Will to Live: Dispatches from the Edge of Survival (25 page)

In my experience, the proper formula seems to be half fat and half ground or powdered dried meat, along with (if possible) some dried berries for flavor. When prepared correctly, fifty-year-old pemmican has been found to still be edible.

On May 17, McKinlay decided to leave Icy Spit and join Mamen and the rest of his group at Rodger’s Harbor. Yet he was only about halfway to his destination when he came across Mamen in a ramshackle camp near a place called Skeleton Island. It was there that Mamen broke the devastating news to McKinlay: one of the members of his group, a man named Bob Malloch, had died the night before.

I find it almost inconceivable that in mid-May—when the sun was shining long and bright in the sky, the weather was tolerable, and supplies of food and water were adequate (others in the party had been denying themselves to give Malloch extra) —that this man had to die. It seems that the will to live was quite low, and that there was more apathy than will. I find it surprising, with so many in the party, but it shows just how leaderless they were, and illustrates the beneficial effect a strong leader can have on a group—or, in this case, the detrimental effect of the absence of one.

They were not helped by the fact that they had split up into various factions that kept moving from camp to camp according to their own whims. Nobody was courageous enough to take command and develop a cohesive, comprehensive plan of attack. Everything they did was reactive instead of proactive. So people started dying.

McKinlay realized that both Mamen and his sole surviving camp mate were in very bad shape, so he decided to head back for more provisions. He arrived at Icy Spit a few days later to find that the mystery disease had spread. Many more survivors were now suffering with swollen extremities.

By early June, a few more of the group decided to make their way toward Rodger’s Harbor; McKinlay accompanied them. While on the way, they encountered two other crew members who had ventured out some time earlier to check on the state of Mamen and his camp mate. Their news was predictably bad: Mamen had died on May 26. Although they were all upset at the loss of yet another in their party, McKinlay was the most stricken. Mamen had been the last of his scientist colleagues on the island.

McKinlay dropped his plans to move to Rodger’s Harbor and instead worked like a dog at Munro’s command, helping the remaining crew at Icy Spit move to a location called Cape Waring, about halfway to Rodger’s Harbor. It was a monumental task. Many people were now suffering such pronounced effects of the mystery disease that they could barely walk, and the dogs were exhausted. Yet somehow, McKinlay helped get everyone moved.

Once everyone was settled in at Cape Waring, the issue of food began to assume monumental importance. Their pemmican stores were getting extremely low, large game such as seals and polar bears were becoming scarcer as summer set in, and they were running out of ammunition. Perhaps not surprisingly, each of the various factions in the group had its own method of rationing food. The Inuit with which McKinlay shared his tent were expert rationers. They could turn one small bird into a meal for four people, while just a tent away, men would be gorging themselves on a bird each, only to be complaining of hunger a few hours later.

By this time, the entire operation was breaking down. There were petty arguments over just about everything; it seemed that luck was the only thing keeping some of them alive. It got so bad that people started cheating on food, stealing from one another, and withholding information when a hunt had been successful. Now the lack of leadership had become a dangerous issue.

And although everyone was certainly hoping that Bartlett would return in July or August with a rescue ship, I am amazed that nobody ever seemed to consider what they would do if he didn’t return. June, when the sun was high and the weather getting warmer, was the time for them to be thinking about winter. They should have been finding a place to spend the winter, building shelters, fortifying their camp, and collecting food. Instead, they were entrenched in trivial disputes and self-serving motives. It was like a historical episode of
Survivor!
Even Kuraluk, who became snowblind at one point and was not particularly happy when asked to work, seems like the old man in the neighbourhood who never grew up.

The fact that Bartlett had put Munro in charge was the worst thing for the company. Not only was he incompetent, but he seemed to be corrupt, and used the power bestowed upon him to suit his own agenda. At one point, McKinlay learned that Munro and another crew member had killed ten birds and eaten them all without sharing with anyone else. Munro even went as far as to order Hadley, who proved to be a dogged hunter during their time on the island, to hand over some of his ammunition. There was a huge uproar, but eventually Hadley acquiesced, since Munro was in charge. When all was said and done, Munro had 170 rounds left for himself and two other men camped at Rodger’s Harbor, while there were 146 rounds for the ten people at Cape Waring.

