Chasing Shackleton

by Tim Jarvis

  The five of us regrouped in darkness with the wind at the top of the Gap steadily increasing. The solid surface of ice had now become energy-sapping wet snow as sleet fell heavily. If we continued less than four kilometers straight down from here we would be at the sea on the northern side of the island in Possession Bay—the narrowest point of South Georgia. When Si caught up with the group it was clear he was not having a good time of it; he threw his pack to the ground in fatigued disgust.

  The snow underfoot and the faintly visible outline of the big nunatak that marked the top of the pass meant that we were approaching the next phase of the climb—the Murray Snowfield that lay between the top of the Gap and the Trident Mountains to the east. The Murray, as the name implied, was a snowfield rather than a glacier or fully fledged ice cap, but as it might contain crevasses, we began roping up in pairs, Baz and I doing so well away from the others to ensure we got no benefit from the light of their head torches.

  The journey ahead: Shackleton Gap on the left is much steeper than it looks.

  Courtesy of Tim Jarvis

  Si’s lower back was seizing up with pain, making his right foot, ankle, and shin numb from what appeared to be intense sciatica—certainly not to be taken lightly given how Shackleton too suffered terribly from sciatica that at times completely incapacitated him. Si stretched and had something to eat and drink while roping up in an attempt to steel himself against the biting wind that was already stripping away our body heat after less than ten minutes of inaction. The painkillers apparently hadn’t worked or, if they had, the pain etched on Si’s face suggested otherwise.

  We moved off in our three pairs into the deep snow of the Murray with Baz and me leading as usual, creating a deep, plowed furrow that was easy to follow. Instantly laboring with the workload, I found myself overheating after twenty minutes despite the cold. During polar travel it is critical to remove items of clothing before you start sweating, so that sweat doesn’t subsequently freeze on you. But with Baz and I roped together as we were, this wasn’t possible: not only would it have required the other man to stop, but the leg and shoulder straps of the harness Baz had made from our old rope prevented the removal of any upper layers. Against all my instincts from years of polar travel, I resorted to removing my beanie and thick woolen mitts to shed some heat.

  Si and Joe had dropped back. As Joe was one of the fittest of all of us, it was obvious that Si’s injury was slowing them down. We stopped to regroup, Si and Joe pulling level after a few minutes. Si immediately offered up what had obviously been on his mind for a while: “My leg and back are too painful and I’m slowing you all down. I’m sorry, but I have to pull out.” Under normal circumstances it would have been devastating news, but I had become so accustomed to difficulties of this magnitude that Baz and I took it on board and focused on what we could do. Trying to think positively, it was probably best it had happened sooner rather than later and at least we had escaped Peggotty and were under way. Si was right about the slow pace we were being forced to keep, and Possession Bay was the only evacuation point until we reached Fortuna Bay on the far side of the glaciated terrain of the Crean and Fortuna glaciers.

  The bottom of the Shackleton Gap in the evening sun on the day we arrived, when tiredness prevented us from climbing it. The weather would never be this good again.

  Courtesy of Tim Jarvis

  There was no point disputing it. Si couldn’t go on. He was no novice when it came to climbing so I knew he must be in considerable pain, although the situation confirmed Baz’s and my suspicions about how the film crew had underestimated the seriousness of the crossing and were not well enough prepared. Regardless of how frustrated we felt, we now had to focus on getting Si safely back to Australis and us back on track as quickly as possible.

