by Gray, Gordon
Belugas
It is our last day in the Islands and on the last afternoon we are out in the Zodiacs again cruising along the ice edge when some distance away we see a movement of white on the black water. We watch for it again, and there it is, and then another. Round, white shapes are bobbing about. Excitement mounts as we all want it to be something that it may not be! We motor closer, slowly. There it is again, and another; now there is no doubt; we have finally found belugas, the rare white whales of the Arctic. We slowly motor over to them. They are feeding near the ice front and, as we watch, they surface for air, roll their backs and go down again. This is a magical, thrilling moment. They are not big by whale standards. They probably range between about 12 to 20 feet long but are pure white all over. This is the first time I have seen them in the wild. We get within a few feet of where they have been seen and turn off the engine. The sea here is black with mud and dirt washed out from the glacier a few yards away, so we can not see down in to the water. We sit in silence, watching and listening for any sound or sight to indicate that they were about to surface. They surface close to the boats to see what we are then carry on feeding down below. They are so silent that they always catch us unawares and they surface and breathe before we have time to turn round to see them properly. They always beat us. A stage whispered ‘There!’ from someone and as we turn, so the soft-looking, pure-white back rolls and disappears from view. When you see belugas in places like Sea World, where you can see them underwater through viewing windows, they always look as though their skins are too big for them, like a diver in a white, rubber, drysuit three sizes too big. The smiling, inquisitive look that they always seem to have and the sing-song noise of their call (they were called sea canaries by early whalers), make them enchanting animals. But, they are also very rare and sightings are few and far between. They carry on feeding undisturbed by our visit. Reluctantly, we leave them and return to the ship to gloat about our sightings to those who did not come.
Yamal
We had heard that the nuclear icebreaker Yamal was meant to be passing through Franz Josef Land and was possibly coming our way. She has just been to the North Pole and is on her way back to Murmansk. She is twice the size of Kapitan Dranitsyn and with three times the power. She should be in the same area as us as we move into one of the north/south channels between the islands. Patchy fog lies in banks around the islands and the view to the north is masked. Captain Sergei stops the ship in an area clear of fog and we wait. Then, as we watch, Yamal emerges through the fog bank. Her squat red superstructure, black hull and the distinctive shark’s teeth painted round her bows are easily recognisable. Everyone comes on deck including the crew. One of the waitresses from the Dining Room asks to borrow my binoculars so she could find her friend who is working on Yamal. She does, and there are lots of girlie squeals and waving to and fro as the two ships lie stopped about a hundred feet apart. Other crew members find their friends or relations on Yamal and vice versa. As they do so, little groups of squeals and males calling across the water rings out. We are the only two ships in thousands of miles of ice-covered ocean. You tend to forget that in Murmansk the sole industry is the sea. It is natural that the crews all know each other and live close to one another. They will have brothers and uncles, daughters and cousins working on the merchant ships and icebreakers, trawlers and naval ships that operate out of Murmansk. We all take photos of the other ship as we lie still in the clearing in the fog. After a while, the Yamal slowly heads off on her way back to Murmansk, leaving us for our last night in these beautiful islands. Tonight is to be Russian night and the crew do not let us down with a decorated dining room, colourful table linen and a wonderful Russian meal, with borsht, beef, potatoes and of course, vodka! All served with pride and a flourish.
The nuclear-powered icebreaker Yamal emerges from the mist near Hooker Island having been to the North Pole.
Murmansk Again
So, after many days in the most fantastic of places, we head back across the Barents Sea on the two-day steam back to Murmansk. Now it is time to pack our cases and get ready for the trip home. We arrive back in Murmansk during the night and wake up to find ourselves alongside the wharf from which we sailed. We sadly leave the ship and are taken back to the airport by bus. Even though we were the only flight of the day, the Russian authorities were unable to decide how we should be processed and which check-in desk to use. So, after a delay of nearly one and a half hours, we finally get checked in for the flight and checked out of Russia. They then call us forward to get on the bus to go out to the aircraft. I have both of our boarding passes in my hand. As we leave the building, Doreen is immediately behind me but is stopped by the security guard. He has decided that this bus is full and as I step outside the door is firmly shut behind me. I get on the bus then realise that I am holding Doreen’s boarding Pass. This could be a problem! I get off the bus at the foot of the aircraft steps. A tall, serious and unhappy-looking security guard with a tall-fronted, peaked cap is standing barring the way up the stairs. He demands to see everyone’s boarding pass. I show him both mine and Doreen’s boarding passes. He looks blank. I point at the terminal and say ‘Wife’. He does not appear to have even heard me but just grunts and gives me a look that said ‘You stupid tourist’, and then lets me get on the plane. ‘Oh boy’, I am thinking, ‘what happens now when Doreen gets to the aircraft with no boarding pass? Will they let her on? Even if they do, she is going to kill me. Oh well, at least I have had my holiday and if she is not allowed on and is carted off to the local salt mines she won’t be able to shout at me anyway so that’s all OK.’ The next bus arrives at the aircraft with the remaining passengers. I watch from the aircraft as she gets off. She gets to the steps and is stopped by the guard. Now the fun will start! She shows the guard that she has no pass, smiles at him and points at the plane and says something to him. The guard just grunts and she walks straight up the stairs! No passport check, no boarding pass, nothing, just a smile! When she sits down beside me, I am given a look that says it all; ‘You stupid tourist!’