I also fault McKinlay and the others for not standing up to Munro. I realize there is a strict line of authority in the naval world, but there comes a point when someone has to stand up for what’s right. Munro’s authority should have been challenged. When it’s a life-and-death struggle, I don’t care who the captain put in charge. Munro was not fit for the job. The problem was that nobody else seemed up to the task, either.

Yet they somehow managed to keep themselves alive. There were thousands of cliff-dwelling birds at Cape Waring, which provided enough meat and eggs to keep the crew alive, though just barely. There were still terribly disparities between the amount of food being eaten in the various tents. By late June, McKinlay and the Inuit, who continued to ration stingily, had enough food to last them five more days. The others had consumed their last bits of pemmican, seal, and birds, and were either hoping for a miracle or had more insidious plans.

The next few hunting forays saw the residents of one tent keep all the spoils for themselves, while McKinlay and his mates relied on the stores they had been so carefully rationing. Yet the apparently short-lived bounty did not help bolster spirits much. On the morning of June 25, the camp was awakened by the sound of a shot, followed by shouts. Apparently, Breddy, a member of the other Cape Waring tent, had shot himself dead.

It wasn’t long after Breddy’s death that the primary thought around camp again turned to food. Each tent had now completely exhausted its supplies, and hunting was the only available option. Fortunately, Kuraluk continued to have sporadic luck hunting seals, but even three seals seemed meager when divided among the seven men, one woman, two children, and three dogs still calling Cape Waring home.

In what was likely one of the few strokes of brilliance the survivors had, someone realized they could make a kayak to help get them closer to the seals. Of course, they relied on Kuraluk to design and build the craft. He used an ax head to fashion the sides and ribs of the frame from two large driftwood logs. Two weeks later, Auntie sewed a series of seal skins together over the completed frame. On July 19, the kayak was launched for the first time.

In the meantime, Hadley and Kuraluk continued to hunt. They were occasionally successful, but not nearly as successful as you might think. In July, Kuraluk fired at eleven seals, killing six and missing five. That same month, Hadley fired at ten seals, killing four and missing six. And as McKinlay so rightly points out, those figures don’t account for seals that were stalked but escaped before the hunters could squeeze off a shot.

Hunting is certainly a viable way to get food in a survival situation, but its success rates tend to be vastly overrated. People are always amazed at how unlucky I am when it comes to hunting during my survival experiences. The reality of the situation, though, is that even in the best circumstances, hunters often come up empty-handed. And if someone is trying to do it while exhausted, on the brink of starvation, perhaps injured, lacking a gun (or having one unsuited to the prey) —and, in my case, running my own cameras—it is easy to see how difficult it is and how lucky one needs to be.

But Kuraluk was an expert hunter, had a good gun on hand, and was a member of a race that had been hunting those waters for millennia. At the end of July, he killed three huge bearded seals on consecutive days, providing a feast the likes of which the survivors had not seen since their days on the
Karluk.
McKinlay also added to the camp’s food supply by discovering a small edible plant that was plentiful near running water.

Perhaps bolstered by this newfound bounty, the survivors finally began to consider the possibility of wintering on the island. They selected a site for a hut and began drying meat for the long, cold, dark days that lay ahead. Finally!

But, while McKinlay and the Inuit continued to ration wisely, the men in the other tent did not. So, by the third week in August, the others were asking for a handout. Grudgingly, McKinlay’s tent agreed, but only in fixed and limited amounts, and only in exchange for some precious tea.

The rations had to last a long while, as hunting would prove unsuccessful for the next four weeks. Again, however, when all hope seemed lost, it was Kuraluk who provided for the group. He realized that, although their waning ammunition was too precious to waste on the sea birds that swam in the waters off the cape, it might be possible to catch them with a net that had lain long ignored under a snowbank. The technique proved to be wildly successful, and I am utterly flabbergasted that it took them so long to remember they had this very valuable tool on hand. It’s a wonder anyone other than the Inuit survived.

On September 6, the Inuit woman helped the food situation immensely by catching fish through a crack in the nearby sea ice. The pile of fish was beginning to build on the seventh, when the camp was shocked by a scream from Kuraluk: “
Umiakpik kunno!
”—Maybe a ship! Some three miles offshore, a small schooner was steaming to the northwest. Nobody could tell if it was a relief ship or a walrus hunter on the prowl for prey, but their hopes were dashed when the ship hoisted its sails. It was sailing off!

