by Chris Turney
Even the endpoint of the so-called race, the South Geographic Pole, long derided as having no scientific value, now has one: the permanent American Amundsen–Scott South Pole Station hosts IceCube, a multimillion-dollar research project funded by the US, Sweden and Germany to investigate the nature of matter itself. A cubic kilometre of ice holds one of the largest instruments in the world, made up of more than five thousand detectors, spread across eighty-six holes drilled down nearly 2.5 kilometres. The South Geographic Pole is an ideal location for trying to detect elusive particles known as neutrinos. Electrically negative, with little mass, neutrinos are one of the building blocks of atoms, created by the sun and supernovae. Most travel through the Earth unimpeded, without any of us even being aware of them. Occasionally, however, they interact with the matter they pass through. Because of its location and the purity of ice, IceCube can detect when a neutrino strikes a water molecule by the small pulse of blue light created. From this, scientists can identify the direction from which the neutrinos came and how much energy they contain, giving insights into their origin in the universe. Only a large detector is capable of picking up these incredibly rare events. The explorers of 1912 would have been impressed.
More importantly, 1912 tells us something special about scientific exploration: how it was funded, undertaken and communicated so effectively a century ago. I am not sure we manage this so well now. The distinction between science and exploration did not exist then as it does today. When you explored in 1912, you undertook science; the activities were essentially synonymous. And it excited the public. With the latest technology rolled out to help conquer new land came a groundswell of interest.
In 1912 people made history happen when governments were not keen to fully fund an Antarctic venture. Anyone could help their favourite explorer out with a little contribution; small companies, as sponsors, could get their products in the pages of newspapers whether or not an expedition was successful; business people could have a new discovery in Antarctica named after them, buying a slice of immortality. It was an amazing time in which the radical suddenly seemed possible.
It was, too, the dawn of the modern science documentary. All the expeditions of 1912 took film with them, and only the whereabouts of the German movie is unknown. The other expeditions embraced film as a new way of communicating the spoils of their discoveries to an eager public.
Books and newspaper reports also helped. As early as 1830 the founding members of the new Royal Geographic Society recognised that ‘a vast store of geographic information existed in Great Britain, yet it is so scattered and dispersed, either in large books that are not generally accessible, or in the bureaus of the public departments, or in the possession of private individuals, as to be nearly unavailable to the public.’ The new society, and its journal, meant new ideas were accessible to anyone with a passing interest in the subject. Newspaper barons’ money helped get projects started and guaranteed full news coverage, almost instantly. Even if you were not backed by one of the main players in the industry, an expedition south could garner front-page coverage and help raise funds.
When expedition parties returned home, their stories were written and the books published almost immediately, with science incorporated in the tales. Only later were formal scientific reports written up. The money for exploration depended on capturing the public mood, and speed of delivery was everything. The public craved rattling tales, which meant the authors would sometimes step outside their comfort zones. Cherry wrote tellingly after his return: ‘When I went South, I never meant to write a book: I rather despised those who did so as being of an inferior brand to those who did things and said nothing about them.’ But the expedition changed his mind: ‘every one who has been through such an extraordinary experience has much to say and ought to say it.’ Even Mawson, a scientist first and foremost, started work on The Home of the Blizzard during his enforced winter stay in the south. These early books provided the masses with great entertainment, combining tragedy, excitement, discovery and comradeship.
Returning a hero, however, was sometimes as hazardous as being on the ice. Tales of crew members being mobbed and trophies being taken from expedition vessels were common. Sometimes samples were requested and, if not made available, carried off. As Shackleton’s Nimrod expedition made its way back, some entrepreneurial sailors decided to collect rocks from the New Zealand shore and sell them as Antarctic souvenirs, making tens of pounds a week from sales.
For the expedition leaders, there never seemed to be enough money. As Thomas Huxley put it, ‘Science in England does everything—but pay. You may earn praise but not pudding.’ So much depended on success, and often pre-expedition hyperbole was needed to enthuse the public.
