There was one challenge in polar exploration I felt I’d left unconquered: a solo and unsupported expedition to the Geomagnetic North Pole. Although in 2003 at the age of forty-six my head told me it was probably time to put polar trekking behind me, my heart said, ‘Bugger that, I’ve got no choice, I’ve got to do it.’
One of the main reasons I wanted to make this attempt was the fact that I’d failed previously on a solo expedition to the Geomagnetic North Pole. The geomagnetic poles are antipodal points where the axis of a best-fitting dipole intersects the Earth’s surface. This dipole is equivalent to an extremely powerful (and large!) bar magnet at the centre of the Earth, tilted at an angle of about 11° to the axis of rotation that points to the Geographic Pole, and it is this theoretical dipole that comes closer than any other to accounting for the magnetic field observed at the Earth’s surface. In contrast, the actual magnetic poles are not antipodal—that is, they do not lie on a line passing through the centre of the Earth. The place in the northern hemisphere where this bar magnet then met the Earth’s surface, the Geomagnetic North Pole, was positioned at 79.12° North 71° 12 West, although the fluid motion of the Earth’s outer core means that both the Magnetic and Geomagnetic poles are constantly moving.
In 1992 I’d led the first team to walk unsupported to the Geomagnetic North Pole and I’d subsequently wondered whether I could repeat this trip solo and unsupported. I made my first such attempt in 2001 and on that occasion I’d had two choices to decide between: whether to go through the Sawtooth Mountains, a jagged snowcapped mountain range, or to take the longer route. Being a lazy git I’d chosen what I thought would be the shorter, easier way. However, maps don’t always show you everything, and my journey was up and down like a yoyo; there were large ice boulders and not enough snow cover. Within four days or so I’d torn the bottom of my sledge, the runners had come off and I’d used up far too much food. That was the end of that trip and I called up a plane to come and pick me up. I’d only been out a few days and felt a terrible failure yet again, having travelled less than a third of the total distance. Once I’d got over the initial disappointment though I wrote down all my mistakes, and the lessons I had learned in the process. Now I wanted to return and do things totally differently, so as to achieve my goal.
I spent over a year organizing and training for this second attempt and Rune helped me sort out all my kit and with my preparation for the expedition. With new plans in place and equipment ready, I set off in March 2003 during the Iraq War. I was leaving a couple of weeks later than on my previous trip so it was slightly warmer. This time I’d also decided to tell hardly a soul about where I was going and to keep it that way until I knew for sure I was definitely certain to reach the Geomagnetic Pole.
I’d decided against attempting to go through the Sawtooth Mountains again, but to take the longer way around. I flew to Resolute Bay and then on to Eureka, the desolate meteorological outpost on Ellesmere Island, and found things had changed a lot since my previous trips. In Resolute there was now just one man at the weather station. In the eighties there were twenty people manning the Eureka base, but now there were only four. They used to let us eat anything for free, whereas now there was a steep price on absolutely everything. To transport my sledge down the two-mile strip onto the fjord they were going to charge me $300. If I wanted to stay the night in Eureka it would have cost me more than a room at The Four Seasons Hotel.
I decided I might just as well sleep in my tent, as I’d have to get used to that soon enough. The following morning, on 17 March, I set off dragging my sledge a couple of hundred feet down from the weather station onto the Slidre Fjord. This time however I skied in completely the opposite direction to the way I’d gone before. It was a beautifully still day then, and it took me just another four days to reach the spot where I’d been picked up at the end of my previous failed attempt. I had vivid memories of my broken sledge and dashed dreams, and was determined to make it this time. I always find that having failed at something once is a huge motivation not to do so again.
I was skiing on nice flat ice in –30°C, slowly getting into a rhythm and routine, and from there on it was all brand-new territory open before me. I had to ski right to the end of the fjord where it met a glacier and from there I needed to get onto the ice-shelf covering Ellesmere Island. My biggest anxiety was this: how was I physically going to climb onto the ice cap, which is 50 feet high in places? I kept trying to work out in my mind any way I could possibly haul up my hefty sledge, without ending up in a crumpled heap below.
