DISCOVERY BY FLIGHT
Bay of Whales
Saturday
January 26, 1929
IT has been a real experience, lying here alongside the bay ice week after week, with the opportunity of watching the changes and caprices of this frozen world. It is not the rigid and immobile world that we imagined. All is movement and change. Day after day, hour after hour, the contours of the Barrier and bay ice change as fragments break off and float northward. The wind, the sea, the sky and the visibility change with bewildering swiftness; the penguins and the seals are here in large numbers one moment and gone the next. I fancy that in Little America it will be the lack of change that will be striking.
But what take my imagination are the regiments of ice fields and icebergs that drift past the mouth of the Bay of Whales. They come from the mysterious unknown area to the eastward. Sometimes these regiments pause at the mouth of the Barrier until a northerly wind starts the invincible mass in the direction of the City. We watch it carefully, for if it should catch and grind us between it and the bay ice, the good old City might be crushed into pulp. Several times we have had to fight our way through these moving fields to the open sea beyond. But these scrimmages have given us a chance to observe how varied are the forms of the bergs and the pack that come from the land we are so impatient to enter.
Eastward was mystery, and at 2:53 o’clock, on Sunday afternoon, January 27th, we took off in the Fairchild to try to see with our own eyes what lay there. We had planned originally to carry a gross load of 6,000 pounds, but shortly before departure reduced this by 300 pounds, to lessen the strain on the skis. Balchen was pilot, June the radioman. The sky was a cloudless, pervading blue, and the temperature a few degrees below freezing. Exactly the kind of a day we had wished for. Haines looked up from his charts and with one of his rare smiles said, “We ought to have good weather here for at least twelve hours.” What was brewing in the vast unknown reaches of ice to the east no magic could fathom; for Antarctic weather is a thing of sudden, violent and unpredictable changes, which appear to occur contrary to all known laws and systems, and more than one meteorologist has thrown up his hands in disgust before its caprices. But if there is anything in which I have abiding faith, it is in a weather prediction by Bill Haines. When he said you may go, I knew then that we could go.
A run of 30 seconds lifted us clear of the snow, and a few minutes later Little America had fallen from view astern.
Almost immediately we were gazing down upon untrodden areas. To the left we had the curving coastline of the Barrier trending north of east: on the right we had the inner spaces of the Barrier rolling unbrokenly to the horizon. Visibility was about 40 miles.
Let us pause a moment to glance about the cabin. In the after part of our small cabin crouched June, using a sleeping bag as a seat, tinkering with his radio. Balchen was forward, at the controls, gradually putting the ship on its course as the compass sluggishly settled down. The cabin was so crowded with gear I could not stand up. I found myself sitting on a primus cooker, in lieu of a seat, while working at my charts.
On the instrument board were the usual instruments—bank and turn indicator, altimeter, tachometer, pressure gauges, etc. At Balchen’s right was a radio key: in an emergency, he could also communicate with the base. Fixed on the back of his seat was another compass: we had found this to be the only position on the plane comparatively free from local deviation.
In all, we carried 700 pounds of emergency equipment, for use in the event of a forced landing. These impedimenta fairly filled the cabin to overflowing. There were two hand sledges, two sets of man harness, one primus cooker, three sleeping bags, 1 pair of snow shoes, three pairs of skis, 2 pairs of crampons, feet of alpine rope, an ice axe, spade and snow knife, bamboo poles, a tent, a portable emergency radio set, an engine repair outfit, two medical kits, a funnel for draining oil from the engine, a blow torch and funnel for heating the engine, as well as enough food to sustain three men over a period of three months.
A liberal supply of cold weather clothing was provided. This included mukluks, with sennagrass, fur mittens, underwear, socks, windproofs and the parkas which we wore.
There was also my navigational equipment. This included several charts (which could be of little value, owing to unknown character of the area we proposed to investigate) a sextant, drift indicator, a sun compass, earth inductor compass and a large magnetic compass. It is my practice to leave as little as possible to chance. Each of these instruments could be used the one to check the other. As long as the bright sun held, the problem of navigation would be comparatively simple: for I could then check the magnetic compass with the sun compass and be certain as to my course.
I laid my course directly for Scott’s Nunatak, which was, as we flew, nearly 200 miles away.
Just before the Bay of Whales disappeared in the lengthening perspective, I glanced back, hoping to make out the masts of the Bolting against the horizon. But nothing moved on the blue waters of the Ross Sea, which glittered like a vast tray of diamonds tilted in the sun, except a column of ice bergs, deployed like a regiment on the march.
