81 DAYS ON THE ICE - Ozone

81 DAYS
MEN’S JOURNAL 90 OCTOBER 2012

ON THE ICE
Two men embark on an adventure
alone across Antarctica, overcoming
broken ribs, frostbite, and storms
— and setting world records in the
coldest place on Earth.
written and photographed by SEBASTIAN COPELAND
AS YOU STEP OUT onto the
ice sheet, cold air hits you in
the face like a fist of needles.
Nothing quite prepares you
for Antarctica. It is a behemoth.
One and a half times
the size of the United States,
98 percent of its surface is
covered in ice. It is the coldest,
windiest, and driest continent on Earth.
We had arrived at Novolazarevskaya, a
Russian base station on the eastern coast of
Antarctica that services scientific-research
projects, some tourism, and the occasional
expedition, like the one we were about to
begin: a three-month traversal of Antarctica
without assistance and using only land kites
and skis. Transit to “Novo,” which is little
more than a collection of prefab barracks, a
mess tent, and an outhouse, is made aboard
the Russian f lying-cargo workhorse the
Ilyushin-76. The plane’s window-paneled
nose makes it a clear pick out of a lineup,
but inside, the accommodations are strictly
functional. Exposed pipes and ducts are
held together with aging, discolored tape;
passengers and cargo share the same space;
and there are no portholes. No effort has
been made to soundproof the cabin (the
crew distributes ear plugs before takeoff),
and the bathroom is a portable toilet
strapped aft of the plane — literally. Our
six-hour night f light from Cape Town,
South Africa, to the frigid eastern coast of
Antarctica hinted at the spartan life of an
expedition on the ice.
My partner for this trip, Eric McNair-
Landry, has a medium build and a robust
aptitude to endure punishing stretches in
the cold. He grew up in Canada’s northern
territories and, at 26, has a promising future
in the expedition world. An engineer
by training, Eric is happiest far away from
a power grid. Eric and I had trained for

this trip on Greenland. We had spent 42
days crossing its south-north axis, where
we set a new record for the longest distance
traveled with kites over 24 hours, at
370 miles (a journey chronicled in a 2010
article in Men’s Journal). Following two
years of planning, our mission has three
objectives. If successful, we will be the
first to independently reach the Antarctica
Pole of Inaccessibility (POI) — the farthest
point from the continent’s coasts — using
kites and skis. The 1,120-mile stretch from
Novo to the heart of Antarctica makes it
arguably the most remote and diff icult
point of access on the planet. Only five
missions have ever reached the POI — and
only twice since 1964. And all but one
were motorized.
Paul Landry, the famed polar guide (and
Eric’s father), led a team there in 2006, also
using kites. Theirs was a one-way trip,
however, and it also benefitted from air
support. The conditions in Antarctica are
fairly predictable: often windy and always
very, very cold. The danger comes mostly
from human error, failure of equipment,
and overreaching in one’s goals. Even if
you know what to expect, a mistake can
still lead to disaster. Losing a tent while
setting it up in a windstorm is obviously
lethal, but a failed solar panel can also be
critical. On this type of mission, you plan
for the worst and hope for the best, and
when dark thoughts creep into your mind,
you keep them to yourself.
With more than 400 pounds in tow each,
our loads weighed more than double what
Landry’s team pulled, and for us, the POI
would be the first stop of our mission. Our
second objective was to make the first-ever
unassisted and nonmotorized crossing of
the 550 miles separating the POI from the
South Pole, one of the least-known routes
in Antarctica. Third, we would complete
the first-ever east-west transcontinental
crossing of Antarctica via two of its poles,
a distance of more than 2,500
miles. All of this would take
place between November 2011
and February 2012, on the occasion
of the 100th anniversary
of Roald Amundsen and Robert
Falcon Scott’s historic, and
tragic, race to the South Pole.
We had spent two days in
Cape Town meticulously packing
our sledges. We would be
bringing with us two eight-foot
sledges and two four-footers,
as well as four kites of different
sizes. We also had ample stores
of dehydrated food, skis, boots, communications
devices, photo gear — and three pairs
of underwear each. We quickly secured 35
liters of white fuel for our cooking stoves
Sebastian Copeland is an explorer,
photographer, and environmental advocate,
who holds four polar records.
