by Chris Turney
Meanwhile, we’ve continued broadcasting science using Hangouts on Air. Yesterday, Kerry-Jayne agreed to be interviewed by me about life at the edge of the sea ice, but we saw far more than we bargained for. Halfway through the broadcast, a group of Adélie penguins suddenly ran away from the water’s edge in blind panic. Provoking cries of “Oh my God!” from the onlookers, the threatening shape of an orca broke the surface some sixty feet away. They’re known to rush ice floes to tip prey into the water, but thankfully this one headed away from us toward two unsuspecting penguins on another floe. It must be the first time a hunt has been beamed live from Antarctica. I’m not sure we’ll ever be able to beat this.
I shoulder open the upper deck door and step outside. It’s still, very still. Small waves are gently lapping against the hull, and the ship’s engine is humming away in the background. In the distance the skyline is a mixture of blues and pinks as the early-morning sun struggles to rise above the East Antarctic. There’s meager warmth in the light. It’s a bitter 14F with windchill.
Goddamn, it’s cold.
I involuntarily rub my gloved hands together to try to shake some warmth into my body. It’s so cold, even the Adélies seem to have disappeared.
As I make my way to the rear deck, I see a small group has gathered, talking in hushed tones, clouds of breath vapor hanging in the air. Six of us are making the attempt today: Chris and Eleanor to take geological samples from the edge of the ice sheet, Ben Fisk for medical support in the field, Ian and Jon from the Mawson’s Huts Foundation to complete repairs on the historic building, and myself. The group is a jumble of blue, orange, and yellow, Ian and Jon wearing their distinctive Australian Government-issue down jackets, all finished off with an eclectic assortment of hats, gloves, scarves and glasses. Greg is also up with Laurence, who has come to film our departure. The only one who isn’t kitted up is Serge, who is wearing his usual blue overalls, apparently oblivious to the cold. Operating the ship’s crane, Serge picks up the two Argos and our trailer and lightly drops them over the side onto the neighboring sea ice. Thanks to Chris’s hard work, the Argos are packed up and ready to go. And just in case anything goes wrong, each vehicle has an emergency duffel bag with supplies, shelter and fuel to survive unsupported for two weeks—something Chris has organized for every team operating onshore. If the Shokalskiy urgently needs to leave, we’ll be all right.
“You okay, mate?” Chris asks as I jump off the ladder onto the sea ice.
“I’m fine, Chris. Just trying to think of anything we might have forgotten.”
In truth, I’m going over the hurdles we might face. Our route involves a traverse of thirty-five miles of uncharted sea ice, negotiating jumbled surfaces and tidal cracks along the way. Speaking it out loud doesn’t help anyone, though. There’s nothing more we can do to prepare. While we’re gone, I’ve left Tracey to take the volunteers out in the Zodiacs to help her search for seals along the sea-ice edge. If we fail to reach Cape Denison, at least some science will be getting done.
We’re as ready as we’ll ever be.
The surface frost cracks loudly as I walk toward the two parked vehicles. Chris, Eleanor, and I are taking the Argo with tracks, Ben, Ian, and Jon, the older wheeled vehicle.
Chris leans in over the dashboard of our Argo and turns the key. It starts up straight away.
“That’s a good sign,” I shout to Chris over the roar of the engine, and he smiles back.
“How about I start driving and you take over in a couple of hours?” he asks.
“Sounds good.” I get into the front seat, and Eleanor sits behind us on the gear.
The two Argos are ready to go, and we pull away jerkily. I look behind to see Greg waving and Laurence filming. “See you tomorrow,” I shout, waving back.
I hope.
The dome of the ice sheet rises twenty miles away to the south. To our left, B09B and a flotilla of smaller tabletop-shaped bergs lie trapped, frozen in time, their deep blues contrasting sharply against the white of the surrounding fast ice. Our plan is to head directly toward the ice sheet and keep the bergs on our left. Within a few miles of the base of the ice sheet we’ll turn sharply southeast, hug what was coastline just a few years ago and hopefully find a way through. If we get a clear run, we could be at Cape Denison in four to six hours; if not, we’ll be back at the Shokalskiy in time for breakfast.
