Blazing Ice (15 page)

“Some of them wanted to stay with you for a week.” Dave upped the ante, jolting me.

“Can they cook?” I recovered.

“I don't know …”

“In that case, the answer is
no
,” I was quite firm. “We just came back in to drop off Arcone and get a shower. We're heading back out tomorrow … early.”

“What would you say to a helicopter bringing some out for a day?” Dave could order a helicopter.

“We can handle that. You should come, too.”

“We'll see. I'll let you know through Mac-Ops.”

I found Russ Magsig in the galley for dinner. He looked haggard from his prolonged stint in town and pleaded for escape. I wanted Russ for the three-year show and couldn't afford to break his spirit. Tomorrow we'd go out for a short stretch, but we'd be back. “When we go out again after Christmas, Russ, you'll go with us.”

Having my promise, Russ visibly relaxed. Only then did he ask, “How's it going?”

“We just stuffed 12.”

Russ brightened. “Stuffed 12? It really is going good then?”

To whet his appetite, I threw back my head in imitation of the great Civil Rights leader, half-singing, half-chanting: “I can seeeee … the Miracle Mile… . It's a Laaaand of Milk and Honey!” Then I lowered my gaze. “I appreciate your patience, giving the others their turn. But I want
you
with me when we go into the Miracle Mile.”

We sealed our compact with a nod.

Four of us returned to the Shear Zone Wednesday morning, same crew but missing Steve Arcone. We went right to work drilling and blasting access holes in Crevasses 13, 14, and 15. The next day brought high winds and blowing snow. Same the day after. We did what we could during the sucker holes. Otherwise we mucked storm drift out of camp. The storms that kept us mucking also kept the helicopters away. Visitors never showed up.

The weather broke by noon on Saturday. Bwana bagged Crevasses 13 and 14. Shaun, back on the Ice from family leave, hijacked a snowmobile from town and rejoined us in the afternoon. When he'd left us for home, we were dealing with Crevasses 3, 3.1, and Mongo. Now we were fast approaching the Miracle Mile. Shaun's return added that much more mass to our momentum.

Sunday we bagged 15 and drilled access holes in 16, 17, 18, and 19. The Miracle Mile started just past 19, but we wouldn't cross into it that day.

Monday we returned to McMurdo. Tuesday and Wednesday were Christmas holidays in town—two days off and a feast.

Gerald Crist in McMurdo asked if I were ready to rotate dozer operators. But I thought we were going to win this one now. I'd not snatch defeat from the jaws of victory with an unknown.

“Mind if I keep Kim?”

“Not at all.” Gerald understood perfectly.

Bwana Kim came back out. So did Russ. Shaun, too, with another mountaineer from the McMurdo stable. This one was new to the Shear Zone. Allen O'Bannon was a tall, fit fellow with the look of John Lennon sporting a stubble of whiskers.

Straight away we ran out to the crevasses and blasted the next four access holes. Through two days of high winds and blowing snow, we got our mountaineers into all four. We blasted the slots at two of them, and we would fill those when the dozer could come out.

Sunday, the weather broke, and we pounced. Kim bagged all four crevasses, crossed 19, and rolled into the Miracle Mile.

The D8R stopped long enough for the picture at the second milepost, then rolled all the way up to Crevasse 20 at the far side of the Mile. Between us and the post at HFS, six more crevasses blocked our way.

We returned to McMurdo for the New Year holiday. When we when came back, we'd finish the job.

Russ and I sat down in a quiet corner of the galley.

“There's one more mechanic at the Heavy Shop that signed up for duty. The first-year guy. Brandon.”

“Yeah …” Russ saw what was coming. “He's a good kid.”

“We're going out there to stay until we finish the job. I'm going to take the kid. You're going to stay in town.”

Russ sighed with resignation. He didn't see what was coming next.

“While you're in town I want you to scout the old navy sleds parked at Willy. See what we can put together for a road trip. We're going to finish this job, and if we don't screw up, we'll finish early. Early enough to get out on the Ross Ice Shelf and grab a few more miles before McMurdo closes for the winter.”

Russ saw his future, then, and liked it. “Let the kid be with you at the finish. He deserves it.”