  Baz switched on his head torch to get an accurate reading of the prismatic compass to take us down to Possession Bay, exasperatingly more or less back in the direction from which we’d come. We turned and trudged back, taking one reluctant step after another, trying not to think about things too much. The sleet was intensifying and, as we got back onto Shackleton Gap, the wind began to strengthen. We got out the VHF from Larso’s rucksack and called in the fact that Si was being evacuated with a nontrauma injury only to discover that Australis wasn’t yet at the head of the bay, having had to stop some two hours short in Prince Olav Harbor due to the danger of traveling in darkness. She would leave at dawn to come and pick up Si but not before. Baz and I conferred, shouting to each other in order to be heard above the howling wind. We agreed there was no point in us all going down to the coast if the boat wasn’t there, especially as it could be done more safely in the light the following morning by just Si and Joe, saving the rest of us the need to climb down and back up again. Plus, if Baz was half as wet as I was from the deep snow underfoot and the sleet we’d been trudging through for the past hour, he must be getting pretty cold by now. He was. We agreed we were the wettest we’d been since the first big wave had broken over us at sea. We would have to stay where we were for the night.

  We set up the two tents we had with us as fast as we could in the wind, battling with the billowing fabric, then dived inside and tried to get warm. Baz, Larso, and I were in one and Seb and the two cameramen in the other. Positives were hard to find. We had got going in what Baz and I had decided was decent enough weather but now, after four hard-won hours, we were hunkered down in our tents having made barely two kilometers in the direction of Stromness. The weather was deteriorating fast and we already had our third casualty, the broader implications of which I hadn’t yet had the chance to digest. Clad as we were in our gabardine outers, Baz and I were wet through. Just as Shackleton, Worsley, and Crean had sunk to above their ankles in slush on their initial ascent, so our feet were saturated from trudging through the deep, wet snow of the saddle—ground we had only traveled over because of the need to evacuate Si. The far side of Shackleton Gap was, as anticipated, proving a terrible spot in which to camp—windy and exposed with strong katabatic gusts peppering the tent with machine gun bursts of hail and sleet and already threatening to collapse the tent, despite us having it pegged down with everything we had. The token warmth afforded by the single sleeping bag draped unzipped over the three of us served only to highlight what warmth our bodies might enjoy if we had the right gear with us, which we didn’t.

  The flaccid piece of fabric that was Paul’s punctured inflatable mattress was all that separated us and the ice below. Disappointingly, it was even less effective insulating against the cold than my lowest expectations, and that was if you were lucky enough to get your third of it. I looked at my watch. Four and a half hours to go until dawn.

  Familiar was the sensation of wet wool against our skin, like a penitent’s hair shirt, made bearable only through the well-honed skill of lying completely still, any movement to restore sensation to the hips bringing the wool into unpleasant contact with the skin and sending shivers down the spine. Baz and I smelled like wet dogs, with Larso slightly less malodorous given his recent sojourn aboard Australis and the fact that his clothing was waterproof, sealing in any smells. I began to shiver hard and realized that, despite our reprising the spooning technique perfected aboard the Alexandra Shackleton, temperatures here at altitude as we lay on snow and ice were much colder than those we had experienced on board the boat, with the result that I just couldn’t get warm.

  I lay awake, taking some solace from the fact that we had made absolutely the right decision to stop where we did. Going any farther in these conditions would have sent Baz and me on a decline into hypothermia, while descending to a lower and more sheltered location would only have meant the need for us to reclaim the lost altitude when we resumed the climb at some stage. Moreover, Australis wasn’t yet in position, rendering a hasty descent not only ill advised but pointless.

  Positives could also be taken from the fact that the latest mishap meant that we had followed Shackleton’s footsteps almost identically, having end
ed up near Possession Bay, albeit for completely different reasons—he through navigational error and we due to Si’s injury. Having reached the top of the saddle, the three men had spotted through the clearing mist what they believed to be “a great frozen lake, shining in the moon’s rays below.” Thinking that it would afford a less challenging route than the hazardous higher ground, Shackleton decided to make for it, only to find that they were descending over the heavily crevassed surface of a glacier. Worse still, when they reached the bottom they discovered that it was not a lake at all but Possession Bay, an inlet from the sea. This mistake, which should have been avoidable given that Possession Bay was on their chart, cost them dear—there was nothing for it but to climb back up the glacier, retracing their steps for the most part and draining their energy reserves. The uncanny parallel between his experience and ours was an unexpected twist of fate: our modus operandi was to cross South Georgia following his route but not to contrive to repeat every navigational error he had made, yet here we now were, probably within a few hundred meters of where he had been. The synchronicity was striking: what we were experiencing brought us closer to what the Boss had gone through. This wasn’t the first time and almost certainly would not be the last that I felt his influence on our expedition.

