At last everything was in readiness. The hour had arrived towards which the persevering labor of years had been incessantly bent, and with it the feeling that, everything being provided and completed, responsibility might be thrown aside and the weary brain at last find rest.
—Fridtjof Nansen
These immortal words of Norwegian polar explorer Fridtjof Nansen are an epitaph to the success of every great Antarctic journey, as he testifies that it is the years of hard work preparing for a polar journey that are the most difficult part. Once you have gathered your equipment, completed your training and are down there facing the forces of nature, you are at the mercy of your own past actions, as only the high degree of readiness achieved through your meticulous preparations can save you. Without adequate preparation and training, an expedition could easily turn into disaster, as so much depends on having reliable, safe equipment and a party of people who are experienced, well trained and level-headed during times of stress.
A lot had happened in my life since that first trip to Antarctica. In late 1989 I had been appointed as the new curator of vertebrate paleontology at the Western Australian Museum, so we moved from Hobart to Perth. The busy task of settling my family into a new life in Perth and familiarizing myself with the new duties of working in the museum had taken my mind off the possibility of returning down south to Antarctica. The scheduled return trip was planned for the 1990-91 season if the full logistic support we required was given. Unfortunately that was a particularly busy year for NZARP deep field trips, so our
event (still called K221) was bumped off to the following year. Then one day I had a letter out of the blue from Margaret saying that our Antarctic event had received all the logistic support we asked for and was now on line to take place in late 1991. So, I had to get myself ready and be there later that year.
I decided that rather than depend on the National Geographic Society 's generosity to get me back down to Antarctica the second time I would try Australia's Antarctic Division for support, seeing as my field area was actually located within the Australian Antarctic Territory. I managed to score a modest grant that enabled me to cover my costs of transport to and from New Zealand, pay for base and food costs, and I could further save on clothing hire by getting my kit through the Australian Antarctic Division. Furthermore, this meant I now had an ANARE event number (A136) that elevated our expedition to the status of being an international cooperative event between Australia and New Zealand. I must admit it felt good to go back to Scott and McMurdo bases proudly wearing the yellows of an Australian ANARE expeditioner, who were few and far between on those bases. I really did stand out in the crowd there between the hoards of red-clad USAPers and blue-clad NZARPies. However, never one to chance discomfort in the field, I was eventually talked into hiring some additional items of New Zealand gear to enhance my ANARE kit.
The new gear comprised a heavy survival jacket, a pair of leather double climbing boots, and a pair of NZ fleecy overalls (salopettes). As I had to go down to Hobart for a Gondwana 8 Conference held at the University of Hobart in June 1991, this gave me the opportunity to slip away one lunchtime and get kitted out at the Antarctic Division. I was amazed at how the Australian kit differed from the New Zealand gear that I'd used on my last expedition. The heavy outer clothing, boots, socks, and long johns were all very similar, only different in color and brand name, yet the amazing thing was the inclusion of the most unusual fashion accessories: two Antarctic Division ties, which one was meant to wear to any “formal occasions that might arise ”; a crimson ANARE issue towel; and a standard issue sewing kit. The last item was perhaps the most useful thing I took to the field and was used every evening later on in the field trip to sew up tattered gloves and socks
and do minor repairs on torn clothing. Even now, almost ten years later, I still use that little ANARE sewing kit for all my tailoring needs.
As I had already been to Antarctica once before and had completed the weeklong training course at Tekapo, I was excused this time round from participating in the course. Instead, on arrival in Antarctica our group would undergo a special intensive “deep field training course” down on the ice.
In late October 1991, once more I flew across to New Zealand and arrived at Christchurch, ready for the ultimate field trip, a three-month expedition to the remote wilds of the Transantarctic Mountains. We had the regular delays when flights were cancelled due to bad weather or delayed due to other reasons, so we passed time researching material on Antarctic fossils and geology and just hanging about in Christchurch.
Incidentally it was during my time waiting in Christchurch, on 25 October 1991, that an historic flight took place down south. For the first time, on that day, an all female crew of VXE-6 Squadron took a Hercules from McMurdo Base to open up the US Base at the South Pole.
We woke up at 3:45 A.M. on Tuesday, 29 October to get ready for our pick-up an hour later. This gave us time to have a filling breakfast of porridge and fruit, and then don our multiple layers of Antarctic clothing. We arrived at the Christchurch airport before sunrise and then waited outside with a long line of personnel for the boarding call. Just after the sun rose over New Zealand we climbed on board a dark green C-141B Starlifter, the scaled-down military version of a jumbo jet. By 8:00 A.M. we were cruising down the runway, pointed southwards, for our scheduled take-off.