The survivors didn’t wait for another signal. They knew this might be their only chance at rescue. Those on shore started screaming and waving for all they were worth. Hadley used up most of his ammunition firing his revolver into the sky, and Kuraluk went racing over the ice in hopes of heading the ship off. Then McKinlay and the others saw what they thought must be an illusion. The ship lowered its sails, and a party of men disembarked and began walking across the ice toward camp.

Though salvation had come at last, the survivors could still only think of one thing: food. They immediately turned to their store of fish. When the rescuers arrived in camp, the survivors were just putting on pots for a meal of fish and tea, their last on Wrangel Island.

Like many of those who suffer through a survival ordeal, McKinlay found it surprisingly difficult to bid farewell to the camp and the precious items that had kept them alive those many months. Dr. Francis Bourbeau, a survival expert and good friend of mine, once spent thirty days surviving in the boreal forest of Quebec. Once he was safe and sound in the plane at the end of the ordeal, even though he knew he was on his way home, he insisted that the pilot give him matches—just in case. I too always find myself reluctant to give up my survival supplies until I am actually back in civilization—again, just in case.

As McKinlay had suspected, the ship—the
King and Winge—
was a walrus hunter whose captain had promised to look for the lost party if it ventured near Wrangel Island. It had first arrived at Rodger’s Harbor and picked up Munro and two others, who directed it to Cape Waring.

At 11:30
a.m.
on September 8, 1914, the survivors stood on the deck of the
King and Winge
and spotted a steamship, the
Bear,
approaching from the distance. As the two ships pulled alongside one another, Captain Bartlett could be seen standing on deck. After a seven-hundred-mile sledge journey through Alaska and into Siberia, Bartlett had gotten through after all.

As for Stefansson, he continued his explorations over the Arctic Ocean and Beaufort Sea, living largely by shooting game. He continued exploring until 1918.

Chapter 12 - Bottom of the World

HE WAS THE POLAR WORLD’S MAN OF STEEL, A FIELD-HARDENED
EXPLORER
WHOSE ANTARCTIC EXPLOITS EARNED HIM WORLDWIDE RENOWN FOR HIS ENDURANCE,
TOUGHNESS
, AND LEADERSHIP ABILITIES. AND YET, THE NAME
DOUGLAS MAWSON
IS RECOGNIZED BY RELATIVELY FEW PEOPLE THESE DAYS. IT’S A SHAME, REALLY, FOR THE WAY MAWSON MANAGED TO SURVIVE IN THE FACE OF
DIRE
CIRCUMSTANCES FOR THREE
HELLISH
ANTARCTIC MONTHS IN
1912
IS ONE OF THE GREATEST SURVIVAL STORIES EVER TOLD AND A TESTIMONY TO THE ENDURING
WILL
TO LIVE.

An Australian geologist and dedicated scientist, Douglas Mawson first proved his mettle in the world’s harshest climate as a member of Ernest Shackleton’s
Nimrod
expedition in search of the South Pole between 1907 and 1909. A few years later, Mawson set out on an expedition of his own. The Australasian Antarctic Expedition of 1911–14 had a wide range of scientific and exploratory goals, the most significant of which was to chart two thousand miles of previously unvisited Antarctic coastline directly south of Australia.

As these things often go, Mawson’s expedition encountered troubles almost from its start on December 2, 1911. The first goal of the expedition was to drop a party of men and establish a base at Macquarie Island, a windswept spot more than six hundred miles south of New Zealand. Mawson’s team did this without incident in mid-December.

From Macquarie Island, Mawson planned to continue to a point on the Antarctic mainland called Cape Adare, more than two thousand miles south of Australia. There he would establish the first of several bases, from which he and his men would begin their westward exploration of the coastline. Yet, as their ship, the
Aurora,
drew closer to the Antarctic mainland in early January, it became apparent that the countless icebergs that peppered the water would prevent them from making land safely.

Day after day, the boat was driven westward, searching for a way through the maze of ice to shore. It was not until the
Aurora
was
eight hundred miles west of Cape Adare that she finally found a suitable landing spot: a broad, rocky sweep of beach that Mawson named Commonwealth Bay. It was January 8, 1912.

