In all things, success depends upon previous preparation, and without such preparation there is sure to be failure.
—Confucius
Antarctica is a deadly continent, a place where under normal conditions, death would be the usual human state of existence! Despite all the precautions taken each year fatal accidents keep occurring there. It's a simple fact of life in Antarctica that violent weather can close in around your field party in minutes, whiteout conditions can envelop your aircraft almost without warning, or the ground you are traveling over can suddenly become riddled with deadly crevasses which were previously hidden from view by a light fall of snow. My story begins with a brief insight into the nature of preparation for survival in Antarctica.
Being part of an official New Zealand field expedition it was compulsory for me to do my basic training in the lower half of the South Island. Here, icy mountaintops provided a good environment in which to experience near-polar conditions. However, before even getting to go on the training camp one must satisfy stringent medical requirements. Only expeditioners in the best of health are allowed to go on a remote deep field expedition, not only for their own health, but also because the rest of their field party will be depending on them. Extensive medical and dental checks are required. I was sent a special medical assessment form by the New Zealand Antarctic Research Program (NZARP) to take to my doctor so he could check out everything on the list.
The medical took nearly an hour, and included taking blood samples to be analyzed for HIV, hepatitis, and other diseases. The dental checks are also rigorous and resulted in my having all my teeth radiographed to check whether any of the older fillings might be at risk in the extreme cold climate. I had heard stories from old expeditioners about teeth problems due to the cold. Noel Barber's book about the 1955-57 Transantarctic Expedition called The White Desert touches on this subject:
If you were working outside and talked too much, the cold contracted the fillings that then dropped out. I lost one that way, fortunately not one that caused any pain. At McMurdo the dentist was the busiest man in the camp, for he was the only one. I never dared to ask him what would happen if he ever got a toothache himself.
Once all the tests had been done, I knew for the first time in my life that I really was healthy. Finally, after I had sent all the medical reports back to the NZARP, I was allowed to attend the weeklong survival training camp at Tekapo, in the South Island of New Zealand.
In addition to Margaret Bradshaw, whom I'd met earlier in Christchurch, my field party consisted of one other scientist, Dr. Fraka Harmsen from the California State University in Fresno. Fraka was a Dutch-born girl who grew up in Nelson, on the South Island of New Zealand, and completed her doctoral studies on carbonate sedimentary rocks at Victoria University in Wellington. She was then appointed as a lecturer in sedimentology in the Geology Department of California State University in Fresno, USA. She was an expert in the study of sedimentary rocks and how to interpret the ancient environments in which they formed. She was a small, frail-looking woman with shoulder-length curly blond hair and an almost perpetual grin. She didn't look anything like someone who you imagine would be comfortable in the frozen wilds of Antarctica.
In August 1988 we arrived at a small military camp situated near Lake Tekapo after a scenic bus ride down from Christchurch. It was situated in a truly beautiful part of the world, set amongst high snowcapped mountains and valleys laden with deep green conifer trees and ferns, a land of kiwis and keas (large, brownish-green New Zealand parrots). Clear flowing aqua-blue rivers twisted and rolled over rocks
forming white frothing rapids. The air was invigoratingly crisp and clean.
The base had that sort of “school camp” feel about it. Being in a military environment meant that rules were there to be obeyed, so times for meals and attending courses had to be strictly adhered to. No sleeping in late here. I was keen to learn anything and everything to ensure my safety and comfort in Antarctica. I had always lived by the motto that “any fool can be uncomfortable in the bush,” an old adage which meant that if you prepare yourself well you can spend your time camping out in the desolate Australian outback and be perfectly comfortable.
Training involved learning many varied skills essential for survival: serious first aid, including how to give injections and perform your own emergency dental jobs; mastering the various radio communications devices; delving into the mechanical anatomy of two-stroke 500 cc Skidoo engines; how to use and service the three different kinds of chemical fire extinguishers used on the base; how to use and maintain the primus cooking equipment; how to erect a polar tent in a blizzard; the fundamentals of basic mountain climbing, rope work, and crevasse rescue skills; and how to cope with psychological challenges, like the isolation and problems of homesickness. Even personal hygiene was drilled into us, emphasising how important it was simply to brush your teeth daily to prevent gum disease, and to keep your feet dry and warm at all times, so as to prevent the development of “immersion foot,” a sort of Antarctic version of tropical foot sores.
We were flat out all day for the first four days of solid courses and, at nights, after high cholesterol doses of good greasy tucker, we were subjected to rambling tales of hoary adventure by old crusty expeditioners. Sometimes we were made to watch gruesome medical slides of mountaineering accidents involving serious frostbites of frozen limbs, highlighting the kinds of amputations necessary once gangrene gets hold of you after the frostbite. These were explicit, grisly reminders of how important it was to always adjust your level of comfort by fine-tuning your layers of clothing and to keep a close eye on your mates at all times. It's common for people to develop the first signs of frostbite without being able to feel it themselves, as may occur on the nose or
ears when they are totally preoccupied with serious work, or sledging on long journeys.
“Frostbite” is defined as a condition in which the flesh is frozen solid. It most commonly affects one's fingers, toes or the protruding parts of the face, like the nose or ears. If the frozen tissue is rapidly thawed in hot water, tissue can sometimes be saved. Shallow freezing of the exposed tissue is called “frostnip.” This strikes nearly every Antarctic deep field expeditionary at some stage or another, yours truly included. Although painful, it usually causes no lasting damage once the affected region has thawed out.
