by Brad Borkan
The plan was drawn up by Dr. Edward Wilson—an ornithologist as well as the expedition’s physician and artist—who had long wanted to secure some fresh-laid eggs from this peculiar creature. A prevailing scientific idea at the time was that these primitive birds were closely related to the reptilian family, and that a close look at the embryo in the egg would demonstrate proof of Darwin’s Theory of Evolution linking reptilian dinosaurs to birds. Wilson’s goal—to bring home to the hut a clutch of emperor penguin eggs for further study—this was the object of the excursion, later to be known as “the worst journey in the world.”
Cape Crozier lay a mere sixty-five miles (105 km) away, across a shelf of level frozen ice. Even in the heart of the Antarctic winter, he believed it should be manageable. Collecting the eggs and proving the link would be a massive scientific achievement.
Wilson selected his two companions in the comfort of the hut, long before anyone had an idea of the severe hardships to come. Cherry-Garrard and Bowers, for their part, agreed to go along and do their best. Their success, and indeed their survival, depended on Wilson’s judgment in choosing just the right men for this work.
Taking the long view from the twenty-first century, it is clear to us that these men were woefully unprepared for the terrors that were soon to confront them. They set out in midwinter—on June 27, just after the winter solstice when the sun was at its farthest, and the “day” was a scant brightening of the dark sky. The temperatures would drop to fearsome depths, as they very soon discovered.
The Antarctic winter temperatures could dip as low as -77ºF (-60.5ºC). It was cold enough to freeze their clothing into rigid boards, and to chill the oil in their Primus stove to a viscous, unlightable gel. It was so intensely cold, that each night they used their body heat to thaw a way into their sleeping bags. They shivered so violently at night, their teeth cracked and they thought their bones would shatter. They found, on arising from the dismal comfort of their moulting reindeer-skin sleeping bags, that their clothing froze around them instantly. Remarkably, a temperature of -50ºF would soon feel almost balmy to them.
After two-and-a-half weeks of this, they reached Cape Crozier and erected a modest stone shelter, roofed it over with their sledge and a floorcloth, and set out in search of the eggs. The way down to the sea ice that was home to the breeding colony of emperors was hard to find, and once found, nearly impossible to navigate in the dark days and nights. After a few days of concentrated effort, they managed to bring up three intact eggs, and a few birds to butcher for their skins and blubber.
Safe in their stone and cloth shelter, they wormed their way into the frozen bags and tried to go to sleep, but worse was yet to come. A blizzard wind, howling up the gravel slope, sucked at the canvas roof with ever greater fury, until with a great crack, it shredded itself into ribbons, and the three hapless campers were buried under an ever-deepening layer of snow. Hours later, as the gale began to ease, they discovered an even greater disaster. Their one tent, set up to protect some of their gear left outside the stone shelter, had been blown away. By now, they feared, it must be halfway to New Zealand.
In the dim twilight of the Antarctic morning they began to piece together the remnants of their gear and to try to figure out a way to get home alive. Here, luck favored these three. The tent had come to rest a few hundred yards away. Except for the tattered floorcloth, most of their gear remained intact, but they had barely enough food and fuel to make it back to Cape Evans.
The three of them worked as a team throughout the ordeal and never lost hope, drawing strength from one another and the intangible value of a shared belief that their greater purpose of this scientific endeavor outweighed any hardships they encountered. With their three eggs and their humanity still intact, they set off on foot for home, sixty-five icy miles (105 km) away. Not only did the three survive this “worst journey in the world” (the title of Cherry-Garrard’s famous book), they preserved their humanity and self-respect throughout. In Cherry-Garrard’s words, “We did not forget the Please and Thank you, which means much in such circumstances and all the little links with decent civilization which we could still keep . . .”
The eggs eventually made it to the Natural History Museum in London, where they were peremptorily examined and a paper was published. They were put into storage, and remain there to this day. Ironically, the embryos inside failed to deliver the evidence that Wilson had been seeking, to provide the evolutionary links between dinosaurs and birds.
But, in the end, the great significance of this effort was not about the eggs. It was about the man who conceived this audacious plan and the two who agreed to join him, not so much for the eggs or the science, but to see if it could be done. They proved that it could.
Four months later, these three set out on another such journey, partly for discovery and science, but just as much to prove that through careful planning and perseverance we can accomplish whatever we set out to do. Two of the three, Wilson and Bowers, did not survive that second journey, and perished in March 1912 on the way home from the South Pole. Their letters home from that last camp, described in Chapter 3, speak volumes towards our understanding of that higher purpose.
There is a remarkable footnote to the winter journey—the emperor penguin skins that Wilson, Bowers and Cherry-Garrard collected in 1911 were used as the control specimens in the 1960s studies to determine the change in DDT levels in Antarctic penguins. Without those skins, it would have been harder to prove the rapid rise of DDT in the world’s environment. The benefits of their bold, hazardous expedition would live long beyond their own lives. DDT was banned in the United States in 1972 and in most countries in the 1980s.
A difficult choice: the living or the dead?