The Starlifter contained 110 people on our flight. The back half of the plane was loaded with our baggage plus miscellaneous cargo for the bases. Although it was a military flight or “mission” as it's called by VXE-6 Squadron, in some ways it wasn't too unlike a typical commercial international flight, just like the Herc flight three years earlier. This time round, though, we were issued with boarding passes. A boxed lunch, almost identical to the one I'd been given three years before, was handed to us on boarding. The in-flight service wasn't too bad, al-
though I was disappointed that there wasn't a screening of Scott of the Antarctic on the flight down. I won't say much about their frequent flyer points scheme, except to addthat if ever I wish to go to the next Operation “Desert Storm,” I'm almost there!
We huddled together on small canvas seats, facing the center of the plane in two rows. Bearing in mind that each expeditioner had to have a full set of survival gear close by them, mandatory in case of a plane crash, everyone lugged a large kit bag around their feet that left little room for moving about the cabin. As for toilets, well, we were told it's best to go before the plane took off. However, in an emergency there was a small funnel attached to a tube down the back of the plane, with a short draw curtain around it. Very blokey indeed. No little lights came on when the funnel was vacant either! I found this to be perfectly okay when in absolute dire desperation for a leak. Any other combination of gender and bodily relief did not accord with the C-141B funnel system, although I later found out that there were other ways to relieve oneself within the plane 's cargo hold area. I asked for no more details and, mercifully, on a Starlifter it's only a 4.5-hour flight from New Zealand to Antarctica.
Later on during that flight we were each allowed a quick visit to the cockpit to admire the extraordinary view. We had just reached the edge of Antarctica and could see the northern part of the snow-covered Transantarctic Mountains, with the vast polar plateau stretching out as far as we could see. From the main cockpit the 180° view was simply magnificent.
Standing next to the female pilot in command of the flight, I looked out across the top of the world, which to our regular antipodean view was actually the bottom of the world! Quite a mind blower. I gazed in silence at the magnificent rocky snow-draped mountains below fringed by the frozen sea and pancake ice structures, on one side, and by an apparently infinite plateau of polar ice on their far side. Above us the boundless blue sky was punctuated with a few fluffy cirrus clouds and the sun shining down on all of it. The latter was probably the most significant factor in the whole scenario for us, because if the sun disappeared, the threat of losing visibility would force us to turn around and go all the way back to Christchurch.
The plane touched down about 2:00 P.M. on the ice runway of Willy Field. After gliding along the ice on its skids for quite a while, it finally turned around and taxied in to its allocated standing area. By then the internal temperature on the plane had been gradually turned down so as to acclimatize us to the cold environment into which we were about to step.
Some of the old, wizened expeditioners had told us horrific tales of the first few flights down in which the temperature was kept warm and cozy all the way to Antarctica. Then, on opening the doors and stepping out into −31°F and freezing winds, some of the passengers had the fillings in their teeth contract rapidly and pop out! So, fully clothed and expecting the onslaught of cold air, we descended from the front door of the plane with mouths clenched, to find a pleasant Antarctic afternoon with a temperature of about 10°F, and no breeze to speak of.
We were greeted on arrival by our field survival leader, Brian Staite. Brian is a swarthy bearded Kiwi, stocky and of robust build, with a quietly competent attitude. He smiled at us and came forward to firmly shake my hand, as I was the only member of the field party whom he hadn't already met. I smiled back and assessed him. We were soon going to share a polar tent together for two months. He seemed like a decent sort of fellow and was a veteran of several long deep-field Antarctic expeditions. His background in mountain climbing, skiing, mountain rescue and other outdoor pursuits qualified him as one of the most skilled of all the New Zealand field leaders. My estimation of him only grew over the next two months as I got to know him better. I could not have asked for a better mate to share a tent with on a journey through Antarctica.
We were driven to Scott Base and given a quick briefing with the base manager, Phil Robbins. He warmly welcomed us, gave us the lowdown on base rules, then showed us to our temporary sleeping quarters. At the time there were many expeditioners staying on the base, so we were relegated to the old quarters. These were the original Scott Base living quarters used in the early days of the NZARP before the flash new base was erected. They consisted of a large open interior space with various double bunks, so we all shared the room with about
five others. Privacy is a rare luxury in Antarctica on base mainly because there just isn't the room unless you are one of the winter-over crew. You are then allocated a small room each, as having your own space is very important for your long-term sanity over the cold, dark winter months.
