I walked out of the kitchen hut later that morning with a coffee in my hand, found myself a rock to sit on and stared up at the summit. It was obscured by cloud and snow and I knew that no-one would be summiting that day. I pulled out my small camera and recorded a short video blog in which I announced my defeat and withdrawal from Elbrus to the invisible crowd. They were tough words to say even to myself and as I watched it over and over again while sipping my coffee, I stared at the man in the video and told him, ‘It’s better to come to the mountains ten times and go home, than to come once and never go home. You will be back.’
CHAPTER 11
VINSON MASSIF, ANTARCTICA
…
Antarctica has been home to some of the greatest adventures of all time; many stories have told of feats of courage and endurance on the continent by some of the most stoic men in history. The early polar explorers would spend years in her frozen embrace, out of touch with the rest of the world, focused purely on survival and achieving their missions. I had read books growing up on Robert Falcon Scott and his South Pole Terra Nova expedition of 1910, where he spent almost three years striving to reach his goal. Upon finally making it to the Pole on 17 January 1912 he was struck by the reality that a Norwegian team under the charge of Roald Amundsen had beaten him there by four weeks. Scott’s team perished on the return journey, paying the ultimate price for pushing the human body to its absolute limit in one of the harshest environments on earth.
These stories of human courage ending in tragedy might deter some people from venturing into these myth-making places but for me they always conjured up one question: do I have what it takes to do what these guys did? I was drawn to these wild places and when an attempt on Vinson Massif – the tallest mountain in Antarctica at 4892 metres – became a reality in January 2012, I was jumping out of my skin to get down there. I was about to go where the pioneers of polar exploration had gone before me, men who forged a lifestyle as professional adventurers that allowed guys like me to follow in their footsteps over 100 years later.
I flew to the small town of Punta Arenas on the southern tip of the Patagonian region in Chile. The town’s population was 100,000 varying greatly between summer and winter, with the warmer seasons inviting tourists and adventurers from all over the globe. Its location was used as a staging point for all kinds of tours, ocean voyages and Antarctic expeditions. I had signed on with Adventure Consultants, who were leading the expedition and had employed logistical support from ALE (Antarctic Logistics and Expeditions), a company that had the only large-scale operation capable of flying climbers, scientists and tourists down to the Antarctic. In the days of Scott and Amundsen it took years to reach the South Pole, but now a tourist could pay a small fortune, around $50,000, to a company like ALE, who could fly them to the Pole on a daytrip for a photo and a ‘cup of tea’. Times have indeed changed and I wonder what the great men of polar exploration would think of it all.
I stepped off the plane with Vitidnan, my old Thai comrade from Carstensz, who was joining me on this climb. I had stayed in touch with him and we had become great friends since our saga in the jungle. We were met at the airport by Mark from Adventure Consultants, who was the lead guide and a local to Wanaka in the South Island of New Zealand. He had been to Antarctica on multiple expeditions and was a professional mountain guide who had grown up with snow and ice in his blood. Mark was a really friendly guy and we all got along great from the beginning, with the Australian and New Zealander banter breaking the ice for all of us. The rest of the team arrived shortly after with George and Stephen landing from Canada and Robert from the USA. We were a small international team all beaming big smiles and shaking hands. We loaded into a van, piling all of our duffle bags into the trailer, and made our way over to the hotel.
That night Mark took the team out for our first dinner together and our first briefing of the upcoming adventure. The wind was blowing steady and the temperature was cold as we walked through the historic little town that was founded in 1848, originally as a penal colony. We followed the cobbled streets down to the waterfront and made our way to a small restaurant that looked out over the ocean. Inside it was warm, friendly and bursting with conversation from the locals and travellers who were all enjoying the food and drink. We sat down and I immediately started to devour the fresh bread and butter that lined the table while the others ordered wine and beer. I wasn’t interested in drinking plus I was starving and fresh bread was one of my favourite foods on the planet. Growing up in the centre of Australia we lived thousands of kilometres from the closest bakery so Mum made bread herself and that fresh bread smell always took me back to my childhood.
