by Chris Turney
“Evening, Terry. Lovely weather.” I stomp my feet, trying to get some warmth into my body.
“Certainly is. Just came out to see what’s happening before bed. Mind if I keep you company?” He slaps his gloved hands together several times against the cold.
“I’d be glad of it. Just trying to get the latest sea-ice images. Shouldn’t be too long.”
The sudden high-pitched scream tells me we’ve locked onto the satellite. Taking my gloves off, I quickly tap the keyboard to hook up the laptop on the WiFi and go online. I don’t want to hang around long—in this temperature the batteries will quickly drain.
A moment later a map of Antarctica appears on the screen, surrounded by pixelated colors.
“Any good?” asks Terry, looking over my shoulder.
I zoom in on our position. Maybe. The vivid colors show the concentration of sea ice. Purple for 100 percent ice cover, green for half, deep blue for open water. Posted online for free by the University of Bremen, it gives a good overview of the conditions during the last twenty-four hours.
“Looks like something might be opening up north of Commonwealth Bay, Terry, but I’ll need to confirm.”
I don’t dare to hope. I download the image and switch to my Gmail account for the latest sea-ice report promised from Tasmania. For $1,000 a day we’re getting visible light images—effectively photos—sourced from the American satellite known as MODIS (which is far easier to say than its full title: the Moderate Resolution Imaging Spectroradiometer). Unlike the Bremen sea-ice data which has a resolution of 4 miles, MODIS can see down to 0.6 miles. Enough to be sure.
There is a gap.
* * *
Two days later, we’ve broken into open water and the most spectacular view I’ve ever seen: an armada of icebergs, stretching as far as the eye can see. We’re in the company of giants. Hundred-foot-high blocks of ice, their sheer cliff sides towering above the Shokalskiy, are leisurely making their way north from the continent that has been their home for tens of thousands of years. The banks of cloud have gone, swept away by a lull in the low-pressure systems passing overhead. Under the bright sunshine and intense blue sky, the statue-like bergs are dazzling white. It’s unbelievably quiet. Shackleton captured the moment perfectly on his Nimrod expedition when he wrote: “A stillness, weird and uncanny, seemed to have fallen upon everything when we entered the silent water streets of this vast unpeopled white city.” It’s just us, the bergs and open water.
The great British scientist Edmund Halley, best known by his namesake comet, was the first to describe an encounter with Antarctic icebergs back in 1700, when he sailed into the south Atlantic to map the Earth’s magnetic field. Spotting what he first thought was “land with chaulky cliffs and the topp all covered with snow,” the adventurous Brit was forced to retreat when these “islands of ice” threatened to trap his vessel. Igor wisely steers a wide berth.
I go to find Chris. He’s on the rear deck. The hold is open and there’s gear everywhere. The two Bens and Colin are putting together the large sledges with help from some of the volunteers. The three Argo vehicles have been brought up for a check-over. Chris turns the ignition on one. The engine splutters and promptly dies.
“How are they looking?” I call out.
Chris glances up from under the hood and makes a face. “Okay-ish. Our tracked Argo is good, but I’ve just taken a look at the vehicles from Heritage. They’re meant to have been fully serviced, but it’s a bit rough.”
He leans back over the Argo’s steering wheel and tries the ignition again. It eventually comes to life. “They start, just, but I’m glad we have our own. I’m not sure how far we’ll be able to push these other two.” Chris looks away, frustrated.
This isn’t good news. Chris has worked hard to get us to Mawson’s Huts. We can’t be sure what to expect: whether the ice surface will be smooth or badly broken up or even have areas of open water. We have the quad bikes, but they’re really only meant for support. The eight-wheeled Argos are key. Capable of crossing almost any terrain, these vehicles are even amphibious—an important consideration if we break through the sea ice. And now it looks like we may have a problem.
Chris thumbs toward Serge, a white-haired engineer standing nearby in his oil-stained blue overalls. Always smiling, Serge has been exchanging ideas and modifying gear with Chris during the voyage south, in loud broken English and lots of sign language. They seem to understand each other. “Serge here is confident they’ll do the job,” Chris says, and shrugs.
Serge nods his head toward the Argo and puts his arm around Chris’s shoulders. “All good, good,” he says, beaming.