One day I was having some snacks from my munchy bag when, from the corner of my eye, I saw something move. I looked around and there was nothing there. Then I looked again and in the distance I spotted a herd of musk ox. Next minute, they were gone; I’m pretty sure I must have scared them off. I was, though, skiing in the heart of polar bear territory in the spring, when they emerge from their dens after hibernation desperately hungry and searching for food, then head out towards the sea ice in search of seals to gorge upon. On the Penny Ice Cap, however, unless a bear has climbing experience, or an ice axe, you shouldn’t see one! But I wasn’t going to be complacent as I’d already seen plenty of polar bear tracks around the coast and was always on guard. I’ll readily admit that after my previous encounter I’m a bit paranoid about polar bears, and each night I slept with my .306 rifle close to my side. This had been thoroughly checked before I left home, the grease removed and teflon powder used, because if you have any moisture at all in the rifle it possibly won’t fire, which is the last thing you want to happen with a bear weighing half a ton charging directly at you. I kept the gun in the bell-end of the tent, which I left slightly open, and I still took the additional precaution of always leaving some salami and chocolate on my sledge parked in front of the tent. If a polar bear was sniffing around I hoped I’d be woken by the noise.
On Saturday 22 March, a few days into the expedition, I received a radio message asking me if I would give a statement about the death of my friend Terry Lloyd. Terry was an ITN reporter, one of the handful of people that knew where I was going, who had been planning to come out and interview me if my trip proved successful. I learned that Terry and his team of two cameramen had been caught in crossfire near Basra in Iraq, but only later discovered that the coroner recorded a verdict of ‘unlawful killing’ by US forces. I was desperately upset by Terry’s death, which immediately sent me into a spiral of depressing thoughts about loved ones who had died, including my father, my uncle and various other close friends.
Being alone out on the ice you have no shortage of time to dwell upon such things, although strangely enough perhaps less than when you are part of a team and all the tasks are divided, rather than having to concentrate upon everything yourself. After a while I gradually managed to pull myself together. I needed all my mental strength and energy to focus on dragging the 150lb of provisions and equipment across that wilderness. Technically the route was pretty challenging as I had to scale ice walls, climb rocky outcrops, traverse shifting glaciers and abseil down frozen waterfalls. I certainly couldn’t have done it without a background in both mountaineering and considerable polar experience.
As the trek went on I grew increasingly tired as I found myself having to climb up the side of a glacier, which was getting progressively steeper. Eventually this became a 60 degree slope so there was really only one option, to construct a pulley system and hoist up my sledge half its load at a time. I removed my skis, wore crampons, and used ice screws and an ice axe to do the job. I pulled up half a sledge-full first then came back for the other half. It took me the better part of half a day buggering about, but after that it was a fantastic feeling finally to be up on the ice-shelf as I experienced its pure remoteness. No one else, so far as I knew, had ever crossed this land as part of a solo expedition before. On the downside, I did begin to wonder how I could ever be rescued if I got into any trouble, since there were no helicopters for 500 miles. A Twin Otter could only land
at the bottom of the fjord and from there it would take four or five days for anyone to reach me. I just had to push these negative thoughts aside and press on.
It took a further three days for me to cross the ice cap on Ellesmere Island, then I came down to the foot of a valley where it met the sea. From here I saw another fjord, the other side of Ellesmere Island, from which I could see across to Greenland. My next big challenge was crossing a treacherous glacier, lowering the sledge down, sometimes 4 or 5 feet at a time, sometimes 20 feet.
At the end of one day I came across a frozen waterfall some 20 feet high, and began lowering the sledge down again, trying to get a good strong hold with my ice axe. To my right was what appeared to be a nice big soft snowy bank, so I let the sledge down first and then jumped down after it. I landed on the bank about 10 feet below, which turned out to be ice-covered rock as hard as steel. There I was expecting to sink up to my knees in powdered snow, but instead I found myself smacking into solid ice. My leg buckled twisting horribly beneath me, and the pain in my right ankle shot up through my body. For a while I thought it was all over—longer than I like to think, but it certainly seemed a long time. I was convinced I’d broken my ankle or leg and that, once again, the Arctic had finally beaten me.
