THE MEN WHO WERE CALLED TO RECOVER THE DEAD ON Mount Erebus that terrible summer came from all walks of life. Among them were seasoned mountaineers and land surveyors. There were experienced police officers accompanying younger, less experienced colleagues. There were helicopter crew and communications experts. There were crash-site coordinators and civil aviation investigators, dedicated support staff, expert photographers, trustworthy engineers and untrustworthy company representatives.
But, no matter their role, they all shared one thing in common: none escaped the darkness of Chaos.
The investigators were tasked with answering one simple question. How could a DC-10 have crashed into the side of a mountain in broad daylight, killing everyone on board? The crash site wasn’t treated as a crime scene—but that wasn’t unusual for the time. No one believed a crime had been committed. Even so, evidence went missing and blame was hurled like fiery volcanic rock. Just as the debris had stained the crisp mountainside, the gradual unravelling of the facts surrounding the disaster marred the reputation of our national airline for a long time to come.
Aside from the mountaineers, the recovery teams and support staff had little to no experience in mountain rescue. They were completely unfamiliar with and unprepared for the conditions that Antarctica would hurl at them. The biting cold, the Antarctic gales, the cawing skua, the aching and bone-deep tiredness. The fear that came with being trapped in a polar tent on the side of a volcano in –40°C winds, surrounded by flying metal debris and the bodies of our loved ones.
What’s more, the world had never before seen a crash site this remote or of this scale. Against unforgiving odds, these men had one very important job to do: find our kinfolk and bring them home.
It’s no bloody wonder they were haunted by the scenes they saw and the political and legal aftermath of the disaster for years to come.
I have read about the recovery team’s exploits in various places, and watched a raft of documentaries and interviews over the years. Like the trinkets and memories of my childhood, these things have been stored away, filed under E for Erebus, waiting for this moment. I rifle through my collection, trying to ascertain the starting place, the landmark that signposts the direction I need to take, the people I need to speak to and the questions I need to ask.
I have seen the flight path of Flight TE901. I have traced my grandfather’s last grand adventure from here to there, and back again: New Plymouth to Auckland to Antarctica … back to Auckland and finally to New Plymouth.
New Plymouth. The green pastures, the rolling ocean and one grand mountain. My mother’s birthplace, one half of my family tree, and the focal point of every summer holiday. Frank’s final resting place.
The shining peak of Taranaki calls to me.
It is the only landmark within my reach, the only place where I can access all that anchors me to this story.
Over here …