Twenty minutes out, we sighted a bay in the Barrier to the left, and to the right ran a long deep fissure and pressure ridge. An interesting discovery. No doubt the Barrier here had grounded on land, which opposed the thrust of the ice to the sea and maintained the formation of the bay.
The Barrier edge constantly enticed our eyes from the hinterland. Its high, steep cliffs (from our altitude, however, they seemed relatively a few inches of beautifully carved alabaster showing above gray-green water, which lay as softly as velvet about their foot) trended to the northeastward with few variations in structure; but here and there a large floe on the open sea, with edges neatly matching an indentation on the Barrier, explained the manner in which the Barrier disintegrated and, in a measure, the source of supply of some of the bergs that had marched steadily past our berths in the Bay of Whales.
We were flying at feet, and visibility was excellent. Oddly enough, the packs that had beset the ships of Amundsen, Scott and Shackleton, when they attempted to push eastward, were not to be seen. Except for a few scattered fragments and an occasional iceberg standing in solitary grandeur on a blue-green carpet, the Ross Sea was clear and open as far as the eye could see. A southern wind had blown the ice temporarily to the northward.
At our altitude a hustling tail wind gave us a splendid boost. We averaged well over 120 miles per hour at cruising revolutions.
About an hour after the start of the flight we passed over a beautiful bay1 in the Barrier, the mouth of which was several miles wide. A long, curving tongue of ice formed its westward side. The bay appeared to be four or five miles deep. From our great height it was no more than a modest, rather exquisitely carved indentation in the Barrier. But actually it was a stern and rugged thing, with 150-foot ice cliffs, sheer and perfect as if cut out by knife, as its walls. Flying does deprive an observer of much of the awe that seizes the surface traveller. I could not help but feel, as we flew over this bay, that had we come upon it suddenly from the deck of the City, we must have marvelled at its dimensions. But the vastly lengthened perspective that the airplane provides substitutes a different measurement. With so much to see, the things on the earth tend to diminish to their true cosmical proportions: and that which lifts itself above the rest and impresses must, of necessity, be truly striking.
Not long after passing the bay, I saw many miles to the right a few black peaks protruding from the snow, and beyond them a single peak which invited speculation. On consulting the charts used on this flight, I find that I wrote in the corner of one of them: “Small peak to the right—land may show—looks like it.” I decided to investigate this peak later on.
By this time the Barrier surface on the right had begun to rise in a rolling movement of grand dimensions. There was land underneath, beyond a doubt. Between our position and the coastline the Barrier, on its march down to the sea, was riven and cracked until an area at least 20 miles in length became a mass of crevasses. These were of a character so fearful as to suggest no foot traveller, however stubborn, could long exist in them.
Presently a snow peak lifted its white head dead ahead—an inconspicuous mound dancing slightly over the head of one of the cylinders. A patch of bare rock showed on the northern side. It was Scott’s Nunatak. Since he first saw it in 1902, three men, Lieutenant Prestrud, Johansen and Stebberud of Amundsen’s Expedition, had fought their way to this lonely spur, in December, 1911. It gave one an odd sensation to rush at a rate of two miles per minute toward the spot which he and his companions had struggled weeks to gain; to be over it and gone in a very few minutes, whereas they had lain, shivering and wet, in a tent, beset by snow storms, while Prestrud, to pass away the time, conjugated Russian verbs.
From a point a little beyond the Nunatak, we flew over land never before seen: and at the given speed of the plane, we were exploring snow-covered land to the right at the rate of 4,000 square miles per hour.
To the south of the Nunatak a chain of rather small mountains, trending to the southeast, lifted snow-capped peaks from the surface. This was the range which Scott named Alexandra Mountains. It is doubtful whether any of them exceeded 1500 feet in height. I was surprised to observe that several of them exposed bare rock on the northern slopes. Prestrud, when he observed them from the more modest eminence of the Nunatak, reported that “only on the most easterly spur was the rock just visible.”1
These few bleak crags were, then, the first real land we had seen since we re-discovered Scott Island.
From the Alexandra Mountains the snow-covered land (for land undeniably lay underneath) descended quite rapidly to the sea. The slopes were distinguished by well-marked terraces, and these in turn were traversed by large numbers of crevasses.
