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December 2001 Other Articles
An Antarctic Experience - Richard Manning
M'Our Bruin left Vigo on 12 November 1999. She is an 1987-built
Oyster 43 ketch, and had a through refit before departure. A five
week passage with calls in the Canaries and Cape Verde islands had
her in Rio by 16 December, where 1 and a change of crew joined for
Christmas and the Millennium Celebrations. We found Rio to be a fine
city, and the people wonderfully friendly. The street food markets
were on a par with Harrods for quality and cleanliness, so by the
time of our departure south on 6 January we were well laden with
food, drink and fuel.
Nine days of mixed weather, on a course 200 miles offshore, took us
to Mar Del Plata. Evan at 0030 they were hugely welcoming and served
us dinner in the club, Then a very friendly barbecue at the home of
the Commodore of the Yacht Club de Argentina had us staggering back
to sea after four days, fully laden once more.
Four days to Caleta Valdes: deserted, barren, and forbidden to go
ashore by wild life people. Not recommended if you draw 7ft - we went
aground, and were happy to leave after two days. From there
south-southwest for Caleta Hornas: head for the cliff covered in
graffiti, when 40m off turn 90° to starboard, and there you are. A
superb pool opens up, remote, desolate, and wonderful. We enjoyed
great walking looking for desert animals and birds - how do they
survive? - and ancient relics such as arrowheads and bone saws. We
dug huge clams from the sandy beach, washed them for three days, and
had a feast, Then five days to Staten Island, where we bore away west
to the first anchorage, Puerto Espania. This was our first use of the
brilliant Chile cruising manual*.
Over the next: three and a half weeks we went to Ushuaia and then
Puerto Williams to obtain our zarpés (friendly patience is the order
of the day), for first a cruise to Cape Horn and then the west Beagle
Channel. M'Our Bruin was then laid up afloat, at the Yacht Club de
Mecalvi at Puerto Williams, in March 2000. By the time we left, the
crew were determined to return and complete the cruise to the
Antarctic.
When we returned to M'Our Bruin on 30 December we found her in
excellent condition, having been cared for by the Chilean naval
boatswain responsible for the Yacht Club de Mecalvi. Seven days were
spent servicing, checking, stocking, and equipping her.
On Monday 8 January we left for Puerto Eugenia, only 15 miles away
but giving us a chance to check our systems at sea. All worked well,
so on Tuesday at 0600 we departed, sailing south. We were all a
little quiet - not nervous exactly, just contemplative of what the
next few days had in store. From our experience the previous year we
had learned a vast amount about sailing in the area. Winds varying
between 0 and 50 knots in 15 minutes keep you alert. Anchoring and
mooring lines must be placed so you sleep soundly at night (and
always anchor facing where the waves can get at you, as 'slap ...
slap' under the stern leads to a disturbed night).
Five days later, having passed Smith Island in the mist and seen it
only on radar, we crossed the Drake Passage in a mixture of light
winds, two good reaches and one strong blow. We tiptoed into the
crater of the Melchoir Islands, turned left into Anderson Harbour,
pushed our way past an iceberg blocking the entrance to a 20m wide
canal, and edged forward under 100ft ice cliffs to find a notch where
we moored with bow and stern lines to rocks, After a few hours sleep,
Sunday afternoon saw the young end of the crew ashore, tobogganing
down a snow slope and building a 10ft snowman, watched by the old end
from the cockpit with 'tinnies' in their hands. A seal climbed onto
an ice floe, grinned at us and flapped her tail. We had arrived in
Antarctica!
The following morning we departed to face the spectacular view of
Brabant Island, and to be met by a school of killer whales diving and
twisting alongside us. An hour later we were beating against 35 knots
of wind against tide to get into the Gerlache Strait. Once there we
bore away for a wonderful sail southwest into the Neumayer Channel,
passing huge tabular icebergs, rock mountains and glaciers falling
into the sea. We became aware that there was no seaweed and no green
on the land - just shades of black and white. So to Lockroy Harbour,
where we again tiptoed into an anchorage at Alice Creek. With an
anchor and three lines ashore we relaxed. We sniffed the odour of the
rookeries of Gentoo penguins, listened to their chatter, and said 'Hi
chaps, we'll see you in the morning'.
Next morning all five crew were ashore with cameras. Wandering
through the rookeries we admired the 10-inch high fluffy grey chicks,
and watched the antics of the adults swimming, diving and walking
around. A warning:
when they defecate I swear they turn away from you and jet it 3 feet!
You have to move quickly or you've got it for at least a week. There
were also blue-eyed shags nesting and with chicks. A seal flopped
onto the beach to be photographed.
We then rowed across to the Bransfield Station to meet the British
Antarctic Heritage Trust crew. We joined them for a beer, and then
returned in the evening for dinner. Their work involved the study of
wild life. They had no water, having to melt ice, and no boat to get
off the island. However during the three months that they manned the
station they would collect around £300,000 for T-shirts, cards,
stamps and so on from the passengers of cruise ships. When signing
their visitor's book we learned that we were the first private
cruising boat to visit in eighteen months.
