After three days the weather in Rothera improved. A tiny window of opportunity opened, enough to send the Twin Otter crew to the station. And so began a flight like no other before it. With Dr. Betty Carlisle, the replacement physician, aboard, the Twin Otter and its crew took to the air.
Four hours into the flight, the weather soured. Winds broad-sided the plane, snow pelted it and temperatures dived. The crew were not yet halfway. There was still time to change their minds. But the pilots forged ahead. They had encountered turbulence before. They had blasted through blizzards thick as cotton. They would do the same now.
Ten hours later the Twin Otter crew sighted a dozen glowing lights — the flaming smudge pots marking the runway.
“To finally see what you’re looking for and to be able to identify it, that was an extremely special moment,” co-pilot Cary said. “It was very poetic actually to arrive at the bottom of the world, in a land that’s covered in ice and snow, to these glowing barrels of burning debris.”
Guided by the smudge pots, Loutitt and Cary landed the plane and taxied down the runway, skis clattering on the bumpy ice. Polies waiting with snowmobiles took over. After a frigid 2-kilometre ride to the Dome, the Twin Otter crew and replacement doctor arrived at the research station to warmth, food and much-needed rest.
The Twin Otter arrives at the Amundsen-Scott South Pole Station.
Temperatures hovered around minus 69° Celsius, dangerously close to the mark where even hardy Twin Otters run into trouble. While the crew rested, mechanics placed heaters around the plane. They also bundled the engine in protective covers to keep fluids thin and prevent metal from snapping. Although the mission was more than half over, the most difficult leg was still coming.
Weather ruled the timeline. While the crew snuggled inside the Dome, winds picked up and temperatures dropped. What was to be a ten-hour recovery period stretched longer as they waited for conditions to improve. Finally, after a delay of several hours, the weather shifted again. Once more a small window of opportunity opened. Anxious to take advantage of it, the Twin Otter crew headed to the plane.
The engines growled to life, but there were problems. For one, the skis had frozen into the ice. The crew repositioned the heaters, aimed them at the skis and, armed with shovels, chipped and chopped the melting ice to set them free.
The flaps along the wings had frozen, too. Flaps control lift. With flaps locked into the fully extended position, even if the plane travelled at top speed it would not get enough lift to leave the runway.
Engineer Norman Wong walked around the wings. He was a problem-solver with years of flight experience. He knew the Twin Otter better than anyone. If there was a way, he’d find it.
With odds and ends of wire and cable, Wong figured out a way to rig the flaps so they could be raised and lowered, making them operational again.
“You get a heightened awareness,” Wong said when describing the moment. “Time seems to slow down and you just focus on the problem and what you need to accomplish.”
With Dr. Ron Shemenski aboard, the plane rumbled down the runway, slowly gaining speed for liftoff. As the smudge pots disappeared from view, the plane sliced through the dark and swept toward home.
In the cockpit, the pilots monitored the instrument panel. Frost covered the dials. Needles froze into fixed positions. Unable to rely on their instruments, the men hoped that they were going in the right direction, but in the dark there was no way to know for certain.
Finally a sign appeared. “All of a sudden,” Mark Cary said, “there was this faint pink line on the horizon. It was really beautiful to watch it grow. It was like a gift and a sign to say everything’s going to work out and you guys are going the right way.”
Guided by the sun, the Twin Otter aimed for Rothera. When they landed at 8:52 p.m. on April 25, 2001, Dr. Ron Shemenski was one step closer to getting life-saving surgery. The crew, meanwhile, entered the history books. It was the first time that a plane had landed at the South Pole and then taken off again during an Antarctic winter.
8.
THIRTY-THREE OF US
A new sound echoed through the mine — the drone of drills chewing through rock.