These terraces fell into a slope which met the sea. The Ross Sea was solidly frozen over here, for miles to the north, and in the pancake smoothness we noted a number of odd-looking ice islands, the rounded domes of which were mostly split and broken, like tarts which had been toyed with. These domes, however, stood at least 100 feet above the general level of the sea ice, and their bottoms must have been well grounded. We also made out a lone glacier discharging its stream of pale blue ice into the sea, and around it, oddly enough in this hard frozen waste, lay a pool of open water. There were many indications, such as the lack of pressure ridges and the smoothness of surface, to show that the sea ice here rarely breaks up: and the theory suggested the possibility of land to the northward which held it anchored in this place.
I had envisioned this as a probability, and peered ahead, over Balchen’s shoulder. In the gray opacity where ice met sky a dark, provocative ribbon held my eyes. Land, I was sure, lay there and beyond to the northeast. But before I could exclaim, Balchen lifted his hand from the wheel and pointed a gloved finger to the east. The whole sector of the horizon had disappeared in a thickish haze. We were catching up with the storm that had passed over Little America the day before.
So near a perhaps important discovery, we were not easily to be turned aside. We flew on, at a slightly increased rate of speed.
We now could make out the dim outline of snow-covered land to the east and south, and presently came to a typical Antarctic mountain formation—a mountain entirely snow-covered, as round and uninteresting, at first sight, as the upper hemisphere of a billiard ball. We approached it at an altitude of 3,000 feet, and with some wonderment observed that a hollow depression, perhaps a channel, appeared to separate this peak from King Edward VII Land. Whether this channel was at sea level was, of course, impossible to determine.
Behind this peak lay a slightly uplifted, island-like formation, and between them ran a second channel. We examined this channel as carefully as we could, and though little could be judged by the naked eye, we were certain of at least one point: the ice to the north of the formation was sea ice.
Further inquiry was halted by the onrush of snow squalls. Actually, our rush of speed carried us into them; but the lack of things rapidly sliding past which we associate with motion gives the aerial traveller rather the impression of things advancing upon him. We saw long fingers of gray shadows stretch and feather along the snow; here and there a darker shadow blotted out the surface, and its restless, rapid rotations identified it as a “whirlie.” The atmosphere about us thickened, the horizon was swallowed up in a gray in-definiteness and the impression we had at the moment was like nothing so much as flying in a bowl of milk. How very easy, I thought, for a careless or intimidated pilot to fly his plane straight down into the snow. There was no point on which to pin the nose of the plane for steady, level flight. Only a milky, trembling nothingness.
Balchen, undisturbed, attended to the minor oscillations of instrument fingers and from them evoked a true flight path. He dodged between several squalls, and, finding clear sky to the north, swung out over the Ross Sea. As we turned, we saw the sun, a red disc glowing in a rising murk.
We were reluctant to leave this fascinating area, for ten minutes more of flying, I believed, would have shown whether or not King Edward VII Land was an island cut off from the land to the eastward, as the conditions seemed to imply, or even a peninsula. There was no alternative, and we were compelled to turn back. So again this area had guarded its secrets—had added us to the long list of those whom it had turned back from its frontier’s north, east and west.
We flew well over the frozen surface of Ross Sea, noticing a number of rather large ice islands. Visibility to the south seemed to be good, so I asked Balchen to steer in that direction. We set our course toward the first small peak we had seen on the way to Scott’s Nunatak.
The air turned very bumpy. One shock caused us to drop for 600 feet, and the gear in the plane was wildly tossed about when the wing met a rising column of air. It was quite like meeting a solid obstacle.
June handed me a slip of paper. It was a message from the operator at Little America. “Boiling sighted.” Receiving this encouraging news at this time, nearly a mile high above and in the midst of this unknown area was one of the most exciting incidents of the flight.
Balchen suddenly turned and beckoned to me to come forward. I looked out over the nose of the ship, through the shimmering play of the propeller. Far ahead, but perfectly distinct, was a splendid mountain peak, with the slate gray of bare rock showing. Then as we advanced a second peak, then a third, and more lifted their summit above the southern horizon until we had counted fourteen.
This was our first important discovery. I had never seen Balchen so delighted. His splendid face was one long smile.
I could not help but think, as we approached them, what an immense advantage the airplane gives the modern explorer. Prestrud’s sledges passed within a few miles of this range, yet in the restricted visibility had failed to see them.