CHAPTER 9
The North Pole
Attempt to reach the North Pole with Victor Boyarsky
The idea that I could actually get to the North Pole had taken root the year before and it had started with the offer of vodka! Doreen and I were on board the Russian Icebreaker, Kapitan Dranitsyn, on an expedition to Frans Josef Land. The ship had reached the ice covered waters off Cape Fligely, the most northerly point of land in Europe and Asia. We were now just a few hundred miles from the North Pole, yet unable to get ashore on Cape Fligely as the sea ice prevented the use of Zodiacs and the low cloud prevented the use of the helicopter. Doreen and I stayed out on deck, wrapped up in our warm, down-filled parkas and fur hats, taking in the atmosphere of the place. We felt almost within touching distance of the Pole; it was there, somewhere beyond the white, windswept ice pack that now stretched, uninterrupted, all the way to the North Pole and beyond. Snow flurries blew round the decks and the wind moaned gently over the ice. The captain waited in hope that the weather might change and we could somehow get ashore, but at last, after hanging about for a few hours, he decided it was not going to improve, so it was time to move on. The ship turned back towards the west and we left Cape Fligely to its solitude.
The thought of going to the North Pole had always fascinated me. To stand on the very top of the world, in the middle of an ocean of ice, from where every direction was south and from where in every direction there was more, endless, floating ice. To be one of just a few thousand or so who have been there had always been a dream. However, it was also somewhere that I never really thought I would ever go. After all, I was no Ranulph Fiennes or Wally Herbert. I certainly did not have the Arctic skills and experience, nor the funding, to mount my own expedition; at nearly sixty, I was not going to be selected to join anyone else’s. However, the fascination and the dream remained. Although I had been to the Arctic a few times before, I had never been onto the po
lar ice cap itself. Here at Cape Fligely, I imagined that this was as near as I would ever get.
We went back inside and away from the cold, windswept decks, and started down towards the warmth of the cabin to thaw out. On the way down we met Victor Boyarsky, our expedition leader.
‘Are you coming to the bar for a vodka to celebrate the most northerly point of the expedition?’ asked Victor, who was clearly heading in that direction.
‘What a great idea! Of course we will.’
A few minutes later, as the pack ice drifted past the windows and Nostrovias (toasts) were called to celebrate the event, we settled down to enjoy the warmth of the bar, the vodka and Victor’s company. The bar was deserted so the three of us chatted freely. After the second vodka Victor began chatting about his life.
Dr Victor Boyarsky is a polar legend in his homeland of Russia. He is a well built and bearded man, whose age was hard to guess but he looked every inch a polar explorer. He always has a ready smile and a friendly comment. He looks like a Russian bear with his big bushy beard and wild hair. We already knew from his presentations on board that he was a Doctor of Glaciology and had worked for a number of years at the Russian Vostok Base in Antarctica. He had led dog sledge expeditions across the Greenland Ice Cap from south to north, and skied across Antarctica with dog teams via the South Pole and the Pole of Inaccessibility. He had led trans-Arctic expeditions and crossed the Bering Strait in winter from Russia to Alaska as well. Victor is the Director of the Arctic and Antarctic Museum in St Petersburg and runs his own company, Vicaar, which specialises in polar travel and expeditions. He leads by example and as we had seen on this trip, keeps a firm control of his charges. Heaven help anyone who does not follow Victor’s instructions! Victor inspires confidence and trust and everyone feels comfortable with him. During a man overboard emergency in Frans Josef Land, when a crewman fell from a Zodiac as it was being lowered into the sea, he proved that he leads from the front in a clear, strong and decisive manner.
As we savoured our vodka, he told us that each year he sets up and runs an ice station called Barneo on the polar ice cap at 89 degrees north, just 60 miles from the pole, on behalf of the Russian Government. I remembered the film Ice Station Zebra and recalled the icy desolation depicted in the film and the crazy, romantic notion of a tented camp floating on 2 feet of ice above the deep, cold, Arctic Ocean.
‘I set it up for the Government and run it for the few weeks of spring that it operates. We have done this since 2002. Normally it is in April, depending on the weather. I also lead some skiing trips to the Pole from there and we can also use helicopters too.’
‘But how do you build an ice station?’ I asked. ‘How do you start?’
Victor explained how the camp is run under the auspices of the Russian Geographical Society and his Company, Vicaar, do the work.