From left:
Copeland,
after almost
three months
of traveling
in Antarctica;
his partner,
McNair-Landry,
pulling a sledge
with more than
400 pounds of
supplies across
the ice by kite
and skis
from Novo’s station manager,
strapped on our skis, clipped
the pulling trace onto our harnesses,
and took our first steps
of the expedition. Or at least
attempted to.
Eric and I are seasoned
adventurers, prepared both
physically and mentally for the challenge of
pulling heavy loads in extreme conditions,
where temperatures can often reach below
–50˚F. But within minutes, our muscles
were gorged with blood, and sweat was
beading all over our bodies. We had started
near sea level, and before we could get the
kites in the air, we would have to ascend
9,500 feet up a glacier and through multiple
crevasse fields to reach a favorable wind
line on the plateau. It seemed incomprehensible
that we would be able to achieve
that. Each irregularity in the terrain was
an opportunity for the sledges to snag and
abruptly bring the effort to a stop. By the
end of the first day, we had covered only one
and a half miles. It took us three days to lose
sight of the station. “Convicts don’t work
this hard,” Eric said on one of our short food
breaks. But we advanced steadily, gaining
ground and elevation amid an arresting
landscape of vertical mountains piercing
skyward through the ice. Slowly, even the
tallest peak was swallowed up by the rising
ice cap, until the last of the mountains
disappeared from sight.
MEN’S JOURNAL 92 OCTOBER 2012

MAP BY HAISAM HUSSEIN
After 15 days of sweating and cursing,
we finally reached the plateau.
On our f irst night, a brutal storm
pinned us down in the tent for three
days.
WHEN A STORM hits in
Antarctica, the tent is
your only chance of survival.
It is like an additional member
of an expedition. In a storm like the
one we experienced, you see displays
of nature’s fierce power. The sky closes
in, visibility drops, the wind kicks up
to 60 mph, and temperatures sink —
in east Antarctica in early November,
temperatures average around –30˚F.
In these conditions, all you can do is build a
snow wall to shield the tent from the wind,
bury yourself deep in your sleeping bag,
and wait for it to pass. With the elements
raging, tent life can be surprisingly tranquil.
A good book, a chess game, or an iPod
can take your mind off the harsh realities
outside. We also spent our time in the tent
recalculating the daily distance scenarios
required to meet our goals and assessing
the likelihood of success.
Other than storms, air movement on an
ice cap is dominated by katabatic winds.
Katabatic, from the Greek word katabatikos,
or “going downhill,” refers to the
movement of air down an ice slope. When
cool air reaches the ice, it gains density.
This heavier air will roll down a grade, if
there is one, governed by the same law that
hit Newton in the head with the apple. The
katabatic process makes wind direction
fairly predictable on an ice cap, and with a
careful choice of route, it favors kite-skiing
expeditions. Unlike in cross-country skiing,
kites help you cover vast areas relatively fast.
Due to its size, remoteness, and the
antagonistic nature of its environment,
Antarctica remains the least explored
Conditions in
Antarctica are fairly
predictable: often
windy and always
cold. Danger comes
from human error,
failed equipment,
and overreaching
in one’s goals.
Larsen
Ice
Shelf
Hercules Inlet
ANTARCTIC CIRCLE
1,000 MILES
Ronne
Ice
Shelf
AMUNDSEN
ROUTE
COPELAND
ROUTE
Ross
Ice Shelf
Novolazarevskaya
Station
South Pole
Pole of
Inaccessibility
ANTARCTICA
SCOTT
ROUTE
landmass in the world. Other than the katabatic
winds, though, the history of Antarctic
expeditions begins and ends with
the sastrugi. Sure, there is the cold, the
wind, and the desolation. But the sastrugi
— ice features of varying size and shape,
sculpted by the powerful winds — define
the landscape. Row upon row of closely
stacked ice ridges make travel intensely
challenging. On a kiting expedition anywhere,
the sastrugi will fray your joints and
rattle your fillings. But in Antarctica, they
will destroy your equipment, your bones,
and sometimes your spirit — pretty much
in that order, as we would soon find out.
This year was especially bad for the sastrugi.
Around the same time as our trip,
two other expeditions had been forced to
stop, and a third had requested an airlift
to a further deployment because of the sastrugi.
