No Such Thing as Failure

by David Hempleman-Adams

  I took up the slack of my 285lb sledge and felt it move behind me. As always I knew that getting through the first ten days would be the most important thing, not pushing myself too hard too fast and knowing that as my sledge got lighter the going would become easier. If I walked for eight hours a day and covered an average of 12 miles, that would take me to the Pole. It was difficult going however, steadily upwards and sometimes with a slope of up to 25 degrees over some sastrugi, and all the time I could see the steam rising from the tents back at Hercules Inlet seemingly no further away. I also remembered that it was not only my brother Mark’s birthday but also Alicia’s, who was now six. The former I did not really care too much about, he’d cope and perhaps raise a pint for me, but the latter made me feel very miserable and question what business I had at all being here so far away from home. On camping that evening I was further cast down when my GPS revealed that I’d travelled only 6 miles.

  The first few days were depressing as my mileage barely edged up, even if I was starting to get into a better routine than on my first morning when I overslept and did not complete breakfast and all my preparations until midday. There were strong winds and visibility was poor so I couldn’t even appreciate the natural beauty of my surroundings, or concentrate on something in the distance to help the time pass as I walked towards it. In clear weather you might see 4 miles ahead, but often now it was barely 10 yards to the next clump of sastrugi on which I could focus, and I constantly had to check my compass. I’d also come to my first crevasses, fields of which I knew I could expect to encounter all the way to the Pole. These can be up to 300 feet deep and there are stories of explorers and whole dog teams disappearing forever, swallowed up by these hungry mouths never to be seen again, no hint of where they had gone except perhaps the faint barking of a dying husky.

  The first crevasse I came to was about 200 feet long and 8 feet wide. You can normally spot them in advance by the ridge of snow formed by the wind and hanging over the edge, and in this case the yawning fissure was plugged with snow. I tested it with my ski stick and it seemed firm enough to cross, but I chickened out and took the long way round. It was when I realized this had cost me an hour, totally disrupting the rhythm I knew I must establish, that with my heart in my mouth I started to jump across successive crevasses, although I still unharnessed my sledge and just carried a rope to pull it over after me. I grew more confident, even if that was slightly dented when I nearly lost my prodding ski pole as it penetrated the snow surface and I found myself staring into a black hole. Although I did not allow the crevasses to hold me up too much I was still very worried about my progress, and started to think about what weight I could lose to help me move faster. Perhaps stupidly, I discarded an ice axe and rope designed to help me escape should a crevasse claim me, figuring that out there alone I would have no chance of doing so and would die anyway. This attempt to reduce weight became an obsession of mine, and every day I tried to bury something I convinced myself I would not need.

  I had a routine, which you refine and follow vigorously since everything seems to take so much more time in the extreme cold. First the alarm would wake me from a deep sleep, and then it mostly seemed to be about melting snow for boiling water, first for my breakfast tea and muesli with sugar and milk, next to make the soup for my thermos during the day, and then in the evening once again for my dehydrated boil-in-a-bag meal of pasta or chilli con carne. I was depressed about my progress, but consoled myself that in the first four days I had climbed 1,000 feet, a tenth of the way towards the 10,000 foot altitude of the Pole itself. I think that alone in a place like that you do very quickly start to think and behave eccentrically, and I certainly would have looked very odd if anyone had been there to see me. Although I did have modern equipment I have always tended to like sticking with what has been proven, so over a thin wool inner sock on my feet I used a Sainsbury’s carrier bag as a vapour barrier (to prevent the sweat moving out and freezing) which poked out at the top like gaiters, then a thick woollen sock and on top of that an old-fashioned canvas boot of exactly the same kind as Amundsen wore when he was the first man to the South Pole in 1912.

  During the night after my fourth day walking I heard the wind getting up into a real storm, and when I poked my head out in the morning it was soon apparent it would be suicide trying to move on then. The whole day was lost whilst I sat morosely in my tent obsessing about how far behind schedule I had already fallen. After five days I should have covered 60 miles, been crossing over from 80 to 81 degrees south, but instead I had managed no more than 25. It was only Geoff’s confidence in me on the radio that evening which made me feel I could keep going, truly meaningful as he had real experience of similar conditions, knew not only what it was like physically but also what I must be going through mentally.

  The next morning the blizzard was still blowing, but I judged that the wind had subsided enough to be manageable, if still potentially dangerous, and I would make an attempt at carrying on. It was slow going, with the wind constantly raising up new undulations in the snow, and my day ended after six hours’ struggle. My sledge caught the lip of a sastrugi, stuck fast, and my momentum meant that I was suddenly jerked backwards off my feet by the harness and landed hard on my arse. I cried out in agony, the whole area around my coccyx jarred and shooting pains coursing up my back. I knew I was in trouble. I painfully erected my tent and started to dose myself with painkillers, ignoring the stern warnings on the bottle about the number I should take. Was this trip about to be ended by injury just as my aborted walk to the North Pole had been? I was very close to giving up, miserable and desperately homesick as I felt I’d barely seen my family in the last year due to horrendous overseas business commitments. I was still close to Patriot Hills, and I knew if I pressed the emergency button now Adventure Network wouldn’t charge much to pick me up. It would have been so easy to quit then.

