I am telling this as the last of my field trips, because it was without doubt the climax of my Antarctic adventures. In actual fact, this happened the day after the previous climax, which was when I flew over the Beardmore Glacier. If time was invented so everything didn't happen at once, and space was invented so it didn't happen to you, then Time and Space were apparently out on a girls' weekend in late November 2019.
There was one major journey yet to undertake, in my visits to sites of historical importance. It was the location of a minor side-quest in the story of the Scott Expedition – one could, theoretically, leave it out of a retelling with no narrative consequences – but it's the central episode and emotional fulcrum of The Worst Journey in the World, and gave the book its title. In June and July 1911, the dead of Antarctic winter, three men set off from Cape Evans to reach the Emperor penguin colony at Cape Crozier, on the other side of Ross Island, to fetch some eggs when the embryos were at the right stage of development to yield potential clues to the evolution of birds. The adventure ended up being more of a test of human endurance than avian ancestry, and the results got from the few specimens they did collect did not advance the theory they were hoped to prove (though scientists would remind us that negative results are still results). However, it is an amazing story of what people are willing to undertake for the sake of intellectual progress, and in this instance, of how cast-iron character can make the unimaginably awful endurable, and as such, it very much warrants the retelling.
Unlike Cape Evans, Cape Crozier is hard to get to, hostile, and not very well documented. There was no way I could ever visit it at midwinter, but, having almost no clue what the place was like beyond the written word, it was vitally important to me to stand there myself and get a sense of the geography, so that I could draw figures groping around it in moonlight and blizzard when the time came. Luckily the NSF agreed that it was important I go, because it was the most complex and expensive trip to arrange. It would necessitate a helicopter ride; helicopters cost so much to fly, and are so necessary for shuttling people and stuff around any part of Antarctica that is inaccessible by plane (which is most of Antarctica), that their use is very strictly rationed. I had exactly enough helicopter time allocated to get me to Cape Crozier and back. Therefore, we had to fly on a day when it was absolutely certain we would not have to turn around, because an aborted trip would mean I didn't have enough flight hours left to try again. Antarctic weather is unpredictable and Cape Crozier has a reputation for turning very nasty very fast, so this needed to be a careful judgement call.
The first day it was posited I fly, it didn't happen – I forget why; I think there was a backup in other jobs, and mine, being of low importance, got dropped to make room. The second time, I was slotted for 3:45pm, though with one eye on the weather and the other on resources, the right was reserved to cancel at any time. A little after 2:30 my coordinator called to say we were, as far as anyone could tell, good to go, so to meet at Helo Ops at 3 for the safety briefing and helmet fitting.
Accompanying me to the far reaches of Ross Island would be my coordinator, who had been a few times before; the pilot, who was one of the best in the biz and had flown for pretty much any Antarctic documentary you care to name; and a biologist, who was required to go because Cape Crozier hosted a rare and fragile species of Antarctic lichen, which we must be careful not to step on or disturb in any way. The biologist who usually went on these trips was feeling unwell, so she sent a replacement, who was very happy to have the opportunity as he had never been to Cape Crozier before. Of course, this meant he didn't know what the lichen looked like, but we would doubtless find out when we got there.
Team assembled and briefing done, we had only to wait for the flight to be activated. The last possible moment came and went without cancellation, so we were on.
The latest weather report from the station at Cape Crozier was that it was 30% cloudy with winds at 7 knots. Keeping an eye on the wind was important for obvious safety reasons; the cloud conditions, though, were important for less obvious reasons. The helicopter pilot needs shadows and detail to be able to tell how far away the ground is, either to stay in the air or to make an emergency landing. When clouds diffuse sunlight, a snow-covered surface looks perfectly blank, and no details show up to give a sense of scale or distance, so it's unsafe to fly.
We were supposed to have flown along the south coast of Ross Island, following the route that Wilson, Bowers, and Cherry-Garrard sledged at great cost in 1911. That side of the island was cloudy, however, so we were redirected to fly around the other side. From a historical perspective this was a bit of a disappointment, but from an artistic one, the north side of the island was absolutely stunning, and I very quickly came to see why people with money to burn choose to travel by helicopter.
Plus, it meant we started out journey by flying over Cape Evans.
Being up this high gave an amazing sense of scale, with the expanse of the sea ice spread out like a vast marble floor beneath us.
Having flown over Cape Evans, we passed over the Barne Glacier to Cape Royds. The nearest rocky headland in the picture above is Cape Barne, and beyond that is Cape Royds, where Shackleton's Nimrod Expedition had their winter quarters in 1907-09.
