by Tim Jarvis
There was a sense of loneliness up there in the mountains but somehow it was cleaner and easier to deal with now that we were just two—the strongest pairing when it came to traveling through such terrain, with both of us on the same page in terms of our desire to do this thing and neither stealing any of the other’s precious motivation in order to maintain focus. In addition, both of us were comfortable in the extreme weather we were engulfed by despite it being even worse than either of us had anticipated, the wind now gusting at over 155 kilometers an hour. Despite our dire circumstances in these savage conditions, I suddenly realized that it felt as if a burden had been lifted from my shoulders now that managing problems associated with a larger team of people had, for the moment at least, evaporated. I had rapidly come to realize that numbers were our enemy. As Baz had said about taking large numbers of soldiers out into the field, if you take enough of them, someone will always have a problem; it’s just a numbers game.
In the meantime, the weather was truly awful. Lulls in the wind in turn lulled us into a false sense of security that things were improving, faint hopes that were dashed as soon as the next gust of wind poured down through the rocks at the top of the pass, slamming into our tent seconds later. It was like being back at sea, such was the force of the wind that hit us like waves of water.
Things were about to take a turn for the worse as the intensity and frequency of the gusts increased. Suddenly and without warning following a lull, we heard the next gust approaching, an enormous pressure wave hitting the side of the tent, savagely tearing the tent poles from the fabric and collapsing it onto my face. The wind, previously deflected by the slope of the windward side of the tent, now found its way under the groundsheet, lifting our temporary home and rolling me inward toward Baz as the whole structure collapsed. In a matter of moments, we had gone from relative calm inside the tent to being exposed to the raging elements, wrestling a billowing, formless piece of fabric with wind screaming all around us. Extricating ourselves from our sleeping bags with extreme difficulty, like parachutists under a collapsed canopy, we fumbled for the unseen door, managing finally to unzip it and launch ourselves horizontally feet-first into the maelstrom, donning our boots as we went past. Baz had been wearing down tent boots that were part of the emergency kit in the tent, but one of these was immediately torn from his foot by the wind as he exited, disappearing downwind at enormous speed and leaving his socked right foot exposed to the elements as we surveyed the scene of destruction wearing only our sweaters. The surface of snow was alive with snow streaming horizontally down toward the coast, our tent torn beyond repair and lying flattened and formless without our bodies to give it structure. These surely were Worsley’s “storm demons [that] work their wild will and wreak their fury.”
Baz and I took shelter in Joe’s tent—the only one left standing. Possession Bay is in the distance.
Courtesy of Tim Jarvis
It was tumult all around, the nunataks at the head of the pass looming in and out of view as clouds poured over them. Our tent was finished but the cameramen’s tent was still intact only meters away—a not insignificant distance as I set about rummaging for our gear in the remnants of our sanctuary, sandwiched between the roof and floor that were now as one. The loss of his boot had forced Baz to seek cover in the cameramen’s tent and try to get sensation back in his toes as I threw in recovered items for him to organize. Ten minutes later I dived in, brushing off the worst of the centimeter-thick ice that had adhered to my sweater and zipping up the door hurriedly. We hadn’t abandoned our tent as much as it had abandoned us, but at least relative calm again prevailed in our new abode. For now.
We sat there exhausted and as near as we had been to truly despondent, Baz getting a brew of hot, sugary milk going to warm ourselves up. As we tried to gather our thoughts, the radio again crackled into life, an incongruous intrusion from another world and another era ironically no more than a mile away. Baz answered the call. It was the doctor, wishing to let me know that, as I had pre-existing frostbite damage to my right foot from a prior expedition, I should undergo an assessment to determine my fitness for the task ahead. Any feelings of stunned outrage I may have felt at this were tempered by a sense of real contempt. It was clearly an unwelcome intervention but not one I felt pressured by in any way: there was no way the doctor would be able to get up here in the current conditions, I didn’t want to see him, nor, more to the point, would such an assessment serve any useful purpose. I knew I had previous frostbite damage and it made precisely no difference to me. Moreover, the doctor’s stilted tone indicated that cameras were rolling at his end. As a result, I treated the call as one he felt he needed to make in order to protect himself against liability, and perhaps also to create a healthy dose of jeopardy for the benefit of the cameras, neither of which struck me as very admirable reasons. My contempt at what seemed to me the predictable transparency of the call hardened as I told him in no uncertain terms that I didn’t need this nonsense, topped and tailed with a few Anglo-Saxon expletives for good measure. Realizing I was not to be moved, he read out what sounded like a prepared statement: “I just want to confirm that you have declined my medical assessment.” I replied that I had, saying nothing more.