  I called Geoff back at Patriot base, and he knew exactly what to say. Although I thought I was doing badly I was still well ahead of both Roger and Fyodor. I’d actually completely forgotten my personal race with the former, and evidently I was still winning. He referred to the others as ‘poor bastards’ compared to me, and although I knew it was guff it cheered me up. I also remembered how my oldest daughter Alicia and her classmates were plotting my progress on a map hung up in their schoolroom, and how pathetic it would seem if the line came to an end so soon. Nor could I forget the warnings of all those who had said I shouldn’t come, the friends as well as the doubters, and thought about the prospect of becoming yet another British failure when Norwegians and Russians seemed to find it far easier to overcome these barriers. I reached the decision there and then that as I’d started I was damn well going to finish, or at least wouldn’t give up before my food had run out. With that determination the pain seemed to ease and I started to plan. Just get over that first degree I told myself, and after that I would walk an extra half-hour each day, and an additional half-hour after I crossed each successive degree.

  I’m not sure how I believed that in my current condition I could ultimately increase my walking day from eight to twelve hours, but it just shows how motivation can blind you to difficulties. I needed it when the morning showed me a total white-out of ice crystals, but I decided to press on even though I would hardly be able to see the crevasses I knew were out there in the swirling cotton wool that lay ahead of me. I suppose I was feeling fatalistic, when I thought of what I had achieved with no more than a few cracked ribs to show for my pains. Far more accomplished climbers than me have perished on Everest, yet I had come through unscathed. I only managed 7 miles that day, but in a sense I had taken some pressure off myself, knowing I would keep going so long as my rations lasted, whether I got to the Pole or not. It also helped having to find practical solutions to problems, and knowing that painkillers would not be enough I fashioned a corset for myself from duct tape and a ripped-up sleeping mattress. Wearing that I waddled across the continent like one of the many thousan
ds of penguins that live around its shores.

  The morning of day nine was another blizzard. I was still thinking about how I could reduce the weight of my sledge, as I knew from my Magnetic North Pole trip that if I could halve its weight I might manage 18 miles in a day. Out went my crampons, a big decision for any climber to make, along with my Sony Walkman and tapes, even a spare pair of shoelaces. Having finally got going for a few hours I had one of my longest radio chats with Geoff, and it was the mundane messages that helped me in the middle of the most lonely place on earth. Claire sent her love, and asked if she should pay for some wine that had not yet been delivered? I was also developing a rapport with a girl called Sue, the cook back at Patriot Hills. Since food was becoming such a fantasy I had begged her to make me a blackberry and apple pie for when I came back, and she asked me what she’d get in return. The mildly flirtatious conversation was relayed back and forth, with the whole of British Antarctica listening in.

  On my twelfth day I was able to have my first minor celebration, when not only did I finally cross over into the 81st degree but also achieved my best distance so far of 8 miles. It was a purely imaginary line, and there were nine more to go, but after taking off my gloves in the tent and putting them on top of the cooking pan to melt off the snow, I retrieved my brandy bottle from the bottom of my sledge. This I’d made sure I had not discarded, and it had lines marked on it to denote each passing degree. I drank down to the first line whilst scoffing a packet of pork scratchings from my ‘special treat’ bag. I certainly knew how to throw a party. It was only 1 degree I had crossed, and I had eaten deeply into my emergency supplies for the trip, but if I could achieve 12 miles a day from then on I would still make it. This might not have seemed like a logical hope, considering I’d just achieved my best day so far of much less than that, but somehow this consideration did not strike me at the time. I was up to an altitude of a bit less than 3,000 feet on my way to the 10,000 feet at the Pole, and had many fields of crevasses and plummeting temperatures ahead of me, but huddled up in my tent that night I knew for the first time I was going to get there.

  The next day I woke thinking of a fresh start, the pain in my back bearable, even if my superstitious side (my ‘Z’ stone still around my neck) didn’t like the thought of it being day thirteen. It was another white-out, at which times the Antarctic is like a desert, the powdered snow so fine it scatters everywhere, but I still achieved another record of 8½ miles. Yet the day after was beautifully clear, and I could see the Pirrit Hills some 40 miles ahead of me. It is always easier to walk with some objective in sight and an additional mile added to my record was the result. I’d also devised a game to keep me going, based on the fact that the distance from Hercules Inlet to the South Pole is about the same as that from John O’Groats to Land’s End, or roughly 680 miles. Pretending I was marching down the motorway, I was now past Aviemore and heading for Glasgow, and each day I mentally marked off the small Scottish town I’d just passed through, this familiarity making my trek easier. And my sledge was getting lighter, both through continued minor disposals and the fact that I was eating it down by 3lbs per day. I was noticeably losing weight, but for now I felt strong even if I knew the hunger would later become unbearable.

