The Clinic

by Ray Carole

  ‘Fuck, fuck, no, no, please,’ he screamed.

  Terrified it was all over and this whole epic was supposed to send him to his resting place.

  Before his last scream echoed his right ski hit a firm edge that turned out to be some kind of ledge, breaking his fall, smashing his body into the ice wall and painfully jolting his knee socket. He pulled his left leg in immediately to join the right.

  The noise of his ski edges gripping a second ago were akin to a set of jumbo jet wheels screeching to an emergency halt. Then it was silent. The only sound were the pieces of ice bouncing off the crevasse edge past him into the abyss.

  Too scared to even breathe, his face was squashed against the ice wall with his upper body twisted inwards, arms spreadeagled touching the ice wall. Trying to stabilise himself as a temporary lifesaving balancing act, miraculously his feet seemed to be dug in to the side wall of a jagged ledge of ice.

  Feeling around with his skis on a firm footing next to each other, he gingerly pushed the left ski out to feel how much spare room he had to manoeuvre with.

  ‘Fuck, fuck,’ he whispered, as his leg shot off the ledge, making his whole body judder. Whipping the ski back onto the ledge, he remained dead still once again.

  ‘What if the ledge breaks away under my weight?’ he whispered. ‘Shit.’ Tilting his head upwards he could see the edge 5 feet above him. Then looking timidly to his back left, he could see the gap width of the crevasse. It was a three-metre diameter. ‘Options aren’t looking great,’ he noted.

  Keeping his breathing as shallow as possible, trying not to disturb the ice shelf beneath his skis again, he looked down the edge of the ice wall. Making out the ledge he was standing on to be about a foot wide, he only had about two inches spare to work with.

  ‘Fuck’s sake,’ he cursed with his lips touching the ice wall, blood now seeping into his mouth from his friction wound to his right cheek. Not really wanting to look down again he couldn’t help it. With minimal movement he captured a quick glimpse. Ironic that he had now caught a glimpse of the black nothing.

  ‘Yep, definitely prefer the white nothing.’ His left leg started to shake uncontrollably. Known as disco leg, this reassured his mind that he was shitting himself in fear of imminent death. Years ago this hadn’t been a problem, as he was normally clinging to a cliff, firmly attached to rope, anchored to a strongpoint. And, with another person.

  The rope attaching him to his pulk still had some slack in it due to the ledge breaking his fall and saving his life. One problem was the trace line was attached to his daysack on his back. If the ledge gave way, his body would fall then the sled would follow. Even if he hit another ledge to break his fall, it wouldn’t be enough. Over a 100kg sled acting as an anchor on his body, would rip him off and down into the abyss.

  A Catch 22-scenario was now being played out in his mind.

  ‘Will the sled grip the ice with my weight on the rope pulling on it? I can then climb out…Or if it doesn’t? In my attempt to climb out it hurtles past me with all my gear and hits me too?’

  He made his decision, knowing he had to take his rucksack off, and try and free-climb out by removing his skis, using his ski pole tips as ice axes to climb out and maybe kicking his feet into the snow and ice wall.

  ‘Okay no time to mess about,’ he said to himself, his breathing under control again after the initial shock. He eased his left arm back through the rucksack strap. With his ski pole wrist loop still attached to his wrist this was tricky. Halfway through, he flicked his loop off his wrist, risking the pole slipping off and becoming lost forever. A few seconds later he mastered it and got one arm free. Using the slack on the rope he simply dropped his right shoulder and allowed the rucksack’s weight to cause it to slide. Whipping his arm and ski pole up through it, the rucksack dropped and hung near his feet.

