81 DAYS ON THE ICE - Ozone

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.
OCTOBER 2012 95
MEN’S JOURNAL