Peary to the Pole by Walter Lord

Author:Walter Lord [Lord, Walter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: History, Expeditions & Discoveries, Polar Regions, Biography & Autobiography, Adventurers & Explorers
ISBN: 9781453238455
Google: ST1w4EoA3NUC
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2012-03-06T16:00:35+00:00

VI

Out Over the Sea Ice

COMMANDER PEARY STARED INTO the haze in startled disbelief. They had been pushing north for only a few hours, yet here was one of the Eskimos already heading back. It was Kyutah from Marvin’s group—he had smashed his sledge and was returning to Cape Columbia for a spare. Peary simply told him to hurry—catch up as soon as he could.

Within an hour another Eskimo, Kudlooktoo, also appeared, heading south. He too had wrecked his sledge and wanted another. It was too much. Peary chewed him out unmercifully. When it came to interfering with his life’s dream, the commander was no longer the Eskimo’s kindly guardian. He was a hard, tough master, capable of brutal words and decisions. The tirade over, Kudlooktoo continued on back, sullen and abashed.

Peary pressed on. He had now left the fringe of glacial ice bordering the shore, was starting across the frozen Arctic Ocean itself. The first few miles proved a nightmare. The moving sea ice, pressing against the immovable shore ice, piled up a huge mass of tumbling blocks and pressure ridges. A few miles of this and it was easy to see why the Eskimos ahead had found so much trouble.

The men painfully chipped at the ice spurs that barred every path. They skidded over occasional stretches as slippery as a ballroom floor. They wrestled the sledges through impossible crevices, up impossible hummocks, over impossible ridges. As the drivers heaved and tugged and sweated away, all too often the dogs simply sat wagging their tails, enjoying the sight of men working so hard.

Finally they emerged onto the relatively smooth ice of the old floes. The Arctic still had plenty of perils to offer, but at least this zone of crazy, tumbling ice was past. Gratefully, the men reached Bartlett’s first camp ten miles out and collapsed in relief for the night.

Peary was just settling down when one of Henson’s Eskimos burst into the igloo. Eyes bulging with fright, he jabbered that evil spirits were in camp—the stove wouldn’t work. The last part, at least, was true. At 50° below it was so cold the alcohol wouldn’t vaporize enough for a match to light it directly. Peary solved the problem by first dropping a strip of burning paper into the alcohol.

At 6:30 next morning they were on their way again. It was easier going now but still none too smooth—MacMillan upset his sledge three times. About 4 P.M. they sighted a low, gray cloud directly ahead, and Peary’s heart sank. A cloud like that always meant open water.

Sure enough, within minutes they ran into their first lead—an ugly black ribbon of water that cut squarely across the trail. It had formed some time since Bartlett and Borup passed the day before, but already it was four hundred yards wide. There was nothing to do but camp for the night, hoping that the ice would soon freeze over or the bitter wind would drive it together again. Putting the delay to good use, MacMillan dropped a line through a hole to see how deep the water was.

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