“No worries,” he shrugged. “You suppose we’re out of those sastrugi?”
“I wouldn’t know. Flying over this country, I saw s’trugi everywhere.”
There was no wind. A piercing blue sky overhead held a thin gray mist of floating ice crystals, like dust motes, stretching out to that brilliant, burning sun pillar. It was a fiery, biblical apparition dropping straight down from the sun to the land. A rainbow halo encircled the whole show. Looking back to Brad, and then at our two tractors, I remarked, “The CRREL boys call this an im-mo-bi-li-za-tion.”
Mine was only the first immobilization of the day. I stuck many times. So did Red Rider, and so did Elephant Man. Only the D8R remained immune. Our immobilizations came so frequently that Brad and I split our loads five miles out from the evening camp. We shuttled them the rest of the day. That added thirty extra tractor-miles to reach twenty-one made-good.
When Tom told me the surface was better for the PistenBully and the radar, I thanked him, but mentally filed his report OBE—Overcome By Events. Maybe we’d left sastrugi behind, but now we had two tractors shuttling. If that got worse, we’d be seriously tapping our fuel supply.
The next day, Fritzy and the Elephant Man wallowed many times, but curiously Red Rider didn’t. Why? I don’t know, but I was happy for Brad. We posted twenty-eight miles without shuttling. The day after, Elephant Man and Red Rider saw all the immobilizations. Fritzy got off scot-free.
During the afternoon, Greg’s team planted a tall post along the trail, scribed P-100. That meant one hundred miles to Pole. Somewhere within the last twenty miles, we’d topped our second summit. My GPS altimeter showed a high at 9,640 feet. But the surface everywhere around was flat to the horizon. Only our green flag line gave us any hint of direction.
Russ’s voice broke my musings: “Fritzy, can you come back here and give us a tow?”
Russ rode in the Elephant Man with Judy. I looked over my shoulder and spotted their black dot on my northern horizon. They’d be about five miles back. Red Rider was still rolling halfway between us.
A mile north of the post, I passed Brad and waved. He waved back. Just as he did, Red Rider sank.
“I’ll come back for you.”
“Copy.”
When things went well, replies came in the form of “copy that.” Just “copy” meant we were tired.
Russ waited with tow strap at the ready beside the Elephant Man. I wheeled around, and backed up Fritzy. Automatically, Russ dropped my hitch pin through his strap loop, then climbed back aboard Judy’s tractor. I took tension.
“Ready?” I called back to Judy.
“Ready.”
Snatch. Jerk. Fritzy sank. I throttled down and looked back at the Elephant Man. It hadn’t budged. Backing over my tracks, I turned slightly onto fresh snow, and took tension again. “Ready?”
“Ready.”
Snatch, slip, grip, lurch. We crawled forward inching the Elephant Man out of its wallow. Then we were up on surface again.
“I’ll pull you to the hundred-mile post, since I’m going there anyway. I’ll cut you loose there.”
“Fine. Just fine. Really. It’s fine,” Judy came back. She was tired, too.
“Camp will be five miles past that. Do what you can with what you got. Shuttle if you have to.”
“Fine.”
After turning loose of the Elephant Man, I ran a mile back to Brad. Like the Elephant Man, Red Rider had mired to its belly. I got out of Fritzy this time, stretching my back and arms, while Brad hitched the strap.
“You hear all that?”
“You mean ‘five miles’ past the post? Yeah. I’ve already unhitched Snow White. I’ll start my shuttle from here.”
We now had three tractors shuttling in this melee. But at five miles south of the hundred-mile post, we finally camped in two-digit country. That, at least, was another small victory.
“You guys, look at this!” John V. hollered at refueling time.
John stood a ten-foot-long bamboo flagpole on the snow, grasping it as high on the pole as he could. He drove it down six feet into the snow, with one hand, effortlessly.
“John,” I addressed him with mock formality, “One measure of soft snow may be taken as its resistance, or the lack thereof, to penetration. Your flag-penetrometer has sealed the issue. We are in another snow swamp!”
I’d never expected a snow swamp on the Plateau. And now, with two tractors lost, we all ran heavy.