The process of thawing out frostnipped flesh entails slowly warming up the afflicted parts. In my case it was often my toes, as early on in the field trip in 1991 I was not used to the extremely cold temperatures encountered in late October. At one time when we were out on a shakedown trip I felt the cold affecting my toes but couldn 't be bothered having to stop the training to go inside a tent and change my boots. A short while later I found my toes going numb. Eventually I realized that I couldn't feel anything in my toes, so had to go inside the tent, warm up and change my shoes and socks. As the blood flowed back into those toes on warming it was excruciatingly painful.
The more serious condition, hypothermia, is when the body's core temperature, usually at 99°F, drops below critical levels. It is a far more serious condition and must be treated at once. As the body's core temperature drops to 86-90°F, unconsciousness occurs and death will follow if the core temperature drops below 77°F, as it is at this temperature the heart stops beating. The first serious signs of hypothermia include disorientation, wild erratic behavior, shivering, and fits and, finally, the victim goes into a torpor drifting eventually into unconsciousness. These days it is very rare for anyone working in Antarctica to be affected by hypothermia, as everyone is warned about it and made to take adequate clothing and preparation for outside field work. However, if by accident someone falls into icy water or down a crevasse and is only rescued after rapid hypothermia has set in, the person is best treated by rapid immersion in a hot bath of water at 108°F.
One evening we had to watch an amusing Canadian film about treating hypothermia. It must have been the corniest film I've ever seen,
but it did get a few important points across and certainly made us all laugh. It presented the scenario of an absolute idiot wandering out in the snow by himself, getting lost, and subsequently showing the first signs of hypothermia. He starts wildly throwing off his clothes and runs around half naked in the snow until finally he falls asleep, exhausted, under a light snowfall. His mates find him a few hours later and he is in a mighty serious condition. The first thing they do is put up a small tent and then undress him and get him inside a sleeping bag with the two of them naked, so that their body warmth can slowly reheat him. This of course drew numerous snide remarks from the group, although it was actually the recommended life-saving procedure. The odd sexist remarks came out of the crowd about how someone hoped some good-looking lady in the group was going to get hypothermia so he could volunteer to “thaw her out.” Despite the humor, the reality of frostbite and hypothermia hangs over all who venture on long outdoor travels in Antarctica.
Medical problems can get very serious in the Antarctic. In 1961 a Russian medic on a remote station actually took out his own appendix using two assistants to hold the mirrors and forceps. It was a matter of life or death, and he survived. The instruments he used are now on display in a medical museum in Moscow.
One of my favorite training courses that week was called “helicopter familiarization.” This actually involved learning the correct procedure for getting on and off a chopper (without losing your head) and how to cope with “peculiar flying conditions” or other emergency situations that might arise while traveling in a chopper.
The latter was demonstrated to us when the pilot took us up very high then plummeted down in a spiral spin, making us all go white and dizzy. I lost my confidence in the crew then when the co-pilot threw up in the cabin of the chopper, a New Zealand Air Force UN-1N “Huey.” The pilot luckily was an extremely competent fellow and managed to get us safely on the ground a few minutes later.
The final part of our training was to put everything we had learnt that week to the test up in the snowfields. When the chopper lifted us up to the snowy peaks, it hovered just above the snow and we had to jump out and unload our gear. The first thing I noticed was the wind
and cold exacerbated by the chopper's whirling blades blasting the freezing air down on us. We managed to quickly off-load our gear from the chopper and get our tent up. After setting out our sleeping mats and bags we then adjourned to the snow to make a snow cave: a sort of igloo that you can quickly make to live in if your tent gets destroyed.
To make a snow cave the easy way, you just pile up your bags and gear into a mound and then heap loads of snow on top and flatten it down with a shovel. Tunneling in and pulling out the gear leave you with “Chateau Frigidaire,” a makeshift snow dome. By scraping out more room at the base you could eventually end up with a comfortable shelter for the night out of the wind, with comfy terraced beds cut into the snow, little tables, or whatever else took your fancy (perhaps an ensuite). A person can be quite warm inside such a shelter as the air is still and heats up from your body warmth and the flames from the primus stove. If it gets too warm though, it starts to be a problem as the walls melt a little and your things get sodden. As long as you sleep inside your bags on a ground sheet, the temperature is really quite comfortable.
Many of the early expeditioners have testified to this, perhaps the most prominent amongst them being Victor Campbell's Northern Party of Scott's Terra Nova expedition. In 1912 six men lived through winter in an ice cave only a few meters long by a few meters wide by two meters high. They subsisted daily on the meat from penguins and seals and the warmth radiating out from their small blubber stove. They survived this way for six months, but not without some consequences of stomach illnesses. Nonetheless, their endurance and careful planning saved their lives.
Our day up on the mountaintop went smoothly. We were able to practice erecting our polar tents, setting up radio communications, firing up the primus and cooking a simple meal (something dehydrated that just needed water). We all slept well inside our down bags, and in the morning packed up camp and waited around to be picked up by the helicopters.
After the week at Tekapo had finished we all felt that we had learned and practiced the necessary survival skills for working in Antarctica, and were well aware that we would all be put through yet an-
other survival training stint shortly after we arrived in Antarctica. It wasn't just good enough to learn these skills. We had to know them well and be able to perform every one of them in real Antarctic conditions.
I flew back to my home in Hobart, Tasmania, and now had only four months to wait until my first trip to the frozen continent would begin. So far I had passed the medical with flying colors. I had survived the survival training camp and was now ready for the next challenge, which would be the real thing, Antarctica.
For the remaining months before my trip I read avidly about Antarctica and the early exploits of the scientific expeditions. On reading about Sir Vivian Fuchs and Sir Edmund Hillary's heroic trans-Antarctic crossing of the continent using tractors in 1957-58, I couldn't help thinking about the British tabloid headlines of the day when the expedition was departing: “Sir Vivian Fuchs Off to Antarctica.”
Yep, I thought to myself. Pretty soon I'd be doing the same thing.