by Les Stroud
McKinlay’s rushed journey across the Atlantic was indicative of the entire expedition. From the minute he arrived in Victoria, British Columbia, the departure point of the expedition, McKinlay noted the uneasy, frenzied air that seemed to envelop the preparations for the voyage. Even the captain of the Karluk, a Newfoundlander named Bob Bartlett, was uncomfortable with the ship he was meant to command.
The Karluk was an old and largely underpowered ship that had started its life as an Aleutian fishing ship and been converted into a whaler in the 1890s. Although the Karluk had been reinforced prior to the journey north, Bartlett only accepted the mission under the assumption that he would not spend the winter in arctic waters. Stefansson did not seem as concerned: he did not arrive in Victoria until a mere three days before the Karluk and the expedition’s other two ships—the Mary Sachs and the Alaska—were scheduled to sail.
Perhaps Stefansson was comfortable enough in his choice of crew that he knew he could rely on them. Perhaps he was just so confident in his own famous skill level that he had grown complacent, or at least too casual about the organizational process. I’ve done this when putting together various adventures: life becomes too stressful, and the time to properly examine your team seems to run out. And besides, when you’ve done something so many times, it’s easy to believe you can fix problems as you go along. Such thinking can lead to fatal consequences when dealing with high adventures.
Equally critical to an expedition of such enthusiastic proportions is a strong, competent, and available leader. This was even more important as Stefansson’s crew prepared for what might have been several years in the Arctic, where life and death hang in delicate balance at the best of times. Yet Stefansson was hardly there.
Most of the people he had chosen for the expedition—crew members and scientific staff alike—had no ice experience whatsoever. Yet there was one characteristic that Stefansson could not seem to resist: they were available on short notice and would work cheaply for the chance at adventure.
Stefansson was the product of his own fame and had grown dangerously overconfident. In the years to come, he would go on to publish a book called The Friendly Arctic, where he essentially espoused the notion that survival north of the Arctic Circle was relatively easy. Yet, as the crew of the Karluk would learn, surviving the arctic winter—no matter how many supplies you may have with you—is never easy, and far from friendly.
Stefansson had a rather unique view of the importance of his expedition. He seemed to consider its scientific achievements—and perhaps the fame they would heap upon his shoulders—more important than the well-being of his men. Indeed, McKinlay and the others were well on their way north when Stefansson began sending telegrams proclaiming messages such as this one to the outside world:
. . . the attainment of the purposes of the expedition is more important than the bringing-back safe of the ship in which it sails. This means that while every reasonable precaution will be taken to safeguard the lives of the party, it is realised both by the backers of the expedition and the members of it, that even the lives of the party are secondary to the
accomplishment of the work!
I wonder how many would have signed on had they read that before they left. But they never got the chance. The Karluk departed Victoria on June 17, 1913. Three weeks later, the ships arrived in Nome, Alaska, where tons of supplies needed to be sorted and redistributed between the three ships before the journey north and east into Canadian waters.
The crew’s activity level in Nome reached a fevered pitch. But there was little rhyme or reason to their method of packing. No one seemed to be in charge. Crew members ended up on the wrong ships, separated from their scientific gear, unable to perform the tasks that had brought them there in the first place. Some ships carried excessive amounts of one vital supply, only to have none of another. With little organizational leadership from Stefansson, the crew began to sing a familiar tune: they would sort things out on Herschel Island. But Herschel Island was more than a thousand miles away, around the northern coast of North America. The Karluk would never make it.
Stefansson seemed to consider Herschel Island the beginning of the expedition, when in reality it was the halfway point. I have found myself in similar situations at the start of an expedition (while still at home, where supplies are easily found and organized), saying things like “We can pick it up at the little store by the put-in” or “We can get it on the way” or “We can lay things out by the lake and pack there.” What usually happens, though, is that you run out of time and never manage to stop to pick up whatever “it” is, and your packing by the lake becomes a mishmash of throwing things together. This is exactly what the members of the Stefansson expedition were experiencing, though on a much larger scale.
McKinlay wasn’t the only one to doubt Stefansson’s leadership. Several crew members sought a private meeting with their leader, during which they questioned his plans. Stefansson was not happy with their audacity, yet another indication that his ego had grown too large for comfort. It seems to me that Stefansson considered himself a turn-of-the-century rock star, and they had no right to question his methods.
Yet this type of arrogant attitude, combined with Stefansson’s haphazard approach to organizing, is a common refrain when it comes to disaster stories. The problem is that all too often you can’t find the time or the things you need once the adventure gets underway. Sorting things out and getting the proper supplies and equipment needs to be handled before you leave home. If not, there must be absolute certainty that you can get what you need later. It may not be a big deal when you are only missing a few spoons and forks; it’s a different story altogether when it’s gear that your life may depend upon.
Not surprisingly, the expedition was in complete disarray after Nome. Cargo was strewn everywhere and nothing could be found. Everything was hinging on Stefansson’s firm belief that it would all be sorted out on Herschel Island. The voyage was a disaster waiting to happen.