Chris breaks into a smile. “They’ll be fine,” he mimics and shakes his head in mock despair.
Serge roars with laughter.
The Shokalskiy picks up more speed, and I peer over the side. There’s nothing between us and B09B.
We really are going to make it.
* * *
One hundred years ago, the arrival of summer at Cape Denison brought a new set of challenges to the men on Mawson’s Australasian Antarctic Expedition. After a winter spent making scientific measurements in hurricane-force winds, they were eager to explore further afield. Tents, sleeping bags, food supplies and fuel were all carefully prepared and distributed; science equipment, sledges and clothing were made ready for a journey into the unknown. By early November the winds had eased off a little—though they never really stopped—and five sledging parties set out. Of these, Mawson led what he called the “Far Eastern Party.” Their mission: to travel over the Antarctic Plateau and reach the edge of Scott’s operations in the Ross Sea, taking weather observations and mapping as they went. To cover the ground quickly, the men used dogs to drag the sledges, the only team on the expedition to do so. After penning the fateful words to his fiancée Paquita, “It is unlikely that any harm will happen to us,” Mawson set out with Xavier Mertz, a Swiss champion ski runner, and Belgrave Ninnis, a young British Royal Fusilier officer. Five weeks into their journey, disaster struck.
On 14 December 1912, the team hit a crevasse-ridden area, one of the deadliest types of terrain in Antarctica. Close to melting point, ice will flow with gravity—albeit slowly—where any stress in its structure can cause the surface to split wide open. In extreme circumstances, crevasses the width of a football field have been known to form, their sheer sides sometimes dropping hundreds of feet. Unfortunately, a crevasse in itself is only half the hazard. What makes them extraordinarily dangerous is that their wedge-shaped openings can be covered by drifting snow, creating the false impression of a solid surface. They’re an occupational hazard in Antarctica that’s ideally avoided. Unfortunately for Mawson, Mertz and Ninnis, this wasn’t an option.
Deciding the safest way to negotiate this dangerous ground was in single file, Mertz led the way with Ninnis at the rear; just in case of any problems up front, the British officer was charged with looking after the best dogs and most of the supplies. The last thing they wanted was to lose their most essential gear and supplies down a crevasse. Progress was inevitably slow as they found a way through, the three men acutely aware of how vulnerable they were. Shortly after noon, Mertz looked back and signaled to Mawson anxiously. The Australian turned and saw . . . nothing. No Ninnis, no dogs, no sledge or supplies. Instead, an ugly dark gash, eleven feet across, had appeared in the ice. Sickeningly, two sledge tracks led up to the far side but only one continued beyond. A snow bridge had collapsed to reveal a chasm that disappeared into darkness far below. They cried out to their friend, but only the whines of a fatally wounded dog came back in reply.
They were in a terrible situation. Not only had they lost Ninnis, but they were now more than 300 miles from base with, as Mawson ruefully reflected, a “bare one and a half week’s man-food.” They were thirty-five days out from Cape Denison and weren’t expected back for another month. No one was going to start looking for them. The two explorers turned their backs on the icy grave and started their
desperate attempt to reach Cape Denison.
With their tent lost in the crevasse, the two men salvaged a broken sledge discarded on the way out and, with a spare tent cover, lashed together a makeshift shelter. Cups were fashioned from used tins of food and spoons made from the wood they had at hand. They were fortunate to have a field stove with fuel, but to supplement their meager supplies the men were forced to eat their way through the remaining dogs.
As they struggled back, both men were surprised to find how quickly they succumbed to exhaustion. It was a horrific journey. Along with the gnawing pangs of hunger, their diaries worriedly commented on peeling skin, loss of hair, dizzy spells and dysentery. Of the two men, Mertz deteriorated more quickly, with frequent bouts of depression and lethargy. Vitamins hadn’t yet been discovered, but we now know that dog’s livers have exceptionally high levels of vitamin A, almost certainly the cause of the symptoms they suffered from. They had no idea but the dogs were slowly killing them. Tragically, the last line in Mertz’s diary reads: “The dog meat does not seem to agree with me because yesterday I was feeling a little bit queasy.” In a final bout of madness, the poor man bit off one of his fingers and died shortly after.