Sometimes two seemingly high purposes come into conflict, and one must be chosen above the other. This is exactly what happened on Scott’s Terra Nova Expedition to the men who had chosen to stay over for that second winter in 1912. They faced an agonized atmosphere of bereavement and doubt. The failure of Scott’s five-man Polar Party to return before winter closed in for good was certain proof that Scott and his men all died either getting to the Pole or on the long journey back. The fate of the Northern Party, six men who had been dropped off there by the Terra Nova in February 1912 to explore the area around Evans Cove for six weeks, was still unknown.
As described in Chapter 11, the plan had been for the Terra Nova to pick up the Northern Party on her voyage to Cape Evans later that year to relieve the shore party there. However, pack ice had kept the ship from reaching the Evans Cove shore at any of the proposed pickup or message posts. The team of six had been left to their fates, to survive or not on their own mettle, and then make their own way down the coast of Victoria Land to the base camp at Cape Evans.
That winter the shore party’s leader, Dr. Edward Atkinson, and the twelve other men remaining at Cape Evans, had to decide which of the two important missions they would embark upon in the spring. Should they go overland to the aid of the Northern Party (who might or might not be alive), stranded on some inhospitable shore, exhausted and in dire need of help? Or, go south instead, looking for some sign of Scott and his men, who were most assuredly dead.
Atkinson assembled the men around the wardroom table in the dead of winter. Each man was allowed to speak his mind, and back up his decision with his own assessment of the situation, making his own call in the matter. And each man so doing would have to live with the results of his judgment, one way or the other.
Their choices were: to honor the dead, by searching for Scott and his men’s remains; to seek among their effects the proof that they had reached the South Pole; or, attempt the rescue of the Northern Party who may or may not be still alive. Was proof of the attainment of the Pole by men now dead more valuable and more potent, than the relief of those who at least might be still among the living?
The final vote among those thirteen men at Cape Evans was to go south in search of the lost Polar Party. From our comfortab
le position here a century later, it is easy to criticize that decision—are not the living of infinitely more value than the dead?
But we are not those people. In their world, the concepts of honor and duty held great weight. As for the living, in the nature of this heroic age of Antarctic exploration, they had been entrusted with the responsibility to manage their own affairs, come what may. The Northern Party may have undergone great hardship over their unexpected second winter in the field, but these men could surely hold their own.
In the end, all six of the men of the Northern Party (Campbell, Priestley, Levick, Abbott, Browning, and Dickason) made it back to Cape Evans, which was one of the most incredible stories ever told about survival against extreme circumstances. And the search party that headed south did indeed find their lost captain and two of his companions, with the invaluable records of proof of their accomplished mission.
How important was it to find Scott’s legacy over searching for possible living men? On the long and difficult journey back, Scott and his men had stopped to collect fossils, and used some of the last of their strength to carry them forward. Those fossils eventually helped to establish the geological theory of plate tectonics. Their journey, recorded in their written words, in Scott’s photographs and Wilson’s detailed drawings, helped define the structure of the Polar Plateau. Their final writings (described in Chapter 3) touched the soul of Britain for generations to come.
Had you been charged with the decision—rescue the living or vindicate the dead—what would you have done?
Without exception, every single person the authors have spoken to about this story has said that they would try to rescue the living. We, of course, would do the same—rescue the living. How interesting that a hundred years ago, the answer was so different. Without their discovery of Scott's, Wilson's and Bowers’ tent, an amazing story of adventure and exploration would never have been told.
How high the purpose?
What if the higher purpose does little to illuminate the ennobling reach of the human spirit? What if instead of suffering and science, it serves personal ambition?
Ambition is not a bad thing. It is one of the innumerable traits that have driven the evolution of our society. Without it there would have been no monarchies or revolutions, no technological or medical advances, and no voyages of exploration and discovery.
Throughout the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, the maritime nations of Europe sent their fleets out, often at great risk, to extend the limits of the known world. These missions expanded the reach of commerce and created wealth across developing markets. Fortune and its consort, fame, are two of the most seductive prospects of human endeavor. It comes as no surprise that many of us are motivated to action by their allure.
Roald Amundsen was no exception. He made his name in polar exploration during the Belgica Expedition 1897-1899, which was the first to over-winter in the Antarctic, and again in 1903 when his sloop the Gjøa became the first vessel to complete the fabled Northwest Passage. On his return to Norway, Amundsen was justly celebrated; his reputation as an explorer was settled. What could be next?
At the very beginning of 1909, it was believed that the North Pole had yet to be discovered, as neither Dr. Frederick Cook (who had years before been on the Belgica Expedition with Amundsen) nor Robert Peary had returned from their expeditions to announce their competing claims of attainment.
Amundsen saw this as an opportunity. He had already proven that careful preparation, the right ship, and the best handpicked men could accomplish what whole navies could not. He secured the exploration ship the Fram and outfitted her for the journey through and over the sea ice to the North Pole.
His plans were forestalled later in September 1909 by the publication of Dr. Frederick Cook’s claim he had reached it in 1908 (Cook had a long and challenging return to civilization) and Robert Peary’s claim he was first there in April 1909. Who was first can still be debated today. Here again, many men had struggled, and some perished, in fruitless efforts to attain that elusive end.
