South with the Sun

by Lynne Cox

  They remembered Preece’s story the day when he was on the Greenland ice cap with a different air crew at an altitude of ten thousand feet, and the sun was so warm that it had turned the snow to slush. They were sliding across the glacier, but the slush bogged them down, creating so much resistance that they couldn’t get enough speed to take off.

  His crew had to overnight in a tent in minus 49 degrees Fahrenheit temperatures. They were trained to go into survival mode, and they were completely prepared, but it still taxed their bodies. It was like trying to sleep in a freezer at an altitude of ten thousand feet. They were cold through the bone. They couldn’t breathe well, and they didn’t sleep. They waited until the next day, when the sun’s angle to the ice cap became lower. When the snow did not absorb as much of the sun’s energy, it remained frozen and they managed to take off.

  If they couldn’t take off from AGAP, they would be in survival mode, and this would be worse than in Greenland. They would be at a higher altitude, in colder temperatures, in one of the most remote parts of Antarctica. If this happened, it set up a whole list of complications and complexities for them, and for those who might have to go in and help get them out.

  They had another option if they couldn’t take off. Souza and McKeown could slow the aircraft down, turn it around, return to the starting point, and attempt another takeoff. By then, they would have burned off more fuel. The aircraft would be lighter, and they would have a better chance of taking off, but they didn’t want to make second attempt unless they really had to. A second attempt would burn off a lot more fuel, which this meant that they might not have enough fuel to return directly to McMurdo, and instead, they would have to fly to the South Pole to refuel. That would extend their flight time, and they knew the weather would only hold for so long. A change in weather would change everything. They had to get back to McMurdo before the weather deteriorated.

  At McMurdo, they had Pegasus, the ice runway, and Williams Field, the skiway. If the ceiling dropped and the visibility was reduced to the point where they couldn’t see the runway, they would have to land only using instruments in a specially designated whiteout area near McMurdo. The area had been checked out at the start of the season with radar and by personnel on snowmobile and cleared of all obstructions. Landing in whiteout conditions, totally blind, was something that no one liked to do. It was their last option.

  McKeown was straining against the yoke. Sweat was stinging his eyes. He gave it his maximum effort and groaning and was so fatigued he had to ask Souza for help.

  McKeown was pulling harder on the yoke with one hand and guarding the throttles with the other, in case the engines failed on, or low to, the ground. He had to be completely aware of what Souza was doing, so if something went wrong, there wasn’t any confusion. Each knew exactly who had to take which task.

  The aircraft slid for two miles.

  McKeown was trying to baby the nose ski and to keep more aft pressure on it. His arms, shoulders, and neck burned from exertion.

  The air was filled with the roar of the LC-130’s engines. The aircraft was bouncing, galloping, and booming, and every time the aircraft bottomed out, it hurt. The crew felt the aircraft going bam, bam, bam, bam. The impacts compressed the vertebrae in their spines and snapped their heads back and forth. It felt like their spines were working up through the roof of their skulls. They braced themselves for each impact. They had now covered four unrelenting miles.

  McKeown and Souza were working to create that perfect moment when the speed and balance of the aircraft were just right, when the aircraft defied the force of gravity and lifted off the ice. The crew was keeping the pilots informed, checking out the terrain, and anticipating the next impact.

  Suddenly, after 4.2 miles, they felt that moment of elation when the skis broke free from the friction of the snow, and they lifted off. They felt the miracle of flight. As the aircraft climbed into the cerulean sky, high above the sparkling white dome of the Gamburtsevs, they felt their spirits soar. They grinned. They were flying. They were relieved. They were thinking about the flight back to McMurdo, hot meals, warm beds, and deep sleep.

  Those thoughts abruptly ended.

  When McKeown raised the landing gear, he noticed that a red light came on. The light indicated that the nose ski was not locked in the up position.

  This sometimes happened in open-snow operations. McKeown was not overly alarmed, but he informed the crew.