The loss of his companion hit Mawson hard. With the arrival of yet another storm, the Australian was forced to stay by Mertz’s grave for three days. He was over a hundred miles from another living soul with barely enough food to cover the distance back to base. Years later, there was speculation that Mawson resorted to cannibalising Mertz, a claim he strenuously denied. Understandably, though, he does appear to have fallen into despair. Two days later, he pulled himself together. Remembering the lines by his favorite poet Robert Service, “Buck up, do your damnedest and fight, It’s the plugging away that will win you the day,” he resolved to continue. If Mawson could reach a prominent high point, a search party might at least find his body and diaries. Alone he set off across the icy surface.
Mawson was in a terrible physical state and feared he might collapse. From the start his “feet felt lumpy and sore.” In too much pain to continue, the loneliest man in the world stopped to investigate and taking off his boots, was horrified to find the soles of his feet had come away, exposing the raw skin below. Shocked, Mawson carefully smeared his feet with lanolin—a cream found in sheep’s wool that’s believed to be good for skin—and strapped the soles back on, a routine he would repeat every morning. Remarkably, in spite of all this, Mawson continued to record the weather each day; he was determined to return home with some science to show for all that had befallen them.
Mawson maintained his trudge across the snow and ice toward Cape Denison, his journey from hell far from done. While traveling over what he later named the Mertz Glacier, Mawson suddenly felt the ground give way and found himself “dangling fourteen feet below on end of rope in crevasse—sledge creeping to mouth.” Expecting the sledge to follow him into the crevasse at any moment, he “thought of the food left uneaten in the sledge—and, as the sledge stopped without coming down, I thought of Providence again giving me a chance.”
Determined to live, Mawson hauled himself back to the surface, struggling to avoid disturbing the sledge his very life was hanging from. Just when he reached the top, the snow lid collapsed and Mawson fell back the full length of the rope, spinning breathlessly above the dark chasm, the sound of falling snow and ice echoing far below him. Briefly contemplating slipping from his harness but fearing a slow and painful death, he resolved to try “one last tremendous effort.” Incredibly, after four and a half hours in the crevasse, the Australian reached the surface, and this time stayed there. Determined not to find himself in the same situation again, Mawson made a rope ladder on which to climb out of any future crevasses, saving himself during several later falls.
Two weeks after his agreed date of return and 24 miles out from Cape Denison, Mawson stumbled upon a small snow cairn that had been built by a search party. In it he found supplies and a note with the news that everyone else had returned safely and the Aurora was still in Commonwealth Bay. Incredibly, the cairn had been built that very morning. Unfortunately for Mawson, he couldn’t see anyone on the horizon and was too weak to catch up.
Disappointed, but with renewed hope, Mawson pushed on and three days later reached Aladdin’s Cave, a small ice chamber the expedition had dug into the glacier overlooking Cape Denison. Inside Mawson found a cornucopia of supplies, including oranges and a pineapple. “It was wonderful once more to be in the land of such things!” Against all the odds, he was nearly there.
Fate once again interceded. With Mawson readying for the 2.5-mile descent to Cape Denison, a blizzard suddenly struck and would blow for a week. Waiting impatiently, the Australian gorged on fruit to build up his strength and improvised a set of crampons using scraps of wood, rope and nails. When the winds eased five days later, Mawson decided to make a break for it. He staggered down the glacier and soon saw men working around the hut. But when Mawson looked out to sea his heart dropped. On the horizon was smoke: The expedition ship had sailed that very morning. John King Davis had delayed the Aurora as long as he dared, but in the end he had no choice. With winter fast approaching, Davis was racing against the clock; he had to beat the sea ice and get round to the other expedition members left precariously on the Shackleton Ice Shelf the year before, 1,500 miles out to the west. Just in case, Davis had left five volunteers, with the promise to return the following year. Spotting Mawson, the men rushed to meet him, but had no idea who stood before them. “My God! Which one are you?”
Mawson was a shell of the man who had been so strong and proud three months earlier. He had defied death, but at what cost? Mentally and physically shattered, Mawson had lost two friends and was now stuck in the Antarctic for another year. He was aching to get home to Paquita, but he needed time to recover and build up his strength for the voyage. Months later, Mawson continued to find himself hanging around the other men, “not so much to talk to them,” as Paquita later recounted, “as just to be with them.” After all that had befallen him, Mawson needed to be close to other human beings, to know he was no longer alone.
