Survival Tails: Endurance in Antarctica

by Katrina Charman

  That night was one of the worst Samson had ever spent on the boat. Through the constant rain that bombarded them, they could finally see the dark outline of land in the distance. South Georgia. They headed closer to the bay, across the choppy water, but the high waves threw them this way and that, and as they drew nearer, they found themselves surrounded by sharp rocks, jutting threateningly out of the water.

  “It’s too dangerous!” Worsley shouted above the screaming noise of the gale hurtling around them.

  Samson dug his claws into the boat as they were smashed up against the side of a large rock. It scraped painfully along the side of the boat as the men tried to navigate around it without causing any damage.

  “We have to go back out into safer water,” Shackleton ordered.

  Samson felt his nerves loosen a little. As much as he wanted to be back on solid ground, the risk of trying to make it to the bay was too high.

  With the gale making it impossible to steer the boat safely, they were forced to wait for the storm to die down. They had finally reached land after fourteen days at sea, but they couldn’t get to it.

  After a few hours, the boss decided to attempt the hazardous landing once more. They were all exhausted, hungry, and dehydrated. Their energy was draining by the minute as their effort to stay afloat and not be drawn farther away by the surging sea took its toll. Samson hadn’t drunk any water for a couple of days because their water supply had been tainted when the large wave had attacked. In his exhausted, dehydrated state, the bay looked to Samson like the open jaws of a wild wolf, with jagged teeth surrounding them on all sides, preparing to gobble them down whole.

  The wind seemed to have died down a little, and the way ahead was clear enough that they could slowly weave around the rocks in the water. Land drew closer, closer, closer, until Samson could see the seafloor beneath them when he looked over the side of the boat. The moment it was shallow enough, he jumped from the boat, leaping and splashing through the water as though his energy had returned to him in one fell swoop. He shook himself and raced off, barking at the men on the shore below when he found a small stream trickling down the rocks nearby. After filling his belly with the cool, fresh water until he was fit to burst, he saw the land as he remembered it all those months ago. Above the rock lay swaths of green hills, covered with wildflowers and tall grass that swayed in the breeze. Samson couldn’t remember ever seeing anything so glorious in his life. He longed to run free along the lush green hills forever.

  The men unloaded the stores that hadn’t been damaged or ruined by the salt water, then crawled to a nearby cave for shelter from the wind. They had no energy to drag the boat onto the shore, so they took turns watching it while the others attempted to get some rest in their wet clothes and sleeping bags.

  Samson kept the first man on watch—Worsley—company. Somehow, Samson didn’t feel as drained as the men. He felt strangely alive, full of energy that started like a ball of fire in his belly and spread out to his limbs until he could hardly sit still for excitement. They were so close to finding help for their friends. He couldn’t understand why the men were all just sitting around when they had such an important mission. Who knew what was happening on Elephant Island while they slept here?

  Worsley scanned the bay, then pulled out a smudged piece of paper, its lines and pictures barely legible where the paper had been soaked by seawater. He held up the paper, and Samson saw that it was some kind of map. Worsley traced his finger from one spot, labeled Haakon Bay, all the way over a patch of triangular ridges and down to the other side of the island.

  “Grytviken,” Worsley said with a sigh as he ran his finger back and forth between the two points.

  All the energy Samson had suddenly dispersed. Between Haakon Bay and the whaling station lay mile upon mile of mountains and glaciers. They had sailed more than eight hundred miles across the ocean only to land on the wrong side of South Georgia.

  CHAPTER 23

  SAMSON

  May 12, 1916

  Haakon Bay was surrounded by steep mountains and glaciers. The bay itself was a small cove, the only shelter being the cave set deep into the base of one of the mountains. Although it wasn’t the most comfortable of shelters, Samson thought it was the best place he’d had to lay his head in a long time. He was finally able to dry his damp fur by the warmth of the fire, and eventually he had to move out of the cave because for the first time since he’d been in the kennels in London, he’d felt too hot.

