We dug our tents into the snow, building round them a low wall of snow blocks. The plane crew were securing the tri-turbo, digging deep holes beneath each wing in which to bury an anchor attached to a rope that was tethered to rings on the underside of the wing. It looked secure enough but I wondered if it would hold against a violent gusting wind. This was Giles’ greatest fear, for if the plane was damaged we would have no choice but to call for help. We could always do this, for we were in radio touch with both Siple, 180 miles away and also the South Pole base. Within hours a rescue aircraft could reach us, but the disgrace, particularly to Giles, would be immense. It would confirm all the criticism our venture had already excited in official circles and would place a serious blemish on his record for working in polar regions in the future.
You quickly lose track of time in this land of constant sun. There is a temptation to work until a job is finished, but over a period of days this would lead to total exhaustion. It is necessary, therefore, to impose a discipline of artificial day and night to get sufficient rest and sleep. Once the camp was weather-tight, we settled down for a rest. Rick and I were sharing the same little tent that I had taken with me to Shivling. We were also cooking together. I could see that we were going to get on well together. Sharing the various minor chores just seemed to fall into place and it was quickly apparent that we had a very similar approach to climbing and our role on the expedition.
I buried my head in my sleeping bag and covered my eyes with my balaclava. I woke at five, after sleeping for about six hours. The camp was silent, everyone still sleeping. I clipped on the cross-country skis that Rick had obtained for both of us and set out for a little exploration. The mountain wall looked so close, the rise above the camp little more than ten minutes away. I skied towards it. The snow was iron hard, blasted by the winds and the skins on the soles of the skis barely gave any traction. I picked my way between sastrugi, finding paths of smooth snow leading towards the crest. Twenty minutes went by and, although the yellow and black plane, beside its little brood of tents, had receded to toy size, the crest of the ridge seemed no closer. It took me nearly an hour to reach it. It was only then that I began to comprehend the scale of the mountains and to realise that, in the clarity of the atmosphere of this polar desert, all distances were distorted and the way to our summit might be much longer than it seemed.
I had reached the crest of a low ridge that barred our way into the valley that led towards Mount Vinson. It wound in a broad sweep of snow behind an outlying peak that concealed the head wall at its end, but it looked easy going and there didn’t seem to be any crevasses. At the moment the weather was settled and the wind, little more than a breeze, sighed over the plateau that stretched in a perfect arc of 180 degrees to the south, broken only by the distant wave-forms of high snow dunes or nunataks which Giles told us were some thirty miles away. Apparently a dump of food and fuel had been left there by the British Antarctic Survey. To the east I could see the start of the gigantic trench carved by the Nimitz Glacier in its course through the Ellsworth Mountains down to the ice of the Weddell Sea, whilst to the north the view was barred by the serrated wall of the mountain range that now seemed to hang over me.
I was alone for the first time for several days in this vast empty land. I revelled in its emptiness, the purity of the air, the absolute silence, the still grandeur of the mountain forms and the immense space of the polar ice cap. I peeled the skins from my skis and skittered down the ice-hard slope back to camp.
– CHAPTER 15 –
Alone on Top of Antarctica
The three of us heaved at the heavily laden sledge, dragging it across the sastrugi. To think that Scott and his doomed team did this for over a thousand miles and we were tired after only three. The temperature was –25°C, yet we were sweating, stripped down to our underwear in the still bright air. Rick, Giles and I were pulling 250 kilos of tentage, food, climbing gear and film equipment to the head of the valley reaching into the Vinson massif. The others were a few hundred metres behind, struggling with an equally heavily laden sledge.
The terrain was unlike anything I had ever experienced. The snow underfoot was rock hard and sculpted, presumably resting on the ice of a glacier, but there were no signs of crevasses, perhaps because there was no movement of the ice. This was not so much a frozen river as an inlet thrusting into a mountain fjord from the ocean of the polar ice cap.
On our right the valley we were following was bounded by a graceful little peak, a pyramid of rubble and ice, rising just several hundred metres above us. On the left was the huge wall of the Sentinel Range, a sharply serrated ridge leading up to the unclimbed summit of Mount Epperly. A side valley holding a chaotic icefall reached up to the col between Epperly and Shinn, but my eyes were drawn to a gully, a ribbon of snow, edged with steep black rocks, that cut the precipitous wall of Epperly, going all the way to the shoulder just below the summit pyramid. I paused, leaning on the rope harness. This was as good excuse as any for a rest.
‘You know, Rick, we could have a go at that once we’ve climbed Vinson. Doesn’t look too bad, does it?’
‘Looks OK, but we’d better get Vinson climbed first and see how much time we’ve got. I’ve a feeling this is all going to take longer than we thought.’
It took us more than three hours to reach the end of the valley which terminated below a steep head wall of snow and ice. We knew that this led up to a col on a subsidiary ridge which we would have to cross to reach the glacier leading to the main col between Vinson and Shinn. Although quite steep, it did not look far to the top.
‘Shouldn’t take us more than an hour,’ I commented cheerfully as we unharnessed ourselves and started preparing our campsite.