Most expeditioners spend as little time hanging around the base as possible, as their main aim is to get out and work in the field as soon as logistics permit. If your logistic support was a helo flight this may not take long at all, maybe only a few days, depending primarily on the weather. However, we were special because we were one of only two deep field expeditions that year, so we had to stay on base longer to prepare ourselves with extra training, including getting familiar with driving and adjusting our skidoos, as well as testing out all the routine equipment like the radios and stoves. The best way to do this was practical experience. We planned to do a couple of shakedown trips to make sure that all of this vital equipment was in perfect working order, and at the same time to see some of the local historical sites on Ross Island.
I will never forget the day I joined the Polar Plungers' Club, on 7 November 1991. I had no desire to go swimming naked below the frozen sea ice, but I really had no choice. A day after I arrived on base I found out that Australia had beaten New Zealand in some major rugby competition and, being the only Australian on base at the time, friendly rivalry was mounting against my kind. I was issued with the challenge “Come on Aussie, join the Polar Plungers Club or else sign the wimps' book” (“wimps” being pronounced emphatically without any vowel). So, what else could I do? I had joined the Lake Vanda Swim Club on New Year's Day 1989, so I thought that this would be a fairly similar experience.
The next afternoon those of us who were about to be initiated into the Polar Plungers' Club, four in all, walked on the sea ice outside the base to a little hole that had been cut into the ice for the marine biologist divers. The water was continually freezing up, so each day teams of workers kept the hole open by shoveling out the partly frozen sludgy ice layer on top. Next to the hole in the ice was a small mobile hut, mercifully fitted with a heater, where the divers would change after each stint underwater. We all entered the hut and stripped off, wearing
only our boots and heavy survival jacket. Next we all marched out in single file to stand near the open hole. By this time hordes of spectators had arrived and were perched around the site with videos and cameras, like voyeurs at Roman amphitheatres eagerly waiting to see the Christians being fed to the lions.
I was first up as I had the dubious honor of being an Australian. Proudly, I took off my jacket and stood there naked in my boots, showing them all what we little Aussie bleeders are really made of! The outside air temperature was −13°F and a light breeze was blowing. Never before had I experienced such a helpless feeling of the human body being so frail, so vulnerable to the forces of nature. They fitted me with a harness around my chest, and then pointed to the hole with its slushy, dark blue frigid water. Looking back at the video recording I saw that I hesitated slightly, also pointing at the water as if to say “You mean you want me to jump in there?” Then I leaped in.
All I can recall of that brief second or two I spent underwater is opening my eyes and seeing the most amazing scene of blurry, blue icicles hanging down from under the sea ice, and some menacing dark shapes moving around. I was pulled out of the water then onto the ice where I immediately started jumping up and down on top of my boots. A towel was handed to me, I dried my feet first, hurriedly put on my boots, and as quickly as possible hopped over to the hut to dry off and get dressed. It felt great, though, an invigorating shock to the system.
As I wandered back to watch the others go in after me, I discovered that everyone mustered around the ice hole was laughing their heads off.
“What's the matter?” I asked, “it couldn't have been that funny!”
Fraka, who had been video recording the event, was practically in tears of laughter. She told me that only a second or two after they 'd hauled me out a large Weddell seal had leaped up out of the same hole onto the sea ice, startling all the onlookers.
“Whatever was it after?” she jested. I just winced and walked away silently.
Perhaps Percy Correll, one of the men on Mawson's expedition, was the very first man to inaugurate the Polar Plungers ' Club. When unloading the Aurora at Adelie Land, the men were shifting cases from
the boats to the landing stage and a case of jam fell into the water. Mawson ventured in the water and took some time to extricate the box and keep his head above water, but a few days later he observed one of his men actually voluntarily taking a dip in the sea. Mawson recalls his experience:
At last I went in, and standing on tiptoe, could just reach it and keep my head above water. It took some time to extricate it from the kelp, following which I established a new record for myself in dressing. . . I do not think I looked very exhilarated after this bath, but strange to say, a few days later Correll tried an early morning swim which was the last voluntary dip attempted by anyone.