Not everyone liked the way expeditions were pitched, though. Mawson’s second-in-command, Davis, commented: ‘Recent expeditions have had to beg for funds. Really useful work has too often been sacrificed to the purely spectacular. The explorer, who is handicapped by debt, may be tempted to stimulate the public with sensational feats: the temptation is difficult to resist—or justify. To the explorer who has not the money to provide good equipment of every kind, my advice is “Keep out of the Antarctic!”’
Amundsen was of a similar mind, declaring in The South Pole that previous claimants of geographical quests were often guilty of ‘romancing rather too bare-facedly’. But we should remember that Heinemann withdrew an offer to publish the Norwegian’s book over fears about his ability to communicate the excitement of what he had achieved. No matter how high-minded you wanted to be, spinning a yarn was essential in plugging an idea.
Over time scientific funding was centralised and the public lost sight of what was happening. Governments required outputs, boxes had to be ticked, and communication switched to telling other scientists the results—the story is the same in so many professions. Narratives describing the excitement of scientific exploration became the exception rather than the norm.
Edgeworth David was on to something when he joined Shackleton in 1907: science can compete with sport when working in extreme environments. As David wrote in 1904, ‘Has she [science] not taught men to be fearless in the pursuit of truth—taught them to sacrifice all for the truth?’ Although there was little scientific value at the time in making an attempt on the South Geographic Pole, the public loved the thought of the challenge. They wanted to take part as much as possible, supporting the different expeditions in many different ways.
At the time of David’s London lecture in 1914 Shackleton was working towards his Imperial Trans-Antarctic Expedition, and he made a perceptive point:
A lot of people say ‘Don’t go and do spectacular things,’ but deep down in the hearts of everyone who goes to the South Pole is the desire to do something which is of interest to their country. When I went out before we intended to reach the South Pole. We didn’t do it. Every expedition that has gone out has done so in order to get as near the South Pole as possible. The last thing to be done in the Antarctic is try and cross the continent. This may not be actually scientific. There is sentiment attached to it. Sentiment has been the ruling force in every great work that has ever been done, and I shall be sorry when the day comes when science is divorced from sentiment or sentiment from science.
It was this philosophy—this ability to see science, adventure and communication as one—that drew people to Shackleton’s projects.
I fear we’ve since taken a wrong turn. The scientific work continues to be done, but we don’t tell the story in the same way anymore. Scientists have to explain their work to the public; to inspire, to enthuse; to demonstrate the relevance of what they do. In a time of austerity, it is no longer good enough to take public money, keep busy and hide out of sight. The important thing we can learn from 1912 is that scientific work should get the public excited. I don’t believe the public has lost interest, but as a scientist I do wonder whether we could do better. Scientists largely communicate with one another through journals few people can a
fford or understand. As research has become more focused, the language has become more obscure. Research articles are often so specialised that only those in the immediate field can understand what they are about. I believe we can learn from 1912, and try a different approach to reawaken the public passion for scientific discovery and exploration.
Perhaps surprisingly, not all the world has been explored. Although atlases proudly display our planet’s coastlines, there still remain some parts of the globe untouched by humans. Some of these ‘unexplored regions’ are found in Antarctica; others await discovery in places like Greenland, the Amazon, tropical Africa, New Guinea and under the sea. And it’s important. Science and exploration can come together again and make a contribution. It’s not just about putting features on a map: it’s about understanding how the planet works. And as our planet faces ever-greater challenges, exploration of different environments can play an important role in helping to enthuse people about the planet.
We can learn from the discovery of Antarctica at the turn of the previous century and recapture the spirit of the age. We can exploit the expanding range of media to get the public in the field, physically and virtually. As the centenary of this amazing year is celebrated, we can take stock of how the world was electrified by scientific exploration in 1912 and use these lessons to rouse the next generation, to work on the challenges of the future together.
