by Mike Horn
I was liking it until a veritable explosion shook my boat from the hold to the topmast. I barely had time to grab a backstay to keep from being tossed overboard. As I turned to look aft, I saw floating away in the gray waters in the evening light an enormous tree trunk, which I had just slammed into at full speed. I hurried down into the cockpit and carefully examined every corner in search of a leak. Nothing. Relieved, I took the helm again. But two or three hours later, it became alarmingly heavy. The boat was no longer responding to the helm, and it was traveling more slowly. I went belowdecks again. Now there was four inches of water in the cockpit, which meant that the hold was full and that there was more than three feet of water in the boat!
The first thing that came into my mind was that I had waited too long before checking the water level a second time, which meant that the situation might now be irreparable. Instinctively, I turned on the bilge pump. The motor that drives the bilge pump was underwater, but it was turning all the same—for now. But that wouldn’t prevent the level of water in the cockpit from rising inexorably.
And to top things off, I was just entering the danger zone—less than 185 miles from the Greenland coast—and I was beginning to see my first icebergs. Obviously, I wouldn’t be stepping away from the helm again. Hitting an iceberg after hitting a tree trunk would be a little much for just one boat.
Luckily, I also had a hand pump that could be operated from the helm. I worked the pump with one hand and held the rudder with the other hand, while the main pump continued to operate as well.
After a while I could see that the level of water in the cockpit was holding steady, but it wasn’t dropping, either. And one thing became horribly clear. With all the determination and energy I could muster, I could certainly continue to man the helm and pump simultaneously for a number of hours—maybe even for a whole day. But I could never hope to do it for five days in a row, which was how long I figured—at my boat’s now sluggish rate of progress—it would take to reach Greenland! Sometime or other, I would certainly have to sleep.
I had activated my iceberg-detecting radar. It can warn of icebergs miles away; if we were heading right for one, it would sound an alarm. But it can’t pick up growlers, the chunks of floe ice that break off and float along just beneath the surface. Even with an aluminum hull like mine, designed for polar navigation, those huge slabs of ice with sharp angles would have the same general effect that a chainsaw would have on a shoebox.
For the immediate future I could see only one solution—set my course straight for dry land and make it as far as possible. Then, when the boat sank beneath me, I would pile all my polar equipment in the inflatable life raft and do what Nansen did, paddle and hope to make it to the coast.
I made a stab at calling the former owner, but Jean-Yves was not aware of any particular weak points in his boat.
I turned on the automatic pilot, feverishly stacked all my land equipment atop the sled, and then placed the sled on the inflatable life raft. Faced with the imposing mass now piled in the raft, I said to myself that for whatever paddling might accomplish, I would paddle.
I called Cathy to warn her that I was certainly going to have to abandon my boat and reach Greenland by paddling.
Lost amid the icebergs and growlers, exhausted and disappointed, I was filled with rage at the injustice of the situation. I had plowed straight into that goddamned tree trunk, probably the only one for hundreds of miles in all directions. And now it was going to cost me my boat, less than a week after the start of the expedition!
The boat was riding so low now that the water was coming in through the through-hull fittings, a set of small openings above the flotation line through which I discarded my used water. I closed the through-hulls, returned to the helm, and started pumping again. But the hand pump was just not powerful enough; I had to go back down and start bailing with a bucket, which I would then have to empty into my shower, which drains out by means of the through-hulls, which I had to open again. On my knees on the cockpit floor, I was emptying bucket after bucket of water while the electric pump went on emptying water, doing its part.
And slowly, at long last, the water level began to drop … Once it was below the floor boards I climbed down into the hold and kept on bailing. When finally there was no more than ten inches or so of water at the bottom of the hull, I made a careful examination of the whole interior, inch by inch, in search of the leak.
