My back was not too bad now, and I was only taking three painkillers a day, but my nose was getting worse. Some polar explorers consider frostbite a badge of honour, like a rugby prop’s cauliflower ear, but I certainly did not feel that way. I tried putting tape on it, but that only made matters worse as it became damp and started to freeze. White blisters appeared on the end and it throbbed constantly. It’s never really recovered, still goes very red in the cold, and along with the scars and numbness the inside has been damaged. I need an operation to fix it since then, but I can’t say it’s as good as new now. Roger was still often making only 3 miles a day, and even when he once notched 25 with his parawing he was still well behind me. And on day thirty I crossed into 85 degrees, halfway there and my biggest landmark so far.
Over the course of the next degrees I was gaining altitude, so it was getting very much colder. I’d obviously grown a beard, and it might sound strange how I was bothered that parts of this were as white as the snow around me. Perhaps this concern about growing old was mostly due to anxiety about my strength, and despite my sledge now being 120lbs lighter than when I set out I could tell this was diminishing as I lost weight, at a rate of over half a pound a day I later discovered. Even though the food was disgusting it became increasingly important to me, as did any treats, but I had forced myself to be very disciplined now. When I mistakenly thought I had crossed over into 86 degrees, and had already got out my brandy and pork scratchings only to discover I was still half a mile short, I didn’t cheat but put them away until the next night when I would really truly have earned them.
Being alone out there does mean you start talking to yourself, or in my case to my sledge to be exact, which I had begun calling ‘Boy’ and was interacting with as I might a dog, telling it to get a move on and sometimes offering it bits of Mars Bar. I’d also christened my skis Gandalf and Merlin. On day thirty-nine, when the lip of a sastrugi had caused Boy to tip over for about the tenth time that day, I even administered a severe beating to my sledge with my ski stick, in a way that one never would an animal. This shows just how close to the edge I was mentally, and this sort of frenzy had only ever consumed me once before when I was trying to walk to the North Pole. Once I’d calmed down I was really just concerned how daft I was since I could easily have broken my ski stick, which really would have left me in trouble. The outpouring of emotion must have exorcised some demons however, as the next day I completed 13 miles, my best yet, and I reckoned I was metaphorically now past Manchester with Birmingham not that far off.
On day forty-three I was encountering some of the highest sastrugi of the trip, up to 15 feet, which made the going very difficult. The reference books say this shouldn’t be the case as you get further south and less wind is blowing off the Pole, but so much for them. There were also crevasses every 50 feet or so, big ones, which I was now just ploughing straight across, even if my ski stick did often disappear through the ice—although by the time that registered I was safely across. I was still relieved by the end of the day to have come 12 miles and survived unscathed, with the knowledge that the next morning I should cross into 87 degrees. I was beginning to imagine what it would be like reaching the Pole. It had been one of the most dangerous days of the expedition, but I didn’t realize yet that worse was to come.
About 9.00 that evening before I went to sleep I had a final pee in a plastic bottle, before tipping the contents out on a specially designated area of ice outside the tent, from where I wouldn’t collect snow for cooking. If the ice is solid the urine usually spreads around a bit before freezing, or with powdered snow you hear it fizz before it disappears. This time I heard nothing, but it was only once tucked up in my sleeping bag that this started to nag at me, and although knackered I irritably hauled myself out to check what my sudden suspicion might reveal. There, where I had poured away the urine, was a deep dark hole. I was camped on top of the thin ice crust over a massive crevasse. I thought about it almost dispassionately. The fact that I hadn’t already fallen through suggested the ice surface was holding, and moving around was the mostly likely thing that could cause it to give way, which might happen as easily when packing up in the morning as now. I decided to stay put, partly from a fatalistic sense of what will be will be, but also because I felt strangely at peace with myself. I almost sensed that my hero Ernest Shackleton was watching over me, daft as it sounds, or at least I genuinely believe I thought so at the time.
