice on the other end, which took it all down. Then, he was asked if he could speak privately. The reporter looked around and saw that the weatherman was the only one within earshot.
“Americans all stink like pigs,” he said in German. When there was no response, he said into the microphone, “Go ahead.” He listened intently for some time before signing off. He was suddenly in very high spirits.
The camp came to life slowly the next morning. The three travelers had placed their tents just to the south of the hut and the ski-way. The three domed tents added to the brash overflow of color where the growing population made their sleeping quarters. They each had their own tent, wantonly disregarding common practice, sacrificing weight for comfort. Just as the early explorers had teams of men to make caches of supplies along the route, these modern pioneers had caches laid out by aircraft that had been chartered for the task. It was more a matter of finance than survival when it came to supplies, and they would not be in danger due to lack of food or fuel, unless some disaster was unexpectedly encountered. The extra weight was not something to be regretted, since their goal was somewhat more inclined towards enjoying the journey than merely living through it.
The aromas that wafted to the lee of the camp and over the tents occasioned a stirring from within as breakfast, something they had not experienced in some time, was served. The cook greeted them as they came in, still in the same boisterous spirit of the previous evening, which seemed inhuman to anyone who didn’t know him. Once started, it could be days until he came down. Once down, it could be days before he was again civil.
The reporter and the flight crew also came in, laughing off the lingering effects of the night’s festivities. They asked the skiers their intent.
“As much as we would like to stay a while,” the leader said, “we need to get on our way. Storms have put us behind schedule and we need to make up time. We will be packing up shortly.”
The reporter turned to the pilot of the Dornier.
“Do we need to leave right away? Since we are here, I would like to report on the camp and the science projects they have underway.”
The pilot shrugged. “Dat is fine for me.” Flying with a hangover was not altogether unfamiliar to him, but if he didn’t have to, he would just as soon not.
Jake asked the leader of the ski expedition to show him their route on the map and the two engaged in talking shop, each recognizing the other as a professional. He committed all that he heard to memory. One never knew when one might get the chance to put it to use, and he knew there was no such thing as useless information.
The reporter joined Dr. Atkinson over coffee. He, too, was a professional at what he did, which was to extract information without the subject knowing it was being extracted. Since the subjects generally were aware that the questioner was a reporter and, therefore, obviously probing for knowledge, it required a great deal of skill to uncover what one might wish to keep hidden. He would not find Dr. Atkinson an especially difficult target. As a professor, it was not in Atkinson’s nature to try to bury the truth. He didn’t say anything that directly gave anything away, but he didn’t have to, since the questioner already knew what he wanted to know and only required confirmation. It was what was not said while one was inquiring about certain things that told all. An easy story to write, thought the reporter. He took several rolls of film around the camp. With the proper words applied in just the right way, every picture could be made to tell a very damning story.
The skiers departed during the afternoon, hoping to get a few miles underfoot before camping again for what they referred to as the night. They would soon find themselves on the plateau, and not long after, would lose all visual reference except the sun and the horizon. The long haul over the highest and coldest part of their journey was coming. From there on, it would be a question of mental toughness. Not being able to see where they were going, or where they had been, would mean that they would navigate by compass mounted on the sledge harnesses that they drove, and a watch. Go for so long, stop; go again, stop; go again, and again…. Time would have to replace distance for the senses, which would not be able to realistically measure the ground covered by marches. By astrological observation, they would be able to mark on the map the actual distances traveled, but it would seem academic to minds that couldn’t confirm the knowledge in any other way. The Pole would be attained by so many marches: then one less, then one less, then one less…until they were there.
The Dornier lifted out of the valley later in the morning after giving the camp crew a quick tour of their neighborhood from the sky. They disembarked, the reporter got on, and they left. After the plane went over the ridgeline, those who waved goodbye went into the hut where the operator reported to McMurdo that the aircraft was inbound. They sat quietly until Jake looked at the cook, puzzled.
“It’s not exactly in your nature to buddy-up like that to transients. Why did you? Other than the booze, that is.” The cook gave the question earnest consideration.
“They were less like assholes than most who come thro
ugh here, I guess,” he tried to explain. “Got me in a soft spot.”
“Me, too,” Jake painfully pointed out. “My head.”
“Good,” Susan said, walking by briskly. “Be ready in ten minutes. We have work to do.”
“Yes, dear,” Jake said. It wouldn’t be his first time working with a hangover, either.
The Pole of Inaccessibility Page 19