  All around the foot of the mountain, plants and flowers grew, breaking through the cracks between rocks and crevices. Water dripped from the glaciers above, freezing again over the mouth of their cave, creating a sparkling entryway. Albatrosses nested on the clumps of grass between rocks, and the younger ones were easy enough to capture.

  Yesterday, McCarthy had roasted the birds over the fire, and there had been enough for a bird each. Samson had stripped off every last piece of meat. After dinner, the boss and Worsley had discussed their next move. The James Caird had been so battered that it would be unable to make another journey of any length. Their only route to salvation would have to be taken on foot. As the map had shown, they had sailed to the wrong side of the island. They needed to reach the other side, where the humans lived and worked at the whaling station in Stromness.

  McNish, Vincent, and McCarthy were still unwell, so to Samson’s disappointment, the boss made the decision to stay where they were for a while longer, to rest, eat, and regain their strength. Samson felt raring to go, but he supposed humans were not as hardy as dogs. While the men continued to rest, Samson looked out over the water, wondering how Bummer and Sally and the pups were faring, and hoped they were well.

  May 19, 1916

  After several days in the cave, and with the men’s health improved, McNish fixed up the battered boat as best he could, so that they could sail around the cove to find a better place for the ailing men to shelter while the others went across land for help. McNish warned that the boat wouldn’t make it much farther than a few miles before it capsized. As they set out once more, Samson hoped it would be the final time he ever had to set foot in the James Caird. He felt a strange sense of pride in the small boat that had managed to take them where they needed to go, but he would be glad to see the back of it.

  They sailed a little way around the island, landing in a sandy cove that seemed slightly more hospitable, although there were no caves. The boss named their newest camp Pegotty Camp, and in place of the cave they overturned their boat for shelter. Worsley, Crean, and the boss began making preparations to move on to the final part of their journey.

  “We’ll have to traverse mountains and glaciers, heading directly as the crow flies across land to Stromness,” Worsley said.

  Samson thought it was complete madness. Some of the mountains reached so high that when the fog lay low it was impossible to see their peaks. And the glaciers would pose even more of a threat. Samson knew from experience that snow concealed many hidden dangers. One wrong move and you could be lost over the edge of the mountainside, or fall hundreds of feet into a deep ice crevice. And even if you did survive something like that, there would be no chance of rescue.

  Samson followed the men as they walked to the foot of the mountain, discussing which would be the best route and what equipment and provisions they might need. Shackleton, ever the planner, decided that they should take as little as possible so as not to weigh themselves down.

  They would leave that night, when the moon was high and full and the snow and ice more solid and stable in the falling temperatures. McNish screwed nails from the James Caird into the soles of the men’s boots for extra grip, although Samson couldn’t see how much good that would actually do them. Vincent, McCarthy, and McNish were staying behind. Although they were fitter than they had been when they’d arrived at South Georgia, they had neither the strength nor the will left to undertake such a perilous task, and the boss knew that taking them along would only impede their own progress.
Samson had decided—whether Shackleton liked it or not—that he was going along, too. He had come this far; he wasn’t going to stop at the final hurdle, and he knew he would be unable to bear just waiting, not knowing whether rescue was on the way or not. He would go on this final adventure. No matter what happened, he could feel comfort in the fact that he’d never given up, he’d kept on going right until the very end.

  McNish accompanied them to the base of the mountain. His breath was labored as he walked, and his steps became slower and slower until he could go no farther. He fell away with a small “Good luck and farewell” to Samson and the men, watching as they headed toward the east coast.

  The moonlight reflected off the glaciers, lighting up their route ahead. The boss had brought along few supplies—food and a small stove to melt water, a rope, and an ax. The men’s boots were still sodden. Samson could hear the squelch, squelch, squelch of their feet inside as they walked, and was glad of his tough paws.