It wasn’t long before the tip of my ski
jammed into the head of one, and in a flash,
I received a lesson in physics: The force displaced
while kiting is equal to the mass of
the sledge plus your weight, in addition to
the pull of the kite, which is measured in
speed, or momentum. In this case, when
you stick a ski into the ice, all that force is
Amery
Ice
Shelf
directed underfoot, and under such conditions,
things tend to break. Breakage is part
of all expeditions; how much redundancy
you build into your supplies requires a
delicate balance between tacking on extra
weight and rolling the dice. Experience
helps, but luck also determines whether you
will go on or abort the mission. Screws and
epoxy held my ski together for less than a
day, but by chance, and against the advice of
my young partner, I had brought a replacement,
and we managed to resume the trek.
Skis are not the only thing that can break,
of course — a lesson I learned on day six
of the expedition. For the first stage, I had
chosen to bring two smaller sledges to
spread the weight and separate it in dual
loads if needed. On paper this seemed like
a good idea. In reality, having “the kids” —
our nickname for the smaller sledges — in
tow only complicated matters. Not only
did they increase the chance of snagging a
nose on a bad piece of sastrugi; while
kiting, they doubled the fishtailing
effect, adding drag and pull to the harness
while killing speed. Both sets of
sledges would occasionally nose-plant
violently into ridges, bringing me to a
sudden stop. I would be squeezed by
the harness until my eyes bugged out,
or I’d be slammed sideways onto the
ice. It was on one such occasion that I
heard a sound that still resonates in my
head: a crack coming from my chest,
followed by a sharp, agonizing pain, as
if a knife had been lodged between my
ribs. I attempted to wiggle the harness
and breathed deeply, but there was
no shaking the pain. Everything I did
made it worse. I landed the kite, struggled
to secure the lines, and dropped
to my knees, the pain overtaking my
body with each breath. I stretched my torso
and could feel bony clanking. The signs were
unmistakable: broken ribs.
Just before I departed on this mission,
fate perhaps had me sit down to dinner in
Cape Town with a fellow adventurer, who
shared with me that he had once broken
a rib on an expedition. I asked him what
he had done about it, and he said: “I swallowed
a bunch of painkillers, sucked it up,
and carried on with the trip.” I’ll admit I
was impressed.
I spent 48 hours resting, with two broken
ribs, thinking about my friend “sucking it
up” and contemplating the nature of failure.
Eventually, though, I got up, sewed leg
straps to the harness, swallowed a mouthful
of Ibuprofen, and hit the trail. This was day
eight. Eighty more to go.
Kiting over long distances is like running
a marathon: You hope for a consistent pace.
But changing conditions can shift the narrative.
On a timeline, with limited supplies,
this can be tense. As we gained elevation, the
cooling temperatures and thinning oxygen
took their toll. Eric developed altitude cough,
and we were both sucking air just buckling
our boots. But it was the light and unstable
OCTOBER 2012 93
MEN’S JOURNAL

winds that increasingly wreaked havoc on
our nerves. The POI is located at 12,220 feet,
one of the highest plateaus in Antarctica.
Katabatic winds accelerate downhill, which
theoretically means the closer you get to the
top — and to our destination — the weaker
the wind. Over the 53 days we spent on
our approach to the POI, we experienced
two kinds of air movement: a few hours
of weak winds, with days of single-digit
miles traveled; and powerful storms that
pinned us in the tent. We attempted to take
advantage of the head or tail of the storms,
which made for white-knuckle kite rides
into virtual whiteouts. But we continued to
progress, mile by mile. And while my ribs
slowly and painfully healed in spite of the
daily squeeze of the harness, a new, more
serious challenge arose.
AFROSTBITE STARTS out looking
like a blister. The body secretes liquid
to protect the next layer of skin.
When that liquid is further exposed to frost,
it sinks down, killing the next layer of skin.
The dead skin hardens and goes necrotic,
turning black, and careful monitoring is
required to prevent it from spreading. If
frost reaches the bone, or the first
knuckle of a digit, amputation is
VITAL
STATISTICS
Total days
on the ice:
81
Distance
covered:
2,395 miles
Highest point
reached:
12,220 feet
Total elevation
gained:
11,886 feet
Longest
distance
traveled in
a day:
145 miles
Shortest:
960 feet
Sledge weight
at the start of
the trip:
420 pounds
At the end:
150 pounds
Coldest
temperature
without wind
chill:
–40°F
With wind
chill:
–76°F
generally required to prevent the
spread of gangrene.
The Dynafit backcountry boots
I chose for the expedition had been
vetted during our 1,430-mile, 42-
day kite-and-ski journey in Greenland.