  ‘Good stuff, nice and easy Decker, skis next…’

  Forcing his body into the ice wall harder, his face crushed painfully once more. Lifting his shaking left leg up to get his foot up higher, without looking down he felt for the ski binding release catch. His ski pole was getting in the way and making it fidgety, but he managed to flip it open, releasing the rear wire binding so the ski was free. Only the toe of his boot was holding it in place. Flicking his left foot up to bring the tip of the ski near his face he slowly wrapped his hand around the ski, took a look up, then launched the free ski back over the edge with the most overarm throwing strength he could muster. It sailed over.

  ‘One down. Come on we can do this,’ he said calming himself down knowing he was halfway.

  Placing his left foot back on the ice he couldn’t help but see the disturbed ice drop away in to darkness. With his right ski jammed in against the ice wall he braced himself for the next move. Moving his right hand down to meet the binding, desperately trying not to rush, he blindly fumbled around trying to locate the binding release catch.

  ‘Got it,’ feeling the sweat roll down his cheeks.

  He replaced his right arm back on the ice wall for stability. His left arm grabbed the ski tip, the sweat was now in his eyes, he squinted and threw it over the edge with the same aggression and precision to follow the former one.

  Looking at the trace rope hanging attached to his rucksack he gave it a little tug, it moved the sled slightly. Climbing using the rope was a no-go.

  As he pulled the rope he looked at the daysack and realised his Leatherman multi tool was in the top flap and had been since the start. Always at hand to adjust his ski binding settings, or cooker valves when his fingers were too cold. Unzipping the flap, he grabbed it and clumsily unfolded it by using his hand and the ice wall for purchase. What was now in his hands was a mini saw. Only four inches long but built for purpose.

  Minutes before he had weighed up the options of ramming his ski pole tips into the snow, then hauling his way up with brute arm strength. Left arm, right arm, legs kicking to scrabble out. He knew deep down it was too risky.

  This option was now going to have to work or it was the end.

  Moving fast he held the trace rope with his right hand, whilst leaning down and starting to initially chip away at the ice, before sawing it to create a foot hold around knee height. Working furiously his hands were still starting to go numb. This black hole was like a freezer.

  Minutes later the first hold was cut. Looking at his right shoulder he decided to cut the next hole just below. Years of climbing in Mountain Troop with SAS had taught him that climbing was all in the legs, arms were simply the support levers of balance. He could climb out using his sharp ski pole tips for balance and the foot hold for support.

  Chipping away with his right arm this time he cut the second hole.

  Looking up left he started cutting another higher than the right side. A simple set of shallow steps. Luckily he was wearing old-school Alpha boots. Though people had ridiculed him for wearing a 1950s leather boot, this decision would potentially save his life today. At the toe end of the boot was a rubber wedge that slots into the ski binding. Like a small square bolted on the end perfect for him to cut slots for them to fit into to allow him to climb out.

  All done, he looked at the hole. Ramming the saw into the ice, he gripped it tight for balance. Placing his left boot into the first hole, applying a downward pressure, he tested it.

  ‘That’s good to go mate,’ reassuring himself.

  Placing the Leatherman back in the daysack, he grabbed the ski poles close to the tips, holding them both behind the baskets. These baskets were plastic and leather webs, set back two inches from the ski tips to stop the skis protruding further into the snow. His fists were clenched tightly behind them. They would aid his dagger-like thrusts into the ice.

  Eyeing up a spot to thrust both poles into his ice-climbing skills kicked in. Avoiding a massive power thrust that would smash the ice, he gently tapped away, then drove
the tip in about head-height. Normally using ice axes, the principles were the same, never put your hand above your head as it strained the arms.

  Both tips dug in, he pulled down slightly. The ski pole tips held but the ledge beneath his feet began to have other ideas. Feeling the ledge fracture slightly, he bent his knees to test it again. At this point instinct fuelled by adrenalin kicked in. He failed to control his nerves, as the panic set in, seeing him pull his body up slightly on the poles. Holding his body weight, with his left foot quickly kicking at the ice to locate the hole cut. Hearing the ice shelf start to slide away, there was only one option on the table.

  Locate the hole or die.

