Travels in Antarctica: Coal black eyes deeper than any black hole in the universe

 By Frosty Wooldridge                    

“Arriving again on October 19, a party experienced a ten days’ blizzard which confined them during seven days to their tents, but during their windy visit they saw one of the most interesting scenes in natural history: Below them lay the Emperor penguin rookery on the bay ice of the Ross Sea—and completely frozen over, was a plain of firm white ice to the horizon.  The birds were unsettled as if they knew a storm was coming…the sky looked black and threatening, the barometer fell, and before long, snow fell on the upper heights of Mount Terror. The birds formed a 100-yard long line in an exodus to the open sea.  The gale began anew.”

                                                           Cherry-Garrard, 1922

                                                           The Worst Journey In The World

          The door of the plane popped open.  A strong blast of unimaginably icy air, that bit into our flesh like a driven nail, rushed at us.  We pulled on our hoods, gloves and picked up our packs.

          Everything was Martha Stuart sheet-white.  Overhead, the sky lingered white against an unknown horizon.   I couldn’t tell where the sky began or left off on the ice.  Snow fell lazily around us as we walked down the steps of the plane.  A huge vehicle named “Ivan” the terra bus awaited.  Its tires stood as tall as an NBA point guard and nearly three feet wide.

          McMurdo Station lies on a tiny piece of rough volcanic rock named Ross Island some 17 miles from the open ocean on a deep-water sound inlet.  It was named McMurdo Sound after Archibald McMurdo, one of the officers on Captain Ross’ expedition in 1841.   There are three volcanoes on Ross Island: Mount Erebus at 12,400, Mount Terror at 10,900 and Mount Bird at 5,800 feet.  Mount Erebus still smokes and erupts five million years later.  The station, 800 miles from the South Pole, was located there just as Robert Falcon Scott had made it his base of operations in his quest to be the first to reach the Pole in 1902.

          We boarded Ivan and the driver headed toward McMurdo.  We couldn’t see it for five miles, but soon, a sign read, “United States Antarctic Program–Welcomes You To McMurdo Station.”  Ahead of us, a group of metal buildings stood out on a plateau 30 feet above the sea ice.  Some were large Quonset huts while others were rectangular in shape and painted in dull gray, green and black colors.  The 300 by 300-yard wide complex surrounded by snow resembled Alcatraz prison.  There was no need for chain fences or guard shacks.  The bone chilling Antarctica air would kill a man within hours of escape.      

          We picked up our keys and room assignments at building 155, the Galley, which was the central location and main dining hall for the town.  I walked 300 feet from the Galley to my building 207, which was a two story brown barracks near the Sound.  In the distance, I saw what I learned was the ‘DISCOVERY HUT’ of Robert Falcon Scott and Ernest Shackleton.  It was built in 1902 and had remained there over a century.

          It occurred to me that I was standing on a spit of land where other men stood a hundred years ago.  I felt what they felt and saw what they saw.  Nothing had changed.  Every breath of air into my lungs felt like someone had injected me with dry ice.  Even with my state-of-the-art cold weather gear, it shivered me from inside out.

          After dinner, a slide show featured the ‘heroic’ polar explorers, Amundsen, Scott, Mawson and Shackleton.  They were all legendary men who dared to set foot on the South Pole.  Most sobering about their quests was that they had NO IDEA what lay in wait for them.  They knew nothing of the deadly crevasses, incomprehensible cold and misery they had to endure to reach the South Pole at 9,300 feet and 800 miles from McMurdo.  For the life of me, I was dumbfounded at the slide show.  The presenter showed these men suffering from frostbite, scurvy, teeth breaking off in the cold, loss of toes, exhaustion, utter misery beyond our comprehension, snow blindness and death.  Why they wanted such frigid terror surpassed my ability to imagine.

          However, I understood ‘extreme’ athletes and extreme behavior.  What it took to win a triathlon or an Olympic decathlon was more than only a few extremists were willing to suffer.  It took ego and a zest for glory and recognition.

          Back in those days, the British and other countries competed for ‘firsts’ in world fame.  Taken to the limit of ego, a man like Scott, Shackleton or Amundsen salivated to be the first man to stand on the South Pole.  Just like Neil Armstrong risked his life walking on the moon, those explorers at the turn of the century, driven by ‘Providence’ and their own thirst for adventure—stepped forward.

          Ironically, the Norwegian Admundsen in his victory is not as famous as the British explorer Scott, who died.  Both aren’t as famous as another British explorer Shackleton who suffered more in his failure.  It’s amazing how history is benign and cold hearted.

          “These guys were a batch of tough old buzzards,” Sandy, my new friend and editor said as we sat in the Galley watching the slide show.

          “No kidding,” I said.

          Sandy talked to me about a few pieces to write for the Antarctic Sun Newsletter.  He and I became instant buddies.  There wasn’t another person in ‘Mac Town’ who could match his enthusiasm.  He had a camera in one hand and a handshake in the other–with a good word for everyone at the station.

