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  As soon as we start the following day it commences snowing and the wind starts to rise as conditions decline. We are so unaccustomed to dealing with the load and coping with the fierce drift in our faces that we have only covered three miles when Bob wisely calls a stop for the day. The wind by then is seventy miles an hour. We have no idea what it could get up to on the plateau, but we know setting up camp in these conditions is not easy. As soon as we secure the sledge I grab the pick and break off several large blocks of ice. We need these to prevent the tent blowing away. Bob pulls out the tent which, due to the difficulty of assembling in windy conditions, already has internal bamboo poles fitted into its apex.

  With Bob holding the tent flat on the ground pointing windwards and with the entrance topside, Azzi crawls under and into the tent and lifts and spreads the poles, pushing into the wind as the leeward side drops down behind him. Bob rolls his whole weight onto the bottom windward edge, from which extends a large flap for this purpose. I then move across the blocks of ice to take Bob’s place holding down the tent and then shovel snow to bed down the windward side and around all edges. Bob and I pass gear from the sledge to Azzi inside the tent, including a canvas floor, our cooker, a ration bag and our reindeer-skin sleeping bags.

  The tent has a yard-long tunnel entranceway which Bob and I shove ourselves through and tie up behind us. Once inside the tent and out of the claws of the blizzard, my exertion stops and as my body slows, my sweat cools, and I start to shiver. I get my Burberry trousers off and wriggle into my frozen sleeping bag, keeping my arms out so I can start the primus and make dinner. It’s a long time before I feel any sensation of warmth from the sleeping bag. We don’t speak because it is impossible to hear anything over the frightful racket the tent is making. The tent legs have not been stretched far enough apart and the japara fabric is vibrating and cracking in the gale. Pushing out the leeward legs from the inside is only a slight improvement and none of us are keen to go outside and fix it properly.

  Azzi shoves snow into our Nansen cooker. The ice protrudes above the pan like a snow covered mountain. It quickly melts down and Azzi empties in the pemmican dried beef pre-mixed with pure fat and then ground Plasmon biscuits. As soon as this is steaming hot I pour it into three mugs. This is our ‘hoosh’, which we will have for dinner and breakfast every day. It is remarkable how we come to crave this porridge-like mixture. I refill the cooker with ice. By the time Bob and Azzi have finished their hoosh, the water is steaming again. This time I pour in our special mix of cocoa, sugar and glaxo milk powder.

  The wind does not abate and I do not sleep well. The tent cracks like a whip above my head and my nerves feel every gust. I am anxious as to whether the japara will hold up till morning.

  The next day, conditions prevent us from sledging. I don’t get out of my sleeping bag, but I do start up a new diary for the sledging trip.

  On 13 November the wind drops noticeably. We eat hoosh and bread. I find my pants but they are like flattened stovepipes. A crowbar would help to open them and get my legs through. I have been lying on my woollen helmet and it is crushed flat, as are my mitts and gloves. I have forgotten to put these in my sleeping bag and they have frozen solid. I shove them under my jumper next to my undershirt to soften them up, and in the meantime get my boots and crampons ready and all my other loose items. There’s only enough room for two of us to sit up and get dressed at the same time, so Azzi stays in his bag watching Bob and me twist and turn and bump into each other.

  Yesterday, during the blizzard, Bob and I lifted a section of tent floor and dug a small hole for urinating. I need to open my bowels so I rush to get outside and do my business before the wind picks up. I walk downwind and take a shovel with me. Wedged in ice, the shovel gives me something to hold to avoid being blown backwards off my haunches. In blizzard conditions it is only possible to defecate if a companion supports and holds a groundsheet around you to stop you freezing. There is no water so hand-cleaning requires vigorous rubbing in the snow, and quickly to avoid frostbite. I have learned to shake out the few inches of snowdrift which accumulate in my undershorts before I pull them up.

