by Chris Turney
I call up the tower. “Ben, let’s reboot the system and I’ll ring the U.S. on the satellite phone. Maybe it needs a bit more time. Let’s go and give Ian and Jon a hand.”
“Sure, Chris, whatever you say,” he replies good naturedly, and climbs down.
We pack up the gear and lock everything away just in case we’re unable to get back. If the weather does suddenly deteriorate, we don’t want to leave anything out to be blown away and smashed. We walk over to Mawson’s Hut, where the two conservationists are busy hacking away at the snow and ice around the entrance.
“G’day, Chris, g’day, Ben.” Ian wipes sweat from his forehead. “Come to give us a hand?”
After a couple of hours, the door is finally cleared. Inside it’s like a tomb, deathly quiet, the barest of light penetrating what was originally the workroom and radio station. I stumble through the dark to the main living area, a cavernous space bathed in light from the roof windows. There’s an overpowering smell of age. A table and heavily rusted stove sit along the side wall; tins of flour, hunks of dried-out dark meat, and empty bottles of stout and whisky are scattered around the kitchen area. Wooden bunks edge the room, the black-painted initials of their occupants still clear; an occasional book or stack of magazines lie on the shelves above them. Even with all the hoarfrost inside the hut, it’s easy to imagine the room filled with the laughter of eighteen men, reminiscing about the day’s events and loved ones back home. I linger for a moment in “Hyde Corner,” where the popular Mertz and Ninnis resided. It’s heartbreaking to think the two friends slept here, dreaming of their return home after one final trip out. When news of their deaths reached the base, the surviving men sobbed themselves to sleep.
Mawson had his own cubicle, set apart from the rest of the men. With no natural light, my eyes take a moment to see through the gloom, empty save for a bed, chair, and a few oddments. Even with a hundred years of separation I can feel the isolation: Mawson perched on the side of the bed in this lonely space, left to his anguished thoughts, wracking his brain, trying to rationalize what happened on the ice; the other men outside uncertain of what to say or do. I can’t help but feel I’m trespassing.
As I step back into the main living space, Ian grabs my attention. “Look in the corner, Chris,” he says with a conspiratorial smile.
He points to what looks like a small cupboard on the other side of the hut. It’s Frank Hurley’s darkroom. In this tiny space, the photographic genius produced his astounding images of the expedition.
Peering round the door I see a short pencil inscription on the wall: Near enough is not good enough.
No matter what Antarctica threw at him, Hurley remained a perfectionist.
* * *
At eight o’clock, we sit outside Mawson’s Huts and cook up a small meal on our stoves. It’s been a good day. Chris and Eleanor have sampled the moraines across Cape Denison, Ben and I have done all we can with the weather station, and Ian and Jon are hard at work making repairs to Mawson’s Huts. The whole area is bathed in a golden glow. It’s deliciously warm. I can’t believe we’re here. Twelve hours ago, we weren’t even sure we were going to make it.
I make the scheduled call. “Greg? Hi, it’s Chris.”
“Chris, how are you?”
“Fine, mate. Look, things have gone really well here. I’d like to get another team into Cape Denison. What’s the forecast like?”
There’s a moment’s pause. I hear sheets of paper being ruffled in the background.
“It should be possible. Looking good for at least another thirty-six hours.”
Brilliant. We’re here to work, and the weather is being kind. I’ve decided to leave Ian and Jon; they insist another twenty-four hours would be invaluable for their conservation work. If we rotate the science teams we can get things done on both fronts.
I outline the people I want sent out as soon as we get back to the ship: Graeme and Ziggy to drill through the sea ice and find out what’s happening on the seabed, Kerry-Jayne to do a bird survey, particularly a census on the penguins to find out just how many of these poor birds remain in the colony, and Alok so he can make a report in The Guardian. We’ve also had a request from the Australian Antarctic Division to measure the thickness of the sea ice for future flights into Cape Denison, which Graeme and Ziggy can do while they’re probing the ice; the Division had hoped to fly in a ski plane during our visit but this doesn’t look like it’s going to happen now. We’ll bring Ian and Jon out on the return of this convoy, leaving one berth for a volunteer. If the weather remains good, we’ll arrange another convoy out, probably led by Chris and me after we’ve had some rest. I’m keen to return. Drilling the glacier for ice offers the chance to develop an ancient record of climate; it should help us find out how stable this part of the ice sheet has been in the past.
