Mon 7th Jan. Camp XI: Whiteout.
To our relief the morn brought a whiteout, which somehow happens when rest is desperately needed. We slept all morning – waking about midday for brunch – then fell asleep again until teatime. Reading from “The Dubliners” whiled away an hour before falling asleep again.
Tue 8th Jan. Camp XI: Whiteout
Today was another all-out effort – less demanding this time – to read “The Dubliners”. Whiteout continued with light snow, dainty crystalline platters gently wafting down. It was so mild, we wandered around outside comfortably in tee shirts. Inside, the tent was sweltering. This was a wonderfully relaxing day. Later, molten snow formed little puddles on box tops and tent flaps.
At this stage Gerald’s team had no thermometer. Both thermometers originally carried were casualties of a geological investigation, which involved digging a pit in the snow, and jabbing in a thermometer, to observe how snow temperature varies with depth. That treatment was tough on thermometers, and fueled the ongoing geologists versus surveyors feud. Of necessity, we became blasé about estimating temperatures.
Wed 9th Jan. Camp XI: Whiteout.
Snow fell overnight. So did the “wet finger” thermometer, which involves wetting the finger in the mouth and holding it up and thinking of a temperature number.
The whiteout continued, but it appeared to become thinner in the evening. Man-hauling or even walking or skiing on the crevasse-ridden Pearl Harbour Glacier in a whiteout could have been dangerous, as any snow-bridged crevasses probably would be invisible. Gerald’s masterly ice skills include detecting crevasses, by observing subtle shading of the snow surface under sunlight.
Instead, we resigned ourselves to recuperation, finishing “The Dubliners”, then reducing some of the Camp IX solar observations for position and azimuth.
Thu 10th Jan. Camp XI: Geological sortie.
Peering out of the tent door at 4 a.m., and again at 6 and 7:30, still showed a whiteout. At that stage, survey calculations were abandoned for more sleep.
At 9 a.m., Gerald was busy cooking breakfast, saying that the sky was clearing. Gerald, Evan and John left about 11 a.m. to explore the greywacke-granodiorite geological contact on Mt. Holdsworth. Frank continued on computations, perhaps his most productive day on that job yet, thanks to the quiet and rest.
In retrospect, who could have imagined geographic positioning systems that evolved a few decades later, which directly display latitude and longitude far more quickly and accurately than possible by measuring to the sun, and without any calculation! It would even be a few years before any of us would first use an electronic computer.
Cloud returned, as did Gerald, Evan and John about 6 p.m. Everyone had a great day. We retired by 9 p.m.
Fri 11th Jan. Camp XI – Camp XII.
Six a.m. heralded a perfect day, and by 10 we were hauling from this now-familiar campsite. In soft snow we wore skis at first, but Gerald removed his at lunchtime, and Frank followed suit an hour later. The snow was calf-deep – to the top of our mukluks – which made heavy work of man-hauling, so we were glad of the previous days’ rest.
By now, the glacier fell at a gentler grade than for the first day. Occasionally, feeder glaciers swept into the six-mile 10-km wide Pearl Harbour Glacier, just as shingle talus fans sweep into river valleys. Crossing these feeder glaciers required us to haul slightly upgrade.
About 2:30 p.m. Frank’s inner thigh developed a cramp, which impaired his hauling. Gerald displayed his usual patience, noticing that this happened to be a suitable place to build a snow cairn to mark one end of a third survey baseline.
Man-hauling continued in calm air, clad only in tee shirts. However, about 4 p.m., a gentle but frigid breeze arose, which hurried us into anoraks. About 5 o'clock we reached the campsite, located opposite the eastern extremity of the granodiorite-greywacke contact. Sleep came at 9:20 p.m.
Sat 12th Jan. Camp XII: Whiteout.
A whiteout at 6 a.m. was a surprise. In the previous evening, the only precursor had been a few puffs of cumulus and a little low cloud, which were not unusual before a cloudless day. Quite often, whiteouts came unexpectedly. Confined to the tent once more, we scribbled and snoozed all day – reports for Gerald, and survey computations for Frank – until pemmican stew time.