I was a bit less calm in the morning when I awoke and remembered where I was, crawling gingerly around on all fours before getting out and snapping on my skis, then dragging my sledge across the rest of the ridge and away from the crevasse. It was another white-out that I had to trudge through, which was now happening every five days or so. With my eighty-seventh degree celebration that evening I worked out I was down to Worcester, 180 miles or so to go, but since I know the route a lot better I decided now I would pretend to be making my way from Cardiff down to London on the M4, along which I could mark off not just passing towns but service stations. I was up to 8,000 feet and my thermometer read –37°C, but with windchill effect that became about –75°C and any exposure of bare flesh for a moment would mean frostbite.
The next day I heard that Roger Mear had pulled out of his attempt to cross the continent, some 180 miles behind me and at just over 84 degrees. This left me with the real prospect of becoming the first Briton to walk solo and unsupported to the South Pole, but although we hadn’t always seen eye to eye I felt genuinely sorry for him. He would have to go home and face the music, which would be so much the worse after all the pre-publicity he’d generated. What people never understand is that, at the time, more people had walked on the surface of the moon than to the South Pole from the edge of Antarctica. I was inexperienced really in comparison to Roger, and although it now meant I had my own genuine chance I was desperately sorry that he’d lost his dream, as I knew exactly how that felt.
The next couple of days were pretty miserable, being Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. I kept thinking about all our family rituals of preparation now going on thousands of miles away, setting out the sherry, mince pie and carrot for Santa and Rudolph, then the kids opening their presents and Claire smiling bravely through it all. I knew she would be worried, and could it really be acceptable to leave her alone for so long, and at such a time? We were going to celebrate Christmas again on my return, but it was the first time in fifteen years that Claire didn’t have a present from me. Since I was now averaging 13 miles a day with the additional half-hours of walking, I was getting pretty confident of reaching the Pole in sixty days, so initially I planned to give myself Christmas Day off, but perhaps it was to punish myself for deserting my family that I changed my mind. I’d been thinking for days how I would actually celebrate Christmas, and at least I could hardly complain that I didn’t have a white one as I trudged along singing ‘Jingle Bells’ to myself, but I did decide to make it an additional brandy day and broke open a dehydrated packet of fruit cocktail that I’d saved. It was hardly turkey and plum pudding, but it had to do and was all I felt I deserved.
A couple of days later I was told I could expect a team of five Russian women, who were just doing the last section of the journey after being dropped off at 88 degrees, and asked if I would provide a local weather report to green light their arrival. Frankly I didn’t want anything to do with them, worried that any contact would tarnish my solo journey, but Geoff told me not to be so paranoid and reluctantly I agreed. I was still feeling grumpy when they emerged from their plane, but even if after so long alone I wasn’t very excited about the presence of female company I doubt my white beard, bulbous nose and the fact I hadn’t washed in seven weeks would have made me any more prepossessing. I marched up to the pilot and demanded he sign my diary to confirm I hadn’t been given any fuel or food, or anything else that would constitute support, but when one of the ladies offered me a banana I was briefly torn. I couldn’t take it of course, for the additional reason that after mo
re than seven weeks of dehydrated food it would have passed through me like a dose of salts. They pitched camp a quarter of a mile away from me, and I never saw them again after I set off the next morning. Soon I’d be crossing the outer rim of the Pole, where the longitude lines end and the final push would begin.
On my fifty-fourth day two things happened that set me back badly however. First of all Geoff told me that after reaching the Pole my friend Borge Ousland had pulled out of his attempt to cross the continent just two days further on. That he had pushed the emergency button was a bad blow to my morale, since he was my hero and I often asked myself what he would do when things seemed to be going wrong. Then in crossing a crevasse my ski pole punctured the surface again and for a split second I thought I was going to topple over, plunge down into the black hole that had opened up next to me. I jerked myself upright and managed to regain my balance, but in doing so I injured my back again and also pulled a couple of muscles in my leg. I immediately had to increase my dose of painkillers once more, but knowing I was less than a week away from the Pole I felt I could get through this now when I wouldn’t have been able to earlier in the trip. Sixty miles still seemed like a long way however, and I know how people have failed to reach the summit of Everest by 100 feet. I’ve seen their dead bodies. Robert Scott and his men died just 11 miles short of their food depot on his return journey. I decided to cut my food rations by half just in case my injuries slowed me down. And it was New Year’s Eve when all the family always gets together in a hotel to sing ‘Auld Lang Syne’. It was exactly midnight back home in England, and I made a resolution I was going to spend more time with my children.