When Brad finished fueling us, he stuffed fuel in the generator tank, in the refrigerated food van’s tank, and in any other place he could find. That left only 120 gallons, 840 pounds, in the tank sled.
“There’s no need to drag twelve thousand pounds of nearly empty steel tank another day. Let’s sidetrack it,” Brad urged.
“Right you are. Thank you. Unhitch it from Stretch’s train. We’ll pull out of here tomorrow without it.” I appreciated Brad’s good thinking, for I had other horrors storming around in my mind.
Another rule of engagement laid on the proof-of-concept project was: “Rely on support from McMurdo only.” Who would declare a draw on South Pole fuel as proof of failure? But shuttling three-miles-for-one from here would drain our fuel … and psyche us out.
Our camp sat ninety-five miles from Pole. Last year we made that distance one long day on the Ross Ice Shelf, on a road. If we dropped our loads now, we could get to Pole in a day with the fuel in our tractors alone. But we were tracking with loads on virgin snow. There was no reason to think the snow was going to change. That evening after dinner I wrote to Dave Bresnahan, now back in the United States:
Dave, we have a situation. We are a hundred miles from Pole, and we find we’re in another snow swamp. We got all our cargo with us, but we’re going to have to shuttle it the rest of the way. To go forward, we will be drawing on our return reserve fuel. Understand, we’re going in no matter what, but whether we turn around and head back to McMurdo, or winter the fleet at Pole, will depend on whether we can take on supplemental fuel at Pole. I have no idea what the fuel situation is in the USAP this season. But I am thinking that if it is anything like last year, my request for fuel will not be welcome. Can you advise?
In a surprisingly fast return that evening—it must have been morning wherever Dave was—he wrote back:
I cannot make the call from here. You must make your case to the NSF Representative-Antarctica in McMurdo. Explain exactly your situation. He will decide.
Al Sutherland occupied the big chair now. He was a good egg whose management area was Marine Science Operations. Before I wrote him, I sent a note to the contractor’s South Pole area manager advising her of my intent to request supplemental fuel from the station’s supply. I’d created a predictor for Pole’s winter fuel consumption some years before. The area manager would greet my request as a threat to next October’s reserve when they would be sucking fumes. But, as Dave said, the NSF would decide.
I also advised her of our probable arrival date: sometime during their two-day Christmas holiday. We’d need a two-day turnaround ourselves for cargo off-loading and rigging for our return traverse. I offered to slow our arrival until after the holiday when the station was back at work.
Then I wrote Al:
The amount of supplemental fuel we will need can only be determined when we get there, but my present estimate is between 1,500 and 2,500 gallons. Alternative choices to fuel re-supply are: 1) We can winter the fleet at Pole, and not return to McMurdo. That risks mission failure in that a round trip traverse is an essential mission component; 2) We can drop our cargo here, one hundred miles from Pole, turn around and get back to McMurdo with what fuel we have. In doing that we will abandon one disabled tractor, presently stationed halfway up the Leverett. This alternative risks total mission failure not only in winning the total distance to Pole, but also in cargo delivery.
Be advised, we are coming in. Can you advise status and permission to take on supplemental fuel?
The Big Chair was al
ways busy with a crisis. Ours was just another. This time, however, I’d not wait in place for an answer. I’d take that answer on the move, headed south.
We might not be welcome at South Pole in the middle of its Christmas holiday. Visitors were not generally welcome. Any use of its over-allocated resources met with something akin to hostility. I explained this to the crew.
Russ took angry exception: “Any time somebody comes to visit, you treat them right. We’re bringing them a whole lot of stuff they need and want. The least any human being should do is show some hospitality.”
“You’re right, Russ,” I answered. “But I’m thinking of last year when we got turned around. Pole couldn’t support us with fuel, or stand the possibility that we might winter-over our fleet. This past off-season Pole wanted projections on our expected draw of its resources. They were sensitive about use of their Heavy Shop for fleet repairs. We’ve already taken some of their cargo space on the LC-130s with spare parts. They measure that to the pound.”
“Well, that’s not the way people should be. I don’t care … you’re coming in from a long way and a hard trip. You ought to be welcome.”