Chris pulls away slowly and soon has us up to a speed of fourteen miles per hour. It’s a world away from the dusty Brisbane training course on which we learned to drive the Argos just a few months ago. As the vehicle picks up speed over the ice, a frigid blast of air almost takes my breath away. I immediately pull up the windscreen to shelter us from the worst of the wind and tuck my scarf in more closely around my nose and ears.
When I look behind, I see the second Argo following closely. I give a thumbs-up, and Ben enthusiastically responds. The Shokalskiy has disappeared somewhere under a bank of dark gray water sky. Out to the west, a brightening horizon promises clearer, warmer conditions later.
“All good, Chris,” I shout.
He nods. It’s hard to hear anything above the engine, and Chris is concentrating on looking ahead. The light is bad, which makes the contrast terrible. At any moment, we could hit a bank of snow, drop down a gully, or, worse still, break through the sea ice. I stand to look ahead for any broken ground or dozing seals. The seals are a sure sign a tidal crack lies ahead, a break in the ice that’s allowed them onto the surface. I gasp for breath as the cold wind bites into my face, but it’s a welcome relief from being shaken apart. With no suspension to speak of, the Argos may be safe but they’re not comfortable.
All clear. So far.
As passengers, Eleanor and I continue to scan the horizon, looking for any change in the conditions ahead. Sometimes we’ll see a snow patch up ahead, but with a tap on the arm Chris is alerted and it’s easily bypassed. Occasionally we see a seal in the distance, but the cracks in the ice are small and negotiated at a lower speed. Slowly but surely the bergs pass away on our left and just over an hour after leaving the Shokalskiy we change direction and head southeast. It seems hard to believe that a few feet below us the ocean is over a mile deep.
Probably best not to think about it.
After two hours, we decide to take a short break. We’ve made excellent progress, but the next part of the route is going to be the more challenging. Hugging the edge of the ice sheet, we have no idea what lies ahead. This close to the continent there’s a good chance the fast ice might be seriously disturbed at the surface, broken up by the enormous pressures being exerted on all sides. We stop to check everyone is okay, and after a welcome hot drink we push on.
It’s my turn to drive.
I cautiously start the Argo, refamiliarizing myself with the controls. If we’re going to get through, it’ll be decided shortly. With a clear stretch of fast ice, I get the vehicle up to its top speed of twenty-two miles per hour. In places, large snow patches are wind-blown into fantastic shapes and steep sides. These sastrugi, as they’re called, threaten to tip the Argo if taken too quickly, and require careful navigation. A couple of times the wheeled Argo gets bogged in snow, but our tracked vehicle has no trouble pulling out.
As we continue southeast, I become aware that the bergs are gradually getting closer. Soon they’re less than a mile away to our left, and the route ahead is becoming decidedly less clear. Seeing no obvious way forward, I turn a corner. My heart sinks. The surface is choked with chaotically strewn ice blocks. The bergs are close in to shore, screwing up the surface. Ridge upon ridge of ice extends far into the distance, heaved up by the pressure. Our tracked Argo might make it, but the wheeled vehicle? No way.
We can’t get through this.
Chris turns to see what the hold-up is. “Oh, shit. This is the same stuff I’ve had the last couple of days.”
I scan the way ahead, trying to see somewhere, anywhere, we might be able to find a way through.
I hear a hopefu
l voice from behind. “I think I saw a way through back there, Chris.”
I look around and see Ian standing in his vehicle pointing back. Turning our vehicles in a clumsy wide arc, we retrace our path out and, sure enough, it looks like there may be a route tucked in close to the edge of the ice sheet.
How on earth did I miss that?
The wall of white from the bergs and ice sheet had fooled me into thinking there was no way forward. I’d swung east where there seemed to be some color in the sky. It was an easy mistake.