Over dinner Mark gave us a rundown on current events, weather conditions down on the ice and our plans over the next few days. We had to prep all of our gear and be ready to fly down to Antarctica at a moment’s notice. ALE would find a weather window when the conditions were good for take-off from Punta Arenas, and good for when we landed on the ice runway in Antarctica. It all had to be coordinated precisely so we had to be flexible and ready to run to the plane at a moment’s notice, day or night; night not being much of an issue as the sun stays up for twenty-four hours a day during the summer season, which was when we would be climbing. During winter however, the Antarctic is plunged into darkness for up to three straight months. I was buzzing after our first team dinner and couldn’t wait to get on that plane and see the ice with my own eyes.
I didn’t have to wait long. After two days of sorting gear and buying the bits and pieces I needed in Punta Arenas the call came through from ALE at 6.40 pm telling us to be at the airport ready for our flight by 7 pm. We had an open weather window but it was closing fast and if we missed it bad conditions were forecast for the following three days. It was panic stations as we crammed gear into duffel bags and piled into the waiting van. We made it to the plane right on time and we all climbed aboard the intimidating looking craft. The Ilyushin was a Russian-made cargo plane designed specifically for extreme weather conditions, and was the lifeline to the ALE base in Antarctica. It was a monster of a craft that flew in people, vehicles, fuel and food, and ferried out all human waste on the return journeys, urine included. My first thought upon seeing it was ‘how the hell does that thing land on ice?’ The inside of the plane was fitted with old passenger airline seats and as we were ticked off the passenger list by the waiting crew we all found a seat and settled in for take-off.
The temperature in Antarctica when we landed was going to be minus 20 degrees Celsius so we had to wear all of the protective clothing on the plane, ready for when the door cracked open. Hearing protection was handed out by the crew, and as the Ilyushin fired up her big engines, I quickly put them in my ears; the noise and vibration was deafening as we taxied to the end of the runway. This definitely wasn’t a commercial airliner, and to be honest, I was happy about the discomforts, as it gave me the feeling that the adventure had finally begun. We roared forward and as the wheels separated from the ground, the safety, and the known, a big smile crept across my face. We were headed to the unknown and I couldn’t be happier, my dream was becoming a reality.
Four and a half hours later we were descending towards the ice, the lack of windows on the Ilyushin only allowing views of the cargo plane’s interior, and as the engines wound back and the wheels touched down we could have been landing anywhere. We came to a stop and the doors cracked open, letting the midnight sun beam through the opening. The freezing air forced its way inside, which quickly made us all zip up tight and pull our gloves on. I stepped into the doorway and stopped, allowing the glare to slowly fade and let my eyes adjust. The scene in front of me was an image that can never be described accurately with words, it’s something that can only be witnessed and felt in real time.
Ice and snow were everywhere, deep blue under our feet forming the concrete-like runway the mighty Ilyushin had touched down on. In the distance, pyramids of black stone rose sharply out of the whitest snow I had ever seen,
the bold formations in absolute contrast to the pristine whiteness of their surroundings. The air was crisp, clean and cold, and harsh on my throat as I breathed it in, my lungs never having sampled unpolluted, minus-20-degree air before. I stepped down onto the snow, which made a crunch under my boots, and as I took in the 360-degree view of Union Glacier and the surrounding Heritage Range it felt like I was on another planet entirely.
There was a gentle breeze blowing and it was more than enough to make me pull my puffy jacket tight around my face. I tentatively walked across the sections of blue ice and onto the thick snow piled at the edge of the runway. The landing strip itself is a true feat of human engineering that is maintained throughout the summer season by graders, trucks and personnel. Specific care is taken to safeguard the environment against oil and fuel leaks, and every winter the entire base is shut down and all human waste is flown out to South America. We were loaded into vehicles that were a mix between a normal four-wheel drive and a tank. The wheels had been replaced by belts similar to that on a tank, which gave the vehicle much more traction and manoeuvrability on the snow and ice.