We approached the mountains at an altitude of 4,000 feet. Here was no jammed-up, continuous range, but rather a group of highly individualistic mountains, solitary and stern, many of them with patches of gray rock showing on their northern profiles, their spurs and crags clothed in snow. They lay in the shape of a crescent, and the northernmost peak we judged to be approximately 50 miles from Scott’s Nunatak, in a west by south direction. We were impressed by the surprisingly large amount of bare rock exposed, in contrast with the Nunatak and the Alexandra Mountains. As we drew nearer, the gray overtone of the rock was modified, and some of it had an interesting brown and black coloration. I knew then that when he learned about this discovery, our geologist, Dr. Gould, would insist upon flying to these mountains to make a special investigation of their structure.
Anticipating, as I was, the making of a preliminary aerial reconnaissance of the range, I was quite disappointed when Balchen handed me a note saying that fuel was running low, and suggesting we return to the base. We could not afford to extend our journey: in flight, gasoline allows of no compromise; so we pointed the nose of the plane for Little America, and raced home.
For a long time the peaks of this range danced across my vision, gradually growing smaller while the bare rock diminished to mere pin points, and I found myself wondering what we should name it. The names of several of the men who had befriended the expedition came to my mind; and foremost among these was that of John D. Rockefeller, Jr. And it occurred to me that his true inner life is as little known as these peaks which we had just seen. His character is in keeping with that of these austere mountain masses. He stands, steady as a rock, in the chaos of life, and the great power he controls is directed wisely and unselfishly for the betterment of the world.
I could do no better than to name this range after him—Rockefeller Mountains.
To two of the peaks I decided to give the names of two of the most loyal men I have ever known. One of these is ‘’Chips" Gould, carpenter on both polar expeditions. It can be said of him that when there is anything to be done he never stops working during his waking hours. The other is George Tennant, the cook, also a veteran of both polar expeditions. I have never forgotten that he offered his meager pay, on the completion of the North Pole expedition, to help pay our deficit.
My musings were interrupted by June, with the news that the Boiling had come alongside the City and was now tied up to her. Another river crossed. And a larger task—the unloading—to face.
We drew within sight of Little America about eight o’clock, and from our lofty platform saw the two vessels, tiny and still, moored to the bay ice. I noted with pleasure that even during our short absence some of the ice had gone out.
Down below I saw a dog team making its way across the Barrier, and I recognized it as the team which I had asked Strom, Braathen and Erickson to take out in search of an easier and safer trail between the low Barrier and the base, which they were to mark with flags.
The scene, as we spiralled down, was one of wondrous beauty. An unbroken stillness, save for the hum of the propeller. The Barrier cliffs and slopes diffused the most exquisite colors, which changed and shifted as we watched. The lofty arch of sky was a clear blue, with friezes of perfectly stationary cloudlets, some rose, some mauve. A few icebergs glittered on a sea washed with gold; and in the west a range of the most beautiful mountains I have ever seen lifted purple peaks in tantalizing mirage.
A trembling, impermanent delicacy had taken full possession of this rugged immensity of ice. How still, how lovely, how perfect! One could understand, after this, why Scott, Mawson and Shackleton returned to this continent. The shock of the skis on the snow was an alien note snapping the thread on which the spell hung suspended.
Now we hustled. Nature, after begrudging us our needs so long, relented a trifle, and during the flight sped out the ice between the ships and the low Barrier until only a few feet of ice remained. Our hours of ramming with the City had not been wasted. Captain Brown brought the Boiling into action, and with the aid of her sharp steel prow and superior · horsepower she attacked the remaining ice and sheered off 150 yards of it. This gave us a fine pier on the ice foot about 50 feet from the Barrier. Directly opposite, the Barrier descended in an easy slope to the ice foot, and near its northern end the snow was firm enough, an’1 the incline sufficiently easy, to justify hauling stores up to the Barrier by means of a block and tackle which could be operated by the Boiling’s winch. To the right and left the Barrier rose steeply to heights of 60 feet or more. This place was exactly suited to our needs. We were then only five miles by trail from Little America. Unloading operations were resumed at once.
Monday
January 28th,
Bay of Whales
Things are humming once more. We have a block and tackle rigged up, and this is hauling stuff up to the Barrier at the rate of two or three sledge loads every half hour. As they arrive, the sledges are towed a safe distance back from the Barrier edge, and the loads dumped, to await the arrival of the dog teams. If we can continue at this speed, we shall have the Bolling unloaded within five days. But for the life of me, I cannot see how she can accomplish a second round trip, unless we get exceptional breaks.
I am slightly concerned as to the permanence of this ice foot to which we are anchored. I examined it very carefully, and am most certainly of the opinion it will break up soon. I was apprehensive enough to order all hands to remove to the Barrier the materials deposited on the ice foot. Among these was the heavy crate containing the two outboard engines of the Ford.