  More random kicks flew onto the ice wall. Composure was a luxury at this moment as the left pole started to break the ice and loosen. Another few kicks then he felt it hit the hole. Pushing his toes down hard inside his boot, it felt as though his toenails were clutching the ice. Finally getting purchase with his feet, his left pole ripped away swinging his upper body off the wall. Counter balancing, he managed to throw his body back into the ice, desperately trying to dig the pole tip in again. No petite swings this time to hook the ice, just pure power driven by a will to survive.

  Bang.

  It stayed in.

  ‘Calm down, calm down, control, come on,’ he whispered to himself. Resting his head on the ice wall for a second. ‘Composure, composure.’ He looked up, no need to look down, there was nothing there.

  Fully stretched on his left leg, he brought his right one up to find the hole he’d cut out minutes earlier.

  ‘That’s it, here we go,’ egging himself on. ‘Two more to do.’ Now straddled unevenly he took a breath before throwing his left pole back up near his head. Taking a few swings it finally caught. Without pausing he pushed up on his right leg, fully extending it to hurl his body upwards. Left leg now hanging, it was one move away from safety. Scarpering around trying to locate the hole, his forearms were burning with lactic acid whilst his left foot was scraping down the ice wall, until he could feel the recess he had cut.

  Wedging it in, he felt himself losing his calm composure as the crevasse ledge was almost at his eye level. ‘Calm don’t lose it now and fall…’ Knowing he was one move away from safety he pushed down on his left leg, not even checking that it would hold. Jumping up, trying to reach over the ledge in a scrappy move, he made it. As the Antarctic plateau reappeared to his eyes once again, his elbows dug in on top of the ice ledge. Both legs now loose beneath him still hung in the crevasse. Scrabbling forward like a madman he moved forward until his thighs crossed the ledge. Crawling an extra few metres to be safe he threw himself over on his back.

  Breathing uncontrollably, he knew that that was one of his closest calls to date. Panting on his back, arms and legs spreadeagled he was motionless. Feeling the burn on his left cheek come back, as the adrenalin drained away, he tossed his body over.

  Lying face down he felt his cheek. The blood stuck to his gloves as he inspected the damage. Knowing it was just a friction burn, he scratched some snow up then forced it into his cheek. Hand placed against his face pressuring the wound, he looked back across the Antarctic plateau.

  He’d known this area was dangerous country but had missed the signs. A sigh of relief now washed over him, he lay on his back exhausted. ‘I need to get the fuck out of here fast before this place kills me.’

  Chapter 27

  Mick looked down at the arrow on the GPS screen before following it off the screen as far as his eyes could see to the blank horizon. The weather was still clear though a little overcast taking the edge off the sparkling ice surface.

  Mick took stock of the expansive landscape and immediately registered what WHITEOUT meant when he talked about depth perception in his blogs. He’d shared how it could be deceiving out here and Mick knew it was almost like a virtual enemy that they had to get a grip of fast. What he perceived to be a wide expanse stretching for miles to his front could in fact actually only be a few hundred metres or so. Making a wrong judgment would be critical, once they got within 5 nautical miles of WHITEOUT Mick understood that failure to judge depth perception could mean compromise, resulting in a premature pursuit across the Antarctic plateau to take down their prey.

  As Mick inspected the snow and surface conditions with his ski pole he couldn’t help but be mesmerised by the erratic sastrugi formations carved out of the ice. It looked like art to him, a true exhibition showpiece, Mick crossed his fingers in his mittens that the 100 mph winds that Gerry had mentioned would hold off a few more days, these looked tricky to navigate as they were.

  As Mick forced his eyes to visualise any cracks in the ice, he could make out a dip in the ground, only partially visible. ‘Dead ground, shit.’