  As soon as I have finished my business I am keen to pack the sledge and go. ‘Come on, pass out the cooking bag,’ I call to Bob and Azzi, and in rhyming slang, ‘Let’s hit the frog and toad.’ I find I am the most impatient; Bob especially seems to take forever getting ready. The cooker and the floor come out and are packed away, sleeping bags are shoved in canvas covers. Azzi stays inside holding down the tent as I clear off the snow blocks and Bob and I collapse the tent into the wind and get it on the sledge.

  We are moving quickly now, yet it takes an inordinate time before we are ready to start pulling the sledge. We soon learn the three of us need to be ready at the same time; standing around in the cold waiting for one of us to adjust a harness strap or gaiter is deadly. Bob releases the brake and we lean forwards with weight in our shoulders, but the sledge does not shift. It is frozen in like a cake decoration. I grab the pick and smash away the ice along the runners. Even then the sledge does not move, so deep is the snow.

  ‘One . . . two . . . three . . . pull!’ Bob says, and with an almighty grunt the sledge starts to slide forwards—then drops down into even deeper drift. ‘Again! One . . . two . . . and three,’ says Bob, and we are on our way.

  We have not waited for our support party to start with us, but it is not long before they catch up with their smaller sledge. We move slowly as the snow is deep and our boots plunge down one or two feet before finding traction. The sledge runners remain out of sight, buried several inches beneath the snow. It is backbreaking pulling through soft snow. After some hours the névé, or compacted snow, hardens in patches and when I step forwards my boots temporarily find support on the icy crust, though as my weight transfers they unpredictably drop further down into the snow. This is energy-sapping even without the sledge. Later the névé hardens and the sledge sits on top of the ice. It is as if the burden has been halved.

  I keep my head down to minimise the ferocity of the drift smacking into my face. It no longer stings, as my face is totally numb, but I know my skin will be red raw by the time we stop. I concentrate on the snow ahead of each step, only occasionally looking up. Progress is imperceptible and our destination is obscured in the drift. My goggles are clogged with ice, but if I tilt my head down I can still see through a little gap at the top. At times it is a complete white-out. The drift swirls in the wind and plays tricks. The wind changes direction just enough to send you off course until the next compass check. Then, when I can no longer see my legs at all, I lift and shake my goggles and miraculously the air is clear.

  My companions are only a few yards away but we are each locked in our own thoughts. Conversation is impossible and so my mind wanders over matters both basic and bizarre. I think of our next food stop and how long before I need a comfort stop. I speculate about soreness in my back and legs and whether it is getting worse. I think about home, and the summer weather in Sydney, and the hotels and refreshment houses selling iced drinks along George Street. I think about Ma and wonder if my pa is somewhere watching me trudge along. What would he make of what I am doing now?

  It is 9 p.m. when Bob calls a halt. It has been hard going and our mileage wheel says we’ve only travelled five miles. I am thick with snow and ice. It is packed around my face and hood, it is lodged between my mitts and the sleeves of my Burberry jacket, it is glued to my boots and wedged above my ankles. It is solidly encrusted on all straps and lanyards and will not simply shake off but hangs in icicles from my clothing and hair. We put up the tent, throw in all the gear we need and crawl in. The temptation is to collapse, but this would be a mistake. The iced-up clothing must be removed and dry or dryish clothes put on before we lose body heat. I force open my sleeping bag and shove my legs in. There is no feeling in my feet. The sleeping bag is cold and hard but gradually warms to become soft and damp.

  We sleep on and off for twelve hours, such i
s our exhaustion and reaction to the cold. But the next day the wind is up to seventy-five miles an hour and it is a miserable forty-eight degrees below freezing. Ripped seams and tears have appeared in the tent. I take off my mitts and gloves to grip a sewing needle to fix these before they worsen. Azzi holds that part of the tent still and Bob stands outside the tent, using pliers to grip the needle and pull it through and push it back into the frozen calico. It takes hours, but a tent torn apart by a blizzard means death. Our fingers are frostbitten and take the rest of the day to recover. I am unable to hold a pen to write up my diary and instead lie in my sleeping bag shivering, with my hands clasped between my legs.