“Russ, I have to ask them. We don’t know what the situation at Pole might be. I offered as much turnaround time as they needed between their mechanics and ours. But we have to give them the opportunity to say ‘welcome.’ That’ll be enough on this subject.” I closed the conversation, leaving it badly between us.
By the next morning’s briefing, Al Sutherland had not responded. No matter what, we’d slog across the swamp. We’d plan on shuttling, and we’d tap deep into our return fuel to do that.
“Stretch, dropping that tank behind you lowers your gross towed weight to 100,000 pounds. What kind of speed do you think you can make?”
“Maybe two and a half miles an hour. I’m not hard hitched anymore. I’m pulling with the winch cable. If I slip my tracks, I pay out the cable to get me out of the hole. Then I winch the load forward to catch up. So, it’s not steady. Maybe only two miles an hour.”
“Got it.” I addressed everyone next: “We’ll build our shuttle plan around what Stretch can do. Stretch, lunch today will be twelve miles ahead. When you get there, stop. Greg, go ahead and mark the spot. Fritzy, Elephant Man, and Red Rider will be right behind you. We’ll drop whatever loads we got there, then turn around and come back for what we left.”
Flashing back to Year Two, I didn’t like getting in front of the module sleds. If something broke on them, we wouldn’t see it to warn Stretch. But our sled modifications were working for us now. Stretch would see a lot of us today. We’d check on his sleds when we passed him. With any luck, we’d be running three times his speed. With more luck, we’d all get to the lunch spot at the same time.
“I don’t know what we’ll do after lunch. Greg, get started. Call us when you’re four flags out.”
Greg, Tom, and John V. were first out the door. The rest of us battened down the galley.
Fritzy and I had no trouble pulling two fuel tank sleds and the refrigerated food van. I enjoyed running at seven miles an hour. Ahead, the PistenBully made a dark dot on that crisp line where polar blue sky met white snow.
Judy, in the Elephant Man behind me, radioed, “Fritzy, I can’t pull both the Milvan and the MT865. I’m going to have to split them.”
“Yeah,” this was Brad’s voice calling from Red Rider. “And I can’t pull both the flat rack and Snow White. Going to split them up, too.”
Send two tractors back to shuttle, before lunch? CanFritzy make it all the way, and go back and get one load? We’d have to wait for the other tractor. Timing’s off.
My trail thoughts drifted back to a difference of opinion with Jim Lever last year on the trail. Jim wanted to load up a tractor to the maximum it could pull without wallowing-in. That was one side of the equation. Given the expense of redesigning our sled fleet, and the unlikelihood of NSF funding a wholesale redesign, I looked on the other side. I fought uphill for a fifth tractor, just to carry what sleds we did have. My gut spoke for me: “For the money, give me another tractor, any day.” “Not me,” Jim said. But he had never shuttled through a swamp. With two tractors down, that alone begged for another tractor, any day.
What was it Patrice Godon did on the French traverse? “Wait! Hey Brad, you there?”
“Yeah, go ahead, John.”
“Try something. If it don’t work, it don’t work. Judy, drop the MT865, and rig a tow strap from the back of your milvan sled to Red Rider. Brad, see if Judy can pull you without you having to break your load.” If it worked, we’d eliminate one shuttle and save twenty-four miles worth of one tractor’s fuel.
“Interesting. Copy all,” Brad acknowledged.
When I pulled up to the lunch spot, John V. came to the back of my tractor to unhitch me. The routine was wordless, but I did holler out the cab door, “Which of you guys wants to go back with me?”
Greg scrambled aboard, taking the jump seat to my left. Out the back window, John V. gave me thumbs up. Fritzy pulled ahead, wheeled around, then started back north, tracking just outside the flag line. Stretch would be coming along right next to the flags, and I didn’t want to chew up the snow in front of him.
Greg and I stopped beside a green flag two miles back down the trail, and watched. The boxy Elephant Man churned on by us, nose-high. Behind her came the milvan, and behind that, two long straps linked by a shackle bounced up and down on the snow. At the end of the tow strap came Red Rider. A beaming Brad flashed his pearly whites through the tinted window. Behind him came the loaded flat rack sled and Snow White, together.
“Hot damn! The mojo’s working! We’ve got one up of the swamp, Greg. Let’s go get that MT!”