Deep inside Chile’s San Jose Mine, shift supervisor Luis Urzua felt the earth quiver. It was 2:00 p.m. on Tuesday, August 5, 2010. Urzua was five hours into his shift, directing miners 600 metres below the surface. Until then the day had been routine — thirty-three miners hard at work drilling through rock, seeking deposits of copper and gold in the maze of tunnels underground.
Moments after the tremor an explosion rocked the mine. A wave of compressed air blasted down the tunnel, knocking some of the men off their feet. Toxic dust shot through shafts and tunnels. Cloaked in a cloud of silt, the miners struggled just to breathe.
Urzua immediately realized the seriousness of the situation. The San Jose Mine was a honeycomb of unstable galleries and interconnected shafts. Weakened by erosion and years of drilling, one of the fragile upper corridors had collapsed, loosening tonnes of rock. The rockfall had plugged the ramp that coiled through the mine, blocking their route back to the surface.
Although the men had been working in different locations inside the mine, the blast drew them together. They abandoned their trucks and drilling equipment. Unable to go up, they went deeper into the mine, aiming for a small emergency room, about the size of five parking stalls, that had a reinforced ceiling.
It took an hour for some to reach the emergency room. They arrived caked in dust and fighting for air. Once all were inside, the metal doors were closed to block out the dust. Taking turns breathing from oxygen tanks, the men waited while Urzua counted their supplies: 10 litres of water, 16 litres of milk, 18 litres of juice, 96 packets of crackers, an assortment of canned tuna, peaches, peas and beans. Under normal circumstances, these would keep a crew of ten alive for forty-eight hours. But there were thirty-three men crammed into the small space. Who knew how long they would have to stay there.
The miners had no idea when rescue might come … if it came.
* * *
Outside the mine, workers heard the explosion. There was no sign of Urzua and his crew, no word from below. Reporters, cameramen and curiosity seekers converged on the site, eager for news. Families of the trapped men arrived, too. Soon a small community rose above the Chilean desert, a patchwork quilt of tents, tarps, trailers and motorhomes. Someone dubbed it Camp Hope. The name stuck. Camp Hope it was.
Rock experts were called — engineers, geologists, geophysicists; men and women who knew the mine and its fickle ways. The team examined its options. Was there a way to reach the men? A way to bring them back to the surface?
Ventilation shafts riddled the mine, bringing fresh air below. Why not use the shafts to reach the miners, someone suggested. But when they tried, they found the shafts plugged with rock. The rescue team explored other alternatives. Some were too risky, others too complicated or lengthy. Finally, just one remained: drill. Bore a small hole 700 metres deep through the rock to locate the miners. Once they were found, drill a larger hole, wide enough to fit a man. Then haul the miners up one by one.
It was more difficult than it sounded. Although the drilling technique had been used to rescue miners in Pennsylvania a few years before, it had never been used in such a large-scale operation. Not with thirty-three men. Not to such a depth, and not in a mine as fragile or complicated as this, with more than 6 kilometres of tunnels snaking through the earth. Drilling might unleash more rock, sealing the men inside forever.
* * *
Inside the mine, temperatures averaged 33° Celsius. Combined with dust and high humidity, the air was hard to breathe. Sweat streaming down their blackened faces, the miners removed shirts, loosened belts and stripped down to their underwear.
Given the circumstances, it would have been easy to surrender to chaos. But the miners knew that survival depended on teamwork. Democratic rules were established. With all miners participating, decisions were discu
ssed and debated. All angles considered, the men voted. A majority — sixteen or more votes in favour — carried a decision.
Food was the most pressing matter. To make their sparse supplies last, the men voted to eat only two meals a day — tiny portions, one every twelve hours. They established other rules, too. They would eat together as a family, and not one person could taste a bite until all had been served.
Rescue, if it came at all, might be weeks away.
To keep the men busy and productive, duties were assigned. Some scouted the mine’s many tunnels looking for possible escape routes. Others maintained equipment, scraped rock from the roof to prevent further collapse, or tended to other miners too weak or ill to do much for themselves.