Captain Brown must have had a real battle in the ice. He says that when the Bolling bucked the pack her sides vibrated and bent as the ice closed in. It is a wonder he did not lose a couple of plates. I like the way Brown does things. He may be given to taking long chances, but I feel that he can be trusted to get through, no matter what the difficulties. At any rate, he will get through or bust—but just at this time we don’t want anything to bust, especially the Bolling.
Tuesday
January 29, 1929
It happened, after all. This morning, at 9:30 o’clock, the ice foot to which we were moored broke without warning, and some of us are lucky to be here tonight.
We were not caught unprepared, however. Last night, in the midst of unloading, a squall blew in from the northwest, forcing us to call a halt. We rode out the storm, though not without misgivings, for constantly we heard the reverberating, long-sustained echoes of the Barrier crumpling to the west and north, and the sharper, more piercing reports of splitting bay ice.
Toward morning, the wind abated and shifted to the south. The temperature fell to several degrees below freezing. The blow filled the Bay with loose, broken pieces of ice. A vast amount of destruction had been wrought somewhere, to cause this.
We resumed our unloading at once. The one change in our surroundings was the discovery of a widening crack near the Barrier’s edge, and this, while seemingly not cause for alarm, caused us to proceed with greater care and to work as fast as possible. Among other things on the ice foot were part of the structure of the main house and the center section of the Ford wing, which had just been put ashore. The Fokker had just been hauled up the slope.
A number of men were working on the ice foot. Bubier and Balchen had just started up the slope, with Goodale behind them, and June and Demas were working on the ice. Suddenly Demas noticed a crack appear in the ice literally between boots, and before he could get the words, “The ice is breaking,” out of his mouth, the crack was several feet wide.
How things flew then!
The crisis came in an awful silence. The silence was the most striking thing about it. Without so much as a groan, our dock split open near the Barrier’s edge and then the whole area rose and swayed and disintegrated before our eyes. Then Goodale fled racing down the slope, yelling at the top of his lungs.
The entire slope fell like an avalanche into the sea. It tore out part of the Barrier, and the ice foot broke into three huge pieces, riven by cracks that ran parallel to the Barrier.
That portion which was nearest us rose under terrific pressure until it seemed it must reverse itself and fall against the ships. Brown’s whistle piped shrilly, and all hands were ordered to don life belts and shift the lines holding the Boiling to the Barrier. When this strain was relieved, the ice settled back into the water, and the immediate danger passed. The center section of the Ford lay on the broken fragment, nearest the Barrier, and this floe was tilting more and more as the crack between it and the ice nearest the ship widened gradually. I have never seen men work so fast. They planked the gap between the ice blocks with the sides of airplane crates, which had been broken open, and managed to haul the center section to the ice block nearest the ship just before the first ice block tilted at an angle that must have dumped it into the sea. It was a close call.
Meanwhile another floe, on which rested cargo quite as valuable, began to tilt, ever so slowly, and the up-ended edge hid the boxes from view.
Men were rushed out to retrieve them.
The tumult gradually subsided, all the gear and the houses were saved and it is difficult to realize that our only loss was a sack of coal and a few crates.
We’re back alongside the Barrier now, slightly to the south of the old position, still unloading. The Barrier here rises as high as the Boiling’s bridge, and as we rise and fall on the slight swell, the Boiling’s superstructure occasionally chips off a small piece.
Our position is far from being a safe one, but where else can we go?
We are racing to get the fuselage of the Ford unloaded. A block and tackle has been rigged, and stuff is going ashore at a furious rate. As the supplies accumulate we are moving them about 100 yards inland from the Barrier’s edge, where the dog teams can pick them up later. We are simultaneously discharging from the Boiling to the City.
I do not care to have the Bolling remain in these dangerous waters any longer than is absolutely necessary.
The bay is simply full of broken pack and small bergs.
We continued to work the 24 hours around, using two shifts. Balchen taxied the Fokker plane to the base. We then had two planes safely at Little America. With considerable difficulty we landed one of the Ford wing tips. Wednesday, January 30th, we had two block and tackles operating, which greatly simplified our problem.
We worked feverishly for fear the Barrier might let drop another berg. I issued rigid orders to the men that every man working near the overhang where we lay should wear a life line. The fear did not leave me, even after a day and night of security.