During the evening the cloud rose slightly to reveal a view down-glacier. At John Millen’s radioed suggestion, we rubbed ski wax on the sledge runners, to make the sledges run more easily, an obvious ploy that had not occurred to us.
Sun 13th Jan. Camp XII: Surveying astronomy and baseline.
It was reasonably clear at 2 a.m., but cloudy at 6 a.m., so Gerald decreed “Back to bed, boys!” We resumed the seemingly boundless tent-bound activities, interrupted only by breakfast and occasional quick peeps outdoors at the sky. Gerald continued contingency planning, scrutinising aerial photos for crevasse fields and like features, and scientific pursuits. Frank continued survey calculations. One wonders how he would have filled the time, if an electronic hand calculator had been available.
Just before noon, the clouds cleared enough for a hurried solar observation for latitude. During the afternoon, Frank and Evan observed the sun for position, while Gerald and John measured Baseline No. 3.
Radio maestro Gerald had not returned at the time of the 7 p.m. radio schedule. Frank and Evan were unable to make radio contact with John Millen. Cloud returned later, but not so dense as to prevent a 7:30 solar bservation for longitude and azimuth. Gerald and John arrived at 8 p.m., having double-chained the two-mile 3-km third baseline, making the day a success.
Mon 14th Jan. Camp XII. Survey station AG (Mt. Pearson).
At 6 a.m., a bitter wind drove us back into the tents, a timely reminder that we were still in Antarctica. At 11:40 the wind showed signs of abating, so we packed, and by 1 p.m. we were skiing across the Pearl Harbour Glacier, bound for survey station AG, which would become Mt. Pearson.
An hour and a half and four miles 6½ km later, we cached skis, and began a long snow climb, roped together on account of schrunds from a nearby icefall, but otherwise not a technically-difficult climb. A stiff breeze and drifting snow allowed only a ten-minute stop for lunch at 4 p.m.
Evan and John had left camp an hour later – following Gerald’s and Frank’s ski tracks and steps in the snow – and caught up some 45 minutes from the summit, during a cautious crossing of a bergschrund. At the summit, Gerald wisely directed Evan ahead on a fixed belay to test for a cornice, Evan being the lightest of us. Then the rest of the party scrambled up at 7:20 p.m.
Despite the cold – perhaps -20°C – the wind had abated, making summit activities tolerable. Evan and John continued down a ridge southwards to examine some rocks. While surveying, Frank became dizzy, so Gerald assumed the observations, which were complete by 11:15.
Evan and John returned from their geological sortie about 11:35 p.m., and helped build a snow cairn. Then the estimated 4300-foot 1300-m descent began.
Two a.m. saw us back at the skis, followed by a memorable ski ride across the glacier. Sunlight dappled the glacier ice, and swept the surface with fast-moving mountain shadows, in a rapid series of sunsets and sunrises, as the sun skimmed the horizon to the south.
Upon reaching camp at 3 a.m. we prepared pemmican hooch, then consumed a tin of peaches to celebrate, and crawled into our welcoming sleeping bags at 4:45 a.m.
Tue 15th Jan. Camp XII: Surveying astronomy and baseline.
A leisurely noon brunch sitting out in the sun was interrupted when a bank of cloud or fog abruptly appeared. Time was short to observe from cairn J four miles 6 km up-glacier, before cloud obscured the surrounding survey landmarks.
Hastily, about 2:45 p.m., Gerald and Frank skied up-glacier. On the way Frank decided to remove and cache his skis. That proved to be a mistake, because his feet punched through the crust into deep snow at each step.
By 4:20 we reached cairn J, which had been sprinkled with coloured beverage crystals to render it more visible from afar. The few survey observations sought were complete by 5 p.m.
Back at camp just after 6 p.m., we were barely in time to begin survey observation from nearby Cairn I of the sun for longitude, and of those survey landmarks that were still free of bound.