  At noon on 16 November the wind abates and we quickly head south, followed by our support party. The surface is rock hard with sastrugi, wind-carved ice ridges, between six inches and two feet high presenting a series of solid obstacles for the sled. As we pull we look back to steer the runners in between these blocks which otherwise stop us in our tracks. Bob calls to us to look up and there to the south, rising above the plateau, are dark heavy nimbus clouds rolling towards us. We stop and secure the sledge, and no sooner is the tent up than the wind stops altogether and for the first time ever the tent walls are entirely limp. All is quiet. It is as if the wax has been cleaned from our ears. Hunter, Murphy and Laseron have put up their tent several yards away and when they converse their voices seem to be booming. We prepare our evening meal in this suspenseful silence. I have a sensation of being watched from afar. I ruminate it may be our Maker watching us, testing our resolve. After eating we are dog tired and we hop into our bags, but, unusually for me, I can’t drop off.

  ‘Hey, Hunter, Murphy, Laseron!’ Bage is sitting up alongside me, calling out to the other tent. ‘You chaps are the bloody support team. Get out here and throw some snow against our tent or we’ll never get to sleep!’

  An answer comes back suggesting Bob should go somewhere. I hope God is not listening too closely. Things must be getting to Bob, who is usually very calm.

  It is early when we wake. The wind is light and there is barely any cloud. We are soon away and without the wind the temperature rises rapidly to a startling nine degrees above freezing. After an hour my clothing is drenched not from melted snow but from sweat. We call a halt and pack away our Burberry outer jackets, woollen helmets and mitts. Within another half-hour we are forced to stop again to pack away jumpers and balaclavas. We also retrieve and open our sleeping bags and drape them inside out across the sledge to dry. We eventually are hauling in our underclothes and feeling very light at heart. When we stop we have done almost twelve miles.

  Conditions remain favourable for three days and we haul till late each evening.

  On the third day Bob is having trouble with snow blindness. He has been leading and has had his goggles off for extended periods. That night I put zinc and cocaine tabloids under his eyelids. It is not only Bob who is suffering; a couple of our supports are in real trouble after this solid push. Murphy is snow blind and is forced to sledge with a blindfold over his eyes. Johnny Hunter is going well, but Laseron is done in. That evening after dinner we all squeeze into one tent and Bob announces we will establish Southern Cross Depot, our first supply depot for the return journey, right where we are, sixty-eight miles from winter quarters at Commonwealth Bay. We have climbed to more than four thousand feet above sea level. The support party is to head back.

  In the morning we cut up blocks of ice and erect a mound ten feet high with a flag at about twenty feet. It should be visible within eight miles of the depot if the weather is clear. Even though the support party would have slowed us down, I feel incredibly lonely saying goodbye.

  It is Azzi’s birthday. The blizzard blows without pause and we spend all day in our sleeping bags. Azzi surprises us with cigars, which we smoke around the cooker. Bob and I reciprocate by singing ‘Happy Birthday’ and ‘Freeze a Jolly Good Fellow’.

  I ask Bage how many days it will be till we reach the giant magnet.

  ‘I’m afraid, Hoyle, the South Magnetic Pole is a more subtle concept and more elusive than the South Geographic Pole.’ Bob continues, ‘The magnetic poles have a restlessness to them, they are forever shifting. Even more confounding is the fact that wherever on earth you are gives a different indication of magnetic north. So you can only know where it is when you are there. That’s when our dip circle points straight down.’

  ‘I’m sorry I asked. I won’t be able to sleep now.’

  ‘I shouldn’t worry about it. These forces are generated beneath the earth. No one knows much about them.’

  Next day, the wind drops to thirty miles an hour and we head south again. The sastrugi are bigger, often about two feet high and very uneven. The sledge drops off the side of these ridges and either digs in or overturns. When the wind lifts to sixty miles an hour we have had enough and make camp. In the tent the walls shudder and crack with the wind gusts. I had previously taken comfort in the fact that if the tent burst we had our support party nearby, but now we are in a more perilous state. Even though I have achieved relative warmth in my bag, I am unable to sleep while worrying about the tent. I announce to Bob I am going outside to build a wall. I start the slow process of getting back into my outside gear. Bob joins me outside and together we break off large pieces of sastrugi and cut blocks of ice. It takes longer than I expected, but after a few hours we have a five-foot-high wall along the windward side of the tent. Back inside the tent our abode feels more secure and I fall asleep from exhaustion.