There was no leak that I could see, but I did notice one important thing. The tree trunk had somehow smashed into the stern and hit the propeller. The propeller shaft is enclosed in an aluminum casing that is equipped with a “stuffing box,” a carbon disk that, through a valve mechanism, prevents water from leaking into the hull around the propeller shaft. It turned out that the motor that was driving the pump was actually spilling water into the boat after the tree trunk split the casing of the propeller shaft.
There was no way that I could repair it, but I did see a way to reduce the flooding considerably. I sliced the inner tube that I always carry with me aboard a boat into strips and stretched these strips of rubber to create a sort of supertight bandage around the aluminum casing. At the same time, I kept on bailing to bring down the water level a little farther, in an attempt to make the work a bit easier. I was crouching in the dark, bent over double, working with my hands plunged into the icy water that kept flooding into the boat. My fingers, barely recovered from the frostbite, partially amputated and practically numb, were making the job especially challenging.
The whole time I was working like this, the icebergs—more and more of them as I neared the coast—were sliding past me in an endless procession. If I hit one of them, the boat would sink for sure. On the other hand, if I did nothing to stop the water from pouring into my boat, the end result would be no different. I knew that if I could only stop the leak before I hit something, there was at least a fifty-fifty chance of making it to dry land. In any case, sitting there at the helm of a sinking ship, with no idea where the water was pouring in from and without doing anything to try to stop it, was more than I could stand.
So I kept stretching my strips of inner tube, which I forced into place with pliers and wire. When I was done, the water pressure from outside was still too great for there to be a perfect seal, but it was pretty close. Now, the hand pump and electric pump combined ought to be sufficient. I went back to my place at the rudder, content and relieved. I’d made my bet and I had won. I had made it through the icebergs and the growlers; my boat was sailing serenely over the gray swells. I had saved the boat and my expedition, too.
Next, I called Jean-Philippe to alert him that I was going to need a new aluminium casing for my propeller shaft. Was there, by any chance, anywhere around Scoresby Sound a boat repair shop or even a garage—anyplace at all where I might be able to leave my boat for repairs while I trekked across the country?
“Absolutely nothing,” came the answer, two hours later. “Moreover, there isn’t even an airport, however small. There is no way to meet up with you there. You are going to have to sail directly to Angmagssalik.”
This tiny port village, with a population of three hundred, was located just below the Arctic Circle. It was no better equipped, but at least it had an airfield so that my team could meet up with me, bringing the necessary spare parts.
I set my course southward, sailing along the coast.
Not everybody has friends in Angmagssalik, but I do. My friend Robert Peroni lives there. I had asked him to procure the permits necessary for crossing Greenland. Unfortunately, Robert had informed me by radio a few days ago that things were becoming more complicated than he expected and that I was going to have to wait there for a month before I could hope to have the necessary permit. I was furious, but I wasn’t about to turn back a second time. I decided to go on.
With the background noise of the constant chugging of the engine running constantly to operate the electric pump, I discovered the savage beauty of the immense cliffs of Greenland, tho
se gloomy walls of rock topped with snow. My readings of Nansen’s memoirs resurfaced in my mind, stimulating my imagination, and I felt as if I could see the great explorer paddling across these same roaring waters, he and his men dreaming that they would be the first to cross this wild land.
The wind shifted suddenly, and enormous sheets of pack ice began to drift southward, following the same course I was. Pushed by winds out of the west, these huge sheets of ice are driven out into the open ocean where they ultimately melt. But now they were pushing back in the opposite direction, and I found myself caught between the coastal cliffs and blocks of pack ice many miles in length. I could sail out of this situation, but I didn’t want to run the risk of heading back out into open sea. I preferred to stay close to dry land. Here at least, should the worst case arise—that is, if I was forced to abandon ship—I could still reach the mainland with my equipment and continue on my way. And from my point of view, that was the only thing that mattered.