Greg suggests a ballot would be the fairest option for the volunteer’s slot. I agree and leave him to sort the details.
I sign off: “Great. Thanks, Greg. We’ll be back by 7 A.M.”
“Bye,” comes the cheery reply.
Now we just have to get back.
Which Argo to take? The older vehicle from Heritage is struggling to provide any heating. Our new Argo has a full window shield and delivers warmed air into the driving space.
Ben and Chris toss a coin for the privilege.
“Oh, bugger,” moans Chris. Ben and I will be driving the new Argo. Poor Chris and Eleanor will be having the colder journey back to the Shokalskiy.
Our immediate problem is the temperature. It’s been far too warm today. Water has poured off the ice sheet and formed a large lake below the huts, blocking our exit. These are weird conditions. We may be only visiting for a day, but Mawson was here two years and never reported anything like this. We have to wait until midnight for the sun to dip in the sky in the hope the fall in temperature will reduce the thaw. The melting has slowed noticeably but even so there’s an impressive torrent escaping the lake. If we get it wrong, the Argos will be turned over by the force of water. It takes us half an hour of careful navigation to work our way safely through the maze of pressure ridges. All of a sudden, we’re through and out onto open fast ice back to the Shokalskiy.
We drive away from Cape Denison in blazing midnight sunshine, a plain of ice ahead, the whites and blues of the East Antarctic rising away to the left. I turn to see Ian and Jon waving farewell. The sun’s rays are falling on their tiny outpost, bathing the slopes in a gentle red light, the outcrops of rock soon lost against the surrounding ice sheet. It’s hard to believe this is the same place described by Mawson in Home of the Blizzard. More like Home of the Calm. Cape Denison is the very opposite to what I expected. Remote and isolated, yes, but also very beautiful.
The temperature plummets, and we’re soon traveling in 14F. The surface becomes covered in hoarfrost as the melt from the day refreezes, giving the vehicles more grip, allowing us to pick up speed. Chris and Eleanor pull ahead; the wheeled vehicle is more likely to get stuck, so it’s prudent to keep them up front. Sitting on the top speed, we follow the waypoints marked in my GPS. We now know where we’re heading and hope we can cut a couple of hours off our return journey. I occasionally catch Stay out of the corner of my eye and do a double take. It seems odd taking a fiberglass dog out for a drive. No matter how much I try, she soon catches me unaware and I have to look again. Two men and a dog driving across Antarctica. You couldn’t make it up.
As the sun disappears behind the ice sheet, a full moon floats above the horizon. The sky fills with a pastel pink. After twenty-four hours on the go, tiredness is starting to set in, and the icescape is fast assuming a surreal, fantastic appearance. By three in the morning, B09B has become a vast city wall; the small bergs, buildings. Off to our right, I can even make out a pyramid, fiercely lit in red and pink. If it wasn’t so bloody cold, you’d think we were crossing a desert.
But Stay isn’t the only wildlife about. As we drive across the flat open surface to the Shokalskiy, I mak
e out a dark figure approaching. I can’t decide whether it’s real or my imagination.
“Ben, what’s that?” I shout out over the engine’s roar.
He looks in the direction of my pointing arm. “Is it a person?”
At least I know I’m not the only one seeing things.
As we get closer, the poorly formed image materializes into an Adélie penguin traveling with dogged perseverance. Clearly in a hurry, this solitary bird completely ignores us as we pass, scuttling by as quickly as its small legs can carry it. I can’t help but smile. I’m suddenly aware penguin tracks crisscross the ground in all directions, some heading toward the Shokalskiy, others farther around to the east; none seem to lead to Cape Denison. Shortly after, convoys of penguins start to appear. It’s clearly the hour for commuting Adélies.