It was a less-than-ideal location: there were a few flat stretches of land where the crew could build its huts, and everything else was encased in a tomb of ice like none Mawson had ever seen before in the Antarctic. But with the brief summer passing swiftly and no other options, Mawson decided it would have to suffice. He named the place Cape Denison.

That Mawson was forced to alter his original plans is a common theme among those who find themselves thrust into survival situations. He knew that the safest and most logical place to begin his expedition was Cape Adare, but the ice conspired against him and he was forced to Cape Denison. Situations such as this, where you are not able to stick to your well-conceived plans, often contribute to the downfall of otherwise well-organized expeditions and turn them into tests of endurance and survival.

In Mawson’s case, Cape Denison itself did not create his survival situation, but it certainly didn’t make exploring the surrounding coastline any easier. The area proved to be numbingly windy and brutally cold, even by Antarctic standards. As January faded into February, the incessant gales became so strong that anything not tied down was lost. The
average
wind speed for the year they spent at Cape Denison was fifty miles per hour, but regularly gusted to well over one hundred and sometimes even topped out at two hundred.

For the most part, life at the camp was busy. Mawson and his men undertook scientific investigations in a number of areas, including geology, cartography, meteorology, aurora, geomagnetism, and biology. Yet as fall rolled into the long, dark, cold days of winter, life sometimes proved boring and tedious for the men. But Mawson’s sense of preparation was unparalleled, and he used his downtime wisely. He established rigid training regimens in preparation for the arduous sled journeys he and his men would undertake once spring finally arrived. It’s something Captain Bartlett might have done with the crew of the
Karluk
to prepare for the ship being crushed in the ice.

In addition to participating in an exercise regimen, each man was trained to pack and unpack his sled in the dark, cold, and wind, and manage his equipment by feel and instinct. Mawson had them set and strike camp in the middle of blinding whiteouts and would often redesign equipment on the spot. Nothing was taken for granted; he was always looking ahead.

In early August, Mawson and two of his most trusted associates headed south to establish a supply depot for the sledging parties that would be fanning out across the land in the months to come. They struggled across the ice for five and a half miles into a blinding gale before finding a suitable place to dig an ice cave. The vertical shaft, replete with shelves and room to accommodate four sleeping men and a host of extra provisions, was named Aladdin’s Cave. It would prove to be one of the most important things Mawson ever did in the tapestry of catastrophic events that would unfold months later.

As September rolled around, unusually calm weather allowed the men to break into several sledging parties, test equipment, and begin mapping of the rugged coastline. These sorties came to an abrupt halt when October’s weather became unrelentingly fierce. Mawson was anxious. The Antarctic “summer” was exceedingly short, and any unforeseen delays would significantly hamper his crews’ ability to map and complete the very task that had prompted the journey.

As November dawned, the weather showed no sign of abating, but Mawson was undaunted. He gathered his men around the mess table one evening and declared that the sledging parties would be leaving within a week, regardless of what Mother Nature might throw at them.

It is here that Mawson’s tenacious personality, which would serve him exceedingly well through the ordeals he was yet to endure, caused him to make his first mistake. Mawson was an extremely ambitious man and simply couldn’t accept defeat. So, even after experiencing the fury of the Antarctic weather for almost a year, the knowledge that the
Aurora
was coming back in mid-January forced him to decide that all the sledging teams would embark on their journeys in the next week, regardless of the weather.

In those final frenzied days before departure, the camp was abuzz with activity. Mawson meticulously counted out the trekking rations and weighed everything to the last ounce. This is not only an important bit of knowledge to have (in case you end up in a survival situation), it is also reassuring to be that comfortable with your gear and your rations.

In total, Mawson sent out five separate sledging parties. The consummate leader, he handpicked each team’s members according to their strengths and weaknesses. Three parties traveled to the east to map the coastline, one south to the magnetic pole, and one to the west. Mawson planned to lead what was likely the most treacherous trek of all: the Far Eastern trek, using three sledges and seventeen of the Greenland dogs they had kept since arriving at Cape Denison some ten months before.