“Plenty good, Boss,” Greg grinned.
“Jeez-us, Greg, it’s John.”
Halfway to the MT we passed Stretch heading south with just enough time for a wave back and forth and a quick scan of his rig. He carried his blade high, watching the snow under it. Twenty feet of winch cable inchwormed the module sleds behind him. The sleds looked fine. Stretch hadn’t been stuck yet.
In another mile, we spied the dot on our northern horizon that was the MT865. In forty minutes we were there. Greg bailed out, I backed into the hitch, and then we switched seats and headed south.
Stretch had been at the lunch spot ten minutes by the time we got there. The generators were fired up and a hot lunch was in the microwave.
“Pretty good for the morning,” I said to no one in particular, enjoying the vegetable soup. The wall clock showed 1300 hrs. “Let’s see if we can get ten more this afternoon. Can you give us that, Stretch, if we get out of here by 1400?”
“Oh, probably. It’ll be a long afternoon,” Stretch said, agreeably enough, though he looked tired. Of all of us, he saw the least action in slow motion, yet required the most concentration.
“Anybody check e-mail yet?” I asked.
“You had one from NSF-REP,” Tom said.
“That was quick. Beats three days at the top of the Leverett.” I called up the message on the laptop in the comms booth, and cried, “Thank you, Al! Go! Go man go! Listen to this: We are not going to hold up the completion of your mission for a few gallons of fuel. Be safe. Godspeed.”
Russ brightened first: “Well, all right!”
Judy was next: “All righ-tee, then.”
Smiling faces and nodding heads ran all around the galley. The swamp wasn’t our fault, and every one of us wanted to complete the roundtrip. We’d worked hard to bring all our cargo. We didn’t want to pay a penalty for that.
We made the extra ten miles, posting twenty-two for the day. Fritzy covered sixty-seven miles to do that. We camped at Pole minus 73 on December 19.
That evening we received another e-mail, this one from the assistant South Pole station manager, Liesl Schernthanner. I read it aloud before we turned in. We’d be welcome, Liesl said, whenever we got there. If that happened to fall on their holidays, so much the better. We’
d be welcome to share their two days off and join their festivities, like cousins coming for Christmas.
“That settles it. I’m glad we asked.”
We slept well that night, prepared to slog on.
The deeper we got into the swamp, the worse it treated us. Any tractor and load combination that worked for us one day did not necessarily work the next. We still reunited when Stretch reached the lunch mark. And depending on the time that actually happened, I set the distance goal for the remains of the day.
December 20 Judy and the Elephant Man, with the milvan in tow, could no longer pull Red Rider and its full load. So Brad split his train. Fritzy got off free again. And Brad finished his day towing Stretch into camp at Pole minus 51. We’d won twenty-two miles at a high cost.
While the others refueled, I sat at the comms desk readying our daily report. Heavy footsteps climbed the deck to the living module, and then tromped into the vestibule. Stretch entered the galley, staggering across the floor toward his bunkroom. Thinking better of it, he flopped down with a deep sigh onto the padded bench behind our long dinner table. His haggard expression bespoke absolute exhaustion. I’d never seen such a display.
“Oh, man!” he sighed again, involuntarily.
“Stretch, you look whupped.”
“John, I am whupped.” Stretch’s eyes widened. “This snow is getting worse. I just watch the snow … watch the snow … watch the snow …”
To make our miles today, we ran a couple hours over. And I’d exhausted one man doing it, bringing him to the edge.
“I get the message, Stretch. I saw Brad pulling you. And I never thought I’d see that. Maybe we need to shut down for a day and just build road so that you can get up on it and go.”
“Oh, that would be nice,” Stretch nodded deeply. “Anything but this.”
Stretch needed rest. Lots of it. I couldn’t ask him for another day like today. Building road might not be the best idea. We all needed a good meal. At dinner, I’d ask everyone to think about ways of getting Stretch down the trail.
Camp sat in the middle of a perfectly smooth white dish. Its edges curled up slightly around all our horizons. The air was dead calm. Flags hung limp. This morning, brilliant sunny skies stretched to all points.
Blazing Ice Page 28