“We worked as a team to keep morale up,” Mario Sepulveda, one of the miners, said.
Rescue, if it came at all, might be weeks away. Until then, the small shelter served as home base. Buried deep in every miner’s mind, though, was another thought — that the shelter might become their tomb.
* * *
On Day 4 drilling began. Cranes, bulldozers and dozens of vehicles large and small dotted the mine site. Guided by digital maps, engineers started nine separate holes, each one aimed at a spot where the men might have taken refuge. A vehicle workshop below the caved-in area was one. The small emergency room lower down was another. Tunnels and shafts sturdy and large enough to shelter men became the other seven sites.
The boreholes were small, about the size of baseballs. Even with drill bits whirling at high speed, it would take at least a week to hit one of the targets. If the rescuers encountered problems, it might take even longer.
Rescue teams worked feverishly, not knowing if the boreholes would ever be used. There had been no sign of the miners, no indication that they were still alive.
* * *
With food rations rapidly dwindling, the miners held a meeting. To extend their supplies, they voted to eat only one meal a day.
On Day 5 a new sound echoed through the tunnels. It was faint and distant, but unmistakeable — the drone of drills chewing through rock. The miners cheered and celebrated. Rescuers were on their way.
The men adjusted their timeline, stretching out the meagre food supply to last longer. On Day 9 they cut their portions again. Instead of eating once a day, they ate once every thirty-six hours. More than ever, they kept busy. One of the men made a set of dominoes out of a safety triangle. Another dismantled the seats from a truck and converted them into a comfortable bed. Groups took long walks down corridors. Some gathered in circles, sharing dreams and fears. Food was a frequent topic, with vivid descriptions of tasty meals they would one day enjoy again.
Motivated by the possibility of rescue, the men thought ahead. If a drill bit punctured the roof of the mine, they would need to be ready. They wrote messages. They gathered cans of orange spray paint. The plan was simple. Once the bit punctured a tunnel, they would paint the drill shaft bright orange and tie messages to the bit. When the bit was retracted and raised, rescuers would know the truth: thirty-three miners were down there, all alive and eager to be reunited with their families.
On Day 16 the men cut their food portions again. There were only two cans of tuna left. Meals became one bite for each miner every three days. Exhaustion set into their starving bodies. Even so they rehearsed their plan. The cans of paint were ready.
* * *
The drilling above continued, but slower than expected. Called upon by Chilean president Sebastian Piñera, experts from other countries, including Canada and the United States, gave advice. If and when the miners were located, it would take weeks to drill another hole large enough to bring up the men. In the meantime, the miners would need support.
Rescuers were venturing into uncharted territory … Were the miners even still alive?
Specialists drew on their strengths and know-how to develop plans for the future. Never before had there been a rescue of miners from such depths — not from such a fragile mine, and not after such a long period underground. Rescuers were venturing into uncharted territory, trying what had never been tried before.
Doctors, nutritionists and other health experts considered the miners’ physical and mental state, and the food, vitamins, inoculations, exercise and psychological support they might require. To talk with the miners, communication expert Pedro Gallo built a tiny telephone to drop down the small borehole. To transfer supplies to the men, physics professor Miguel Fortt developed the paloma, a system of 3-metre-long tubes that could be linked together and lowered down the same shaft. At the same time, engineers worked on Phoenix, a rocket-shaped capsule large enough to transport a single person up to the surface.
On Day 17 at 5:30 a.m. one of the drills suddenly spun free, offering no further resistance. Drilling teams rejoiced. The bit had hit a hollow space 690 metres below the surface. But was this where the miners were located? Were they even still alive?
* * *
Below, the miners fanned through the mine, tracking the sound of crashing rock and whirring drills. When they found the exposed bit, there was chaos. “It was crazy,” one of the miners said. “People were running everywhere.”