  Dead ground was a problem; the area of surface you could not see between two points could be where WHITEOUT was skiing or tented up. Further away squinting his eyes he could that the ground regained height and became level again. In between these points was always going to cause major deliberations at this early stage on the ice. Mick knew WHITEOUT could identify easily now the perceptions of depth between two points of high ground. Mick didn’t have this luxury and would have to always play it safe, which meant going slower than he’d like.

  ‘Does the ground disappear for 200 metres or two miles?’ Mick pondered.

  WHITEOUT had described in his blog how he would sometimes look to his front and see a steep drop that entered a huge patch of dead ground. This dead ground WHITEOUT estimated to measure around 4 miles in distance before it rose up, to gain its lost height once more. It shattered him as he knew he would have to descend into the lower reaches only to climb back four miles out of it. He had described the surreal experience of stepping off to take on the challenge and after only 20 metres had passed, he had skied both down and back out of the dead ground. Even being the most experienced navigator that he was, he still couldn’t get his head around it but also noted this had happened to him around the North Pole as well. Mick understood it perfectly now, he was now thinking that he was staring out at a huge valley that stretched on for miles to be proven wrong in only twenty steps.

  Unfortunately the opposite was true also. This was the dangerous part for Icarus. Mick knew when he skied into a perceived area of dead ground to only be 500 metres and it actually opened up into a three mile valley, they would have just committed to skiing on a downward slope for miles which equalled a long time. If WHITEOUT were only a few miles in front, he would be able to see them on the downward slope higher up behind him if he stopped and looked back.

  Did WHITEOUT ever look back? Mick mused, and how far back could he actually penetrate with his mark one eyeball? Does he only look back when he stopped with his back to the wind? And how much attention did this man actually give to a backdrop he was desperately trying to escape? ‘Too many questions.’ Mick muttered.

  Mick knew it would be WHITEOUT’s instinct to scan the path he had skied when he rested every two hours. Surely he must look back to give himself the satisfaction of viewing exactly what he had just accomplished? Mick was sure he would, otherwise it was all for nothing.

  It was when WHITEOUT took in these moments to appreciate his progress that the pursuers would be at greater risk of compromise.

  Thinking quickly Mick decided upon a solution, from 0800 hours he knew exactly what times WHITEOUT would stop, this was when he would look back and admire the real estate he had just covered.

  Before Mick committed to any vast area of dead ground he would check his watch. If it were before WHITEOUT’s break time, say 20 minutes, he would hold off, not commit. Once it was past his stop time, they would then proceed. To add to that Mick decided they would always stop 10 minutes before his breaks and lay low, until 10 minutes after his break time.

  They had speed and time on their hands. Both fresh they only needed to locate his tracks then trace his movemen
ts so after 1800 hours when WHITEOUT would stop for the day, they could really put a surge on to get within visual distance of the tent at their stop-short position.

  As he looked in the distance on the bearing he saw a jagged piece of ice maybe two miles away. This was his marker to ski to. Once they reached it he would check the GPS again then pick another point. This was classic point-to-point navigation that was fast, accurate and saved GPS battery life.

  Turning to Robby he whacked his ski poles together in the air indicating they were off.

  Robby waved his right ski pole up in the air to let Mick know he was ready. There wouldn’t be much talking now apart from the two hour stops, or when they reached one of these features Mick was navigating to.

  ‘The Death March’ had just taken its inaugural steps Mick thought. They had officially entered the world WHITEOUT was thriving in.

  The chase was on. You couldn’t make this sort of shit up Mick thought as he drove his right ski pole spike into the hard pack ice.

  Picking up a rhythm and making sure he was not leaving Robby behind with the extra burden of pulling the pulk, they began to cut their own virgin tracks across the ice.

  To gain traction from the snow and sheer ice beneath their skis, each ski had skins screwed into the soles. A suede type of material, it allowed them to power the skis downwards without slipping or sliding. There wasn’t really any black art to skiing with skins on, you simply walked but actually slid your toes forward close to the ice as opposed to lifting your foot.