edgar-mitchell

70
The Way of the Explorer
the landing site was relatively smooth, the overlapping of ancient craters left
ridges often 2 meters high that hid the navigation points. Micronavigation
(knowing our location within a few meters), as desired by the geology
team in Houston, proved to be impossible with the equipment at hand.
Distances became plastic due to the nearness of the horizon on this small
planet and the unreal clarity of the airless scene before us. Our estimates
of distance were in error by 100 percent, as objects typically appeared to
be at half the distance they really were. And there were other problems to
be surmounted. The stiff pressurized suits fought each intricate movement
as we conducted the delicate tasks of documenting and collecting samples
and performing soil experiments. We were Earthlings in a world that possessed
its own dimensions.
As we mounted the gentle slope and were climbing in earnest, we
were more than twice as far from our LM as any of our predecessors had
been, yet less than halfway to the summit, and several minutes behind our
time line. The precious minutes lost in the futile search for landmarks and
the exhausting climb caused our heart rates to climb also; because of this,
consumables in the life-support system diminished at a faster rate. But
things would work out—just a little more slowly than had been so rigidly
planned. We took comfort in the fact that the work was getting done in
good fashion, in spite of the obstacles. And there was comfort to be had in
the sight of Antares squatting in the distance below us, ready to provide
safe haven if needed.
As we slowly bounded along in the strange bouncing gait required on
the lunar surface, strangely cheerful yet frustrated, I suddenly recognized a
distinctive landmark I thought we’d already passed. With grim reluctance I
told Fred Haise in Houston that all of our previously reported positions
were in doubt. As our hearts raced and our lungs gave our blood precious
oxygen, carried through 250,000 miles of space, the frustration grew. There
was very little Houston could tell us, so we continued the climb, sometimes
carrying the MET, as it bounced menacingly in the reduced gravity
over the rough terrain. All the while, the summit of Cone Crater refused
to reveal itself.
A few minutes later Fred’s voice pierced the quiet, sounding grave
through the vast emptiness. He was about to have us turn back, we knew,
but from what we could tell from the map and what we saw above us, the
summit of the rim couldn’t be much further. We asked for a little more
time, almost pleaded; what lay ahead was something neither Alan or I
could surrender easily. This was what we had come here for. If we turned
back now, it was lost to us forever. Houston seemed to understand this. A
few more minutes of laborious breathing passed, and we received the happy
news of a reprieve of 30 minutes to see if we could reach the rim. The
flight surgeon in Houston merely requested that we take a minute to rest,
as he saw our hearts racing on the monitor.