  The snow-covered path rose, their pace slowing as the incline grew steeper. It didn’t help their progress when they discovered that the snow had melted slightly and instead of treading on tightly packed snow, their paws and feet sank into the slush. It reached halfway up Samson’s legs as he struggled on. After a few hours, they paused for some water at the peak of the mountain, looking out over what was ahead. Samson’s stomach dropped as he saw what lay between them and Stromness. The landscape held a range of mountains, with steep, craggy rocks and sudden drops, interspersed with flatter land, carpeted with deep ice crevices that seemed to have been carved by giant claws.

  The boss signaled for them to move on, and they ascended the next peak, only to find a steep precipice with no way down other than the way they had just come. Exhausted, Samson turned around, leading the men back down the precarious mountain along the safest routes he could find. They walked on and up the next ridge, only to find the same. Again they retraced their steps. Samson became more and more discouraged as they went, wondering if they would ever make it to Stromness or would just be trapped in the endless maze of peaks and crevices and precipices.

  As night fell once more, a cold fog rolled in, obscuring what little moonlight there had been, so that they walked blindly, unable to see more than a few feet ahead, knowing that one wrong move meant it would all be over. The boss tied the rope to each of the men and Samson at the rear, so that they wouldn’t lose one another and in the hope that if one of them fell, the others would be anchor enough to save him.

  When the sun rose the next morning, it brought with it only more despair. The snow continued to melt, reaching almost up to the top of Samson’s legs as he struggled through the heavy sludge.

  “We need to rest,” the boss said, to Samson’s relief.

  Samson licked his watering jaws as Crean melted snow in a pot over their small stove before mixing up a variety of ingredients that Samson couldn’t identify. The men called it hoosh as before, but by the time it was ready, he didn’t care what it was called; he just wanted it in his stomach.

  As soon as they had eaten, they continued on, determined to reach Stromness before more bad weather set in. Up and down the mountain range they continued, each time confronted by another impassible path. With the dark night drawing in as they reached the summit of yet another peak, the temperatures dropped. They could barely make out what was in front of them, but they couldn’t stop for the night. With his thick coat, Samson thought he might be able to survive the freezing temperatures, but the men would have no chance.

  He stopped beside the boss, scanning the mountainside for any possible path down. It had become terrifyingly clear that they had only one choice—stay on the mountainside and die, or risk their lives to somehow get to the bottom.

  Samson felt numb—both from the freezing temperatures and from the dizzying sight below. The ever-darkening sky and fog obscured whatever lay at the bottom so that he could only see about halfway down. He looked up at the boss, who still seemed to be weighing his options.

  “What do you think, old boy?” the boss asked, patting his head. “Can we make it?”

  Samson barked his assent. Staying on the mountain would mean certain death. There was only one choice. He trotted over to Crean, who held the rope coiled around one shoulder, and took it in his jaws, pulling it to the ground.

  “What are you two up to?” Worsley asked, laughing at Crean, who began a tug-of-war with Samson. Both dog and man refused to let go of their side of the rope.

  The boss ended the struggle, taking hold of the rope.

  Samson immediately let go and barked, and Crean gave in, letting the boss take the coil.

  “We’re going to have to risk it, boys,” the boss said, gesturing to the edge of the mountain. “It’s the quickest—and only—way down.”

  The boss coiled the rope tightly into a pad, creating a makeshift sled.

  Samson glanced down again, suddenly losing his nerve. It was a fool’s errand; how could they possibly expect to survive? Dogs were supposed to pull sleds, not ride them down a mountainside.

  “It doesn’t seem too steep,” the boss told them. “We can use our feet to steer or slow down if we need to, and Samson can sit between us. The extra weight should make sure that we don’t go too fast.”

  Crean frowned at Samson, and Samson gave a low growl in return. If the boss thought they could make it, then Samson knew he could at least be brave enough to try. He stepped onto the rope sled, shifting his weight into the best position, then sank his claws between the grooves to get the best grip. He didn’t want any chance of being flung off halfway down.