I was tempted to radio for a rescue plane there and then, but was damned if I was going to give up immediately so dragged myself to a flat section of the ice. Whilst lying on my side I clumsily erected my tent and crawled inside, then dosed myself up on painkillers and began inspecting my swollen ankle. Initially I thought about putting some ice directly onto it, but the ice was far too cold for that and I didn’t want to end up getting frostbite, which really would mean the end of things. I had to heat up the blocks of ice on my stove until they were warm enough to begin melting, and then apply them to my swollen and bruised ankle. The ice slowly began to reduce the swelling, then I strapped up my leg as tightly as I could bear and tried to get some sleep.
After a miserably restless night I awoke to find I did have more movement in my leg than I’d expected and feared, so I forced my bloated foot back into its boot and slowly got going. I was either likely to be crawling or hobbling, so I got my ski sticks out for additional support. It was very painful going but I convinced myself that if I could actually move my ankle then it was unlikely I’d broken it. I slowly got to the end of the river valley, which opened into a fjord. Once I reached the bottom it was much easier terrain and I knew I was probably just three days away from the Geomagnetic North Pole. Each day I took more painkillers and at night I slept on the coast, near the sea ice where polar bears travelled. I made sure my rifle was always by my side, just in case I had any unwanted visitors.
After reaching Copes Bay, located in the Nares Strait on the east coast of Ellesmere Island, I then skied and scrambled across 50 miles of sea ice. The Geological Society in Scotland gave me the exact position of the Geomagnetic North Pole, and once I decided I was definitely going to make it I called the base station at Resolute Bay, asking for messages to be passed on to reporters at ITN and Robert Uhlig at the Daily Telegraph. These messages made my expedition public for the first time. Slowly I made my way up Smith Sound, the Arctic sea passage between Greenland and Ellesmere Island, and finally reached the Pole on the afternoon of 11 April. Here I was, after thirty days traversing about 300 miles of ice. I spent half an hour or so gazing around at the spectacular scenery and vast expanses of sea ice that stretched out before me in every direction. This was an incredibly poignant moment, as I felt certain in my heart it would be the last time I ever embarked on such an arduous solo polar expedition. I was definitely getting too old for this sort of thing.
A Twin Otter plane circled above me for a while, which began to worry me in case the pilot couldn’t land, but I later discovered I was being filmed! Once inside the plane I slowly removed my boot, inners and socks, and began to inspect my right foot properly for the first time. I found it had turned a rather alarming shade of black, and Robert Uhlig nearly threw up at the gruesome sight. Then I did some interviews, including one with Radio 4’s John Humphrys. I admitted to him that I’d told hardly anyone, including my own family, that I was on an expedition to the Geomagnetic North Pole, I’d simply said I was going off skiing. In truth, I hadn’t wanted to frighten them, but I ended up being demonized by a lot of women in the country. It might sound like a terrible way to behave, but my family are used to it and to be honest I am always terrified that some journalist will doorstep one of my daughters and ask if she is worried about me when I am off on an expedition. There is no ideal way to handle this, but it seems to work best for us like this.
When we arrived at Resolute Bay a doctor looked at my spectacular foot, diagnosed a broken ankle and put a splint on it. I’d had a stressful and gruelling few weeks, but at the same time I knew I would miss the wilderness. I’ll always remember how pristine the virgin snow appeared; the sun low on the horizon with an orange glow, varying shades of blue all around. I was truly privileged to witness such sheer beauty. I decided to dedicate the record to my friend Terry Lloyd who, like me, had found a rare peace in the Arctic and Antarctic.
Back in England I went straight to Cirencester Hospital, where an X-ray confirmed I had indeed broken my ankle and that it would take several weeks to recover. Emotionally, I knew what had happened: I’d blocked out the pain determined to finish the trek and not be a failure again. I was very lucky to be alive however.