Early August saw the Karluk pass Point Barrow, Alaska, the northernmost point of the United States, and steam steadily toward Herschel Island. Yet travel in arctic waters is a fickle proposition at the best of times, and the ice pack the wooden-hulled ship had been weaving through for the past ten days began to close in. Captain Bartlett tried valiantly to steer her into open water—he was successful on a few brief occasions—but the power of the ice was too much. By August 12, the Karluk was stuck for good, about two hundred miles from her destination. The Mary Sachs and the Alaska suffered similar fates, becoming permanently locked in ice near the Alaska–Yukon boundary. Unlike the Karluk, however, these ships were built to make it through the winter unscathed.
The Karluk spent weeks stuck in the unmoving ice pack, which stretched from the ship to the mainland. The crew members were hobbled by boredom, but did their best to pass the time. They often ventured out onto the jumbled mass of ice to hunt birds and seals, fish through cracks in the ice, or simply admire the strange shapes and hues of the eerie landscape.
By mid-September, Stefansson announced that there was no way the expedition would be able to proceed any farther that year, and should prepare for winter on the ship. Apparently feigning concern about the amount of fresh meat on board, Stefansson also said that he had decided to walk across the ice to the mainland, where he could hunt caribou. Stefansson, along with a team of five, set out. They never returned to the ship.
Two days later, a vicious gale whipped up, breaking apart the massive floe that imprisoned the Karluk. The ship was still trapped, but in a smaller floe no longer attached to land, and was being swept away at a rate of thirty miles per day. McKinlay watched in horror as an ever-widening expanse of black arctic water separated the ship from its so-called leader. There were now twenty-five people on the Karluk: thirteen crew members, six scientists, John Hadley (an employee of the Cape Smythe Trading Company, whom Stefansson had recruited shortly after leaving Nome), and five Inuit guides (including two children).
For decades, people have questioned Stefansson’s decision to go ashore. Some say he knew the ship would eventually break away and he figured that to be stuck on the Karluk was to be stuck in a coffin. I’m not sure. He might simply have been trying to alleviate the intense boredom that characterized his life at the time. Either way, his excuse that the ship was running out of meat was transparently false: the Karluk’s Inuit guides had killed plenty of seals and there was a substantial store of fresh meat on board.
With the Karluk gone, Stefansson modified his plans, though they were no less ambitious. After meeting up with the Mary Sachs and Alaska, he designated a southern party to spend the next three years in an arduous program of scientific discovery. For his own part, Stefansson led a northern party that would roam the Arctic for five years.
Before setting out, though, Stefansson did the right thing and informed Canadian government officials about the loss of the Karluk. Word soon spread around the globe, and newspapers near and far had a field day with Stefansson’s decision to continue with his own agenda after what they saw as a monumental tragedy. How could he carry on when twenty-five lives had seemingly been lost?
Well, we know Stefansson’s feelings on the topic: in the grand scheme of things, the acquisition of new scientific knowledge was worth the sacrifice of a couple dozen lives. Stefansson was even quoted as saying, “I could never see how any one can extol the sacrifice of a million lives for political progress, who condemns the sacrifice of a few dozen lives for scientific progress.” This was certainly Stefansson’s dark side, and one he had the responsibility to share with his crew before he signed them up. But he didn’t. As far as he was concerned, the Karluk was a part of history.
Consider the difference between Stefansson and a true leader of men, Ernest Shackleton, who is said to have placed the following newspaper advertisement before his legendary travels at the bottom of the world:
Men wanted for hazardous journey, small wages, bitter cold, long months of complete darkness, constant danger, safe return doubtful, honor and recognition in case of success. Ernest Shackleton
Shackleton certainly wasn’t holding anything back from his men!
My good friend Gord Laco, a naval history expert, had this to say about the difference between Stefansson and Shackleton: “Stefansson was most certainly a different sort of leader. Shackleton made a practice of keeping the weakest, and sometimes the most troublesome, member of his crew as a tent-mate while on his incredible ice and sea journey. He also made a practice of bringing morning cocoa to his men personally and chatting a moment with each and every one of them. He wasn’t just being nice. . . .
With the choice of tent-mates he was keeping personal touch with his people’s condition and getting negative gossip first hand. With the morning cocoa routine he was doing the same thing but also making each and every man in the company feel he had a personal connection with their leader. And Shackleton knew very well how important his men’s perception of his own morale was to the strength and will to live of the whole crew.”
* * *
Conducting a Reconnaissance Mission
A reconnaissance mission is the safest way to properly assess the surrounding landscape. Choose a destination and take note of the time you left, as well as the general speed and direction of travel. If you don’t have a watch, you can count your steps.
Whenever you come to a major landmark (such as a stream, rock, or cliff ), note the landmark itself, how long it took you to get there, the speed you were traveling, what side the landmark is on, and which way you turned
(or didn’t turn) at this spot.
You can cover many miles of exploration this way, repeating the process as often as necessary. Of course, you need some way to write the information down, preferably as neatly as possible. On the return journey, simply reverse the information. Now you can come back out this way again any time you want, using the reconnaissance map to keep you from getting lost.