  Olena, the flight engineer, began thinking about how to solve the problem. He knew that they were operating in minus 49 degrees Fahrenheit and that with everything open under the plane on their takeoff slide, snow could have gotten into the aircraft and impacted. That might have affected the nose ski.

  Under the flight deck was a small glass window used by the loadmaster to scan the nose gear and ski assembly. Preece looked out the window, but couldn’t see what the problem was.

  The crew had three and a half hours to discuss the issue, and they began to troubleshoot it.

  McKeown and Souza reduced their airspeed in accordance with the standard operating procedure.

  Once they reached their cruise altitude and completed their departure checklist, the crew double-checked the remaining fuel. They calculated that they would have enough for the return to McMurdo.

  For the next two and a half hours DeConno continued to shoot the sun, whose path throughout the day and night would create a halo over the South Pole, but whose harsh light filled the cockpit.

  The crew went through their procedures and tried to figure out what the problem was and how they could solve it. They couldn’t tell why the red light wouldn’t go off.

  When the aircrew reached the McMurdo area, McKeown determined the best time to lower the landing gear and he told Souza to lower the gear. Souza lowered the gear handle, and the crew anticipated the gear to come down and lock, but when the loadmaster looked out the window and inspected the nose ski position the crew was expecting to hear Preece say to the pilot, “Nose ski down and level. Loadmaster.” Instead, what they heard Preece say was, “Pilot. Loadmaster. Unable to confirm nose ski is level.”

  The pilots could tell the landing gear was down, but it wasn’t locking in place. This was a big problem.

  If the aircraft was going to land, the nose ski had to be locked in place. If they attempted to land with a drooping nose ski, the ski could catch and they could crash. They knew that they had to get the nose ski level.

  Souza radioed McMurdo and informed air traffic control and skier ops that they had an emergency situation. The supervisor of flying and Colonel Ron Smith, the deployed commander, as well as a support team and the mechanic who specialized in nose ski repair, began working on the problem. The mechanic stepped outside and looked up at an empty sky. He listened hard for the Skibird’s engines.

  The aircrew checked to see how much fuel they had remaining. That told them how much time they had to figure out what to do.

  The aircrew went through their emergency procedures and stayed focused on their tasks, but with the uncertainty, they felt their tension increasing in the cockpit.

  Skier ops and the aircrew kept an eye on the weather.

  If clouds moved in, their landing would be even more difficult. Clouds over Antarctica often made it impossible for the aircrews to distinguish the difference between the sky—the horizon—and the ground, and get a surface definition. It was like looking down on a flat piece of white paper in noon sunlight. The whiteness of the surface and the whiteness of the sky coupled with diffuse lighting confused their spatial orientation, and made landing the aircraft very challenging. And if the katabatic winds started blowing, it could make landing an aircraft with a dropped nose ski very dangerous. The mechanic and ground support crew heard the Herc’s engines. In the cockpit, Olena was continuously monitoring the aircraft systems and DeConno took sunshots, and checked radar, and navigated.

  When base ops reported fair weather at McMurdo, McKeown and Souza took deep breaths and they were som
ewhat relieved. Now they knew their best option was to attempt a wheeled landing on Pegasus ice runway. This was the only runway in the area where they could do a wheels-down landing. With a drooped nose ski, a landing at Williams Field would have been much more difficult and potentially dangerous. The mechanic saw the Herc and confirmed the LC-130 had a drooped nose ski. He took a photo. He and the base crew held their breath, hoping they would be okay. Some said silent prayers.

  As McKeown and Souza made the final approach, the crew heard the tension in the pilots’ voices. The crew at skier ops and the mechanic strained to watch the aircraft. The entire aircrew executed the emergency procedure. The pilots and crew made the LC-130’s skis come up and the wheels go down. They held their breath. The nose ski hit the belly of the aircraft, and that helped to keep the ski somewhat level. They landed perfectly, and rolled along the ice runway until the aircraft came to a stop.

  The base crew and the aircrew broke into smiles.

  It had been a long twelve-hour day, and the aircrew was exhausted and cold, but they walked to the day room where they debriefed and caught a second breath.