It was a short drive to the dome tents, small structures and antennas we could see in the distance. At 3 am in the morning we pulled up at the ALE base. It was quiet while everyone slept but a staff member tasked with settling us in was up and greeted us as we stepped down from the truck. We were shown where the kitchen was, the designated camping areas and the toilet blocks. All faeces were collected in airtight barrels and flown out on return journeys inside the Ilyushin. Next to the toilets there were large white barrels full of orange liquid, these were the urine depositories. At night while camping in freezing conditions we would use 1-litre bottles to collect our pee and in the morning the urine barrel was where it would be emptied. All urine was then flown out to Punta Arenas for processing. The regulations around waste management were repeated to us multiple times; not even toothpaste was to be spat on the ground, it was to go into the barrels as well. It was great to see everyone doing their best to look after the environment down on the unspoiled frozen continent.
We erected our tents and crawled inside. My sleeping bag that was once overkill and made me sweat now proved essential in the harsh snowy expanse. The storms that were forecast and initiated our panicked departure from Punta arrived shortly after we bedded down. The wind picked up and the snow fell in large fluffy flakes covering the top of my tent. The adrenaline and excitement of the day had dissipated and I drifted off to sleep listening to the snow slide down the side of the tent like a mini avalanche coming to rest in a pile a few feet from my face. I awoke hours later to the same sunlight that was present during the night – the sun not going down was going to take some getting used to. It was 10 am, I was still fairly tired but my hunger forced me to my feet to go searching for the kitchen. The kitchen tent was for everybody at the base and ALE employed full-time cooks for the summer season, and what they had prepared that morning blew me away.
I walked into the kitchen after removing my big puffy jacket at the double-door entry, and inside the second set of doors was a warm oasis smothered in the smell of coffee and bacon. It was a free-for-all and as I loaded my tray and devoured bacon, eggs, toast, coffee and juice it was easily the best breakfast I had enjoyed in months. Nobody looked like they were holding back on the portion sizes; for many of us it would be our last hot meal before we ventured out into the wild white wilderness and battled against the cold. When it comes to surviving extremely cold environments extra calories are your friend so as I loaded my plate with helping number two there was not a hint of guilt present.
The rest of that day was spent reorganising gear into sled-loads and practising our rope-tying skills while wearing gloves and with big down mitts on. That last thing we wanted to get was frostbitten fingers while up on Vinson, so being able to do intricate tasks with big mitts was an essential skill. From the ALE base a number of small bush planes flew climbers, scientists, photographers and tourists out to destinations within flight range of Union Glacier. These flights had to be well coordinated and planned to current weather forecasting. No flights were heading out our first day at the base; weather conditions were average and everyone was held in limbo waiting for the weather to clear. After dinner I found myself standing at the edge of the base, staring out at the vast white desert. Facing away from the mountain range the ice stretched as far as the eye could see and then much further. The sheer scale of Antarctica was mind-blowing and to think about the early explorers hauling all their supplies for many months out there in the wild was extremely humbling. I hoped I could live up to their courageous example of what humans were capable of.
I slept for eleven hours that night and woke up to a cold morning feeling refreshed and ready for anything. The weather was slightly better with minimal snow falling and the winds had calmed. After another delicious breakfast we ventured out onto the glacier to practise moving together as a team dragging sleds, wearing crampons and using snow shoes. We then spent time practising crevasse rescue procedures in preparation for anything that might happen during our ascent of Vinson. The Antarctic ice in places can be 4 kilometres thick and the mountains that we can see, including Vinson Massif, are actually the top of the mountains protruding out of the ice shelf. The constant movement of the ice causes fractures and huge crevasses, especially in the glaciers sloping down from the mountains. The harsh environment made our ability to deal with crevasse rescue all the more important and we spent many hours going over the drills until Mark was satisfied everyone had a good understanding of what to do.