  The gale continues the following day and we stay put. Two snow petrels take a liking to my wall and make a resting place out of the wind. I have seen no birds since leaving Commonwealth Bay. I can’t imagine what they are doing here or where they are going. They are equally bemused by me and let me approach. With great difficulty I manage to get photographs of them. To set the shutter I first have to remove a number of tiny camera screws and bend the mechanism into shape. This must be done and the photo taken within a minute of taking off my mitts, after which my bare hands are useless. As it is I do not get sensation back until much later, when I am in my sleeping bag.

  In the cold conditions our bodies crave sleep and it is 10 a.m. when we rise and see the wind has dropped considerably. We convert the wall into a mound to assist navigation on our return journey. It takes four hours for Azzi to complete his magnetic readings and Bob his meteorological measurements. Azzi says there are magnetic storms playing havoc with his observations.

  It is my day to lead the sledge and I find it hard getting started and timing our combined efforts to lift the sledge over obstacles. The first mile exhausts me and I start to worry that the other two must be expecting me to hand the lead back to Bob. However we clock up a second mile and, after a ration of barley sugar and chocolate, we soon have five miles, at which point we huddle together in the lee of the sledge for a lunch of hard Plasmon biscuits with a slab of butter. Usually at lunch we dig a hole a few feet deep with an ice windbreak and sometimes a tarpaulin roof. This provides shelter for longitude observation and Azzi’s magnetograph, but also for melting ice and making tea on the primus. Not today, however. Within five minutes of stopping the cold really sets in and the only thing for it is to keep going to warm up. It is after 11 p.m. with the sun about to disappear, when we call a halt, having clocked up our best day yet—over twelve miles.

  Our hopes to repeat this mileage the following day are dashed by a wind over sixty miles an hour. We don’t make a start till after 2 p.m. I am unsure whether we are overtired or if the blizzard is just plain vicious, but we struggle for every yard and at 6 p.m. pull up short without having done even five miles. We construct a windbreak and put up the tent. Both Bage and Azzi’s cheeks have white pinch marks, telltale signs of frostbite which neither has detected due to their faces being numb. My own lips are split and my eyes stinging. The temptation as always is to collapse, but we crave food, and after melting snow we soon have a steaming hoosh, which revives us. Afterwards Azzi di
sappears completely in his bag. Bob is propped up on one elbow smoking his pipe with a distant look in his eyes and apologising for the acrid smoke in the tent. It is impossible to begrudge Bob this pleasure.

  The wind does not abate overnight and we wait in our finnesko bags with the tent shaking as the gale roars above us until after midday, when we decide to make a go of it. Based on Azzi’s readings and Bage’s sun compass we alter course slightly to head due south. Being close to the magnetic pole my own compass has become lethargic and of little use. This section of the plateau starts rising again and we find ourselves negotiating a difficult slope. Between each spurt we pull the brake down to enable a small rest. We started off today with a small quantity of water but it has now frozen. Sucking ice does not quench the thirst and burns the inside of my mouth.

  The next day is worse with the wind blowing down on top of us and penetrating every gap in our clothing. With each step we first hold the weight of the sledge and then lean and push forwards. The sledge has no forward momentum and regularly snags on sastrugi, which rise up to oppose progress. We only make four miles. Our axe and theodolite are missing. They have been left behind and Azzi walks back to find them.

  The controls on my plate glass camera have become frozen and are almost impossible to move, especially after being in open air for any length of time. I have developed blisters on both hands from forcing open and adjusting the mechanism. The fluid in the blisters has now frozen, which is extremely painful. Only in the warmth of the tent can I lance the blisters to drain the fluid. I need good hard calluses on my fingers not just for photographic work but for tying and untying knots and toggles on everything from food bags to the tent.