          I walked back to my room with the sun setting over the glaciers on the other side of the sound.  The sky had cleared.  The ‘icy’ air drilled into my lungs. I was relieved to walk into the warmth of the barracks.  Back in my room, I met my new roommate, Jack.  He was 6’3”, lean, with blue eyes and black hair.  He was a tall Tom Cruise.   After chatting with him, I walked down the hall to brush my teeth in the community bathroom.  Back in the room, I looked at Scott’s Hut outside my window. 

“I wonder what’s inside that hut?” I asked Jack.

“A hundred year old bunch of stuff from guys who came here just

 like us,” he said.  “They give tours on special days.  You’ll get to see it.”

           The next morning, I tucked myself into my Carhart Parka as I walked out of the barracks into a brilliant blue sky.  The –40 cold bit into my lungs with every breath.  Across McMurdo Sound, jagged peaks of the Royal Society Range Mountains pierced the crystalline sky.  Sun glinted off the huge glaciers curling out of the valleys between the mountains and pouring into the Sound.

          “My God, what a sight,” I said to a new friend, Brian, as Jack and I walked over to the Galley.  “Is it cold or what?”

          “This is more than cold man,” he said.  “It’ll eat your flesh.”

          “Last winter,” he said.  “We threw up a glass of water when we walked out the door at –110 and it froze before it hit the ground.”

          “So this is pretty balmy today,” I said.

          “You got it,” he said.

          It was actually painful within moments of exposing bare flesh to the Antarctic air.  We hurriedly walked over to building 155.

          The Galley was like any Country Buffet or Furr’s Cafeteria.  We grabbed a tray with five sections and loaded up along the food line.  There were three main dining areas.  Interestingly enough, the scientists segregated themselves in one room, the military in another and the support staff ate in the main hall.  Even more interesting, several ethnic groups segregated themselves.  When I thought about how much the American society had done to bring about integration in the past 40 years, I was stymied at the ‘voluntary’ inclination of segregation before my eyes.

          After breakfast, the housekeeping crewmembers reported to the housing department for their duty schedule.  Each team of two was given specific chores in any of the more than 85 buildings on the station.  There was the Crary Scientific laboratory, fishery research buildings, greenhouse, basketball Quonset hut, barracks, mechanics shop, wood working, MACOPS, fire station, Search and Rescue, helicopter building, post office, offices, weight room and running room where stationary tracks were set in place.  For entertainment, bars included Gallagher’s with smoking, Southern Exposure for non-smoking, and the Coffee House with no smoking or alcohol.  The main banks of barracks lined both sides of town.  For visitors, Hotel California and Mammoth Mountain Inn offered first rate accommodations.

          Seventeen housekeepers set out each day to keep bathrooms, hallways, offices and labs sparkling clean.

          I learned in those five months why women, in general, consider men ‘pigs’.  More than a few times I gagged at the unspeakable habits of men.  Even more disturbing was the fact that these men were ‘allegedly’ the best–picked from over 300 hopefuls for each position.  As a man, I was chagrined about my gender’s disregard for sanitation or standards of personal consideration for others.

          I felt a sinking feeling about how I would endure the next five months.  My job was brain dead and my brain had to come into a Zen way of living through it.  Nonetheless, I was determined to maintain.

          At my hour lunch period, I ate in 15 minutes and jumped into the computer room to write.  I talked to Sandy Colhoun about my dilemma of cleaning toilets.  Later, I got an email from him about a story of a piano master at a concert:  “Wishing to encourage her young son’s progress on the piano, a mother took her boy to a Paderewski concert.   After they were seated, the mother spotted a friend in the audience and walked down the aisle to greet her.  Seizing the opportunity to explore the wonders of the concert hall, the boy rose and explored his way through a door marked “NO ADMITTANCE.”

          When the house lights dimmed and the concert was about to begin, the mother returned to her seat and discovered that the child was missing.  Suddenly, the curtains parted and the spotlights focused on the impressive Steinway on stage.  In horror, the mother saw her little boy sitting at the keyboard, innocently picking out, “Twinkle, twinkle little star.”

          At that moment, the great piano master made his entrance, quickly moved to the piano, and whispered in the boy’s ear, “Don’t quit. Keep playing.”

          Then, leaning over, Paderewski reached down with his left hand and began filling in a bass rhythm.  Soon his right arm reached around to the other side of the child and added a running obligato.  Together, the old master and the young novice transformed an awkward situation into a wonderfully creative experience.

          The audience was mesmerized.”

          Sandy hit the nail on the head.  Sure, I was cleaning toilets and vacuuming carpets.  Dirty floors were my daily burden.  However, they were ‘dirty floors’ in a place called ‘Antarctica’.  It was a privilege to be there to clean them!

          It taught me that whatever our situation in life and history—however outrageous, however desperate, whatever dry spell of the spirit, whatever dark night of the soul—life is whispering a lesson.  Keep playing at life.  I could make whatever I wanted out of housekeeping chores.