Their thin shell offered an excellent
weight-to-strength ratio, but
I paid for it with less warmth than
a traditional boot. For that reason,
I wore a custom overboot made
of synthetic fiberfill and wind-resistant
material. The boots were on
the cool side but remained acceptable
in the frigid Antarctic conditions.
Where I rolled the dice was
on the size: I received the largest
one manufactured by the company,
which, while fitting my size-12 foot
perfectly, did not afford the extra
room that, in cold conditions, allows
air to circulate. With two
pairs of socks, the fit was snug. I
also failed to account for the furious
assault on my feet by sastrugi,
specifically on my big toes. After
two weeks of kiting, my right toe
displayed signs of trauma, and the
nail began turning black. Soon, the
base of the nail was swelling and got
infected. Liquid secreted below the
skin, under the nail, and eventually,
exposed to frigid temperatures, the
liquid caused a cold injury. At the end of
each day, I would anxiously inspect my toe,
only to discover more of the ominous black.
The history of polar exploration is replete
with stubby toes and missing digits.
Strange things happen to the brain on the
ice: The drive to reach a goal can blur rational
thinking. I had no desire to lose
a toe, but there was no way I would
abort my mission to save one, either.
Eric had opted for an Everest
mountaineering boot, which, while
offering little ankle support, delivered
ample warmth. The POI was
217 miles away; we were 900 miles
and 40 days into our journey and
close to accomplishing our first objective.
I decided to press on. Eric
and I traded right boots.
ON THE 53RD day of the expedition,
we were finally
within striking distance of
the POI. A storm that had pinned
us down for two days was dying.
With good conditions, we could
close the 60-mile gap in four, maybe
five hours. But as we got ready that
morning, the winds continued to
decrease. An hour into the day, our
speed was faltering, as were our
hopes of reaching the POI.
By 2 pm, with barely any wind,
we were struggling to keep the kites
in the air. By 6:30 pm, we had been
on the trail for 10 hours — our longest
stretch of the trip — and a little
more than nine miles remained.
But the wind picked up, and as we
raced over the ice, I scanned the
empty vastness, expecting at any
moment to see a marker on the horizon.
With about four miles to go, we set down to
check our bearings. Good thing: We were
45 degrees off and had nearly overshot our
target.
We lifted off one last time, and within
minutes, I saw that two markers were ahead
of us: the first man-made features Eric and
I had seen since leaving Novo. We sped
toward them. The rough terrain no longer
mattered, the burn in my legs was forgotten,
and the adrenaline even warmed my
toes. Soon, I could make out a derelict communications
tower and the remains of a
drilling platform — relics of a Soviet-built
station at the POI that had been abandoned
more than 50 years ago. A bust of Lenin
propped atop a chimney is all that remains
of the station. Sticking out of the ice, it faces
Moscow: stoic, incongruous, and forlorn in
this desolate space, like a Napoleon exiled
on a frozen Elba. The rest of the base was
somewhere below our skis. Past the tower,
we made a slow downwind turn and landed
our kites. Fifty-three days, 11 hours, and
12 minutes, and we were there. We had
reached the POI.
IN JUNE 1910, a young British naval
off icer named Robert Falcon Scott
set sail for the Ross Ice Shelf in Antarctica
with the ambition of planting the
Union Jack at the South Pole. At about the
same time, the Norwegian explorer Roald
Amundsen began his own expedition to the
Arctic, sailing from Norway with his provisions
and dogs. Once out to sea, Amundsen
changed course and headed for the Ross
Ice Shelf. With Scott and Amundsen both
heading for the South Pole at the same
time, the greatest race in polar history
had begun.
Amundsen’s sharp tactical thinking and
experience in the Arctic made him a fiercely
efficient leader. He knew the proper clothing
for the environment and how to use dogs,
which allowed him to successfully reach the
plateau from the Axel Heiberg Glacier and
MEN’S JOURNAL 94 OCTOBER 2012

set up supply caches along the way.
On December 14, 1911, Amundsen
and his team were the first to reach
the South Pole.
Scott, meanwhile, was using
tractors and ponies, not dogs. The
tractors proved useless in the deep snow of
the Ross Ice Shelf, and all the ponies died.
Scott and his four-man team reached the
pole on January 17, 1912, but their dream of
planting the British flag was thwarted by
the sight of a tent flying Norwegian colors.