All of Ross Island is volcanic, and near Cape Royds is a small parasitic cone which was explored by the expedition's geologists, who were also the first to climb Mt. Erebus. I thought it was named Mt. Sis, after someone's sister, but in fact it is Mt. Cis, after one of their dogs. Our pilot had been this way before and had something special to show us:
On top of Mt. Cis is a pickaxe. I don't believe there's any historical record of anyone leaving it there, but the Nimrod Expedition is not my speciality. It has been checked out, and the pickaxe is a model that was in use in the early 20th century, so either an early explorer stuck it there and didn't bother writing it down, or a later explorer found an old pickaxe and stuck it there to give the impression an early explorer had done so. Anyway, it's been there as long as anyone can remember, and doesn't seem to have suffered much, so will probably continue to be there for some time to come.
From there, onwards up the east coast to cross over the shoulder between Mt Erebus and Cape Bird, then over the snowy slopes of Terror, and the dissipating sea ice, to reach our destination.
Our first sight of Cape Crozier was the Adélie penguin rookery. This is one of the largest in the world, where upwards of 250,000 penguins congregate to make the next generation of penguins every year. I had not seen a penguin yet, and though my eyeballs were pointed directly at them, I was too far up to see any now, but their presence is evident in the vast, vast amount of light brown penguin poo.
On this side of Ross Island, the ice shelf is unimpeded by smaller islands or awkward quirks of geology as it is around McMurdo. As it grinds around the corner, here, it crinkles, and then as it straightens out again, the crinkles break, and the ice lets in long fingers of sea, which freezes during the winter. It is on these frozen fingers, sheltered from the worst of the blizzards by the taller segments of Ice Shelf, that the Emperor penguins incubate their eggs through the Antarctic winter.
It was these finger bays that our intrepid explorers were trying to reach, but they needed to establish their base camp somewhere a little more secure, on the solid rock of Cape Crozier. We were on our way to do the same.
The hill coming up was incredibly exciting to see, perhaps even more exciting than Observation Hill. When the Terra Nova first arrived at Ross Island, it was not on the McMurdo side of it, but rather here, because Cape Crozier was posited to be the most sensible site for Expedition headquarters. It had been explored on the Discovery Expedition, so they knew there was permanent access to the ice shelf, and thus the road south, unlike Hut Point or Cape Royds which would be cut off by miles of open sea for half the year. It had reliable fresh water nearby, and the Emperor penguins would be right next door. On the day the Terra Nova arrived, though, the swell on the sea was too high to permit a landing, and when they sent out a scouting party on one of the whaleboats, they discovered no suitable landing place. So they had no choice but to make for the old familiar haunts on the other side of the island.
Now, this is so much historical trivia, except that as part of exploring my desired artistic style and putting together my grant proposal for this trip, I had drawn that scouting journey, and prominent in the scene is this very hill, with its orca eye-spot of snow. The early explorers called it The Knoll.
This was based on a photograph taken on that day, which clearly shows The Knoll, and also that in January 1911 the ice front was a very long way back from where it is now.
As you can see, what is open water in 1911 is thick and pressured ice in my own photo from 2019.
Now, before you jump on this as proof that climate change is a lie, you may like to hear about my conversation with a scientist who has been studying the Cape Crozier Emperors for over forty years. He said that, while usually the leading edge of the ice shelf crumbles into small icebergs, occasionally enormous chunks drift off in one go. When they do, they take a whole generation of Emperor chicks with them, long before they are ready to swim, and that generation is lost. There is another Emperor colony at Beaufort Island, off the north coast of Ross Island, and following a catastrophe at Cape Crozier, a lot of breeding pairs move to Beaufort, and vice versa.
When the Crozier party arrived at the Emperor rookery in July 1911, Wilson was expecting the two thousand birds he'd seen when he visited with the Discovery, but there were only a hundred. Therefore it is plausible that, sometime between 1903 and 1911, a very large chunk of ice had pulled away from Cape Crozier, pushing the shoreline back and scaring off the penguins.
Back to the present, now, or at least last November. We had just passed The Knoll and were on our way to our landing site, a short walk away from the site of our penguin hunters' stone igloo. The place they chose to call home is the thin little ridge sticking out into the mist at the left of this photo:
Here we come …
And there we are.
When the Crozier party set off on their science trip in 1911, the three men hauled two sledges for two and a half weeks, through deep soft snow and temperatures that broke known records – down to -77°F one night, according to the thermometer slung under the sledge. The transcendent misery of marching in frozen clothes, not being able to get proper sleep for the shivering, and burning their precious fuel through the night just to survive, is carved deep in Cherry's writing of the experience. To say it was hellish is no exaggeration: Cherry points out that Dante put the circle of ice below the circles of fire in his Inferno, and thought it was apropos. The greatest challenge of our own journey out was landing the helicopter: given the sensitive environment and the fragile lichens, there was a specific landing site that was supposed to be marked out with stones. Our pilot circled once to find it, and came back around because he couldn't spot it the first time, then finally landed right on the GPS waymark because there was no visible clue where the actual site was supposed to be. As difficulties go, it hardly bears mention. Whether we'd earned it or not, however, we were there.