I’m often asked what, of all the things I’ve set out to do, is the toughest challenge, and it is something I’ve thought about a lot. Both times I’ve tried Everest I have succeeded. On each occasion I’ve set out to reach the South Pole, long-distance, solo or otherwise, I’ve made it there. The one place that took me three attempts to get to, from the coast, was the North Pole. If you look at the numbers, very few people have ever successfully completed expeditions to the North Pole compared to the other big treks. My great hero Messner, for all his incredible achievements, took a shorter route than me in Antarctica, and with another person, but nevertheless he achieved it. The one thing that he’s failed on in three attempts, and has said he’ll never go back and try to do again as it’s just too hard, is the North Pole.
Because you want to avoid the greatest drift and open water you simply have to go at the coldest possible time of year, and that can mean temperatures of –40°C plus wind-chill for three weeks, on a constant morning, noon and night basis. It doesn’t warm up at all. The limiting factor is the light, so you have to go late enough in the spring when there is at least twilight and a plane can drop you off. For the South Pole, because it’s a solid landmass, you can go at the warmest time of the year, the summer, and it can be relatively warm. The sun’s always up, and the temperatures need not be so brutal. Of course, at the Pole itself you are at 10,000 feet, so it is colder due to the lapse rate where you lose 2°C for every 1,000 feet you go up, but in the summer on the coast at sea level you definitely get temperatures sometimes above freezing. Of all the things I have done, and perhaps no one else can truly say this with the same conviction of personal experience, the North Pole is the greatest challenge of them all.
AIR
I know I’ve made it. I’m somewhere above 41,000 feet, and no one has ever been higher in the open basket of a Rozier balloon, or any other sort for that matter except in a pressurized capsule. It’s about 7.00 a.m. on a bright, clear morning and I can distinctly discern the curvature of the earth. I don’t really look over the side, but in the west I can see the Rocky Mountains through the deep blue skies, and there is a slight haze, a shimmer to the light. My god it is cold though, about –80°C, and that really is the ambient temperature because in a balloon there is no wind-chill effect as you are just blown along with it. I’ve never known it this cold, not at the poles, not on Mount McKinley, and I know at these temperatures it is dangerous to hang around. Everything becomes brittle—metal, plastic, could just snap at any time. If a flying wire goes, that’s it, curtains, goodnight Vienna
! I’m bundled up in about five layers of protective clothing, fleece, down jacket, three sets of gloves, and in the tiny basket there’s no room to move around to keep warm, even if I was prepared to risk doing so. At this altitude I’m almost at the point where I should be wearing some sort of pressure suit, to be honest.
I’ve counted fifteen seconds so I can be certain the barograph will have recorded where I am, that the record can be ratified. I don’t want to make any mistake with that and have to do this again! It takes a reading every four seconds, but I want to be absolutely certain. Now it’s time to get myself down as quickly as I can, and I’ll be back for breakfast. I pull gingerly on the rope to open the gas valve at the top of the envelope, and hold it for three seconds. Don Cameron, who originally built this balloon for me, had told me the horror story of a flight he’d been on when the rope came away from where it was attached to the valve, the whole thing ending up with him in the basket. Ever since hearing that I’ve never forgotten it, and I’m frankly petrified should it happen now as there’d be no way to get down. I want a nice slow descent, but nothing happens, no movement downwards, so I pull on it again a little harder and longer this time. Nothing! In fact, looking at my electric barometer, the pressure reading is continuing to drop so I’m actually still going up.
I’m confused. How can I be releasing gas and still rising? Could I just be imagining it, if maybe my oxygen is not working properly and I’m getting hypoxia? I start to panic slightly, but know that will only make matters worse so try to keep calm. I’ve probably got another hour or so of oxygen on my main supply, and don’t fancy having to swap over to my back-up wearing all my gloves in this cold. Once my oxygen is gone so am I. This isn’t like Everest, where the effects of oxygen deprivation creep up on you. I’m not acclimatized and I’m far, far higher. This would be more or less instant, in which I find little comfort. I may have a parachute but I can’t take my bulky oxygen supply with me, and even if I initially survived getting clear of the balloon and the free-fall after baling out I’d be dead before I reached breathable altitude. What am I going to do? Slow down, think carefully, I’ve got to try and work this out.
No Such Thing as Failure Page 17