If we’re going to follow in the path of Mawson, we’ll have to be careful.
* * *
It’s four-thirty in the morning. I groan. It’s time to get up.
The outside light pierces the darkness of the cabin, casting shadows across the room. I get up slowly and dress, trying not to disturb Annette. She moans in protest. I kiss her lightly on the head.
“Don’t wake, love,” I urge. “Get some rest. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
That’s the plan, at least.
We reached the edge of the Antarctic continent two days ago. Two days to come to terms with the enormity of the challenge before us. More than 30 miles of sea ice lies to the south, locked fast to the continent, filling what was Commonwealth Bay, behind which Cape Denison and the imposing East Antarctic Ice Sheet disappear into the clouds. But there’s one thing, and one thing only, that fills the horizon: the vast monolith that is iceberg B09B. I’ve seen the pictures, I’ve lived and breathed the reports, but none of them have really prepared me for its sheer size. It’s a monster, plain and simple. No wonder the whole place is so screwed up.
Since we arrived, Chris has been reconnoitering the area in an Argos, trying to find a way across this “fast ice,” past B09B to Cape Denison. Each time, he’s come back dismayed. “The surface is just too broken up, Chris. As soon as you get anywhere near the big berg or even the smaller ones, everything gets messed up.” They all seem to have large areas of broken mushy ice at their base, churned up by constant rocking back and forth on the seabed. These areas are no-go zones, effectively blocking our way, even in the Argos, which are working well—justifying Serge’s confidence. In the end, we’ve decided we need to get as much distance as possible between us and the bergs if we’re going to reach Mawson’s Huts. Looking out to the west, Chris reckons the surface might be easier to travel over. If we hug what was the narrow coasta
l fringe along the edge of the ice sheet, we might stand a better chance of getting around. The MODIS satellite images seem to support this, but with 0.6-mile resolution, it’s a little like looking through the bottom of a milk bottle—you can vaguely make out what’s on the other side, but you’re not absolutely sure. The alternative is to sail round to what’s known as the Hodgeman Islands on the eastern side and drive the Argos in from there, but that’s a day’s sailing from here.
It’s not surprising people have failed to get to Cape Denison during the last couple of years. And it could remain like this for many more. If we want to get in and find the answers we’re searching for, now is the time. Chris and I had gone over the plan many times before, but we went over it again late last night. For the attempt, we’ll take two Argos and mark waypoints in our GPSs as we go. Communication between the vehicles will be done using hand signals, VHF radios, and satellite phones. We’ve also scheduled two calls with the Shokalskiy at 1200 and 2000 to check in and keep everyone up to date on our progress. The weather station and forecasts show a low-pressure system has just passed away to the north, with the promise of fine, stable weather over the next couple of days. It may be perfect conditions for an attempt on Cape Denison, but I’ve slept fitfully, tossing and turning as I go over every aspect of our plan for the umpteenth time. We’ll never get the science answers we want if we don’t give it a go. It’s time to try.
I close the door to our cabin with one last glance back at Annette’s sleeping figure and head downstairs. The Shokalskiy is deathly quiet.
While we’ve been moored alongside the fast ice, the rest of the team have been using the time to get on with the science program. Taking the sledges and quad bikes, Erik has been exploring the northern edge of the ice to look at the ocean below. Enthusiastically supported by Kerry, Mary, and Terry, Erik has dropped probes through the ice to measure the temperature and saltiness of the water hundreds of feet below; many at the same locations as expeditions in the past, including Mawson’s original effort. Amazingly, Erik’s team is finding the water is close to freezing and exceptionally salty far below the surface. Against expectations, the data seems to show the production of Antarctic Bottom Water has bounced back after the Mertz Glacier was smashed apart by B09B. With the change in sea-ice cover, it just looks like where it’s being formed has shifted over to a new location where the wind can work its magic. It doesn’t seem the southern limb of the ocean conveyor belt is at risk of collapsing anytime soon. It’s a great result for the expedition.