Wednesday night, about seven o’clock, shortly after supper, I was in conference with McGuinness in my cabin. Suddenly I felt a jar, followed by a succession of terrific shocks and then a tremendous explosion. It had happened after all. The Barrier had broken. We had taken the necessary chance and lost. Was the Boiling sunk? For a moment my heart stood still and my brain raced with self-condemnation. Ships and men lost. The City heeled sharply to port—so sharply I thought she must capsize. As I flung the cabin door open I saw the Boiling heeling in the opposite direction to starboard. I was sure, for a moment, she was capsizing, for I saw her keel and she was still leaning. No words can fit the horror of that moment. At such a time the mind sees a long story in an instant.
But as I watched, the Bolling reached the peak of her heeling movement, standing almost on her beam’s end, and then swung back. At the critical moment the lines from the City maintained the balance and offset the overbalance of the masses of ice and snow on her decks.
As the Boiling rolled back to port, Captain Brown, who had been on the City, made a flying leap from the rail to his bridge. It was a very daring leap, but no more than one could expect from Brown. His own ship was his place in the crisis. Tons of snow lay on the starboard deck and gave the Boiling a heavy list.
Huge blocks of the Barrier floated in the water, which was still boiling from their impact, rivulets of ice were still streaming down the face of the cliffs, and falling, with a hissing noise, into the sea. The break, then, had come at a point where the Barrier attained a height of about twenty-five feet, and very near the point where we had landed the Ford fuselage a few hours before.
Only part of the iceberg, I noted, had fallen directly upon the Boiling’s deck. She had escaped the main stream of the avalanche by a few feet. Thousands of tons had fallen, enough to obliterate her. An iceberg had been born almost on her deck.
High up on the Barrier was a man clinging to a thread of rope, his feet dangling helplessly in empty space. I recognized him as Harrison. And in the water, clutching a small piece of floe, which was menaced by the newlyborn icebergs, was another man. It was Benny Roth who, I knew, could not swim. He had grabbed a piece of ice and was holding on to it for dear life, but it was round and slippery and he could not get a firm hold; it spun continually in his hands.
Were there any others in the water? No one knew. Both Melville and Brown had already begun to put the first boats overboard. While men on the City and Bolling set out after Roth, several men who had been working on the Barrier, notably Dr. Coman, Davies, Frank McPherson, E. J. Thawley, and Boehning set out after Harrison, who was clinging to a slippery line with bare hands. It did not seem possible that Roth could be saved. The disturbance was rapidly sweeping him sternward and I did not believe he could possibly hold on much longer. When the first boat was lowered, too many men jumped in it. Hanson, who was in the bow, made a very heroic and quick-witted move. Realizing that the boat was in danger of capsizing, he dropped overboard, in the chilling water, and begged the others to start out at once after Roth.
Roth by then was near the end of his strength. He had meanwhile grabbed a second small cake of ice, and had one under each arm. But his head would go under every now and then, as his numbed hands slipped and his heavy clothes, which had frozen hard, dragged him down. He called out that he could not hold on much longer, but he remained very calm.
De Ganahl came paddling past the City, astride a plank, which had carried down with the avalanche from the Barrier. He had seized it when it floated past the Bolling and was paddling fiercely in the direction of Roth, through the debris. When the life boat beat him to Roth, he scrambled aboard a sluggishly moving floe, sat down, carefully removed his shoes, and with arms folded about his knees, calmly watched the rescue.
Were any other men still in the water? Lofgren was assigned to call the roll and as man after man was accounted for, it was an indescribable relief. I am sure I was the happiest man in the world at that moment.
Harrison’s rescue was accomplished when Coman, with real coolness, dropped a looped rope to him, in which he could put his foot and so relieve the strain on his hands. Then Thawley, with a line tied to his ankles, which the others held, crawled out on the overhang, into which Harrison’s line had cut several feet, so that he could not be pulled up, reached down, secured a firm hold on Harrison’s wrist and lifted him, unhurt and unruffled, to the top.
The whole incident took no more than twenty minutes, but it seemed hours.
When the second party came aboard I ordered the ships to tie up to each other, and we discharged the Bolling directly into the City. It was a very fortunate thing that the unloading was nearly accomplished when the break came. I would never again tempt fate by trying to unload on the Barrier. We moored at our old berth on the bay ice.
Saturday, February 2, we finished unloading the last of the Boiling’s 440 tons of supplies into the City, while the City discharged more slowly on the bay ice. The same day, the Boiling put out for New Zealand, with the U. S. Mail Flag flying from her mast, carrying the first mail from an American colony in Antarctica. She went with our most sincere, but none too confident, hopes of seeing her again, with the last of our supplies, before the end of the month.