Inside was a note left by Amundsen, addressed
to Scott:
Dear Captain Scott — As you probably
are the first to reach this area after us, I
will ask you to kindly forward this letter
to [Norwegian] King Haakon VII. If you
can use any of the articles left in the tent,
please do not hesitate to do so. The sledge
left outside may be of use to you. With
kind regards I wish you a safe return.
yours truly,
Roald Amundsen
Scott and his team began their return
journey, but after multiple vicious storms,
they died tragically of cold and starvation a
mere 11 miles from their next
food cache. In the expedition
world, the rivalry between
Norway and England lives
on to this day.
With this in mind, we set
out to cover the 550-mile
stretch that separates the
POI from the South Pole.
This route had been traveled
only once, over two seasons,
by motorized tractors. We
studied wind models, and
conditions on this section
promised to be very light.
But we were 12 days behind,
and weak winds could
threaten our timeline and
the remainder of the expedition.
So when blowing snow
hit the tent on the morning
after our arrival at the POI,
we were quick to break camp
and shoot out of there. The
idea was to drop in elevation
as fast as we could and fall
into a favorable wind setup.
What we got on that crossing
was some of the best wind
of the entire trip, along with
smooth terrain and warming
temperatures. Not that
everything was easy. There
was a leaking fuel canister
that contaminated some
food, three days of dead calm
in the tent, and the accidental
loss of my sleeping bag
during travel. But overall
it went well, and our daily
average exceeded 60 miles
per day.
On January 8, after 1,680
miles of travel, the Amundsen-Scott
South Pole Station
appeared on the horizon.
We had not seen a sign of
( recent) human activity in
65 days, and the sight of a community raised
our spirits. I landed my kite, took in the
sight of the buildings rising from the ice,
and smiled. We were about to complete the
second phase of our mission and reach, 100
years after the fact, the spot where Amundsen
and Scott had made history. I lifted my
kite again and headed for the station.
From left:
Copeland and
McNair-Landry
celebrate by the
bust of Lenin
at the Pole of
Inaccessibility;
Copeland’s
frostbitten toe;
McNair-Landry,
son of a famed
polar guide, on
the opening leg
of the journey
We met other adventurers who had skied
here from other points to commemorate the
centennial. We recognized the weary look
of struggles on the ice. When you reach the
bottom of the Earth, the stories of those who
have, too, become part of your own, and
instant friendships are born. But where their
trip had ended (they would all be leaving
the station by plane), we had another 745
miles still to go. After two rest days waiting
for wind, the familiar flapping of the tent’s
wall beckoned to us. The wind was building.
Our time was up.
We had monitored the conditions all day,
and while the forecast had called for light
winds, it was now blowing snow, reaching
18 knots and building. Eric and I had
psyched ourselves to leave; the social life
at the base was like a siren luring us to
stay and challenging our resolve. We were
ready to leave — we were dressed for the
trail, the tent had been packed, the sledges
rearranged, and the kites were laid out on
the ice, gently bouncing in the gusts. The
visibility had dropped to about a mile, which
was just enough to make out the perimeter
of the station, but not more. Our new friends
were waiting in the cold to bid us farewell.
Their faces displayed a mix of curiosity with
the incredulous disconnect that comes from
knowing that your mission has ended while
witnessing the familiar steps of others committing
to another round. It is a blend of
relief and envy.
Eric and I walked to our lines, clipped in,
raised our kites in the air, and glided away
from the camp. We followed a flagged route
that cut right through the station and then
out. The gap between the markers grew, and
as the visibility dropped, they quickly faded
from view. At the last f lag, I looked back.
The station had disappeared, shrouded in
a cloak of white. The kites were diving up
and down, our skis were scratching the ice
below us, and our speed was growing. We
were back on the trail.
IT TOOK 12 DAYS to reach the western
coast of Antarctica. When the
kites came down for their final landing,
there were no parades, no podium or
cash prizes, no cheering crowds or laurel
wreaths. But we had our limbs, our wits,
all of our toes (minus a few millimeters for
some), and memories for a lifetime. We had
also laid claim to three new polar records,
and our names would forever be etched in
the history of Antarctica firsts. In Antarctica,
beauty is everywhere. With its endless
white canvas, it asks many questions about
the reality that you choose, pushing you to
go where you never knew you could. The
great climber Voytek Kurtyka once said:
“Alpinism is the art of suffering.” This is also
true of polar travel. When doubts arise, you
would be well served to remember the two
laws of perseverance. First: Put one foot in
front of the other. Second: Keep walking.
If you have trouble with the second, refer
back to the first.
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MEN’S JOURNAL