True to the plan, they worked quickly, spraying the drill shaft with orange paint and attaching the messages with an elastic band torn from one man’s underwear. For over an hour they banged the shaft to alert rescuers, and then they watched with relief when the bit slowly rose and disappeared.
On the surface, workers found the orange paint and shredded notes. Estaos Bien En El Reguio los 33, one of them said. We are all right in the shelter, the thirty-three of us.
Camp Hope burst into celebration. A tiny remote-controlled camera was lowered down the borehole and soon the world was watching what seemed impossible — thirty-three men on the brink of starvation, clad in tatters, hugging each other.
Within hours, the paloma system of tubes was in place shuttling bottled water, food, the telephone and other communication devices to the men. The focus of the rescue changed. The men had been located. Now they had to be brought up to the surface. It meant drilling a wider hole through the rock to haul them up, a job that could take many weeks, maybe even months.
Monster drilling machines on loan from Australia, the United States and Canada rolled into place. To offset the risk of collapse, three large holes were started, each aimed at a different location. Phoenix, the bullet-like rescue capsule, was tested and refined. The lives of the men depended on the 420-kilogram capsule slipping through the hole, riding up and down on its retractable wheels without fail.
The rescue capsule — Phoenix.
With rescue teams advising the miners, the men entered a new phase of captivity underground. To give the miners purpose and a sense of normalcy, new rules and routines were established. The tunnels were flooded with light to simulate cycles of day and night. Grouped into three teams, the men worked eight-hour shifts, unloading the paloma, shoring up walls and patrolling tunnels to clear them of debris. One of the men carried a hand-held computerized device that transmitted oxygen, carbon dioxide and air temperature readings to experts above.
To keep the men fit, professional athletes led the miners through exercises. Some of the men went a step further and took to jogging a 5-kilometre circuit through the tunnels. Daily video conferences kept the men in touch with family. Through it all the world watched as, each day, drills pulverized the rock.
On Day 65 one of the drills broke through the roof of the vehicle workshop, creating a 70-centimetre-wide shaft to the surface. Over the next two days, surface workers stabilized the borehole and made adjustments to Phoenix. The capsule, 2 metres high on the inside, was equipped with a video camera and intercom system. Its retractable wheels were oiled, the springs adjusted. Lights were installed inside to illuminate the rock wall as it slid through the opening. To test the device and ready the miners, five rescue workers rode down the bumpy shaft.
After 69 days underground, rescue day finally came for the miners
. They donned green jumpsuits, tailor-made for a streamlined fit.
First to go up was Florencio Avalos. Wearing long stretch socks to help with circulation, a girdle to make him as compact as possible and sunglasses to protect his eyes from the harsh sun, Avalos stepped into the capsule at 11:53 p.m. on Tuesday, October 12, 2011. Fifteen minutes later he emerged on the surface to cheering crowds and an estimated one billion viewers who were watching the rescue on television. After shaking hands with President Piñera and hugging his family, Avalos was wheeled away on a stretcher to a nearby field hospital.
One by one, the men were brought to the surface. The last miner up was Luis Urzua. “Mr. President,” he said simply, “my shift is over.”
It was over, and the miners had set a world record — the longest confinement underground of any mine survivors.
9.
STRANDED
Without warning the weather soured, trapping the two men in an Arctic blizzard.
For the two Inuit hunters, conditions near the hamlet of Igloolik off the coast of Canada’s Baffin Island were perfect for hunting. That Wednesday, October 26, 2011, the wind was calm, and Foxe Basin a carpet of quiet waves. With any luck, they’d spot a walrus, a primary food source in the Arctic.
From Igloolik, seventeen-year-old Lester Aqqiaruq and his father, David, launched their open aluminum boat. Ninety minutes later they caught a walrus. There was little time to celebrate, however. Before long the weather soured. The wind rose. Temperatures plunged and snow fell. Angry waves slammed the boat and the sea turned slushy. Soon the boat was surrounded by pack ice and the two hunters were trapped in an Arctic blizzard.
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