Number in series 59; Year of publication 1966 - Fell and Rock ...

Roger Tufft 221
ridges which increased in height and frequency as the
downward-flowing ice was held back by the retaining wall of
land. These ridges were often as high as 30 feet and wrought
fearful damage to the sledge each time it crashed downwards.
At this point on the west coast there are no obvious landmarks
and our sextant was only accurate to within two miles.
We could pick up the radio signals from the United States air
base at Sondre Strom fiord but these were at the extreme
range of our receiver and again only accurate to within a few
miles. We had hoped to strike land at the point marked on the
French maps as Point 660 metres and for some days we had
been making for an object visible above the ice-cap which we
assumed to be Point 660. However, when some five miles
from land, we decided that it was impossible for the rocks,
towards which we were heading, to be Point 660. Our aerial
photographs showed Point 660 to be a sharp arrow head of
rock pointing east-west into the ice-cap. We were looking at
a long bluff running north-south. We had, in fact, arrived
some five miles too far north, and these extra five miles were
to cost us another two days on the ice.
The next day whilst two of us back-packed loads across the
remaining miles to Point 660, the other two re-lashed the
badly battered sledge and replaced a damaged front bridge.
In the late afternoon, whilst moving once more, we noticed
some odd debris which at first we mistook for moraine.
Suddenly, we were in the middle of a fantastic depot of some
5,000 beer cans scattered for about 400 yards on the ice.
Many were burst but thousands were intact and the iced beer
tasted wonderful in the heat and glare of the sun. (We
speculated and argued as to their origin, and only later discovered
that they had been part of a condemned stock from
the American air base at Sondre Strom. The Americans had
disposed of them by dumping them from an aircraft whilst
flying over the ice-cap.)
Our last day on the ice-cap was the hottest. In a temperature
of 45°C and under a blazing hot sun, we manoeuvred
the sledge through the last few miles of contorted pressure
ridges. Suddenly Point 660 was upon us—a mere 400 yards
away—rather an anticlimax after the days of toil and speculation,
for the ridge simply phased into the ice-cap and did not
stand out as the bold finger of rock we had expected. Yet it
was land—the first since the east coast—and it was like
stepping ashore as we pitched camp that night on the soft