During the 7 p.m. radio schedule, John Millen said that his team had about five days of work and travel, end expected to reach the airlift point about the 25th of the month. Gerald expected about the same, depending on the weather. Slumber came at 10 p.m.
Wed 16th Jan. Camp XII: Whiteout.
Ding-a-ling went the alarm at 5:30, but a whiteout ruled out occupying peak AD, so back to sleep we went. Frank hadn’t slept again from sunburn, and was crabby, though Gerald remained his serene self, thoroughly justifying his reputation and leadership position. Survey computations and reports filled the day, until bedtime at 9:15 p.m.
Thu 17th Jan. Camp XII. Survey station AD.
The alarm jangled at 5 a.m. As the sky looked hopeful, we breakfasted. However, cloud or fog from the polar plateau obscured peaks to the south until 2:30 p.m. About 3 p.m. survey sightings began from Cairn I – near the campsite – to landmarks that previously had been hidden by cloud. Our progress was always subject to the whims of the weather.
At 5 p.m. the entire team skied off, bound for survey station AD on the north side of the glacier, opposite AG. At the summit at 8 p.m. the wind was biting, so we wore all available clothes, and made only the most critical survey observations, which were complete by 11 p.m. A roped descent over a long snow slope took from 11:20 to 12:40, before skiing across the glacier to reach the campsite at 1:40 a.m.
Fri 18th Jan. Camp XII – Camp XIII.
A perfect day welcomed bleary eyes at 10 a.m., but sleep called more strongly until 11:30. This seemed to be an opportunity to observe paired transits of the star Canopus and the sun, but it turned out to be too late to compute and observe the transit of Canopus. However – between courses of breakfast – we observed a solar transit for latitude, by measuring (as usual) timed vertical angles to the sun, before and after its highest point in the sky.
Organising gear and packing the sledge took most of the afternoon. A 5 p.m. sledging start was deliberate and advantageous, because hauling was more comfortable in the cooler evening, than encased in stifling anoraks in the heat of the day.
During the evening march, crevasses were encountered ever more frequently. Initially, the crevasses were quite narrow – only two or three feet 600-900 mm wide – but cunningly cloaked with snow, so as to be difficult to detect.
Ice-wise Gerald devised a roping system to minimise the risk of a man or a sledge falling deep into a crevasse. His major concern was that a sledge falling into a crevasse might drag down the two men harnessed to it.
Gerald and Frank hauled the front sledge, with Evan and John Hayton and the second sledge in the same tracks. Gerald was on a moving belay from Frank, Evan belayed Frank, and John belayed Evan. Before setting out from a stop, it was necessary to adjust the belay ropes so as to be taut when the sledge harnesses tightened. Even so, on the move, Frank, Evan and John continually had to juggle belay rope loops, in order to maintain an effective moving belay.
Gerald cat-footed ahead on a long sledge harness trace, ever watchful for subtleties of the snow surface suggestive of a hidden crevasse, while probing forward with his ice axe. At suspicious places, Gerald would order a fixed belay, as he probed warily in front. On such occasions, Frank, Evan and John plunged their ice axes into the snow, and set fixed belays for one another, lest a snow bridge should collapse under someone.
Occasionally, through the zone of Pearl Harbour Glacier crevasses, the command “Hold!” would ring out, instantly causing ice axes to be driven into the snow, and the belay ropes to spring taut. So effective were the belays, that no one belayed fell into a crevasse much further than the waist, as the belay rope prevented them from falling further. After falling in waist deep, one can easily scramble out unaided, and toss a casual thanks to the belayer.
It is quite startling at first to suddenly drop into a crevasse, and always comforting to be arrested by an alert companion's belay. Looking down between one's swinging feet, the stomach tightens at the memorable sight of glassy crevasse walls descending vertically through deepening blue into bottomless blackness.
Each pause lost sledging momentum. Each restart took a great heave to overcome the starting friction of the sledge on the snow. Repeated starts and the intense concentration made man-hauling more tiring than usual, and reduced the distance that we were able to sledge that day. We made camp at 11:15 p.m.