Bitter days followed.
With twenty-seven dogs hauling, we managed to move the Ford fuselage to Little America. Seven more dogs carried in the radio transmitter, which weighed about 1,000 pounds. And another group, using two teams hitched to a sledge, transported the second wing tip. We had the polar plane at the base at last.
Sunday, February 3, a severe wind from the north and a heavy swell which set the immense ice cakes dashing and grating, forced us out to sea. Beset by encroaching ice, it was necessary to force our way astern, a very risky maneuver, as it exposed the propeller to contact with ice. The whole ice-littered surface near the edge of the bay ice was then in the throes of tempestuous motion, and the friction of many pieces of ice made an ominous noise. Time and time again, large cakes of ice, lifted by the swell, smashed down upon the propeller, and the wheel spun with such force that three men could not hold it still. We finally broke into clear water, and spent the night cruising at sea, with the engines at full speed to prevent us from being hurled back by the gale on to the Barrier. Many times I wished for greater power and speed.
Next day we berthed again on the bay ice, and resumed unloading.
Wednesday
February 6
Bay of Whales
Two large fields of ice, at least ten feet thick, drifted down upon us last night. I was up most of the night, on guard lest they threaten to catch our rudder and smash it. The rudder has taken a terrific pounding. It is a good thing that we had the foresight to put in a massive rudder before we left the United States, but for all its great strength I am not eager to expose it more than necessary. This morning, a small berg drove toward us, and we had to abandon our berth. The wind was so strong it took us three hours to come alongside the bay ice again.
This is indeed a place of chastisement. And of change.
A visit to the base was encouraging, but I am afraid that I did not make myself popular. Work had progressed amazingly well under Gould’s direction, and my sole objection was that the foundation for the Administration Building had been dug quite near the edge of the Barrier and smack against the mess hall, which is already up, and is only 100 yards from the rim. I have no desire to place any building nearer than that. The houses must be separated because of the fire hazard.
It may very well be that this is undue caution, yet I did not feel like surrendering my convictions. Consequently, it will be necessary for the men to dig a new foundation 200 yards inland. Not a very pleasant job.
The performance of the snowmobile is gratifying. Arnold Clark is doing a good job with it. It is nothing more than a Ford chassis, fitted with skis in front and double caterpillar treads behind. It has attained a speed as high as 25 miles per hour on the smooth Barrier surface, and, in hauling loads from the Barrier cache to the base, has equalled the work of five or six dog teams. I wish we had another.
We shall have a very snug camp this winter. Gould and McKinley have made the most of the material.
Thursday, after supper, the menacing movements of a large iceberg, that was propelled by a strong wind, expelled us hastily from our berth, and we passed the night drifting about the Bay. We returned, early the next morning, to renew the discharging of cargo, but the wind stiffened nearly to gale force and we had to desist, although we remained anchored to the bay ice until late in the evening. By that time our situation had become so precarious, we had to depart quickly, losing two ice anchors.
The weather turned very thick, and the wind being from the east, we hugged the eastern cliffs of the Barrier, in search of lee. We were unpleasantly close, and could hear the seas crashing against the cliffs.
The wind blew with increasing force, and it required the full horsepower of the City to keep her head into it. Four or five times we were thrown into a mass of drift ice which had piled up against other masses of bay ice; and the pounding to which the wooden sides of the vessel was subjected seemed more than any ship could endure. As we struggled to get clear, the consolidated masses rose and fell with the waves, grinding against the City and testing her sides severely. We finally fought our way to the mouth of the Bay. Visibility was reduced to about twenty yards, and for a moment we were uncertain as to our position. We made a slow and cautious easting, until we saw the Barrier cliffs dimly through the driving snow; and by means of these occasional glimpses and the smashing of the waves, Melville and Strom guided the ship during the night.
Saturday
February 9
Bay of Whales
Sea quieting today.
We are cruising alongside the bay ice, seeking smooth water for landing. Time is precious.
A short time ago a vast explosion came from the Barrier—? like the sound of big guns firing. More of the Barrier hai apparently disintegrated.
City jogging along under jib, staysails and spanker.
Last night was a tough night for amateur sailors. It was bitterly cold. The crash of ice against the vessel—the rumbling of disintegrating Barrier and the soupy mixture of fog and snow were a disconcerting experience.
Several times we nearly collided with Barrier cliffs, but we came about smartly, with rattling stays and flapping canvas.