Checking the other Argo is with us, I slowly approach the berg that appeared to block our path, hoping against hope that we’ll be able to continue our journey. It would be gut-wrenching to be forced back after we’d made it this far. I turn the corner and a wave of relief passes through me: a vast plain of fast ice comes into view, stretching far off to the horizon. There’s not a berg in sight. With relief, I turn the throttle and accelerate.
It’s a humbling experience being out here. We’re exploring somewhere no one has ever traveled before, to see something that no one has ever looked upon before. Shackleton described a similar experience on his Nimrod expedition when he wrote: “It falls to the lot of few men to view land not previously seen by human eyes, and it was with feelings of keen curiousity, not unmingled with awe, that we watched the new mountains rise from the great unknown that lay ahead of us.” Until now, I had never really understood what he meant. We’re the first people to ever make this journey. We’re seeing a new landscape unfold before our very eyes, just like the Shackletons of old. For the first time, I know we’re going to make it to Cape Denison.
Lost in thought, I suddenly hear Eleanor call out next to me: “Isn’t that rock ahead?”
CHAPTER SIX
In Adélie Land
The old weather-beaten pine buildings stand proud against the Antarctic ice. The pitted and heavily patched timbers of Mawson’s Huts have held firm against a hundred years of violent weather.
The strange thing is, there’s hardly a breath of wind.
This is crazy. We’re supposed to be in the windiest place in the world and there’s not even enough to fly a kite.
I look around to get my bearings. Beyond the Huts, the steep slope of the ice sheet rises toward the Antarctic plateau, 7,000 feet above where I stand; somewhere up there Mawson found shelter in Aladdin’s Cave after his epic walk for survival. On either side, two light-gray, rounded, rocky promontories run parallel to one another; Memorial Hill on the western side with a large cross dedicated to Ninnis and Mertz, and an automatic weather station atop the ridge to the east, in the very same location the original expedition made their observations from a century ago. Thick, drifting snow covers large parts of the building and entrance, but among the surrounding boulders is a profusion of Edwardian rubbish, a cornucopia of discarded items: rusting tins, tools, springs, coils, batteries, brightly colored broken glass bottles, all heaped together by group as if some obsessed collector has been hard at work. Scattered around, the shattered frames of outbuildings and piles of wood protrude from the snow. Away to my left, poles and tangled wire lie thrown to the ground, the remains of the first radio mast in Antarctica.
The whole place is seriously messed up. I’m not supposed to be able to walk on water and yet here I can. I jump and land on the sea ice with a thud. No movement. Nothing. The ice here must be several feet thick. I may as well be standing on solid ground. I look out to where there should be sea. Nothing but ice as far as the eye can see.
When Mawson and his men were here for two years, they described the deafening noise from 200,000 Adélie penguins living around the Huts. Now it’s eerily silent. The rocky outcrops are covered in foul-smelling guano, but the rookeries are almost completely deserted. We suspected things were going to be bad, but nothing’s prepared me for this. Thousands of neatly arranged circles of rocks have no occupants. Instead, the place is littered with the frozen remains of young birds. The few penguins on nests look back listlessly, completely unconcerned at our presence, struggling to nurse their precious eggs in a desperate attempt to keep their colony going. It’s a world away from the thriving penguins we saw at the sea-ice edge.
Cape Denison is dying.
We’d arrived a few hours ago. Once we saw the distant outcrop of rock, we knew we were going to make it. In a scene reminiscent of Wagons West, both Argos sped up, and within an hour we’d arrived at Mawson’s Huts. It feels surreal to be here. After two years of dreaming and planning, we drove across thirty-five miles of fast sea ice and just pulled up. We might be tired, but it was almost easy in the end, in no small part thanks to Chris. All his planning worked brilliantly. Unfortunately, there was little time to celebrate.