Again I assessed where we were at. On the downside, we had lost twenty-four hours of time and counting, as well as 250 meters of hard-won altitude and, despite all of our efforts, were no closer to Stromness than when we started. Now we had lost our tent, and the majority of our team, including our cameramen, and this abject weather that had us pinned down so mercilessly, leaving us soaking wet and bitterly cold, didn’t seem to be abating. Forces that Shackleton hadn’t had to cope with were also threatening the expedition, principally in the form of injury-induced abandonments and the implications that these might still have for the integrity of our permits and insurance cover, implications that our doctor seemed only too happy to tell us about for what I regarded as being the wrong reasons. Another issue that had the potential to bring the expedition to a grinding halt was the fact that our charter of Australis ran out in eleven days’ time, at which point we needed to be in Port Stanley, yet we still had the climb and the return journey from Stromness to King Haakon Bay and then back to Grytviken with the Alexandra Shackleton in tow all to do, followed by time sorting things out at Grytviken and finally a four- or five-day crossing to the Falklands. Things were getting tight.
On the plus side, we were a lot more comfortable now that we had acquired Si and Joe’s sleeping bags, replaced our punctured Therm-a-Rest, and were in a tent that might actually survive the brutal conditions that had destroyed the other one. Plus, we were hoping, not unreasonably, that wind speeds could not go much higher. Most of all, we were still here and the more the odds stacked against us, the more our resolve to complete the challenge strengthened. This combined with the detour down to Possession Bay made me feel I was getting closer to Shackleton all the time, which I liked. He, of course, would have viewed these problems as “just things to be overcome,” to use his own words from his Nimrod diary, and that was my philosophy too. Shackleton was, of course, compelled to continue, acutely conscious that twenty-two men were relying on him on Elephant Island. We, on the other hand, had the unfortunate “luxury” of knowing in the back of our minds that completing the expedition was in some way optional. But it wasn’t. We needed to view things as if twenty-two men’s survival relied on us. The reality was we had scores of people, friends, supporters, and sponsors who had placed their faith in us to do this, even if their lives were not in danger, and I wasn’t prepared to fail them.
In short, the worse things became for us, the more I convinced myself that this was the way it should be. Shackleton had experienced huge obstacles, and our getting closer to what he experienced was what I wanted. If we succeeded in reaching our goal against these odds, our expedition would be worthy of people’s respect and would satisfy my own self-critical view of my achievements. Not least of all, the Boss would have approved of
how we were handling things.
Actually, Baz and I just decided we wouldn’t let the dream go. I remembered my attempt on the North Pole and the devastating disappointment I felt at having to turn back and how it felt to have to live for so long with that defining moment when the decision had to be made whether or not to go on. I remembered, too, climbing in the Andes a couple of years before when one of my two partners had succumbed to altitude sickness and how, having left him to recuperate in the tent, the third climber and I had continued on and been rewarded by an exhilarating summit day. It was clear to me that there was no option but to keep going.
Nevertheless, we were being subjected to atrocious weather and medical problems that had claimed five of our team, not to mention mind games about my fitness to continue, and I hated the intrusion of the doubts of others into our world. Almost as a distraction I sounded out Baz as to how long he felt the dangerous conditions could be endured, any normal person being likely to respond in terms of minutes or hours given the wind, subzero temperatures, and state of our tent. After a moment he gave a measured response: “A couple of weeks.” It made me laugh out loud. I was sharing a tent with an English Tom Crean. I felt the same way. There was no way we were not going to do this thing.
The next radio call was with Larso a few hours later, and finally some good news came through. Larso admitted he’d had reservations about continuing given the weather, his limited climbing experience, and the fact that everyone else had withdrawn. On the other hand, he continued, he was here to do this thing, wasn’t the type to give up, and trusted us—Baz’s ability and route planning more than anything—and, on that basis, he was up for it. Baz and I were thrilled: to do it as a three-man team was not only safer but was also the same number as Shackleton had in his team; moreover, Larso was good company and a tough customer. By coincidence, we even reprised the roles of Shackleton, Worsley, and Crean during the crossing as expedition leader, navigator, and mountain leader. Once again, an unexpected synchronicity seemed to be at play.
Baz talked Larso through the details of how we would work as a three-man team, with Larso seeming more comfortable with what we had in mind with each passing moment. I added the fact that Baz and I as nonsailors had entrusted Larso and Nick with our lives crossing the ocean and that if he could place a similar trust in us in return, then we would be set. He was more than happy to do this and the decision was made. We now needed Larso to ready himself for departure so that he could be up with us on the mountain within the hour when we decided to go.
The weather, however, was still not cooperating and we remained imprisoned in our tent by screaming sixty-knot winds, waiting for a break in which we could reasonably get going. The radio roused us again. Baz and I looked at each other, wondering what was coming next. It was the doctor calling to say that if Nick’s feet deteriorated any further he might need evacuation to the Falklands. It was yet another body blow—so soon after hearing the good news from Larso, I once again realized the extent to which medical judgments could stop the whole expedition dead in its tracks. That was the way it had been all the way through this expedition, though—two steps forward, one step back if you were lucky. From my standpoint, obviously if Nick really needed evacuation on medical grounds there would be no objection from me. What I doubted, however, was whether he did actually need it or indeed if he would be any better off in Port Stanley than he was under the medical supervision of our doctor, receiving anti-inflammatories in the warmth and comfort of Australis. I was, however, too tired to argue and, conscious that this conversation was most likely being recorded for posterity, accepted the news without emotion in my voice, hoping above all else it would not come to that.
Paul striding up from Possession Bay toward us on Shackleton Gap. He promised to keep his race face on.