On New Year’s Day, my fifty-fifth, I passed over 89 degrees and now my GPS could barely register the lines of longitude as they merged together and it kept desperately searching for them. A combination of excitement and concern about my injuries meant I pushed myself to walk 14 miles, and I could almost feel the Pole in my grasp. The next day was bitterly cold, but as I cooked my dinner that evening I worked out I had only a further 22 miles to go. I suddenly thought I heard an aircraft noise that sounded familiar, and realized it must be a Hercules landing at the American base at the Pole. The next day was beautifully clear, and with barely any wind it was a real pleasure to be walking in the Antarctic. In mid-afternoon I had stopped for a tea break, when I saw for the first time two distant dots on the horizon. I was 15 miles away, but these I realized were the tips of two antennae. All I now had to do was walk towards them, no need for any map or compass. My thoughts turned to Scott again, since in 1912 he had no idea what he would find at the Pole, and then he must have been crushed to discover Roald Amundsen’s tent there confirming that the Norwegian had won their race. Had that not happened I am sure he would have made it back, and I reflected on how much easier it was for me knowing exactly what I would find and with the prospect of being flown home, not to mention all my other knowledge and equipment. What brave men they were.
The next day was crystal clear and at first the antennae seemed to get no nearer, as it is always very difficult to estimate distance in such a landscape. Then with about 10 miles to go I caught sight of the silver dome at the research base, and the odd colour started to appear, the red of buildings and steam pouring from a roof. It was when I saw the flags, particularly the Union Jack fluttering in the breeze, that about half a mile away I finally broke down, knelt on the ice and wept. The tears first caused my goggles to steam up then to freeze over, and during that last half mile I continued to cry and had to keep wiping my goggles. It was fifty-nine days since I had begun walking on 8 November, and it was now 5 January since by reaching the Pole I had crossed the international date line. I had entered New Zealand time and it was 7.00 a.m. in the morning, so I had effectively lost a whole night’s sleep, but I cared little about that. I’d made it. I could hardly believe it, when I thought back to how I’d felt when I first set out.
I frankly didn’t really know what sort of reception I might receive from the scientists at the base, and it’s often said they view people like me as tourists who get in the way of their research. Certainly no one seemed to be paying me any attention, all had their backs turned and were talking amongst themselves, so I thought stuff them and made my way over to the pole and orb that mark the ceremonial location of the South Pole, a hundred yards or so away from the more simply denoted exact Geographical Pole. I was still crying, but fortunately I had the sense not to kiss it as my lips would have stuck fast, but instead hugged it tightly as feelings of relief and ecstasy fought their way through my tears. Then, one by one, the scientists approached and shook my hand, clapping and cheering. A British scientist fetched me a hot cup of tea, and the head of the research station congratulated me and welcomed me to the South Pole. These guys weren’t so bad after all, but had actually been anxious to allow me a few moments alone with my feelings and not to intrude on a moment they knew must be very special for me.
I was invited in to breakfast, but said if possible I wanted to wait for my friend Fyodor to arrive, who I knew had been closing the gap on me after initially falling well behind having started out the half day later. I didn’t have to wait long, as he arrived only three hours later, and after I had given him his own space we hugged, both cried, and took plenty of pictures, before needing little persuasion to go in to breakfast. I’d forgotten what it was like to be warm, as it was in the portakabins under the dome, but my first priority was food even though I felt my body falling apart. My nose and back hurt like hell, and I later found I’d lost 36lbs from my starting weight of about 15 stone, but I shovelled a huge fry-up into myself even as I kept apologizing for how bad I knew I must smell. We were assured we shouldn’t worry but also encouraged to have a shower after we had finished eating, and even, can you believe it, a sauna. It was wonderful to feel the shampoo and soap send the dirt piling off, our bodies tingling in the hot water, and we were like two excited kids in the shower, with the prospect of the clean clothes we had been given to look forward to. The effects of the unaccustomed food were soon felt, and meant I spent most of the remaining morning sitting on the lavatory, but I also had time to see the doctor who pronounced my nose ‘not nice’, although she assured me it would heal naturally in time, and gave me more painkillers for my back.