During the march, a 7:30 p.m. radio schedule brought news from Scott Base that some of the expedition’s personnel and gear might be lifted out from the Tucker Glacier in four days, on the 22nd. On that day, another expedition – scheduled to make a reconnaissance flight to the Rennick Glacier – may land on the Tucker Glacier.
The Rennick expedition would begin after our party had left the field. Reconnaissance expeditions sequentially filled the southern summer, each mapping the topography and geology of a particular area.
Sat 19th Jan. Camp XIII – Camp XIV.
We awoke at midday to a perfect day, except for cirrus appearing from the north during the afternoon. Frank decided to put in a glacier survey station – in case landmark AF could not be occupied the next day, which provoked the geologists to make the usual disparaging remarks about surveyors.
To what extent such surveying helped mapping is unknown. But the surveying, striking camp, packing and roping up delayed departure from Camp XIII until 3:45 p.m.
The evening journey down-glacier seemed relatively tame and uneventful, except for an occasional small crevasse. Impressive icefalls tumbled into the Pearl Harbour Glacier valley from each side. As the sun slipped behind a mountain during the evening, a “rainbow” icebow? appeared. Lunch came at 6 p.m., and we pitched camp at 10:15.
Sun 20th Jan. Camp XIV: Snowfall.
At 8 a.m., light snowfall and a cloud ceiling ruled out occupation of AF, which was to have been our last survey station, to connect with the 1957-58 NZ Tucker Glacier survey. Snow and cloud thickened through the day, impairing visibility to such an extent that Gerald decided not to even move camp.
Survey calculations and a rough plot of the closed survey traverse filled most of the day. After the 7 p.m. radio schedule, for entertainment we tuned the radio to the broadcast bands. A Radio New Zealand ZL2 broadcast of cricket scores enthralled us not, but that was soporific enough to bring much needed sleep.
Mon 21st Jan. Camp XIV: Bad weather.
At 6 a.m. an unpleasant strong up-glacier wind and marginal visibility discouraged departure, considering the difficult travelling conditions expected in this most severely crevassed part of the Lower Pearl Harbour Glacier. Visibility did not improve enough to move camp, so we spent the entire day in the sack.
In the evening the wind dropped and the sun began to filter through the clouds, so we crawled out of the tents for jocularity and photography at one another’s expense, and retired at 9:30 p.m.
Tue 22nd Jan. Camp XIV – Airlift Point.
We awoke 6 a.m., and were almost packed by the 8:30 a.m. radio schedule. News came that later on that very day, a US Navy plane would be landing in the Tucker Glacier, near the Pearl Harbour confluence. So off we marched, post haste!
All eyes and intent – especially Gerald in the front – we trudged over the crevasse-ridden lower Pearl Harbour Glacier, hauling the sledges, now largely laden with rocks, courtesy of our worthy geological team.
Suddenly a yell rent the air, like "Hey" or “Hold!” Well tuned to crevasse hazards, ice axes plunged instinctively into the snow, and ropes snapped taut in fixed belays, before flashing glances around at one another. It took an instant to realise that John Hayton bringing up the rear was out of sight.
This turn of events was unexpected. As the rear man, John was the only person who was not himself belayed. His job was to bring crevasse rescue ropes to anyone ahead who did happen to fall into a crevasse. Before the snow bridge collapsed under John, three men and a sledge had already crossed that crevasse.
Another yell came, and we wallowed through the soft snow to peer down John's crevasse – some five feet 1½ m wide – where John swung in his sledge harness, slightly below the surface, over fathomless blackness. John was commendably calm, and even gave an appearance of enjoying the experience. But in no uncertain terms, he ordered the rest of us back from the lip of the crevasse.
With admirable efficiency, Gerald organised the two-rope system of crevasse rescue and smoothly extracted John, as described in Appendix: “Polar Life”. The experience brought relief in the knowledge that the long-practised crevasse rescue technique could handle the unexpected. Gerald had saved John's life!