  Everyone who wanted to hear about the mission joined them in the day room. They were there to listen and to learn.

  The air crew shared their experience in the same tradition in which Amundsen had guided Byrd, and Nansen had coached Amundsen. The knowledge, skill, and wisdom was transferred from the great explorers to the next group of great explorers, men and women who would learn from their experiences, and with that knowledge be able to reach further into the unknown. They, in turn, would bring back a better understanding of these newly explored worlds, and of human beings’ desire and ability to reach, strive, and to believe that things that are thought impossible can be achieved.

  Afterword

  As the pilots reduced the LC-130’s speed and began their descent onto the Greenland ice cap, I zipped up the green parka the air force had loaned me and felt a surge of excitement.

  Only a few months before, after I had interviewed the aircrew at the 109th Air Wing’s base in Scotia, New York, about their AGAP mission, I had walked into Colonel Gary James’s office to thank him for giving me the opportunity to learn from the men and women of the 109th about their Antarctic mission.

  At the end of our conversation, Colonel James asked, “Would you like to fly to Greenland with our aircrews and watch them train on the ice cap for our Antarctic mission?”

  It took a moment for his question to register. Two years before, when I met Samantha East and Brian Gomula they were returning from their spring training with the 109th on the ice cap, and when I was on my way to swim in Disko Bay, I silently wished that I could go there. Now Colonel James, and Colonel Anthony German, the wing commander, were officially inviting me to Greenland to see how the aircrews trained and honed their skills for polar flight.

  “I would absolutely love to do that,” I said with so much enthusiasm that Colonel James grinned, and his blue eyes grew bright. He explained that there would be a press trip in June, and I would be traveling with the media. He said that travel in Greenland was weather dependent. If the weather was good, we would fly to three different locations on the ice cap: Summit, at an altitude of 10,000 feet; Raven, at 6,960 feet; and NEEM, at 8,038 feet. The 109th would also be carrying supplies to the support people and scientists doing research at the stations.

  Sitting sideways on orange nylon bench seats with net backing, I stared out of the porthole-shaped window at the searing bright white below. The air suddenly grew thinner, more difficult to breathe, as the flight engineer depressurized the cargo area to diminish the effect of the altitude on our bodies when we stepped out of the aircraft and to make sure the door didn’t blow out when it was opened upon landing. The flight engineer also cooled the cargo area to prevent a meltdown when we landed, to prevent icing and possibly breaking the ramp.

  I put on my cap and knitted mittens and put leather mittens over the top of them, like Amundsen had done on his South Pole quest.

  As the LC-130 gently touched down on the main skis, I felt my excitement grow. The weight of the aircraft shifted forward onto the nose ski, and we slid in the ski bird along the skiway until the aircraft began to slow, and then the pilot reversed the aircraft’s roaring engines and brought the aircraft to a stop.

  The cargo door was opened, and the air seemed thinner. We ducked through the cargo door and walked down three steps, and touched the snow. There were support people waiting for us on snowmobiles pulling Nansen sleds—they were smaller than the sleds Nansen used when he crossed Greenland more than one hundred years before, but the shape of the sled was the same design.

  The day, and the remaining days that followed, were equally amazing and filled with memorable and reflective moments.

  The next day, June 20, our media group was invited to fly on a training mission to Raven Camp. Lieutenant Colonel Marc LeCours, the navigator, explained that the last fifteen to twenty seconds before landing and the first fifteen to twenty seconds after takeoff were the most interesting parts of flight. The transitions would be what the aircrew would focus on during their training.

  Left: USAF Colonel Anthony German, wing commander, 109th Airlift Wing. Right: USAF Colonel Gary James.

  When we arrived at the aircraft, I was given a turn to be in the cockpit for the takeoff. Lieutenant Colonel Mark Armstrong and Captain Wayne Brown, the pilots, were busy, going through their checklists; the flight engineer sitting behind them was clicking switches on the ceiling; and Lieutenant Colonel LeCours, the navigator, was in the back of the cockpit beside a computer screen covered with a section of Greenland, and beside that a folded paper chart, focused on the same area.