Back at the Shear Zone, marginal weather devolved to crappy weather, which then improved to poor. That day we filled and crossed Crevasse 20. which we named Snap. Crackle soon followed.

“More powder!” I called into McMurdo on our radiophone. We were running short of dynamite again. Brad came out with a load of explosives. On January 8, Pop went down. Then we buried Crevasse 23, not stopping to name it.

Shaun and Allen prospected thirteen miles southward past HFS. They found not one crevasse.

January 10, Bwana filled Crevasse 24 in two and a half hours. He bagged 25 in another three. Then he mowed down 26. Seconds later, he brought the D8R to the post at HFS.

We climbed atop the bulldozer and raised our American flag.

From camp that evening, I transmitted a digital image of the scene to our project counterparts at NSF, and to my bosses at McMurdo. The straightforward message that accompanied it read: “January 10, 2003, at 5:30 p.m.: The D8R arrived at HFS, and traveled a half mile beyond it. You may say we have crossed the Shear Zone.”

The Ross Ice Shelf was open for business.

Winning those three miles from GAW to HFS took from October 31 until January 10. One thousand miles of unexplored terrain lay between us and Pole, and our mission called for a round-trip in one season.

Yet we crossed the Shear Zone earlier than expected. With a light traverse train, we headed out onto the Ross Ice Shelf and flagged another one hundred
miles of trail. Russ went with us. We turned around at a place we named SOUTH.

Another pair of CRREL investigators showed up. Tom accommodated them with study time in the Shear Zone before we broke camp all together.

Sometime in February at Pegasus Field near McMurdo, I shuffled along with other day-dreamers waiting to board a jet airplane home, staring blankly at the snow.

Dave Bresnahan strode across the runway toward the plane. He placed a gentle hand on my shoulder, turned me around and looked me right in the eyes. “Outstanding! I congratulate you on a stunning season. Well done!”

To the moment of stepping onto the airplane, I'd not heard anything like that from anyone. I thanked Dave for his courtesy. We shook hands.

Onboard the plane, I strapped into my jump seat, and began shutting out the ice world. My wife was pregnant with our second child when I'd left for the Ice. She was due in April, and I'd told no one here. I couldn't risk losing focus on the safety of my crew. I found peace now dreaming of homecoming, of the love of my wife and son, and wondering what new life grew in her swollen belly.

My eyelids drooped. A young man with a Marine-like bearing approached. He gave his name, stating forthrightly, “I am interested in your project. What can I do to get involved?”

His appeal sounded different from the eager, gung-ho requests I'd become used to hearing. Many wanted kicks blowing things up and jumping down crevasses. Some wanted their names associated with the grand project.

“Here're two paths to get you into the traverse business. You get a job next season with the equipment operations group, or you get a job with the heavy shop. I plan on hiring out of those two departments. Do you have a resume?”

He had one. I glanced through it and saw something about command of an amphibious assault vehicle company. “I will support you,” he told me.

We learned a lot about Shear Zone dynamics over the years. This first year we looked down a straight road. It didn't stay that way. It got crooked.

Strain grid measurements said GAW moved north at 2.3 feet a day. That's 840 feet a year. HFS moved slightly east of north at 3.75 feet a day, or 1,370 feet a year.

Spreading between GAW and HFS accelerated. Our last measurements showed the distance growing 160 feet a year. Most spreading manifested in plastic deformation, stretching the ice like taffy. But annual radar surveys detected new cracks appearing. We observed growing separation between some crevasse walls and their fill plugs. Perhaps 20 percent of the spreading manifested in new crevasses and the dilation of old ones.

Safe crossings demand vigilance and maintenance. That includes keeping up the flags and monuments. We measured annual snow accumulation in the Shear Zone: 1.6 feet. Our flags would be buried in a few short years. Anyone who heads out there and finds no flags, no markers, will have to start all over again.

“How far did you get?”
asked a voice over the Iridium phone.

“All is well.” We were warm, had plenty of food and fuel, and nobody was hurt.

Sheltered in our living module, we enjoyed ample power from the energy module behind it. These red, metal-clad buildings came right off French floor plans. We even called them “modules” because the French did. But our modules, and the sleds under them, had been built for us in Alberta, Canada. The living module, ten feet wide by thirty-five feet long, had two bunkrooms at either end. Each bunkroom held two double bunks. A phone-booth-sized communications cubby and a twelve-foot-long galley separated the bunk-rooms. Our energy module, ten-by-twenty-five-feet long, contained two 35 kW generators. It held a snow melter, two sinks, a shower, a compact marine washing machine, an incinerating toilet, and a fuel pumping station. Outside both modules, electric outlets provided “hitching posts” where we plugged in our tractors to keep them warm.

“Come on … you can tell me … How far did you get?” The Iridium phone offered confidentiality not available through VHF.

“All is well,” I repeated.
You don't need to know anything else
.

It was the same message I transmitted daily to Mac-Ops over the VHF radio. Our daily report stated our condition and declared our intentions for the next day: either “remain at this location” or “advance on course.” It detailed the day's weather and gave our coordinate position. A change in coordinate position, if it changed, told all. Mac-Ops distributed transcripts through the
e-mail network, but that we were still in VHF range told anyone listening that we had not gotten very far.

We were still at SOUTH on the Ross Ice Shelf, wallowed in soft snow. The steaming summit of Mt. Erebus on Ross Island and the stony tip of Minna Bluff on the continent still peeked over the horizons behind us. A bright sun glared down through a deep blue sky and burned hard upon our living module. Snow on its black metal roof melted. Inside, Stretch, John Penney, and James McCabe—an old Ice hand but new to our project this year—shifted pots and pans, catching rare liquid water that found every open seam in its new construction. Outside, I swept snow off the roof, boggled by the sudden heat. The heat was
not
in the brochure, and the growing swarm of footprints around our camp said we'd not moved off this spot for days.

Last year we charged the hundred miles past the Shear Zone in two and a half days to get to this spot. This year it took us seven.
Proven technology, my ass!

In the beginning our project had only three instructions: establish a haul route from McMurdo to South Pole, execute a round trip traverse along that route in one season, and deliver “meaningful” cargo to Pole. Do all that in three years, of course. But myriad layers of authority held a stake in our project, and the rules of engagement multiplied.

Before we'd ever seen the Shear Zone, Dave Bresnahan had called me in Denver. “As you begin your big equipment procurements, Erick wants to make sure the project uses proven technology only.”

“Proven technology only …” I repeated, leaning back in my caster chair. Technology hadn't been proven for a South Pole traverse. “What does that mean?”

“It means ‘off-the-shelf equipment.' He doesn't want to invest in experimental designs.”

Heavy cargo sleds, off the shelf, were made in Germany. The manufacturer had bankrupted. Another German company acquired the rights a year later. It could produce the sleds, but its two-year delivery didn't do our three-year project much good. That same summer, the French came to our rescue. Since they'd been in the traverse business for years, their custom sled designs satisfied proven technology.

Tractors were another matter. CRREL engineers had proven that bulldozers with segmented steel tracks were too slow for the two-thousand-mile round-trip. Bulldozers offered no great return in cargo delivery. So we looked at agricultural tractors with continuous rubber-belted tracks. These offered speeds like we wanted, and they were strong pullers. But these were not small tractors. An operator climbed up stair steps with guard rails, and onto a side deck, just to get into the cab towering above him. Caterpillar made a dual-track model called a Challenger, painted yellow of course. Case made an intriguing four-track model called a Quadtrac, painted red for contrast, naturally.

At purchase time, when Dave's call came, Caterpillar had just sold its Challenger line to another company. The new owner discontinued the old line and wouldn't produce the new models until it was too late for us. That played well for trialing a Case Quadtrac.

George Blaisdell and I flew to Prudhoe Bay, Alaska, to inspect a Quadtrac fleet used there by a seismic exploration company. The model needed modifications for our project, and the manufacturer cooperated. So, because Case tractors were used on the North Slope, they became proven technology.

Meanwhile, an NSF accountant vetoed the Case. At the time, she occupied the big seat at McMurdo. It was a “one-off model,” she said. Caterpillar-brand equipment otherwise dominated the USAP fleet. Parts interchangeability and inventory simplicity argued for Caterpillar. But the new Challengers, whenever they were ready, would have completely different engines and transmissions. They'd be one-off, too.