As the Tucker Glacier opened to view, there came a distant roar so unfamiliar in this silent land. A tiny silver plane came into sight, and looped around lazily within the immense spread of the glacier. Presently, brightly coloured plumes of signal flare smoke rose from John Millen’s unseen camp into the clear air, and the plane descended towards their source.
It seemed an eternity as we trudged desperately towards the plane, but the immense distances in the Tucker Glacier are difficult to judge. Eventually, the plane trundled off to its takeoff position, and bumped gently over the glacier briefly. All of a sudden, the plane rocketed into the cerulean sky on a whitish, billowing tail of smoke from the JATO jet-assisted-take-off bottles.
More trudging, then a tent and people came into sight ahead on the glacier, so we knew that we had not been abandoned. Still more trudging, and at last we were among John Millen’s team!
All concept of time vanished for the rest of the day, with great hilarity, and much excited sharing of experiences, and unrestrained eating. We learned that Peter LeCouteur and Roger Lloyd of the Millen team had gone in the plane that had just left.
Wed 23rd – 26th Jan. Airlift Point – Scott Base.
These days melted idly into one another. The sense of release was such that the writer hardly bothered with this diary. All we had to do was to wait for the pickup plane. For the first time on the ice, we could indulge in frivolous activities.
Three members were civil engineers – John Millen, Gerald and Frank – so we built an igloo, and an arch of snow blocks capped with a NZ flag. Later, John Hayton’s adventure in a crevasse prompted a repeat performance of crevasse rescue practice. We had to dig our own crevasse, as there didn’t seem to be any in the vicinity. That is fortunate, because a crevasse might wreck a plane sent to collect us.
The arrival of the plane on the 26th perhaps brought some chagrin, but that quickly vanished in the warm hospitality of the US Navy air crew. We strapped into the fold-down seats in the stark interior of the Dakota, which roared and bumped across the snow as before, then lifted gently off.
Abruptly, the JATO bottles fired, shooting the plane steeply up with tremendous power never experienced, thrusting us back into our seats. Squinting from the corners of our eyes, we saw the mighty icy peaks of the Tucker Glacier region – our masters for so many weeks – recede in seconds into miniatures like cake frosting.
Just as unexpectedly, the JATO rockets ceased, and the plane floated over that immense white landscape. Quickly, the US Navy flight crew cooked and served such wonderful food that we can never forget it, especially those succulent melt-in-your- mouth steaks!
The wonderful flight ended as we bumped down at McMurdo, which seemed such a bustling place. Scott Base was crowded, with bunks at a premium, so we were permitted to stay only one night.
27th Jan. Scott Base – New Zealand.
The US Navy C-130 hauled a great contingent of Antarctic summer holiday-makers back to Christchurch in about eight hours. We picnicked in the plane’s cavernous belly, fixing snacks in the serve-yourself kitchen, snoozing on the metal floor in our well padded Antarctic clothing, or strolling about chatting or watching or playing card games, or inspecting the vehicles and heavy equipment tied to the plane’s floor.
All too soon, the plane descended and thumped to earth. The plane's huge rear doors opened, and a torrid Canterbury summer nor-wester föhn wind wafted in, as if from an enormous hair dryer.
Now we could remove our Antarctic clothing! But where? Soon we were on the train from Christchurch to Lyttelton, feeling decidedly pungent in clothes worn for two months without laundering. Out of politeness – we assumed – the other train passengers pretended not to notice.
Once on the ferry to NZ's North Island, each of us dashed for a shower, to luxuriate in copious hot water after being so long without. How unaccustomed it was to see one another freshly washed!
We gathered on the ferry deck, facing the sea breeze directly for the first time in months, another simple joy. Almost the slightest Antarctic breeze had turned our faces away. Now, with faces square into the wind, we felt like dogs happily thrusting their heads from the windows of a moving car. Five years later, after a disastrous shipwreck, that ferry service terminated.
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