  The empty and silent cockpit that Samantha East had shown me when I first visited the 109th in Schenectady was now filled with life and activity and energy. The engines were so loud that we had to wear earplugs, and the aircraft vibrated so much that if I’d been holding a cup of coffee, there would have been waves in the cup.

  When Lieutenant Colonel Marc LeCours handed me a pair of headphones and I put them on, I heard the aircrew speaking in clear, abbreviated sentences. It was wonderful. They were saying numbers, directions, and wind speed, and the pilots were talking with a man from Greenland in the control tower, who was speaking to them in English.

  A dream come true: flying low over the Greenland glaciers en route to Kangerlussuaq after walking on the Greenland ice cap and visiting research camps.

  There was no way for me to understand what they were saying or what they were doing, but they were all working together, and it was a beautiful thing to watch. It was so exciting being with them in the cockpit. I loved being there and feeling that moment when the aircraft suddenly lifted off the earth, peering down through windows that arched around the front of the cockpit, watching the rocky terrain slip away, looking between the pilots to see the mountains dropping below us, and listening to the crew as they talked with one another and flew the aircraft toward Raven Station. I didn’t want to leave, but there were other media friends waiting for their turn and I returned to the main cabin.

  We landed on skis on the snowy skiway at Raven camp. The landing was as smooth as riding in a boat across flat water. We were dropped off on the ice cap while the aircrew began their training mission.

  A billowing cloud of snow rose behind the silver LC-130 as it thundered along the skiway, flashed its bright orange tail, and lifted steadily off the ground.

  Someone suddenly shouted, “Prop wash!”

  And I wondered what that meant, until a snow cloud completely enveloped me like a blizzard, and the world went totally white, and the air temperature dropped instantly, way below zero degrees Fahrenheit. I shook my head and laughed. Now I knew what “prop wash” meant. What incredible fun. I pulled the fur on the brim of my parka hood over my head, and smiled. The same Inuit-designed parka with the fur hood was what Amundsen wore through the Northwest Passage and to the South Pole, and that parka design was succes
sful and is still being used by the U.S. Air Force. It was so warm. The aircraft became a dot in the sky, disappeared into a white sky, and circled back. The aircrew landed twice and took off twice in an open snow area. Their takeoffs and landings looked smooth and effortless. And when the training was over and I heard the aircrew talking, they were pleased with the work they had done.

  The following day, June 21, 2009, while on the bus to breakfast at the airport café, I noticed a group of about thirty people standing in a semicircle, with three men wearing white, standing immediately in front of the flagpole. They were raising the red-and-white flag of Greenland. This was the day when the way Greenland was governed changed from “home rule” to “self rule,” which gave the country greater autonomy from Denmark, though not quite independence. This was what Lars-Emil Johansen, the former prime minister, and his colleagues had been working on for many years.

  The celebration continued at the airport café in Kangerlussuaq. The cashier lit four small candles, and she smiled at me. She said her name was Enoksen, like the prime minister who had just left office. On the radio, a choir was singing in Greenlandic, and when the choir finished, I heard a man’s familiar voice, and pointed to the speaker and asked, “Lars-Emil Johansen?”

  Lieutenant Colonel Mark Armstrong flying over Greenland while his daughter is in the United States doing swimming workouts.

  She stuck her thumbs up in the air and nodded. Two years before, Lars-Emil and I had talked about Greenland gaining its independence from Denmark. And now, after thirty years of work, it was closer than ever.

  How were they celebrating this peaceful transfer of power, I wondered. Walking to the lobby, I noticed the receptionist at the airport hotel. She said people were celebrating with picnics and, in the afternoon, there would be a soccer match between Greenland and Denmark. In the early evening children would do traditional Greenlandic dances, and later at night the adults would do traditional dances, too. She said Hans Enoksen, the former prime minister, was speaking on the radio and she said that this freedom from Denmark would give Greenland the ability to determine its own future.