* * *
The Karluk wasn’t part of history, though. Not yet. The ship floated along as part of the ice floe for weeks, with no end in sight. In early October, McKinlay and his mates could see open water stretching tantalizingly around the floe to the south, but were powerless to do anything about it. And so they sat, waiting for something—anything—to happen.
They did their best to keep busy. McKinlay took to handicrafts, at one point making a medicine chest for the ship’s doctor. The Karluk’s mechanics overhauled virtually every moving part in the engine room, preparing for a quick getaway should the possibility of escape ever present itself. This not only kept them busy and staved off boredom and depression, but also allowed them to hold on to the only thread of hope they had, a sound survival strategy.
Despite the otherwise dire circumstances, the crew never stopped appreciating the awe-inspiring beauty of the landscape. Stark though it may have been, here was a world few of these young men could ever have imagined, including the teacher McKinlay. The sun reflected off a landscape that stretched seemingly to the end of the world. The ice floes around them rose and fell as if with minds of their own, sometimes crashing together with such force that they would form huge ridges rising dozens of feet into the sky. Polar bears and seals were their constant companions. When darkness fell, the northern lights danced eerily across the night sky.
* * *
The Long, Dark Winter of the Arctic
The regions north of the Arctic Circle are characterized by bright summers when the sun never sets and dark winters when the sky never brightens. The farther north you get from the Arctic Circle, the longer the respective periods of light and dark. And for all the increased energy that around-the-clock sunlight brings, twenty-four hours of murky darkness for months on end can be a maddening proposition.
Most seasoned arctic explorers planned for the psychological challenges brought about by the darkness of arctic winters and filled their men’s time with enough activities and chores to keep them occupied when the land around them faded into the inky night. Whether the crew was taking apart and rebuilding parts of the ship, listening to readings by the captain, or preparing for the day’s slate of physical contests, there was always something to do among the most organized expeditions.
With good reason. Light deprivation has been linked to depression and seasonal affective disorder and can also throw a person’s sleep-wake cycle completely out of whack. Add to that the hopelessness and lack of purpose that often accompany a survival situation, and you can see why keeping busy is so critical. Too bad Captain Bartlett never clued in.
* * *
As strange as it may seem, it is a good strategy to appreciate the beauty of nature around you, even if you are in peril. Most survivors report doing this at one time or another during their ordeals. It is the same as maintaining a sense of humor in your darkest hours. It takes your focus away from the misery of your current situation.
In the meantime, Captain Bartlett was now in charge of the ship. And while he would go on to make some very wise decisions in the months to come, he fell flat in those early days aboard the Karluk. In early October, the ship’s doctor presented Bartlett with a letter requesting that he hold a meeting with the entire crew, where he would lay out his plans for their future. Bartlett confidently replied that no such meeting was necessary, and let the matter end there. So when the doctor presented Bartlett with another letter ten days later, the skipper refused to accept it altogether.
I think Captain Bartlett made a big mistake in avoiding the meetings. It seems like he was living in a world of hope and disbelief, and was essentially denying the grave nature of their situation. To the contrary, he should have done what all good leaders do in survival situations: realistically assess the situation, share that knowledge with the others, and prepare for the worst.
Yet he didn’t. The days passed into weeks, and an oppressive feeling of hopelessness began to take hold of the crew. This sense of overwhelming and contagious apathy can sometimes be w
orse in a large group than a small group. Among a large group, people can sometimes become distractions for one another, forget the gravity of their survival ordeal and focus on the boredom. Small groups usually don’t have the luxury of distraction, however, and tend to focus on—and tackle—the survival situation almost immediately.
So Bartlett missed another opportunity to lead. It was his responsibility to assess the morale of the crew. He should have sensed their despondency and organized games, contests, and activities that have kept other arctic exploration parties eager and vital under similar circumstances. This is especially important when the fundamentals of life—food, water, shelter, clothing—are accounted for and there’s little else to do.
As October turned into November, Bartlett finally seemed to kick into gear when he realized that there was little hope the Karluk would make it through the winter. He chose an area of what he thought to be the oldest and most stable ice on the floe, and ordered the crew to begin moving the ship’s supplies there. Bartlett now recognized that their only hope of survival was to move as much of their cargo as possible off the Karluk, because she was in danger of being crushed and sinking.
It was a good decision, but I believe the captain waited far too long. In the end, they moved all the necessary supplies off the ship, but Bartlett never seemed to consider the mental well-being of his men. He should have started the work effort much earlier, when the men were at risk of sinking into depression. This would have given them something to do to pass their time, a reason for being.
In fact, why not dismantle the ship completely and rebuild it somewhere safe? Of course, it’s easy for me to ask that as I write this, in warmth and comfort. And what if the opposite had happened and a lead opened up and set them free? Either way, if radical action such as dismantling the ship were to be taken, it should have been much earlier. Six days later, McKinlay and the others had moved a massive store of supplies out onto the ice: