Getting Out

Text and photos by Glenn Grant

Vernadsky Station is located just south of the Lemaire Channel, on an island about halfway down the west side of the Antarctic Peninsula. The peninsula mountains, topped with hanging glaciers and steep peaks, rise straight out of the water. The Lemaire Channel itself is only a few hundred meters wide at points, a narrow canyon of deep blue water filled with leaping penguins, spouting whales and drifting ice bergs. It's beautiful.

Vernadsky used to be called Faraday Station before the British sold it to the Ukrainians. During a visit just before the station was sold, I was talking with one of Faraday’s crew about how limited their recreational opportunities must be; the rugged terrain would prevent most activities. "Oh, it’s not bad," he said. "We get out quite a bit." He pointed to the icy peaks rising thousands of feet above the station. "We’ve climbed that one. And that one…" In fact, the station crew had climbed almost all of the nearby mountains. Just to get out and have some fun.

You’ve climbed them? This was serious stuff, not the kind of thing you’d tackle in an afternoon with a water bottle and a Snickers bar. It was also a revelation of sorts, considering that at Palmer Station we were lucky to make it more than a mile or two away from the base.

The difference at Faraday, of course, was training. Every member of the crew had been given six months of mountaineering, glacier travel and cold weather survival school before deploying to Antarctica. They knew how to do it safely. The British Antarctic Survey (BAS) still retains a bit of the spirit of Robert Falcon Scott: Antarctica is not so much a place to be feared as something to be explored and overcome. In some ways the quote by Tennyson on the Observation Hill cross still resonates, ‘To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.' This attitude is reflected in their view of recreational activities.

By contrast, the United States Antarctic Program (USAP) has taken a different approach, necessarily putting safety concerns ahead of exploration. This is not surprising given the scale of the program and the litigious nature of American society, but it is disappointing to those who came to Antarctica looking for adventure. Naturally there are people at Palmer who are also experienced mountaineers, although the climbing of mountains is almost never an approved activity. World-famous wilderness doctor and mountaineer Jim Litch spent one frustrated season as Palmer's doctor decrying USAP's policy towards off-station activities. His is an extreme example, but many program participants share his sentiments.

Palmer Station's Search and Rescue (SAR) team regularly practices glacier traverses and crevasse rescues. As a member of the SAR team I had learned some of these techniques and participated in several sanctioned adventures, so we were not completely stuck on station. But actual mountaineering was only done in secret by daring personnel, and revealed long after they had left the Ice. Late at night in the Penguin Pub, when most of the station is asleep and only a few stragglers remain lingering over their beers, the illicit exploits of covert climbers are still spoken of in hushed tones. At McMurdo, where there is a larger supporting infrastructure of helicopters and medical staff, the SAR team is permitted to climb one or two mountains each year as training exercises. Envious onlookers back in Mactown, however, are left cooling their heels in frustration.

Antarctica is a difficult, expensive place to visit, but that doesn't stop determined individuals from finding a way to come to the Ice. Hidden among a station crew may be an expert mountaineer working as a baker, a mechanic who is also a professional photographer in his off hours, and a forklift operator who aspires to be a marathon skier. Writers, climbers and explorers work as cargo handlers and dining room assistants. Many have master's degrees, and they've taken what ever job they could find just to see Antarctica. They typically have one day off each week, and with luck they may travel a few miles off station for a brief, regimented outing. They wait expectantly for that opportunity, hoping to take one spectacular photograph or experience some of the renowned Antarctic ruggedness they've heard about. Sometimes the moment never happens. Meanwhile, the artists and writers who are brought in as guests of the program may linger for days or even weeks at a picturesque location, waiting for just the right light to take their photographs. Scientists are flown to the far corners of the continent to do their research, and distinguished visitors (DV's) are given scenic flights and visits to exotic locales. And a few experienced research teams have also become adept at manipulating the system to permit themselves unregulated exploration opportunities, including mountaineering, caving, rock climbing, and simply hiking into parts unknown without close scrutiny. Not surprisingly they return home with spectacular pictures and exciting tales of their adventures. The crew does not begrudge them this experience, but the envy is palpable.