  It may have taken me twelve days to reach my first degree, but I crossed over into eighty-two on day eighteen, breaking three daily distance records in the process. I wasn’t there yet, but I calculated that by half way I would be achieving 12 miles, perhaps more, through the combination of my lighter sledge and additional half-hours of walking. I was also becoming more disciplined, blaming myself for previously being too slack, so reduced the length of my tea breaks and cut out unscheduled ones, along with the inevitable sitting down on my sledge and taking in the contrasting colours of the beautiful scenery. In the mornings when my alarm went off at 6.30 a.m. I wouldn’t doze and think about the day ahead, but jump straight up into a kneeling position and get into my routine. In twenty minutes my breakfast and hot drink would be ready, by 7.30 I would be packing my sledge. If I was ready a few minutes early, those would be when I lay down on my thermarest to contemplate the day ahead, whether it would be good or bad, my only quiet pause apart from a couple of tea breaks before I set up camp in the evening.

  It was also before setting out that I would always remove my inner tent, dig a hole with my spade, and have a crap before refilling the hole with snow. You don’t pee much during the day, and when doing so you make damn sure your back is well to the wind before fishing around in your long johns for something a lot smaller than you remembered, which is the last place you want a touch of frostbite. I’ve always found it is essential to be regular with your bowel movements however, since there really is no way you could stop for one during the day without setting up your tent. It’s cold enough as it is, inside the outer sheet of the tent, and you learn to be pretty quick about it. You also have to be very careful dressing since if something doesn’t sit right, your balaclava is a fraction out of place and rubbing your neck for instance, you have to put up with it for the whole day rather than take it off and start again, which simply isn’t possible. Everything has to be stowed properly for ease of access—map, compass, munchy bag and flasks of hot drink at the front of the sledge—and weight balanced in terms of both length and width.

  Despite all my care I was experiencing my first signs of frostbite by the start of 82 degrees. You can never tell if it is coming, it just suddenly materializes, and you have to keep checking your individual fingers and toes. I would stamp my feet on the ice to create extra circulation, then wrap each finger individually around my ski pole to check I had feeling, devoting an hour during the day to working on each finger, rewarding myself with some salami when I got through them ok. A bigger problem was the inside of my thighs, as it became clear that only wearing one pair of thermals and windpants my legs were getting too cold and there were a series of red patches tinged with blue. I was probably only a day or two away from full-blown frostbite, but although wearing an additional pair of thermals solved the problem it took nearly another three weeks to clear up completely. Worst of all for my vanity it did catch my nose. It’s been suggested occasionally that mine is a little larger than some people’s, but certainly now it became horribly swollen and bulbous.

  By day twenty I had a new distance record of 10½ miles, and even better a huge field of crevasses I’d expected to encounter had not appeared, having obviously either closed up or been filled with snow. I did think slightly mournfully about my decision not to bring a parawing, as for the first time the winds were of the right direction and strength to have made using one a possibility, but I had determined against one due to the extra weight and the fact that there was too much risk of injury when you’re out there alone. Fiennes and Messner both had accidents using one, but neither of them was going solo. I am sure it was the right decision, and some people consider the use of a para-wing to be cheating slightly anyway, but set against that is the thought that with the right wind and ground you might make 30, 50, even 80 miles skiing in a day. I could have had a double brandy and pork scratching celebration perhaps that night.

  Day twenty-four should have been a day of celebration as I crossed into 83 degrees, but it was also 1 December which hit me hard. Apart from my first day feelings of guilt about leaving my family behind I had thus far mostly managed to shut out such emotions, but I knew now my girls would be opening the first windows on their advent calendars, the official start to Christmas for us. I worried whether Claire would be able to fetch the tree, which I normally went and chopped down after we had all traipsed out to a local farm and selected it. I was also disconcerted the next day when a large icy hill some 5 miles across, and clearly marked on my map, simply wasn’t there, another indication of the constantly changing terrain which had seemingly just eroded away in that wind over only a few years. But I had a new record of 11 miles, had gone through 4,000 feet in altitude, and was able to change to a larger scale map, which although I was n
ot yet half way there seemed a very significant moment to me. I also caught my first sight of the Thiel Mountains, which I would pass 30 miles to the east, which meant my navigation was spot on. In the distance they looked a little like the Swiss Alps and I knew they reached to 10,000 feet. Most have never been climbed and some not even seen by mankind before, so they acted like an incredible magnet to a mountaineer like me.

  On my ground plan of Britain I was now crossing the Scottish border and entering Cumbria, starting to eat up the distance and hitting 11½ miles on day twenty-seven, but the next day I had a real problem. On the high frequency radio that evening Geoff told me that they had not received my Argos position, so if I did not contact base each evening that would trigger an immediate rescue operation, everything could be screwed-up. On 7 December I crossed into 84 degrees and finally achieved 12 miles, but my worry over the Argos was becoming all-consuming. Fortunately I had a spare battery, and that made it start working again, but I had to change the whole pattern of communication. Previously I’d left the Argos on for up to six hours, but I could no longer do that and risk depleting my remaining battery so I had to agree the optimum time to turn it on for no more than half an hour whilst they could pick up my position.