          I was determined to make that job a song and keep a positive spring in my steps.  No matter what, I would create a symphony with Barney the broom and Mable the mop.  THIS Antarctic explorer decided to be the BEST damned housekeeper on the continent!

          After working 9 hours the first day, we attended a safety meeting.  We were to be accounted for at all times.  If we took a hike out of town or on the ski trail out to Castle Rock—we must check in with safety and give them the approximate time of our return.  We had to carry a radio.  To fail at safety protocol would get us kicked off the ice.  The reason for such strict rules?  Several people had died breaking them.  Two men had walked off the course to Castle Rock and fell into a crevasse.

          The instructor read from the Search and Rescue Report of the November 23, 1983 incident:  “…The two entry sites into the crevasse were 30 feet apart.  Looking into the crevasse we could not see the bottom, nor was there any response when we tried to yell to the victims.

          “Once a rope to the first victim was established, Mr. Petty prepared to rappel down, and observed a repeated tugging on the rope from the victim below.  On descent into the crevasses, it was noted that the crevasse width decreased from three feet at the top to approximately fifteen inches, seventy-five feet below the surface, where the victims were.

          “Both had slid down the slick surface vertically, and appeared to be tightly wedged in.  Petty was the first to assess victim #1, and found him able to talk, although he appeared in a shocked state.

          “Victim #1 was able to grab the rope and coil it around his wrist, but was unable to hold on when it was pulled.  His only words were to the effect, “Get me out of here…I’m really in a mess aren’t I?”

          “On Victim # 2…a final extrication attempt…we were able to secure a grappling hook under his arm for a fairly secure hold.  With eight rescuers hauling on a 2:1 pulley system, the victim remained jammed, showing how tightly #2 was in fact jammed in….”

          Later, they heard uncontrollable sobbing and later, wailing and screaming until their voices diminished into silence.

          Even more poignant, they knew for hours they were going to die and no one could do anything about it.  In their cases, they had broken the rules and had gone outside the flag boundaries.

          That was enough for me.  They didn’t have to convince me.  I’d follow all the rules all the time.  I figured dying was a one-time thing and I could wait a few dozen years.

          Later that week, Sandy and his friend, Wayne, my roommate Jack and I hiked out to the ‘underwater observation tube’.  We checked in with safety, gave our destination, time of departure and estimated time of return.  We checked out a radio and were off to the ice. 

          At that early time in the polar summer, cold took on new meaning.  It was the kind of cold that seeks to kill you if you’re unprepared.  It would burn exposed flesh into a white icy patch of crystals in minutes.  I took more than my share of ribbing for having a name like, Frosty!

          Covered from head to toe in ECW gear, we marched off to the ice in search of adventure.  We crunched our way over the pack ice for fifteen minutes until we came upon a green metal tube sticking three feet up, about the size of a 55-gallon drum.  The ‘observation tube’, which looked like a thermometer that had been stabbed into the ten-foot thick ice was stabilized by what looked like a metal granddaddy spider’s legs.  At the surface, it looked no different than a manhole cover stuck in the ice.  I stepped into the bore and climbed down the metal ring steps.

          Down I stepped with my hands holding onto the metal rings and my back squashing against the metal cylinder–nearly 20 feet until I reached a second ladder inside a small glass room.  It was more than uncomfortably enclosed.  I sat on a small seat inside the ‘thermometer’ bulb with six windows surrounding me.  I could have been Captain Nemo at the helm of the Nautilus in ’20,000 Leagues Under The Sea’.

          In front of me, jellyfish creatures hung in the water like angels

flapping   their wings.  Eighty feet below me, the floor was crystal clear

through the icy water with orange starfish dotting the sand.  Fan-like

plants stood motionless in the clear water.  Above me, ice crystals

stabbed downward like it was raining broken glass.  Fishes darted about

the chards.  As cold as it was, life found a way.

          I took a couple of pictures and ran out of film.  As I was changing rolls, Sandy yelled down, “Are you okay down there?”

          “Sure,” I said.

          I was just about to take another shot of the ice chards when a shadow swept past my left side and I caught a glimpse of it out of the corner of my eye.  Turning quickly, I saw the behemoth shape of a 500-pound seal gliding through the water.  He resembled a miniature submarine.  A second later, he swam right up to the glass, and with coal black eyes, he momentarily stared into mine.  His cat-like whiskers radiated from his face.  A heartbeat later, he flicked his flippers and was off on his own life journey along the bottom of the ice pack.

          My heart thumped into my throat!

          “Hey, are you alive down there?” Wayne yelled.  “We want our turns.”

          “Coming up, mates,” I yelled. “I saw a seal, I saw a seal!”

          He didn’t know it, but his coal black eyes presented me a view that was deeper and more profound than any black hole in the universe.  If that was adventure in Antarctica, my God, I was having the time of my life!