Chris’s voice suddenly comes over the VHF from the other Argo: “Chris, can you hear me?”
“Hi, mate. Yes, all okay?”
“Sort of. Eleanor’s freezing in this piece of junk. Okay if we stop to warm up and maybe swap vehicles?”
I signal to Ben and we come to a halt. Poor Eleanor is frozen to the core, her face blasted red by the cold, her lips almost shivering.
“It’s okay, Chris, I’m fine,” she says when she sees the look of concern on my face. “I just need to warm up a bit.”
We pour hot drinks from our thermos flasks and pass round some chocolate. The effect is almost immediate, and within minutes Eleanor is laughing and smiling again. We all feel the benefit. Just to be sure, I swap my place with Eleanor and make for the older Argo. Nearby, half a dozen penguins have joined us for a break, watching us out of idle curiosity, standing in a line that would make any parade ground proud. Getting ready to leave, I’m checking the strapped-down kit on the back of our Argo when an almighty racket breaks my concentration. Startled, I turn to see beating wings accompanied by manic squawks as two penguins attempt to tear strips off one another. Then, just as quickly as it began, the protagonists stop and return to the line as if nothing happened. Moments later they’re all off to who knows where, apparently unconcerned by the fracas. Grinning, we start up the Argos and drive away in the opposite direction.
An hour later, we reach the sea ice edge, exhausted, to find that while we’ve been away, the Shokalskiy has pushed off from the side. We made better time than expected and no one is here to meet us. We need someone to come out, but multiple calls to the bridge go unanswered. We’re stuck on the ice with no immediate prospect of warmth from the few rays of light breaking the horizon. Eleanor is feeling the cold again. To be honest, we all are; after a four-hour journey crossing sea ice, we’re freezing. With windchill, it’s a bitter -3 F. The constant blast of frigid air has swept away any benefit we might have felt from our all-too-brief break. I’ve never felt so cold in all my life. Chris immediately sets about putting up a tent.
After an hour of jumping on the spot and eating a hot snack from the stove, I finally manage to get through to the bridge. Vlad, the second mate, answers.
“Vlad, is that you? Can we get a lift?”
“No problem, Chris. We’ll be with you in ten minutes. Let us just get Zodiac in water.”
There’s no explanation for the unanswered calls.
Chris joins me at the sea ice edge. “Thank Christ for that. I thought we were going to be stuck here all day. Eleanor’s okay, but I’ll be glad when we’re back on board.”
We pack up the tent and gather together the ninety pounds of rocks Chris and Eleanor collected at Cape Denison.
After what seems an age, a Zodiac finally pushes off from the ship, a handful of Adélie penguins looking on. As the inflatable approaches, I can see the smiling bearded face of Ziggy standing above the outboard engine.
“How are you?” he asks, waving in greeting.
My frustration and exhaustion suddenly disappear.
We’re almost back.
“We made it, Ziggy. We actually made it!”
“That’s great news, Chris,” he shouts in his soft Argentinian accent. “I’ll pull in by you. The guys on board are getting ready to head out.”
As soon as Ziggy pulls up by the sea ice edge, Ben jumps in and we hurriedly pass him the samples. I’m keen for everyone to warm up and share the news with the rest of the team, particularly Annette and the kids. Time is of the essence, though. If we want to get another team out to Cape Denison, we have to move quickly.
As the inflatable draws alongside the Shokalskiy, I see Greg beaming at the top of the gangway. Clutching Stay the Dog I climb toward him, flushed with success.
Grabbing me by the neck, Greg looks me in the eyes. “Well done, mate, well bloody done,” he said. “You did it!”
I nod dumbly. After all the work, all the doubters, the last twenty-four hours have made it all worthwhile. We reached Cape Denison, gathered a rich trove of scientific samples and made it back safely.
“Now get inside and warm up. We’ll get your gear on board. The next team are just having breakfast and making ready to head out. Be good to talk before they leave.”