  Paul securing our tent before descending to Australis in worsening weather.

  Courtesy of Raw TV

  The weather had worsened but a wan light on the tent indicated dawn had broken. Our optimistic expectations that dawn would bring with it a lift in the weather proved to be unrealistic. The strong winds remained undiminished, although visibility had improved, revealing a rock band extending all the way down to the bay. A shout across to the tent containing Si, Joe, and Seb brought an immediate shout back, only just audible over the roar of the wind. If conditions in their tent were anything like they were in ours, it was not altogether surprising they were awake. After a discussion among the three of us in our tent, Larso braved the five meters to theirs to convey what the next steps were to be. As far as Baz was concerned, Si needed to descend to Australis roped to Joe due to crevasse risk and poor visibility—perhaps only 100 meters. We also agreed there was little point in Larso and Seb remaining up here in the prevailing conditions either: we needed them to be in the best shape possible in order to provide Baz and me with backup during the crossing. Larso returned with news that Si’s condition had not improved and that they were ready to descend, Australis having begun to motor toward the base of the pass in anticipation of picking up and treating Si. It was good news under the circumstances. If we could just cauterize this situation we could take stock of our position and refocus on getting some momentum going again when the weather allowed it.

  Agreeing on the next scheduled radio contact time, the band of four bundled their two sleeping bags through the door of our tent as they passed, shouting wishes of good luck as they went. Within minutes the dejected little party had been swallowed by the mist and low clouds, leaving Baz and me alone on the mountain. We zipped up the fly and clambered into their bags, lying back to consider the events of the past eight hours. The silence was broken when Baz broke into a forced rendition of Bill Withers’s “Just the Two of Us.” I chuckled, responding with my own version of “Alone Again (Naturally).” At least we hadn’t lost our sense of humor, although our circumstances were beyond a joke.

  Joe and Si look for a way down the steep descent off Shackleton Gap. Australis is a dot in the distance in the middle of the bay.

  Courtesy of Paul Larsen

  A couple of hours later, the radio crackled into life at the agreed time with Joe voicing his concerns about his continued participation in the crossing. His reasons included reservations about being roped to two inexperienced climbers, Seb and Larso, as well as questions about the wisdom of our traveling in the current conditions. We explained we were still hunkered down in the tent, just as they had left us, precisely because of the conditions and that even we wouldn’t travel in them as they were. I think Joe also had concerns about being solely responsible for recording events as the only cameraman, compounded by the weather and the glaciated terrain that lay ahead. Baz finished the call by telling Joe it was his decision to make as to whether or not he felt he could continue.

  The radio safely switched off, I voiced my surprise at Joe’s concerns to Baz, especially given that Joe was, in addition to Raw’s cameraman, a member of the mountain rescue in Scotland. Baz casually murmured a question as he rolled over to get some sleep: “How many glaciers are there in Scotland?” “None,” I replied. “Exactly,” said Baz. As with previous decisions, it was important not to allow it to deflect us from the task at hand. Joe’s decision was to be respected and, to be honest, we weren’t that unhappy to hear it. Filming slowed us down anyway and that was likely to be a major hassle for us on the crossing. We would put up with it if we had to—it was part of the deal, after all—but if the cameramen felt they couldn’t continue, then frankly it was one less thing for us to worry about. We would film ourselves with the mini high-definition cameras we’d been given. The results might be a bit Blair Witch, but the TV crew kept saying they wanted realism. Now they’d get it.