  “Well,” Worsley said with a sigh, “I’ll not be shown up by a dog. If Samson thinks we can do it, I do, too.”

  Samson gave a small ruff of a bark at Worsley, who scratched him behind the ear, then settled on the pad, squeezing himself tightly against Samson’s back.

  Crean sat behind Worsley and the boss took the lead, sitting in front of Samson at the head of their sled. “Ready?”

  Samson barked, using his front paws as they shuffled their feet through the snow, drawing the rope sled to the very edge of the slope. With one last heave, the sled moved slowly forward, the front tipping downward as they set off at a terrifying speed, hurtling up and over ridges and rocks, going so fast that the landscape was a white-and-gray blur as it flew past. Samson shut his eyes tight and clung to the pad for dear life as Crean hugged his back.

  Then, as quickly as it had started, it was over. With a great whump, they smashed into a bank of soft snow, which exploded in a burst of white, then slowly drifted back down, covering them like snowmen with a large snow dog in the middle. For a moment all was quiet and still. Then the men began to move, standing shakily and brushing the snow out of their eyes. Samson checked that his limbs and tail were intact. His legs were slightly wobbly and his head dizzy as he tried to focus on something that wasn’t moving. He shook his fur hard, sending a flurry of snowflakes up in the air, then turned to stare back at the mountainside.

  He couldn’t quite believe it. The mountainside was littered with large gray boulders, with a steep overhang on the left-hand side. Carved down its center in a deep, meandering line was the track they’d left behind in the snow.

  Samson let out a loud bark of a laugh in disbelief, joy coursing through him. The entire expedition had been fraught with impossibilities and danger at almost every turn, yet somehow, despite it all, they were still here. They had made it!

  The boss, Crean, and Worsley laughed, shaking their heads with the same disbelief and letting out loud whoops of joy as they hugged each other. Samson joined in the revelry, bounding through the snow in circles and barking so loudly that it echoed around the mountains.

  The boss wound the rope up and hauled it over his shoulder; then, after a brief discussion with Worsley as to which direction to continue in, they headed onward, moving closer to the whaling station with every step.

  After a few hours, the adrenaline and renewed vigor from the sled r
ide had drained away. Exhaustion from walking almost nonstop caught up with them. Samson felt his eyes droop and his steps begin to slow. They had been marching for over thirty hours without a break, and though Stromness was only perhaps six hours away, they needed to rest.

  They leaned up against an outcrop of rocks that provided a little shelter from the bitter chill of the wind. Worsley fell asleep immediately, his mouth hanging open to let out loud snorts every time he breathed. Crean and the boss quickly followed, huddled against each other for warmth. Samson settled at their feet, trying to help their frostbitten toes thaw a little; then he laid his heavy head on his paws and let his eyes slowly droop. He listened to the men’s snores for a while, as their breathing slowed and their breaths became shallower.

  It reminded Samson of his last moments with Amundsen, and he opened his eyes again suddenly, jumping up to listen more closely. The men’s faces were pale, their lips a dangerous shade of blue. Samson realized that their exhaustion was so great that they might never wake up.

  He nudged the boss’s shoulder, but Shackleton didn’t stir. Samson tried again, but there was still no response. He moved to Crean, taking his boot in his jaws and tugging at his leg as hard as he could, knowing that if he could get a rise out of anyone it would be Crean.

  Nothing.

  Samson began to panic. What if he was too late? Why had he let them sleep? Why hadn’t he urged them on? He barked at them, licking at their faces between his desperate cries.

  Wake up wake up wake up!

  But no matter what he did, their eyes remained tightly shut.

  CHAPTER 24

  SAMSON

  May 20, 1916

  Finally, Worsley stirred. Samson barked loudly, then licked his face once more for good measure to make sure he didn’t fall asleep again.