The battle lasted five days and five nights. All sails set, I slipped among the icebergs, ramming slabs of ice that lifted the boat up and then let it drop again with a thump. Wedged between the granite cliffs and the giant blocks of pack ice, I tacked and veered to avoid being crushed or colliding with the icebergs which, just to make things harder, did not always seem to move with the wind or the current. In fact, the immense segment of the iceberg that jutted out of the water acted like a sail, with the same angles of thrust. It was impossible to think of abandoning the helm, and so I struggled to fight off sleep. But fear, and the need to bail constantly to reduce the level of the water that was once again filling my cockpit, were enough for the most part to keep me wide awake.
When I could no longer stay awake, I would drive the boat onto one of the little flat ice floes and leave it grounded there, bow in the air. I would let the boat drift with the floe, confident that it wouldn’t collide with anything for the time being. That would let me close my eyes for minutes, even hours, until the hull of my boat would finally slip off the floe by itself. The smack of the hull hitting water would wake me up, and I would set off again, taking care not to run into any of the many icebergs lurking in the fog.
When I finally sighted the fishermen’s houses of Angmagssalik, little multicolored wooden boxes scattered on the ice high atop the cliff, I felt as if I had been saved by a miracle. I had sailed along the Greenland coast for hundreds of miles; I was completely exhausted, half-asleep at the helm; my hull was full of water and badly dented from all the collisions; but I had arrived.
My crew landed at Angmagssalik the same day, after a journey that had certainly been less trying than mine.
Before leaving Switzerland, Jean-Philippe had placed a small classified ad in the newspapers: “Wanted: volunteers to take Mike Horn’s boat around Greenland.” He had received twenty-four responses and had chosen two prospective pilots. Angelo and Pierre-Yves arrived with him. Dominique, another companion, was waiting in Switzerland so that we could send him a detailed order for other spare parts and tools to bring on a later flight.
Working with the tide, we got the boat out of the water, using its winch to haul it along a ramp, the only piece of maritime equipment in the place, which is more of a natural harbor than a real port. Once we had the boat in dry dock, the Arktos, the name I had given the boat and my expedition, became a dorm where all four of us crashed, crammed in together for as long as it took to repair the boat. Angelo proved to be a gifted mechanic and handyman. Soon the boat was as good as new and perfectly watertight, as proven by the test runs we took in the open waters.
On the administrative side, things seemed to go as if by magic. After a few discussions with the authorities in Angmagssalik, my permit was issued in no more than twenty-four hours. Work on the boat took ten days, and I was becoming impatient. If I got too far behind schedule, my whole calendar would be thrown out of whack.
Wasting no more time, all four of us boarded the boat and left Angmagssalik for good. A few hours later I was leaving the boat again, setting out with all my polar equipment a short distance farther south, at a landing point where the slope of the terrain ran straight up from the water’s edge all the way to the ice cap.
Last farewells and a round of hugs. My teammates all urged me to keep my spirits up, and I wished them good luck. If God and the ice field were both willing, we would meet again at Ilulissat, on the west coast of Greenland, where I would be counting on them to be waiting with the boat.
I no longer had to worry about my boat; it was in very good hands. Now I could focus on my next goal: the 450 or 500 miles of ice field that I would have to traverse in my solo trek across Greenland.
* * *
First of all, I would need to climb. A long gradual climb up to the main plateau, which stretches out at an elevation of ten thousand feet above sea level. The delay that had been caused by the problems with my boat had forced me to start across Greenland at the beginning of autumn, and I was greeted by snow squalls and a head wind blowing in my face. None of this was at all encouraging, since I had allowed myself only about twenty days—with a ten-day margin—to make my crossing (and so I had allowed thirty days for Jean-Philippe and the others to reach Ilulissat).