On November 10, 1912, Mawson—along with Dr. Xavier Mertz and Lieutenant Belgrave E. S. Ninnis—set out. Although the wind and weather beat at them mercilessly, Mawson and his companions were tough, experienced antarctic travelers, and they made excellent progress during the early stages of their journey.

Their trip was aided by their collective ingenuity, as they made constant revisions to improve their gear. This ability to improvise—I call it MacGyverism, after the 1980s television character with an uncanny ability to instantly rig up a solution to a life-threatening problem—is an important skill in any wilderness situation, but it’s paramount in a survival situation. There are times when you have to sacrifice one object to make it into another, more effective one. You also have to be aware of the risks the environment may throw at you and use your survival smarts to keep yourself alive. In Mawson’s case, doing something as simple as tethering the sledge to his body kept him alive on more than one occasion.

Mawson kept his group on strict rations every day. He employed a food-consumption strategy he called “No work, no hoosh.” The team members were prohibited from consuming large amounts of rich food on days when they were idle because of bad weather. Instead, these foods were saved for days when the men worked hard and expended lots of calories. It was a brilliant bit of rationing that kept the men strong and fit—and excited to work hard.

Yet Mawson also erred a bit when it came to food rationing. He insisted that he, Mertz, and Ninnis all receive the same amount of food at every meal, even though he was much bigger and stronger than his comrades. Whether Mawson ever actually considered his size and strength advantage over the other two remains a mystery, but I think he should have accounted for it when doling out the food, just as I would do if I found myself in a survival situation with my kids. I believe Mawson short-changed himself when it came to food, which may have played a role in the neuralgia he later developed on the left side of his face and in his shoulder.

As November waned, the trio successfully navigated across the treacherous crevasses of the newly dubbed Mertz Glacier, though the glacier claimed its victims. They lost several dogs to various injuries and accidents along the way, and Ninnis was slowed by an acute case of snowblindness. The ever-ready Mawson knew just how to deal with such a setback, though, and inserted small tablets of cocaine and zinc sulfate under Ninnis’s eyelids, leaving them there to dissolve and ease the burning. Mawson advised his friend to wear his dark goggles as often as possible, and to screw his eyelids nearly shut in those instances when it was necessary to remove the goggles.

Eventually, the Mertz Glacier fell behind them and progress picked up. But they now faced an even bigger challenge: the far riskier ridges and cracks of the so-called Ninnis Glacier. Progress amid what Mawson described as “rolling waves of ice” was maddeningly slow.

As if the deathly maze of ice ridges and yawning crevasses of the Ninnis Glacier wasn’t enough, the trip was compounded by an infection that Ninnis had developed on the second finger of his right hand. Mawson was shocked to find one afternoon that the finger had swelled to nearly double its size and was turning a putrid combination of black and green. This was a huge judgment error on Ninnis’s part, one that not only jeopardized his own well-being, but that of the entire expedition. In adventure racing—where, like exploration, your personal well-being is intricately interwoven with that of your teammates—you run the risk jeopardizing the entire race if you do not let your teammates know as soon as you begin to develop an injury, even something seemingly as minor as a blister. These types of things must always be group knowledge. It’s nothing to be embarrassed
about; it’s showing consideration for the team before the individual.

Mawson tried to reduce the swelling with a poultice, to no avail. By the next morning, Ninnis’s pain had become unbearable. With life-threatening septicemia—the presence of bacteria in the blood—a real risk at this point, Mawson had no choice but to perform surgery. He sterilized his knife in the open flame of the Primus stove and sliced open the bulging digit. After the green-yellow pus finished spurting out, Mawson wrapped the finger in an iodine-soaked pad. It worked. Once the finger healed, Ninnis experienced no more trouble with it. It may be sobering to remember that all of this took place in the frigid temperatures of the Antarctic, with no running water, soap, or painkillers.

The group was still crossing the dizzying maze of crevasses and pressure ridges of the Ninnis Glacier in mid-December when Mertz, who had been traveling on skis, pointed out a snow bridge across a nearby crevasse. Mawson was riding on his sledge behind the dogs and made it across easily, his weight evenly distributed. Ninnis, however, was running beside his team of dogs. He had barely set foot on the snow bridge when it collapsed beneath him and he disappeared into the heart of the glacier, along with his sledge . . . and the dogs that were pulling it.