Our immediate priority was shelter. The last thing we needed was to be caught in the open by one of Cape Denison’s famous blizzards. Fortunately, it’s not just Mawson’s Huts that offer protection. Tucked away behind the old base is a small modern building known as the Sorensen Hut. Tied down with stainless steel cabling, the faceless accommodation block and laboratories have been built and added to over the years for summer work by the Mawson’s Huts Foundation. After half an hour of shovelling the drift from the entrance, we managed to prise open the door. Inside, we found a solitary guest: Stay the Dog, patiently sitting on a table, passport round its neck, absently gazing out of the window at a handful of Adélie penguins waddling past. Starting life as a Guide Dog fundraiser on the streets of Hobart, this battered three-legged fiberglass canine is the unofficial mascot of Australian expeditioners in the Antarctic. After its living counterparts were removed from the continent in 1994 as part of the Antarctic Treaty, Stay became the only dog left behind, and has been lovingly dognapped from base to base ever since. We’re under strict instructions from the Australian Antarctic Division team on Macquarie Island to deliver Stay on our return. I’m happy to oblige. They’ll definitely let us return now.
Leaving Ian and Jon to dig out Mawson’s Hut, Chris and Eleanor immediately set to work collecting rock samples from the ridges of rubble that straddle Cape Denison. Known as “moraines,” they’re an important focus for understanding what’s happened in the Wilkes Basin. When ice flows over a landscape, freezing, grinding, and pulverising anything in its path, chunks of rocks can be plucked from the “surface” and carried away. With enough time, these rocks will make their way to the edge of the ice sheet, where they build up to form impressive ramparts, relics of a once larger ice sheet. With so much water locked up in this part of Antarctica, even small changes in the size of the ice sheet may significantly affect the world’s sea level. The big question is when.
Chris and Eleanor are going to use a technique known as cosmogenic dating to find an answer. It’s a method that’s probably the closest thing in science to alchemy, and has only been developed in the last few decades, long after Mawson and his men left Cape Denison. It takes advantage of the fact that the surface of our planet is constantly being bombarded by high-energy particles called cosmic rays that originate far out in space. These have little effect on rocky fragments being transported deep in the ice, but once at the surface, the rubble is exposed to the full might of cosmic rays, and dramatic changes in their chemical makeup take place; oxygen, for example, can morph into the element beryllium, while silicon may turn into a rare form of aluminum. The amounts are vanishingly small, but by collecting the rocks discarded on the surface, we can measure the build-up of these exotic elements. If we know the rate at which cosmic rays strike the planet, we can calculate an age. It’s a powerful tool for dating the past that hasn’t been used at Cape Denison or anywhere else along this 1,500-mile stretch of Antarctic coastline. We’d previously tried to get government support to do this work, but national logistics were too stretched to help, so Chris is keen to get as many samples as possible.
With Chris and Eleanor off in one of the Argos, Ben and I set to work on the automatic weather station behind Mawson’s Huts. The place is a graveyard for weather stations. The record
-breaking winds here have pummeled station after station over the years. The present incumbent stopped transmitting data in 2011, and the University of Wisconsin team responsible for its operation are keen for us to try to get it working again. My mind is only half on the job, though. Cape Denison is suspiciously calm. I’m looking for any wisps of snow on the upper slopes; something to show the katabatics are about to sweep down upon us. I keep glancing up, expecting to call Ben down from the top of the station tower at any moment. If the winds start up, we’ll only have a couple of minutes to get to shelter before they strike.
There’s not a breath of wind, let alone the howling blizzards we anticipated. I came expecting a narrow weather window for us to work within, some of it possibly on all fours, just as in Mawson’s day. Instead, the air is remarkably still and getting ridiculously warm. The gray banks of cloud have cleared, and we’re now in brilliant sunshine. I take out my hand-held weather meter: 39F. I’m actually in danger of overheating.
Probably best push on before the weather does crap out.
I take off a layer of clothing and turn my attention back to a box filled with a confusing array of wires, fuses, and data loggers. With Ben checking the connections between the solar panels and transmitter above, I continue my tests. A red flashing light keeps flickering on and off, taunting me. Nothing. I check the skyline again. All clear. I try swapping some of the components with the spares we’ve been sent. Still no response. In the end, I decide to replace the storage card; if the problem is with transmitting the signal back to civilization, the least we can do is take the data with us and hope the next visitors have better luck. Cape Denison looks like it’s defeated yet another weather station.