Institutions make wonderful efforts, developing interactive websites and writing fine press releases; but there is not enough of it—and, at a time when people are blitzed with information, scientists must speak over the noise and talk directly to them.
Getting people engaged can only help. As David said in Dunedin in 1904, ‘Science expects every man to learn in the simple way a child learns the great lessons of the universe… she wants him to learn well so that he may live well; to learn well by experiment rather than wholly through the experience of others, so that he may be self reliant and think for himself. Thinking of this kind brings discoveries, and the discoveries of science uplift humanity.’
Scientists might help out at a local school, or describe expeditionary work using instant messaging, or upload fieldwork footage to the web. Aspiring scientists can follow these activities or, if adventurous, join an international expedition organised by groups like Earthwatch Worldwide or Raleigh International that allows people to get directly involved. There is so much to do—and so much more that can be done.
It’s 17 January 2012 and I’m standing among a good-natured crowd at the South Geographic Pole. Despite it being a fresh -35°C, spirits are high. Even one hundred years on, it’s not difficult to imagine what it must have been like when Scott and his men reached this very spot. Away from the research station, the brilliant blue sky frames the seemingly endless white of the Antarctic Plateau, throwing our presence into stark relief. It’s a tremendous privilege to be here: to celebrate the centenary of the great scientific expedition’s arrival.
Although we’re in one of the remotest places on the planet, a large number of the brightly attired throng are tourists, pilgrims to this special place. When asked why they have come, all confess to being inspired by the events of a century ago. It’s the spirit of adventure that’s attracted them. Scott remarked on this before setting out for the pole: ‘We are all adventurers here.’
This is the central lesson from a century ago: scientific exploration still plays a vital role, not only in what we can learn about the world but in how we communicate the importance of that learning. We have to be passionate about its value and, like the expeditions of 1912, reach out.
APPENDIX
Lord Curzon’s Notes
Key sections of Lord Curzon’s handwritten notes from his meetings with Lady Scott (opposite) and Oriana Wilson (overleaf), April 1913. © British Library Board (MSS EUR/F112/51). A transcript of the text follows.
Lady Scott Ma April 16.13 Scotts words in his Diary on exhaustion of food & fuel in depots on his return. He spoke in reference of “lack of thoughtful ness & even of generosity”. It appears Lieut Evans – down with Scurvy – and the 2 men with him must on return journey have entered &
consumed more than their share…
Mrs Wilson told me later there was a passage in her husbands diary which spoke of
the ‘inexplicable’ shortage of fuel & pemmican on the return journey, relating to depots which had not been touched by Meares and which could only refer to an unau thorised subtraction by one or other of the returning parties.
This passage however she proposes to show to no one and to keep secret.
C.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Writing a book has to be one of the most self-indulgent things anyone can do. It wouldn’t be remotely possible without family, friends and colleagues being polite, feigning understanding, nodding at the right time, and giving me the time to talk endlessly about Antarctic exploration and science. It still surprises me just how many ideas come from talking about things. I owe you all a great deal: more than you will ever know.
Many people have patiently answered my questions, dug out files and helped me find my way about. Without the archives dedicated to preserving the documents relating to 1912, this book would never have happened. I’d particularly like to thank Naomi Boneham and Hilary Shibata at the Scott Polar Research Institute in Cambridge (UK); Mr Oyagi, Jun Kato and Ms Sasaki at the Shirase Antarctic Expedition Memorial Museum in Nikaho (Japan); Anne Melgård and Nina Korbu at the National Library in Oslo (Norway); Helmut Hornik at the Filchner Archive in Munich (Germany); Mark Pharaoh at the Mawson Archive in Adelaide (Australia); Peta Hayes, David Smith, Douglas Russell, Polly Parry and Paul Taylor at the Natural History Museum in London (UK); William Frame at the British Library in London; Frank Bowles at the Cambridge University Library; Kevin Leamon at the Mitchell Library in Sydney (Australia); Jan Turner and David McNeill at the Royal Geographical Society in London; Verity Andrews at the University of Reading Special Collections Service (UK); Carol at the Nottingham Central Library (UK), for aiding research; Jane Britten and Libby Watters at the Woollahra Library in Sydney; and Vicki Farmery at the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery in Hobart (Australia). Their help made a huge difference.