‘First we fly two helicopters from the Taimyr Peninsula in northern Siberia to about 89-North and around 120-140 East. We have to refuel on the way and to do that we have a fuel dump on the ice at about 87-North, which is dropped by parachute from an Iliyshin 76 aircraft. We look for an area of large flat, solid, multiyear ice suitable for making a runway. When we find one, we land and set up a temporary camp. Then the Iliyshin makes a parachute drop with our two bulldozers and we start making a runway. Once we have bulldozed a flat area for the runway, and it has to be at least 1,200 metres long, we spray the whole runway area with seawater, pumped up through the ice, and leave it to freeze. Normally it needs temperatures of about -20 or -30 degrees Celsius to do the job properly. When it has frozen, an Antonov 74 flies in, bringing the rest of the staff, all the camp equipment and supplies. At the end of the season everything is packed up and flown back to Longyearbyen and then back to Moscow, where it is stored, until the following year.’ He made it sound so simple.
Here was the man who had been to both poles and now who took other would be explorers to the pole. I heard myself asking a question.
‘Could you take me to the pole?’
‘Of course, of course! Why not?’ Victor replied without hesitation.
‘Seriously Victor, I am not a young man anymore and apart from the odd visit to the gym and a round of golf I am not anyone’s idea of a honed, super athlete, nor a polar explorer. I have done some cross country skiing but only at the winter holiday level.’
‘If you want, you can come with me’, he said with a serious face, ‘I will take you. I will give you proper training in Spitzbergen first and make sure it is all OK. Most years I take a small team of novices on a short two- or three-day ski trip, and cover the last few miles to the pole. I can add you to such a team, which I will lead. Of course it is important that we all have three or four days’ proper training together in Spitsbergen before we set out. The others will all be of similar experience to you. Everything will be fine’, he assured me.
‘But how do we get to your ice station?’
‘That is easy. We fly there from Longyearbyen, on Spitsbergen, in our excellent Russian Antonov 74.’
I was sold. I looked at Doreen and waited for that look. You know, the one that wives give their husbands that says ‘And just what do you think you are doing?’ Doreen sat still and was as entranced as I was as Victor spoke easily and warmly, as if going to the pole was no more than going to the supermarket on a cold day.
I began to imagine that perhaps a dream could come true. All I needed to do was to make the commitment. Oh yes, and find the money! This trip would not be cheap. Doreen was totally for it and pushed me to say yes.
‘The money is irrelevant’, she told me back in the cabin ‘We can find the money and once it’s gone, it’s forgotten! You will never get another chance like this and never forgive yourself if you do not go now!’ As usual, she was right.
We met up with Victor again later that year at an event at the Scott Polar Research Institute in Cambridge and we discussed it all over again. I still had doubts that Victor would really want to take me with him. But he was still confident that there would be no problem.
‘You are fit man, I will make sure all is OK and I will be there for the training and the trip’.
The plan was to fly from Longyearbyen to the ice station, then take a helicopter to about 25–30 miles from the pole. We would spend three days skiing the final few miles to the pole where the helicopter would pick us up. He emphasised that he would lead both the training in Spitsbergen and the expedition. If he had any doubts he would not let me go. As long as Victor was confident that I could do it, and as long as he would be leading the whole trip, then I decided I would do it.
‘Talk to Per Magnus at Polar Quest, he will fix everything and he talks to my office a lot, so it is easy. You can pay him in UK money too, so no need for roubles’, he smiled. Polar Quest is the Swedish travel firm run by Per Magnus through whom we had arranged the Frans Josef Land expedition. All I had to do now was get to Spitzbergen in April the following year.
Day 1, Sunday 15 April 2007
After months of impatient and apprehensive waiting, the day of departure finally arrived. Doreen drove me to Edinburgh Airport. It seemed a bit unreal, sitting in the car on my way to the North Pole. I felt nervous, excited and a bit scared; but of what, exactly? The cold? Failure? Falling through the ice? It was impossible to say.
‘What are you nervous about?’ Doreen asked. ‘There will be no problem, Victor will be there and if there is anyone you trust, it is Victor!’ She was right. Whatever it was I just wanted to get away and begin the trip.
I had with me with all the clothes and equipment that were on the endless list that Victor’s people in St Petersburg had sent me. Stuffed in to my case were different weights of thermal underwear, fleeces, socks, tent socks, gloves, spare gloves, ski goggles. Oh, of course not forgetting the vital pee bottle for the tent. I would get even more specialist clothing in Spitsbergen from Victor’s team there. I had been working on my fitness since last summer with regular gym visits and was feeling fit. But will that be enou
gh? Time will tell.
Day 2, Monday 16 April 2007
After a restless night at an airport hotel in Oslo, I gave up trying to sleep and got up at about 5 a.m. I had some breakfast, returned to the airport and checked in for the SAS Longyearbyen flight. I was still feeling anxious but excited – the next time I came through here I should have been to the Pole, I told myself. I knew I would never get another chance to try to do this. I knew that once I got to Spitsbergen and met up with Victor and we started the arctic training all would be well. We arrived at Longyearbyen, having had glorious views of Spitsbergen’s snow-clad mountains, gleaming in the sun as the plane circled round before landing. As the plane touched down, I was blissfully unaware of the events taking place far out on the ice at Camp Barneo, or of the difficulties that lay ahead.