To the credit of the US Antarctic Program, events and outings are often scheduled for the station crews, sometimes to wonderful places. There are regular trips to local ice caves, historic huts and crashed airplane sites. The ice caving trips are highly structured group outings, and although the sign-up list is usually full within five minutes of being posted, persistent individuals are able to go sooner or later. There are also occasional trips to penguin colonies and the famous "penguin ranch," where emperor penguins can be seen swimming underwater from a inside dry (well, dripping) observation tube sunk into the sea ice. With this selection of activities most crew members are able to experience some of Antarctica beyond the bounds of the station at least once or twice each season. Those who return year after year eventually build up an impressive list of sights and destinations they have visited.

But all of these trips are within the "flagged route," like a Disneyland ride that never leaves the tracks. There is rarely any chance to experience the raw, unfettered Antarctica without defying the establishment, which of course will get you fired and promptly exported off the continent, whether you survive your adventure or not. The US Antarctic Program cannot be faulted for wanting to keep people safe, especially considering the number of untrained and occasionally foolhardy personnel who work in the program; there's simply too many people to look after, and in Antarctica the difference between a casual outing and a catastrophic mistake is sometimes very thin. But without the willingness to take some risks, what would otherwise be an interesting job in an exciting environment becomes little more than confined drudgery. This philosophy is reflected in even the most basic of management policies regarding recreation: The use of alcohol is officially sanctioned, condoms are distributed freely, and sledding is against the rules.

With the limitations imposed, many new personnel within the US Antarctic Program arrive excited but leave frustrated. A common cynical view is that, if the BAS still lives by Tennyson's words of conquering the great unknown, then USAP's motto might as well be "To have a geopolitical presence, to do a bit of science and not get sued."

Having said that, however, there are also many members of the USAP community who are content with the travel and recreation policy. Indeed, some workers at South Pole Station are termed "dome slugs" because they never leave the metal dome. The equivalent at McMurdo are the personnel who take pride in not leaving building 155 (which combines some dormitories, the station store and the dining facility) for weeks on end. Many who live in the outlying dorms trace a daily path between their work centers, the cafeteria, and one of the three bars on station, never venturing beyond the gravel roads. Some folks simply aren't interested in even the limited recreational opportunities.

Meanwhile, many others in the McMurdo crew struggle to find any method of extending their borders and seeing something beyond the squalor of the station. And a small group, those with the skills and determination, find ways to satisfy their adventuresome spirit, either by working within the system as members of the Search and Rescue team, finding work positions that take them around the continent, or by quietly disregarding the rules against activities such as ice climbing, glacier traversing and solo travel.

USAP regulations prohibit people from running off on their own unless the activity has been blessed by upper management. These rules are relaxed a bit for visiting scientists and artists, but hired contractors are expected to be working, not playing. This is understandable -- after all, the workers are here to support the grantees, not vice-versa. At the same time, however, it is unreasonable to expect active, excited people to spend their free time just sitting around amid such natural splendor. As might be expected in an environment combining tight-fisted regulations, free-spirited personnel and incredible natural beauty, the rules violations are rampant. Between 5:30pm on Saturday evening and 7:30am Monday morning, the typical Antarctic weekend, some legendary adventures occur. These secret jaunts have included climbs of Mount Erebus (near McMurdo) and Mount Williams (near Palmer Station), long distance bicycling or ski trips, or even stealing skidoos to visit Shakleton's Hut at Cape Royds or the off-limits emperor penguin colony at Cape Crozier. In addition, there have been unapproved boat trips to distant Port Lockroy on the peninsula (the people involved later blabbed and were punished), sailing, water skiing, scuba diving, paragliding and snow skiing while being towed behind a racing pickup truck, just to name a few. One friend who worked at Siple Dome was fully prepared to ski the hundreds of miles back to McMurdo rather than take a flight but decided against it at the last minute -- only because her long absence would have been noticed and she needed the work.

All of these things were on my mind as I boarded a Twin Otter headed to Siple Dome. I had spent the first part of the summer season wondering what I would see this year, and later began to wonder if I would get out at all. Suddenly a science group needed someone to go retrieve their instruments. You want me to go? Why sure. Anything to help out. I was packed, out the door and on the shuttle to the airfield in less than an hour.

Siple Dome is the lowland equivalent of the South Pole: It sits on a large convex ice formation in West Antarctica, surrounded by nothing but ice plains and the occasional crevasse field. The "dome" characteristic is only faintly visible, the horizon appearing somewhat closer than expected -- as if there was anything to see on the horizon. The flight from McMurdo takes about 3 hours but only the first 10 minutes is scenic. Still, it was exciting just to be somewhere other than Mactown.