It was good to snuggle into my sleeping bag while Rick made supper, a concoction of dehydrated stew fortified by over a pound of butter. Eating needs in the polar regions are so different from those in the Himalaya. There is none of the queasiness of high altitude, just a huge appetite and an instinctive desire for fat. At altitude, on the other hand, the human body is unable to absorb fats and probably the best diet is one high in carbohydrate, based on grain foods like tsampa, the roast barley flour which is the staple food of the Sherpas. We did, however, have the same need for large quantities of hot liquid since in the cold dry air you quickly become dehydrated.
Night was marked by the sun slipping behind the ridge, plunging us into shade which meant that the temperature dropped abruptly to about –30°C, bringing with it a fierce cold that penetrated clothing and even frozen fingers clad in thick mitts. Next day we roped up for the first time to help Dick and Frank jumar up a steepening concave slope. Miura and his cameraman, Tae Maeda, carrying very heavy loads which included Miura’s skis, were quietly climbing together. They exuded a modest confidence. Frank was very careful to draw them into any planning discussion but Miura always courteously concurred with whatever was being decided.
We were now moving very slowly, with long pauses whilst one person at a time climbed the ropes Rick and I had fixed. It took us six and a half hours to reach the top of the slope where we were rewarded with a view of the glacier some hundred metres below us which stretched easily up towards the broad col between our objective and Mount Shinn. The summit, though, was still concealed by a subsidiary peak. I was beginning to appreciate the scale of everything, in addition to which we were starting to feel the effects of the altitude. The previous night we had been at just under 2,500 metres and we were now at nearly 4,000. We stopped for lunch and enjoyed the magnificent mountain vista around us. Dick treated us to an impromptu recitation; he had a huge well of poems he had memorised as a child, and had continued to learn as an adult, ranging from the romantic to the bawdy. His favourite poet was Kipling and the lines that were his motto came from ‘If’:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Excep
t the will which says to them: Hold on!
I couldn’t help thinking what an improbable group we were, picnicking in the Antarctic sunshine to the strains of Kipling. The main col immediately below the Vinson massif seemed quite close, but once again this was deceptive. It was about three miles away. We didn’t reach it that day but finally dumped our gear at the side of a partly covered crevasse.
I was very concerned that we should be able to build a snow cave which we could use should a sudden violent storm destroy our tents. The Bonington bolthole became something of an expedition joke and I suspect that Frank and Dick felt I was being over-cautious. Even so, we took turns in digging away at a bank of snow only to hit hard ice after three metres. However, on inspecting the crevasse, I found a broad shelf just inside. It was easy to widen this into a chamber that all seven of us could squeeze into in an emergency. Blocking off the hole at the top, and then tunnelling out horizontally to make a new covered entrance, we had the perfect emergency shelter.
Giles now left us to return to the plane. We hoped to climb Vinson within three days and it was therefore decided that, if he hadn’t heard from us after six days, he should fly in to look for us.
I couldn’t help sympathising with Steve Marts. Not only was he carrying the heaviest load and doing the filming, he also did all the cooking for Frank and Dick. It was the one thing they refused to do. Both had domesticated wives who took total responsibility on the home front. Frank had never even packed a case for himself before setting out on his many business trips.
‘You know, if you two want to feel you really are part of the team and are not just clients being guided up a mountain, how about sharing in some of the chores? You could start by doing a bit of cooking,’ I pointed out, jokingly.
‘Hell, no. I’ve spent 100,000 dollars on this trip. I’ll carry loads, dig snow holes, do anything, but I’m damned if I’m going to start cooking. Apart from anything else, I’d poison you all if I did,’ was Dick’s reply.
Steve cooked the evening meal and washed the pans. He didn’t really seem to mind. Prematurely grey haired and bearded, he had a very young, easy smile that seemed to guard his inner thoughts. He had been with Frank and Dick on all the seven summits so far and had become a butt for both their displeasure and humour. He had the status of an old family retainer who was both part of the family and yet an employee.
We planned to make one more camp before going for the top and the next afternoon found us plodding steadily upwards, bathed in the warm mellow light of the late afternoon sun. I stripped off down to my Damart underwear, it was so warm. Above us, like the walls of a mythical city, gleaming ramparts and towers of ice guarded the col; cavernous crevasses with fragile airy snow bridges formed deep moats. But, as we entered the frozen inanimate city, we walked into the shade. Its effect was immediate. We put on our overtrousers and down gear, but even so, the cold penetrated remorselessly. Without the brightness of the sun the icy towers and walls around us appeared grim and threatening. There was no more laughter. We were like a band of hobbits entering the stern confines of the Misty Mountains.
Above the col the glacier running down from the summit mass of Vinson opened out. We were heading for the crest of the ridge over to our right but had to make a series of diversions to weave our way through a maze of crevasses, some of which were partly covered. We were now exposed to what was little more than a gentle breeze, but it insinuated its way into every chink of our clothing, bit at our unprotected faces, first stinging and then numbing cheeks and noses. I glanced at Frank. A tell-tale patch of white had appeared on the tip of his nose; a sure sign of frostbite. I pulled my hand out of my mitt and placed it on his nose. It was ice cold but my hand quickly warmed it and the patch vanished.