  The wind howled all around us, stretching the guy lines as taut as piano strings as I lay with wet tent fabric pressed to my face on my collapsed windward side of the tent. Baz lay still beside me in his sleeping bag, dealing with our predicament in his own way. Neither of us spoke, but we both knew that the dream of the Shackleton double was now further away than at any time prior on this expedition. Realistically the dream would last about as long as the tent’s ability to withstand the onslaught of the intense katabatic winds pouring down on us on Shackleton Gap. It was a dark moment and I chastised myself for having lowered my guard and allowed premature thoughts of successfully achieving the double to creep into my mind. Like most, I had assumed the sea crossing would present us with all of our challenges and that, once landfall was made, the island crossing would be relatively straightforward. I was wrong. Fate had been tempted. We were in a bad place.

  Anyone with a modicum of outdoor experience would know that a saddle or pass between two mountains is more or less guaranteed to be windy and unpleasant and therefore a bad choice for a camp. We had, however, ended up here through circumstance, not wishing to descend all the way to the northeast coast in darkness and heavy rain and lose the hard-won altitude we had gained. Plus Si had been unable to continue anyway, and Australis was anchored in Prince Olav Harbor, an hour away from the base of Shackleton Gap, restricted to travel during daylight hours around South Georgia’s rugged coastline. There was nothing to do but sit it out until first light. A bit of Shackleton philosophy wasn’t out of place here—the ever-expansive Orde-Lees wrote of the Boss: “He often says of a thing, ‘It’s time enough to do it when you’ve got to, until that time comes make yourself as comfortable as circumstances permit, when it does come, do it with all your will and even then make yourself as comfortable as your circumstances will then permit; comfort is only a matter of comparison after all.’ ”

  We caught up on sleep, our clothes slowly drying out with our body heat in the sleeping bags, waking only to put on the stove to make up some hot milk as the wind seemed intensified despite us willing it to abate. The tent fabric on the windward side was now pressed onto my face at an improbable angle, requiring me to lean toward Baz just to be able to breathe freely. At some point during that timeless period in the tent the radio came to life again. This time it was Seb, and I could tell by the tone that we were about to revisit territory we’d been through with Nick, Ed, Si, and Joe. “Boss, this is one of the most difficult decisions I’ve ever had to make . . .” Seb, too, had succumbed to trench foot and, like the others, was concerned that it could get worse and lead to frostbite if he continued. As I had with the others, I respected his decision. There was nothing to do but be patient and weather the storm.

  Trying to be patient and remain positive while waiting out the lashing storm. And I’d
thought the sea would be our biggest challenge.

  Courtesy of Raw TV

  Things were starting to get very serious. I looked at Baz and wondered what it meant for us continuing. I waited until 6 A.M. Australia time and called Kim on the satellite phone, asking her to find out if we’d still be covered by insurance should we continue unsupported. Kim confirmed that the insurance company had, to our surprise, conceded that we would be, even if Baz and I went on just as a two-man team in old gear. It was a sobering prospect but we were ready to do it.

  Several hours later, Larso radioed through. The message had got back to him through e-mail communication between Kim and our blogger Jo that Baz and I were going it alone. Ironically, on an expedition using hundred-year-old technology with team members less than a mile apart, he had got the news from a web feed. I detected some frustration in his voice—understandable if he felt a decision about his fate had been made without his input. In the tones of a diplomat attempting to smooth over a brewing international incident, I reassured him that that was far from the case; it was just crossed wires. We had merely been asking whether we were able to go it alone because it had looked as if we might have to, but our preference remained emphatically to do it with him. We had assumed that he was understandably considering his options, given the atrocious weather conditions and the fact he was a sailor rather than a climber. One by one, the others had dropped away; we had to consider that he might have felt the same way. The edge to his voice softened a little as, appeased, Paul told us he had absolutely kept his “race face” on and shouldn’t be ruled out by any stretch. This was fantastic news. We agreed we’d speak again in a couple of hours with a weather update for him and any further thoughts he had from his point of view.