Halfway through dinner that night an ALE staff member came over to our table and said, ‘Get your gear guys, your flight to Vinson base camp is on.’ We exploded into action, and I yelled ‘Game on lads!’ simultaneously devouring what was left on my plate and dismantling my tent with lightning speed. I heard the Twin Otter’s propellers start to wind up and we loaded our gear into the back of the small craft and climbed aboard. The little Otter roared to life and all of us were wearing big smiles as we became airborne and watched the small clusters of tents fall away below us. The white horizon expanded in our view, the higher we climbed the more ice and snow we could see in all directions. The black tips of mountains exposed to the wind could be seen clearly along with the gaping black cracks of the crevasses. The mouths of large crevasses lay open, gaping wide, ready to receive their next meal; smaller ones were covered with a thin veneer of snow, like a hidden predator behind a light blue veil, still big enough to swallow a climber whole.
The fifty-minute flight flew 151 kilometres over some of the most incredible scenery a human being could ever witness. It was an unspoilt spectacle of Mother Nature and its intimidating beauty made me feel very vulnerable yet privileged at the same time. We descended towards the Sentinel Range with the highest peak, Vinson Massif, standing proud in the distance. The skis attached to the Twin Otter touched down gently at a flat point on a large glacier; the pilot’s skill on landing reminded me of the bush pilots in Alaska. These guys were a rare breed and I was very grateful for their expertise. We unloaded our gear while the pilot stayed in his seat and kept the propellers spinning. Once we were clear he spun the aircraft around, pointed the nose downhill and roared away. We all sat huddled around our pile of packs and sleds watching the tiny plane disappear on the horizon, the roar of the engines was replaced with the deafening silence of the Antarctic.
We organised our gear and dug some flat areas of snow to erect our tents – it was close to 9 pm and I was ready for bed. I kept my tent open so I could stare out at the ice in the distance until the drop in temperature forced me to close it and zip up my sleeping bag tight around my face. It was minus 25 degrees Celsius which meant having my water bottle and pee bottle in my bag with me so they wouldn’t freeze solid overnight. I also needed to have all of my batteries in with me as well, the cold would empty a battery of power in a single night, so I kept them all in my pockets close to my body. I drifted off to sleep in
a cocoon of comfort, surrounded by a deep-freeze wilderness.
It was cold but I managed to get a great sleep and trying to use my pee bottle halfway through the night without spilling it into my bag was my biggest challenge. Our first day at Vinson base camp was a rest and acclimatisation day. We were camping at 2100 metres and the following day we would move up to our low camp at around 2800 metres. We busied ourselves preparing our sleds for the climb, and for lunch Mark whipped us up some toasted ham and cheese sandwiches. We had a practice sled haul, moving together as a team up the glacier to the start of the open crevasses and back down again. Everyone was moving well, we had gelled together as a team and we were all keen to get climbing the following day.
Getting up early didn’t have the same meaning in Antarctica, as the sun was always shining when it wasn’t hidden behind the mountains, and if it was 6 am or 6 pm it all felt the same to me. Sleds were packed, team gear was split among us evenly and everything was tied down ready to haul. After some oatmeal and coffee we roped in together and began our climb up to low camp. It was freezing when we were stationary, but once we started moving and hauling a sled, I warmed up quickly and had to take off a couple of layers. The sun was shining bright, it was a beautiful day and as we worked hard making slow progress up towards Vinson I was having the time of my life. We stopped every ninety minutes for water and a rest and I made sure I grabbed a few pictures every time we did. Mount Tyree, the second highest mountain in Antarctica at 4852 metres, and Mount Shinn, at 4661 metres, were looking incredible as we trudged into our low camp position, seven hours after leaving base camp. It was a tough day carrying packs and hauling sled but we had all done really well, moving together at a steady pace without any injury or incidents.
One Life One Chance Page 21