Having been conquered, the North Pole had lost its allure for Amundsen. The South Pole was still available for conquest, but not for long. Robert Scott was already heading south in the Terra Nova to claim that prize for himself.
Amundsen changed his plans. The Fram was already loaded with dogs and supplies for an assault on the Pole. Any Pole. Without notifying the owner of the ship, or even the men who had set sail on her, he decided to head secretly for Antarctica, intending to set up a base at the eastern end of the Great Ice Barrier. That location should provide a level route over the Barrier to a yet undiscovered glacier up through the mountains of South Victoria Land to the Polar Plateau and then to the Pole itself. But to further secure his place in the pantheon of polar explorers, he had to get there before Scott.
With no further notice than a perfunctory telegram for his rival to receive on arrival in Australia, Amundsen sailed the Fram to the Bay of Whales, a transient inlet in the face of the Barrier. There he set up his hut, named it Framheim, and prepared to winter over.
Since Amundsen was in it for the “win” he was concerned that Scott’s motor sledges could give his “rival” explorer a significant edge in getting there first. Therefore, Amundsen was determined to start his march to the pole as soon as spring began. He set out with seven of his men, seven sledges and more than eighty dogs on September 8, 1911. Each man had his own sledge except Amundsen. Winter still wasn’t as over as he had thought, and they experienced temperatures as low as -67º F (-55º C) causing frostbite and challenging sledging conditions. Unable to safely go further, they unloaded their sledges at 80º S to create a more useful depot for the future and headed back to Framheim.
Upon their return, Amundsen had a falling out with Fredrik Hjalmar Johansen, the famed Norwegian explorer who years before had accompanied Nansen in an attempt on the North Pole. Before setting out, Johansen argued with Amundsen that it was too early to start and now he was proven right, especially since on the return run for Framheim, Johansen had to stop his sledge to save the life of another expedition member who was suffering badly from the cold.
Amundsen set out again on October 20, 1911, this time with fifty-two dogs and a team of four carefully selected men, experts in skiing and dog sledding, again in a race to beat Scott to the South Pole. He purposely left Johansen behind.
Amundsen succeeded. He and his men arrived at the South Pole after a journey of nine weeks, pioneering a route up the previously unknown Axel Heiberg Glacier, to arrive with “relative ease” at the South Pole. After spending a few days there to absolutely confirm his discovery, he left a note for Scott in a tent, and headed for home. The return was “easy,” if any travel across Antarctica can be characterized as such. The dogs pulled well, the weather was steady, and his team arrived safely back at Framheim on January 25, 1912 after an absence of ninety-nine days. Ironically, Scott had just reached the Pole a week earlier to discover that he had come in second, and was on that very date, January 25th, only a few days into his long and fateful return.
For Amundsen, the Pole was the goal, and he now had achieved it. All that remained was to sail with the Fram for Tasmania, and tell the world. Quite simply, he did what he set out to do, and in the process brought home the first proof of the discovery of the South Pole. The value of this singular feat deserves praise beyond its model of expedition planning and execution. It was a milestone in the advance of civilization. Amundsen is justly celebrated for the cool efficiency with which he adapted his plans to changing circumstances, and brought them to completion.
A few of his men were somewhat versed in the principles of meteorology and geology, but science was not the driving force behind Amundsen’s plans; it was not his higher purpose. The placing of the Norwegian flag on the Pole was a worthy goal. Norway had only achieved independence from Sweden seven years before and was now entering onto the world stage. However without a strong scientific element to the expedition, it was perhaps not a
lofty goal. In the end, Amundsen never could come to terms with the negative reaction expressed by the British to his secret change of plans in 1910. H.R. Mill, of the Royal Geographical Society, once described Amundsen as the most unhappy of all the polar explorers he had ever met. In a tragic footnote, Hjalmar Johansen committed suicide six months after returning to Norway in 1913.
In all this grasping for the South Pole, or for the small bits of data to add to the sum of all science, is one purpose higher than another? There is no answer. Each of us must decide for ourselves, and live with the results of our decisions.
Not every endeavor has to have a greater purpose, but remarkable things can come from those that do. The question, “What is your higher goal?” intends to make no judgments. It does, however, make an assumption, and expects you to have an answer. The answer will be yours alone.
What is your greater purpose?
Postscript
Improving Your Decision Making:
Seven Lessons From The Antarctic
Many decision making lessons can be learned from the early Antarctic explorers, which relate to modern life. Although the heroic Antarctic explorers lived more than one hundred years ago, in a simpler age, their approach to adversity, risk, bad luck and dire circumstances provides much more than memorable stories. They provide real, tested in the field, timeless strategies that can be used today when facing your own challenges and decision points.
Our goal in sharing these stories is to help you improve your own decision making, and to provide new strategies for dealing with risk and adversity. One advantage of deriving these decision strategies from the Antarctic stories is that the tales are memorable; recalling a situation the explorers faced makes it easy to think about how they tackled it—a prompt from a prior century, if you will.