Rick was out in front with Steve Marts, picking the route. I had Dick and Frank on my rope. The snow was so hard that our crampons barely made any impression, sinking in little more than a few millimetres, making the faintest of traces in the snow.
‘Put your feet exactly where I do,’ I called back. It was like walking through a minefield and I was uncomfortably aware of just how serious it would be if we had to stop to pull anyone out of a crevasse. If you stopped even for a minute the icy cold started to bite into your inner core. I concentrated on the faint pattern of point marks in front of me. ‘Dick, Frank, keep that rope tight. Watch where you’re going.’
There was a sudden heave backwards. I lunged forward, swung my axe pick into ice, ready to take Dick’s full weight, simultaneously glancing behind me. He had stepped off the ill-defined path and straight into a crevasse, stopping himself with one leg buried up to the thigh.
I yelled at him. ‘You must bloody well concentrate on every single step. Shove your feet exactly where I’ve put mine. You could kill us all if you’re not careful.’
Dick grinned and apologised and I immediately felt bad at having shouted at him, but it did mean that both he and Frank concentrated even harder on following the trail. At last it took us onto the retaining ridge. We were off the glacier and could begin to relax. It opened out on to a wide shoulder, ideal for a campsite but very exposed and with snow so hard that there was no question of being able to dig in the tents.
I scrambled up to a rocky pinnacle on the crest of the ridge. It just caught the sun and from this perch you could capture the magic of the Antarctic, the endless white of the ice cap, the huge trench of the Nimitz Glacier curving round out of sight towards the Weddell Sea and, to the west, the rest of the Sentinel Range, a rocky spine jutting out of the snow and ice. Our own objective was hidden by the swell of the ridge immediately above, but we had seen the summit of Vinson from the glacier and knew that we were within striking distance, probably just a few hours from the top.
We got four hours’ sleep before brewing up and getting ready for our summit bid. It was 23 November. We took the tents down, for fear of the wind building up during the day, and left them safely secured under a pile of boulders. It was good to climb without the weight of a rucksack. Rick and I tossed up as to who should find the route and who should look after Dick and Frank. He won and set out, roped to Steve Marts. I followed with my charges while Miura, carrying his skis, brought up the rear. At first we took the line of the ridge. It was no more than steady walking, yet the vast emptiness around us gave it both a beauty and seriousness that were unique. Glancing up I could see clouds of snow, like dancing dervishes, swirl around Rick and Steve. It was the wind, just beginning to catch the ridge.
They began to traverse round the slope on to the side of the valley that led up towards Vinson itself. The bed of it seemed quite flat but was probably crevassed, so we avoided it. At first the wind came in gusts but, slowly, as we progressed, it built into a steady savage blast until it was almost impossible to face into it. Rick had stopped to put on extra clothing and had to ask me to do up the hood of his down jacket. The others had now caught up. Frank, at the end of our rope, had been going quite slowly. I had been conscious of the steady drag from behind. He was wearing a face mask but it only gave him partial protection and, as he reached me, I saw that once again his nose had been nipped by the cold but this time, when I tried to warm it with my hand, I could feel a long, solid lump of frozen tissue down one side. Even if I thawed it out, it would still be vulnerable and the capillaries carrying the vital blood supply would almost certainly have been damaged. It would freeze up again and in the hours it would take us to reach the top the injury could be serious.
‘There’s nothing for it, Frank. With your nose like that you’ll have to go down. I’ll take you back.’
As I said it, I felt a sense of vast disappointment. I was going well and had the summit of Vinson in my sights but there seemed no other sensible course. But then Frank said, ‘It’s all right, you go on. Steve can always come back with me.’
It was like a condemned man’s reprieve, but it didn’t last long.
‘Hell, Steve can’t go back,’ Dick butted in. ‘We need him for filming the top.’
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br /> At that I couldn’t stop myself and just burst out, ‘I’m sorry. I don’t mind taking Frank back down and missing the summit if it’s a question of safety, but I’m not going to sacrifice the top for a bloody film.’
By this time we were all shouting against the roar of the wind, and then Rick, who had been standing quietly to one side, interjected, ‘Hey fellas, can I say something? I guess I owe you guys a hell of a lot. You’ve taken me on your trips, given me some of the greatest times I’ve ever had. It’s OK. I’ll take Frank down.’
I felt a surge of guilt for my own single-minded need for the top, but then Miura spoke quietly. ‘It’s too windy to ski. We’re going down anyway.’
That solved the dilemma but it still wasn’t over.
Dick yelled, ‘Hell, Frank, I’m not going to the top without you. We’ve been in this together and we’re going to the top together. I’ll go down with you.’
‘You don’t seem to realise,’ I said, ‘you don’t get second chances in the mountains. This might be the only bloody one you get. You just can’t afford to give up an opportunity if it’s there, can’t you see that?’
But Dick’s mind was made up.
‘He who fights and runs away, lives to fight another day, but he who is in battle slain, will never rise to fight again.’
The Everest Years Page 22