I wanted to beat the speed record between Angmagssalik and Disko Bay, which is just south of the camp from which Paul-Émile Victor set out to discover the Greenland ice cap. The speed record was set by a four-man German team, and they had taken forty-five days to complete the same route. (There is also an “official” record of nine days, but that did not apply to me because it followed a different route, a straight line along the Arctic Circle from Angmagssalik to the west coast.) But I hadn’t forgotten that on my first attempt, with Erhard Loretan and Jean Troillet, we had been forced to spend two weeks in our tent without being able to venture outside at all, and had finally been forced to give up. I thought about them and the lesson of patience that they had imparted to me when, immediately after beginning my ascent, bad weather confined me to my tent for twenty-four hours. During the night I had to get out of the tent every half-hour to shovel away the snow, otherwise its weight would have crushed the tent. My sled, on the other hand, was completely buried in snow.
This sled was originally designed by Børge Ousland for use on ice. I adapted it to work on any surface I might happen to encounter—snow, ice, rock, tundra, brambles—by making the bottom of the sled thicker and stronger. Same thing for the runners, which were the same width as my skis, so that they would naturally run in the ski tracks. If one of the runners was damaged, it would cause the sled to steer toward the damaged side and that would force me to expend a considerable amount of extra energy to pull it back straight. I needed to be able to fix any such damage quickly and easily by remolding the Teflon with the flat of my knife blade. The front of the sled was rounded and raised so that it would rise up over bumps and slide over them without snagging. The sides of the sled had a rounded bulge so that the entire sled would tend to stay upright rather than overturn in case of violent impacts. The sled was unsinkable, superdurable (it would survive falls of several feet on the ice), and very light when unloaded. I hooked myself up to it with a harness that I had dug up in the back room of Ferrino, my tentmakers. After trying on countless climbing harnesses that were fairly comfortable, I asked to see the most comfortable backpack that they made. With a few quick cuts of my knife, I had separated the backpack and its harness; I added two polyester rings to the harness, big enough to clip carabiners onto even when I was wearing my mittens and in the middle of a raging blizzard.
The 265 pounds of the sled’s weight consisted almost entirely of the weight of the load. That load consisted of one month’s food supplies and ten aluminum bottles, each holding a quart of the benzene fuel that my stove burned. Each bottle weighed about two pounds. I could have carried a single large jerrican but if it leaked or there was a fire, that would have been the end of my fuel. By breaking it into separate compartments, I would reduce that risk.
The bottles were packed separately and insulated from each other to limit impacts. They were sealed with a plastic stopper that accommodated the expansion and contraction of the aluminum under conditions of extreme cold, which increases the volume of the liquid. For that reason the bottles were not completely filled. The bottom of each bottle was reinforced with a layer of rubberized foam to prevent the thousands of hours of constant rubbing against the Kevlar surface of the sled from wearing a hole through it. If that were to happen, not only would I lose my fuel, but I would also lose my food, which could become contaminated with benzene and rendered inedible.
* * *
Without a teammate to take turns beating a track with me, I struggled to open a path through the snow, which varied greatly in depth. But weather conditions would eventually improve. They couldn’t have gotten any worse, and the fury of the wind would actually work in my favor by compacting the snow ahead of me.
I couldn’t see any farther than the tips of my skis, and I would constantly stare at these two boards that were carrying me. I needed to make sure that they were always perfectly parallel, otherwise I might begin to drift off course. Because I am right-handed, my right leg is a little stronger than my left leg, and it always tends to push me to the left. I have to compensate for this on a regular basis.
My skis were white, and they would have blended right in with the color of the snow-covered ground if Annika and Jessica hadn’t been allowed to express their youthful creativity. With tender, loving dedication, they had drawn our home in Switzerland in black magic marker. Plumes of smoke curled out of the chimney, and little people at the windows were speaking in word balloons: “Daddy, we miss you.… Come home soon.” A little farther along, a seal was poking its head up through a hole in the ice, and a polar bear was smiling at me and saying, “Good luck, Mike!” At the tip of one ski my daughters had drawn a cat; at the tip of the other, a mouse; and they whispered in my ear that the cat would catch the mouse when I got home, when my skis were finally standing side by side, with the tips close together.