The camp manager, Tim, was waiting for me when I disembarked the plane. We had met in Christchurch earlier in the year but I had not expected to meet him again out in the field. As we were crunching our way through the snow to one of the two Korean-War-vintage Jamesways that make up the camp, I mentioned the suddenness of the trip and how I had been trying all season to see anything outside of McMurdo. "Yes," he said sympathetically, "the days of exploration are over."

In that one sentence he summed up everything I had been thinking and feeling. But was it true? As a worker here, as just a cog in the USAP machine, was I forever limited to simply working and existing in Antarctica without being able to experience it? And if so, what was the point of being here unless I just wanted to save some money and be miserably cold for a year at a time? Did I too have to violate the rules to see the continent?

In retrospect it seems a bit ironic that I was thinking this even as I was being flown around Siple Dome. Once re-fueled, we went to a radius of 60 miles, landing here and there to gather up scientific instruments that had been positioned on the ice the month before. Most of the locations were flat, white and uninteresting unless you considered the fact that only a half dozen people had ever set foot in the area. But the last site was situated between two converging crevasse fields and the pilots circled for a couple of minutes before deciding to land. They could see where the put-in plane had landed twice, the first time "dragging" the snow. Dragging is a maneuver where the plane does not actually stop but lets the skis drag lightly in a kind of half-hearted touch-and-go; if there are any hidden crevasses the plane will not fall in because it still retains considerable lift. From the air again you can look down at your tracks and, presumably, judge the safety of the landing spot. Thinly bridged crevasses will have collapsed in your wake.

The pilots commented that the put-in plane's team had dragged the first location, not seen any crevasses, but decided to position the instruments at a different site regardless. We could now see several snow bridges that had collapsed since that time, intersecting the drag tracks.

At the second landing site, where the instruments had been finally located, there was no evidence of crevasses. This was a great relief, but even so we approached the situation extremely cautiously. Had there been any doubt we would not have landed. The pilots touched down in exactly the same tracks made by the put-in plane, and in less than two cautious, frantic minutes we had bundled all the equipment on board and were back in the air. Flying low over the surrounding crevasse fields we looked down into the gaping canyons of ice, infinitely blue and large enough to swallow airplanes whole.

I was grateful to see these sights, but I was also fully aware that most of the people back at McMurdo would never have a chance like this. It seemed criminal that I had been sent out alone (aside from the pilot and co-pilot of the airplane). Had I been in a position to make such decisions, I would have at least given a couple of the galley slaves back at Mactown the day off and brought them along for the ride. It would have been the high point of their season, if not their entire Antarctic experience.

The next day, back in McMurdo, I was describing the trip to a friend over lunch. Ed, a carpenter with untold years of Antarctic experience and also a pilot when not working on the Ice, was amused and offered additional observations about ice flying techniques. I lamented for a moment that such trips were too few, and quoted the Siple Dome camp manager regarding the vanishing opportunities for exploration. "That's not true," Ed said. "I think if you are determined enough you will find a way to visit anywhere you want to go. There are still many unexplored places here." Maybe, I said, but without the backing of a government such trips are enormously expensive. "So what," he replied, "if you really want it you'll find a way."

He had a point. And one of my own criteria for living life to the fullest was never to let money (or lack of it) stop me from what I really wanted to do. Still, it was frustrating to work in the Crary Lab and watch science teams heading out to the field every day while I was stuck on station.

The next month I found myself repairing seismic equipment on the slopes of Mount Erebus. One of these trips took me to the crater rim of the volcano. And then another science group needed my help at a site a hundred miles south down the Trans-Antarctic mountain range. We flew over tremendous glaciers and spectacular valleys, stopping finally at a small peak near the Darwin Glacier. It was a beautiful excursion into relatively unexplored territory, and the sort of trip that virtually no tourists have ever done.

Taking a step back, it's true that many science groups and media invitees are allowed to work for weeks or months at remote sites as guests of the US Antarctic Program. But the volcanologists will never have the opportunity to visit Siple Dome, the biologists may never look into the crater of Erebus, and virtually none of the writers will experience the winter, feeling the storms, watching the auroras and bathing in the Antarctic sunsets.

The days of exploration may be disappearing fast. But if you're determined, you may still be able to have an adventure or two.

Get out there.

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