That afternoon I was given a guided tour of the research station, and got caught up in a ridiculous race the scientists sometimes stage on a half-mile course around the actual Pole. Fyodor and I clipped our skis back on and harnessed up our sledges, trudged round the course swearing the whole way, and were then awarded with t-shirts saying we had just completed a round the world race. This was all fun, but I was desperate to let people at home know I had made it, and that evening I settled down to what I was told would be my one allowed call over the satellite phone, which would have to be collect. First of all I had to fetch the base commander to confirm for the operator on the New Zealand side of the continent that I really had permission to make the call, and then I heard the phone ringing. I was so excited at being about to hear Claire’s voice, but then there was a click and I heard myself saying ‘This is David Hempleman-Adams. We’re not here at the moment, but please leave a message.’
Bollocks, where was she?! I begged for one more call, and racked my brains to remember the number of any family member who could pass on a message, but the only one that came to me was Aunt Audrey’s. When we tried that it just rang without answer, and I could tell the operator was losing patience with me. I pleaded for one last chance and tried to remember my grandmother’s number, writing down the possible permutations on a piece of paper. I thought I had it right and passed it to the operator, who dialled the number. A woman answered and the operator said he had a call from David Hempleman-Adams at the South Pole, and would she accept the charges? There was a pause and then the woman, who I now realized sounded unfamiliar, said in a stern tone, ‘You want me to pay for a phone call from a strange man at the South Pole? NO!’ That was that then, so eventually seei
ng the funny side I went off to have a few beers with Fyodor and my new friends.
The next morning we packed up all our equipment to await the arrival of the Cessna from Patriot Hills that would be arriving to take us away from the South Pole. When it arrived Geoff was first out of the plane, and typically reserved Englishman that he is avoided my hug and shook my hand, asking me what all this nonsense concerning a bad back was about. A few minutes later two Twin Otters landed, and disgorged a party of elderly American tourists, snapping away with their cameras. Both Fyodor and I knew what the other was thinking, that this somehow seemed to dilute our achievement in walking all the way to the Pole when anyone could just fly in like this. It wasn’t really what we needed, and once they had gone we made our private farewells to the base and the Pole itself, then over to the plane for the six hour flight. We were all big men squeezed into a small aircraft, like sardines, and finally there was a moment of farce as the base commander held us up for ten minutes whilst he confirmed with the doctor that I’d left the trousers he’d lent me with her.
As we took off and circled the Pole I heard the BBC World Service come on the radio and the presenter announced what I had just done. I hadn’t come looking for glory, but I did feel a warm glow as I dozed off. There was a party atmosphere amongst the ten or so people back at Patriot Hills when we arrived, and I did get my blackberry and apple pie from Sue the cook, with custard naturally, the thought of which had kept me going during the toughest part of my journey. I suppose the group of elderly tourists couldn’t help coming through there, but when the next morning I went into the mess tent and found the place heaving with them I just couldn’t stand it and had to walk out. Having grown so used to solitude I simply couldn’t cope with a crowd, and although it was good to be getting back to civilization I knew it would take me time to adjust to other people. And them to me. The same tourists were with me on the Hercules back to Punta Arenas later that afternoon, and although I was dressed in clean clothes I still had to wear my same filthy old outer garments. The crew invited me to move down to the back of the plane, away from everyone else, and when we landed the girl from Adventure Network who collected me confirmed what must have been everyone else’s view saying, ‘Cor, you are a bit smelly!’
No Such Thing as Failure Page 12