Courtesy of Raw TV
Baz’s talk of the military numbers game came back to me: the greater the number of participants in the expedition, the greater the chances of problems arising, any one of which could destroy everything. I was painfully aware too that we remained only a mile from the temptation of Possession Bay as an evacuation point and that this was eroding our chances of success. We knew we must get away from Shackleton Gap at all costs. Baz surveyed the scene outside. It was still a maelstrom but the wind gusts had diminished in their severity and the sleet had stopped. “Okay, that’s it,” said Baz. “Time to go.” He wasn’t wrong.
11
FALL LINE
The spectacular but tortured landscape of the Crean Glacier in the post-dawn light. Baz leads our party of three.
Courtesy of Paul Larsen
“Fortitudine vincimus—By endurance we conquer.”
Shackleton family motto
South Georgia and the trek ahead.
Courtesy of Ian Faulkner
Three dark shapes appeared out of the mist 250 meters downwind of the tent. I turned to Baz: “They’re here.” “Okay, good,” said Baz. “Let’s get Larso in for a chat and then get cracking. I don’t see this getting better so there’s no point waiting around any longer.” I agreed. This location had been bad in so many ways. Not only did it represent three kilometers of retracing our steps to end up in a very sticky spot, it had left the six-man team that departed Peggotty with such promise just two days earlier fractured by injury and self-doubt.
Now, however, we were down to a core of three men prepared to live with the risk of what lay ahead, knowing that support would not be able to reach us. I remembered Worsley’s description of the conditions that often prevail in the mountains of South Georgia: “The hell that reigns up there in heavy storms, the glee of the west gale fiends, the thunderous hate of the grim nor-wester, the pitiless evil snarl of the easterly gales, and the shrieks and howls of the southerly blizzards with ever-oncoming battalions of quick-firing hail squalls, followed by snow squalls, blind a man or take away his senses.” Not to be taken lightly, then. Just as well we had good clothes, I quipped to Baz.
Much of the time, life doesn’t allow you to see the significance of decisions you make during those defining moments that we all experience. It is only later that you come to fully appreciate their consequences. In our case, removing ourselves from the danger we faced or taking the easy way out was, as ever, seductive, but we would not succumb to it.
Baz and I and now Larso could see the significance and danger of what we were about to attempt and with complete clarity decided we must go. We made the decision almost as if twenty-two men’s lives on Elephant Island depended on it. If we had decided to quit, the bitterness of the decision would have remained long after the initial sweetness of removing ourselves from danger had gone. Luckily we all had the presence of mind to know that. We would carry on—for ourselves, for the others who remained on Australis, and to honor Shackleton’s memory and the trust of everyone who had backed us to do this thing. It was time to go. Stromness awaited.
The tent door opened to reveal a bearded face in modern gear followed by a flurry of snowdrift. “Good to see you, Larso,” we said, more or less in unison. “Good to be here,” Larso replied before asking how we were getting on. “All good and ready to go,” said Baz as we got down to the detail of how we would proceed. Baz would lead; I, as the heaviest man, would be the anchor at the back; and Larso would travel in the middle. All gear except the food we could carry in our small packs would go back down to Australis with Jamie and Joe, who had come to film our departure. Larso would remain in his modern gear and carry a tent and bivvy bag for emergencies. Baz and I, of course, would stick with our old gear, still damp from our soaking thirty-six hours earlier. We would all be roped together using a modern climbing rope, since that was what Larso was used to.
The delay for Si’s evacuation and the subsequent loss of our backup team meant we now would be at the most dangerous section of the crossing, in among the crevasses of the Crean and Fortuna glaciers, in complete darkness. On that basis, we agreed we would stop before we got there and put up the tent until dawn. It wo
uld be suicidal to travel in darkness with no lights or moonlight, as unlike Shackleton we were not blessed with good weather or clear night skies with a full moon to travel by. In Shackleton’s words, “The friendly moon seemed to pilot our weary feet. We could have had no better guide.” It allowed them to continue virtually without stopping, save for small breaks for reviving hoosh, hot milk, and short sleeps. Shackleton famously didn’t sleep, however, for fear that they would never wake up again if they all slept, telling the others, whom he woke after just ten minutes, they had slept for a full half hour to boost their energy and morale.
The last they would see of us until the end: Baz, Paul, and I disappear into the mist.
Courtesy of Raw TV
Before we set off, interviews were filmed in the driving wind until cold forced a halt and reminded us that we needed to get moving. Jamie again asked us if we were okay to film things from this point on. As if there was much alternative! As we were breaking camp, my feet were getting hopelessly wet as five sets of boots had turned the area into a slushy mess. The toes on my right foot in particular were now numb, something I hoped would improve with our workload climbing up the pass toward the high ground of the Murray Snowfield. We moved off as the cameras followed us for a short distance. It was a relief to be on our way, the steepness of our ascent from our forlorn little camp, the strength of the wind, and poor visibility ensuring we were on our own within 100 meters. The three of us were in an uncompromising frame of mind. The next time we saw the film crew would hopefully be in Fortuna Bay, meaning the dangers of the mountains and crevasses would be behind us.