A book on this subject and of this scope inevitably ends up being a journey of individual discovery. As part of my day job I was fortunate to work in the Antarctic in 2011 and 2012, and this had a tremendous impact on my understanding of the expeditions in the region one hundred years ago. Antarctic Logistics and Expeditions, the South Georgian government, and the British Antarctic Survey at King Edward Point were all incredibly supportive.
A host of other people also helped me find key facts or assisted me with equipment from 1912. Many thanks to Charlie Bird; Julia Collins at Madame Tussauds; Alan Cooper at the University of Adelaide; Nicholas Cox at the British Antarctic Survey; Richard Dennison at Orana Films; Bryony Dixon at the British Film Institute; Chris Fogwill and Charlotte Cook at the University of New South Wales; Brenda, Martin and Garth Franklin, who put up with me for months on end; Mark George; Stephen Haddelsey; Geir Hasle; Roland Huntford; Richard Jones at the University of Exeter; Matt McGlone at Landcare Research, New Zealand; Kathryn McLeod at the National Film and Sound Archive in Canberra; Greg Mortimer; John Murray; David Newton at the Honiton Clock Clinic; Billy Stevenson; Stephen Tredwin and Chris Turbitt at British Geological Survey; Tas van Ommen at the Australian Antarctic Division; Phil Wickham at the Bill Douglas Centre for the History of Cinema and Popular Culture, at the University of Exeter; and Alan and Nikki Williams, whose humour and everlasting coffee supply kept me going.
Elaine Nipper prepared the fantastic maps—thanks for all your patience on these. Annegret Larsen, and Malin and Espen Hoiseth, kindly helped in translating sections of Wilhelm Filchner’s, Xavier Mertz’s and Hjalmar Johansen’s diaries; without them I would have had little idea what I was reading. I’d also like to thank Bob and Irene Goard at Photantiques, and Ozzie Emery from Mittagong, Australia, who guide
d me in the use of early twentieth-century photography and which buttons to press; I wouldn’t have known what I was doing without their help, and any shocking results are entirely my own responsibility!
I would like to thank the Bickerton, David, Davis, Mawson, Scott and Shackleton estates, for allowing me to quote from private correspondence. Crown copyright documents in the India Office Private Papers of the British Library appear by permission of the Controller of Her Majesty’s Stationery Office. Sarah Strong granted me permission to cite documents held by the Royal Geographical Society. Lady Kennet kindly allowed me to view Lady Scott’s diaries. And Mr William Krasilovsky kindly permitted me to quote from Robert W. Service’s poem ‘The Lure of Little Voices’.
Of course, if I have managed to get the wrong end of the stick on any matter it remains entirely my own fault. Every effort has been made to trace copyright owners, and I would be pleased to rectify any errors or omissions in future editions.
A particularly big thanks to my editor, David Winter, whose enthusiasm, endless patience and tireless good humour kept me focused and helped me to do justice to this incredible story. David, I owe you a few drinks for this one! Many thanks also to Michael Heyward, Rachel Shepheard, Anne Beilby and the other fantastic people at Text Publishing; Kay Peddle and Will Sulkin at Bodley Head; and Jack Shoemaker at Counterpoint Press. I couldn’t have done it without you.
Family is the backbone of any endeavour such as this. My parents, Cathy and Ian, were always enthusiastic. But most importantly my wife, Annette, and children, Cara and Robert, gave me everything I dared hope for: patience, encouragement and a judicious kick up the backside when it was needed.