What makes waiting hard is that we could complete the unloading if given forty-eight hours of good weather.
Sunday
February 10
Bay of Whales
Managed to tie up to the bay ice today after spending another night at sea in storm. The dog teams started out with loads after supper. The weather is very thick, snow soft, and the pulling very difficult. The dogs were up to their bellies in snow.
Gould, in a radio from the base, reported the weather quite bad there and urged the departure of the teams be postponed. But we cannot afford to continue to postpone unloading, even if the weather is not all that we might wish for.
Monday
February 11
Bay of Whales
More dirty weather. Soon after the dog teams put out, the sea roughened and drove heavy fragments of bergs against the ship. We had to put out to sea again. Drove into the bay ice again this morning, and radioed Gould to send out the dog teams. He reported conditions were bad at the base.
At 9:30 P.M. the sea is calming, and arrival of the dog teams is promised in the morning.
Such delays are distressing.
Tuesday,
February 12
Bay of Whales
The teams arrived, as promised, but a shift of the wind to the north, which repeatedly jarred the City against the ice, forced us to dump our load on the bay ice and make for the open sea. In turning at full speed, the stern sheets came within a few feet of the ice—quite the closest shave we have yet had.
The continuous, strong northeasterly winds have so choked the mouth of the bay with pack that no safety can be found there. As any increase in wind would have driven this mass straight down on us, we dodged our way through it and stood for the Ross Sea.
All day long we have been under steam and sail, dodging ice and trying to prevent the wind from blowing us far to leeward. As it is, our strongest efforts seem pitiful: we have drifted at least eight miles and more likely ten, through a narrow lane of water between two packs.
There seem to be no signs of let-up in this storm. The barometer is rising slightly, but that does not necessarily mean anything down here.
Wednesday
February 13
At Sea
The storm seems to be over at last. The sun shone this morning, the wind has shifted to the southeast, and though the sky is overcast a line of blue can be seen in the southern horizon.
We punched a hole through the pack defending the entrance to the bay, and made for our old berth. It was so cluttered up with bergs and drift that we could not tie up.
Piles of this stuff were rafted tightly against the bay ice from the east to the west walls of the Barrier.
It was then decided to attempt to make a trip to King Edward VII Land.
We are now in an extensive field of loose, but heavy, floes, and about 20 miles northeast of the Bay of Whales. Under sail and steam combined, we are making about 5 knots—a merry gait for the old City.
First signs of winter darkness tonight—a faint darkening in the southern sky.
The sea is full of bergs, of various sizes. One mighty fellow was at least a mile long, and 40 feet high.
Thursday
February 14
Bay of Whales
This eastern sortie came to a quick end about five o’clock this morning. An impenetrable pack was sighted dead ahead, stretching from the Barrier to the north as far as we could pee.
I gave orders to steam northward, in search of a passage, but the solid front of the pack remained unbroken. At six o’clock, no way through having been found, it was decided to return. There was little to gain by continuing, and much to lose if we became trapped in the ice.
We took soundings on the way back.
Returning to the Bay, we found a fairly good berth slightly to the west of the old one. A radio summons brought out the teams, and a heavy load was sent to the base.
Our own difficulties in the Bay of Whales were not the only ones that troubled the expedition. On the way back, the Bolling ran into frightful weather. A radio from Captain Brown on the 11th disclosed she was running before a wind of Force 8—a wind of hurricane force, and listing 56°. The chart house, he reported, was awash at times, and there were moments when he thought the ship would capsize, as she carried very little ballast. But she defeated the gale, and on the 15th reached Dunedin, having taken four days to make the last 150 miles.
On the same day, the Fokker completed three successful trials. Our unloading was nearly done, and the situation was sufficiently promising to cause me to attempt a second flight to the east, in an effort to reach the land from which we were turned back twice by sea and once by air. Accordingly I gave orders that the two planes, the Fokker and the Fairchild, be checked and made ready for a seven-hour flight.
Sunday, the 17th, I went into Little America by dog team. The sun was swinging low in the west, and the whole sky was a pool of gold. In a rainbow arc there trembled a number of mock suns. The richness of the radiance fell in a golden torrent on the Barrier, rendering a scene of ineffable beauty. A gorgeous setting for a flight of discovery. However, before we reached the base, the sky turned misty and the air became full of snow crystals. On Haines’ advice, the take-off was postponed.
Footnotes
1 This bay was named Hal Flood Bay.
1 “The South Pole,” ii, “The Eastern Sledge Journey,” 247.