I smile an acknowledgment and put Stay inside, flip my name tag and walk wearily to my room. The ship is silent; most of the team are sensibly still asleep. It’s only just gone five in the morning.
Quietly opening my cabin door, I peer inside and see the curtains are drawn, just as I left it.
“Annette?” I whisper. “Are you awake, darling?”
“Hello, love,” returns a tired figure, sitting up in our bed.
I knew Annette would be awake. I gingerly step over the kit littering the floor and hug her.
“The whole ship roared with excitement when Greg announced you’d made it,” she says. “I’m so proud.”
Annette’s whole face is smiles. I love her so very much.
“And the kids are okay?” I ask.
“They’re great. During the day, Tracey took the Zodiacs out to find leopard seals, and we went with her. I got some great material for a lesson plan, and the kids loved it.”
“I’m so glad,” I reply, pleased to hear everything was fine. “I’ve left the Mawson Hut Foundation guys there for at least another day. If the weather craps out, they can shelter in the hut. The next group are preparing downstairs. I need to go through the route with Graeme and Ziggy. Greg also wants a chat, so I’d better go.”
I give Annette a kiss and leave her to wake up properly over a cup of tea. I drop down to the dining room on the main deck and grab a hot drink with Chris, slowly warming up.
“What a trip,” says Chris over a steaming mug. “I can’t believe we’re back. It seems an age since we left.”
Before I can respond, Greg joins us with the latest weather reports. We talk about the route we took and all we’ve seen, but it’s clear he has other things on his mind.
“What’s up, Greg?” I ask, bleary-eyed.
Quietly, Greg tells us he’s nervous about relaying multiple teams over such a long distance. If one of the Argos breaks down, we’ll be stretched. The forecast shows there’s a low-pressure system coming in within the next thirty-six hours and with it stronger winds.
“What are you suggesting, Greg?”
He pauses for a moment. “With another team delivered to Mawson’s Hut, we’ll have had an excellent couple of days. But we should move round to the east after that to allow us to dodge the worst of the weather. Tracey can be on the lookout for seals as we travel, and we can check out other penguin colonies for Kerry-Jayne. We can also get the rest of the team onto the continent more easily from there.”
After the success of our trip, Greg is suggesting we leave almost immediately. Our euphoria is quickly turning to disappointment. Chris has real reservations about moving on to somewhere new; he’s spent months working out the logistics of shuttling people across the sea ice, with shelter set up along the way for breaks. I have to confess I’m a little surprised too.
“Can’t we just pull offshore and return in a couple of days when this low has pass
ed?” I ask. “We can then get other groups out to the Huts to continue the work.”
I want to get back and core the glacier above Cape Denison. We only need a couple of days.
Greg has clearly thought about it. “We could, but we don’t know what the sea ice around here will look like if there’s a storm. It might not be possible to pick up any of the team left behind. It will take a full day to get round to the east. We can spend the time traveling while the low passes over and then get to work shortly after.”
I’m sorely tempted to tell him we’re staying put, but what he says kind of makes sense. There’s loads more work we can do at Mawson’s Huts, but if Greg is saying it’s safer to move off then I’m loath to go against his advice. Chris shrugs his shoulders at me, resigned to the decision.
“Okay, so be it,” I say. “The next group out will bring in the Mawson Hut guys and then we’ll head east.”
We pick up our cups of tea. Ziggy is back on board, finishing breakfast with Graeme in the starboard dining room. They greet us with congratulations.
“Awesome, dude,” says Graeme, shaking my hand as we sit down.
We go through the route to Cape Denison using the satellite images as a map.
“Keep the ice sheet about half a mile to your right on your way in and you can’t miss it. Follow the GPS. Don’t try to take a shortcut. You’ll just run into jumbled ice around the bergs or risk getting lost.”
They’re both fired up for the journey. They might be following our waypoints, but it’s still going to be a heck of an adventure. And if there are any problems, they can always call one of the expedition’s satellite phones.