A day passed. We rose the next morning to clear blue skies and the
most spectacular view of the whole cruise. There had been a huge snow
and ice fall from the snow cliffs across the harbour, and all the
water was covered in a brash of snow and ice We motored slowly out
through this. What an amazing scene! We were aiming for the Ukrainian
station at Three Little Pigs (where we understood they brewed their
own vodka), but it was not to be. The north-easterly of the previous
few days had blocked the Lemaire Channel with icebergs, floes and
snow brash making it impassable - certainly for a GRP hull - and the
areas outside the islands were marked 'Uncharted'. At 65°O5'S we
regretfully made the decision to turn back, and headed for Paradise
Bay.
A northwesterly filled in to give us a wonderful sail past towering
mountains, glaciers and icebergs - one we reckoned at 200m long.
Evening saw us anchored, plus three lines ashore, in a cove next to
the Chilean radio station. We went ashore and were given coffee - our
bottle of whisky helped to warm the relationship. Next day the sun
shone and, stripped to the waist, we strolled around the shore of
mainland Antarctica, admiring the chirtstrap penguins and their
efforts to protect their chicks from the ever present skuas.
A few days earlier the reducing valve on our gas bottles had
exploded, leaving us with no means of cooking hot food. The Chileans
came to our rescue and cooked all our pasta, rice, potatoes and the
two legs of lamb that had been hanging in the rigging. This we lived
on, plus tins, for the next eleven days. It's amazing how well we
survived. Gin and tonic, and white wine, were of course excellent
chilled. Red wine was warmed in front of the central heater vent for
30 minutes. We ate muesli with longlife milk for breakfast, though
porridge soaked overnight becomes quite edible by the next day. Rolls
bought in Port Stanley survived for three weeks until we reached the
Falklands. Lunch was generally salad, and for dinner we ate tins plus
pasta etc. As a crew we did not have sugar in drinks, but we cadged
some sugar sachets from the Bransfield Station, which they in turn
had 'borrowed' from the cruise ships.
At 1500 we left for Enterprise Bay, a zig-zag motor past ice and
bergs, through Danco Bay into the Gerlache Strait. Minke whales dived
and waved their tails at us. We arrived in the half-light at 0100,
when there is no shadow and it is very difficult to assess distance.
We moored to a wreck with a line ashore in a small cove under
towering 200ft snow cliffs, but not before one heart stopping hump
aground when reversing.
Next morning, after photographing the old whaling station, we left
for Deception Island. The weather was changing and deteriorating - no
wind, but visibility down to about 100m, and the radar came in useful
for iceberg spotting. More whales were about. Twenty-five hours later
we entered the crater through Neptune's Bellows, motored past the hot
springs to a cove at the top end and anchored with three lines.
Visibility did not improve but the wind got up to 35 knots from the
southeast. After 36 hours we decided to leave, having seen nothing of
the island, which was a shame as it must be delightful in good
weather. Before we reached Snow Island the wind went northwest, so we
struggled into the Drake Passage. A little earlier, while making 7
knots under retied headsail, the lookout shouted, "Iceberg!". I spun
the wheel to port and saw the sunken mass slip by a metre away from
us. In the evening the skies cleared, giving us a most memorable view
of Smith Island 25 miles away. The 7000ft peak, with its snow-covered
flat top and volcanic crater appeared above the clouds, reaching to
the sky.
Seven days later, and after three storms with winds in excess of 45
knots - plus a visit from a humpback whale who surfaced alongside
like a Trident submarine - we dropped anchor at Port Stanley in the
Falkland Islands. The crew at Port Lockroy were glad to hear of our
safe arrival, as they had learned of the extreme conditions in the
Drake Passage from the cruise liners, and there had been a distress
call 100 miles away from south of Cape Horn.
Our stay in the Falklands and onward journey to Mar del Plata is
another story. The yacht performed magnificently at all times and
never had us worried. Our congratulations to both Oyster and the
designer, Kim Holman. In the 22 days of our adventure we saw five
species of penguin, three types of whale, innumerable different
birds, five cruise ships and just one other yacht.
* CHILE : Arica Desert to Tierra del Fuego, by lan & Maggie
Staples and Tony & Coryn Gooch, edited by Oz Robinson. Reviewed in
Flying Fish 1999/1.
Midnight Sun Mountains - Jim Gregson
Romping round the Rignys Bjerg
We - Sandy and myself - anticipated having another good time in the
Arctic. I had been invited to co-lead an expedition to a part of
Greenland I hadn't been to before; there were no maps but the aerial
photographs held a lot of promise.
We were teamed up with Rob, a fiercely national Scot, Dave who builds
nuclear submarines, Graham who was an expert on shrimp biology but
works for accountancy consultants, and Norman who runs an outdoor
training company and is one of the most amusing characters I've met.
The early part of the trip was a little inauspicious. Firstly we flew
to Iceland twice in the same day. The initial arrival coincided with
fog in the middle of the night, leading to flying in circles and
making two aborted landing attempts before a diversion - all the way
to Glasgow! The next try a few hours later led to a bumpy but
successful touchdown. A day later we transferred to Isafjordur to
wait for our ski-plane. A phone call. There was a 'technical
problem'. Could we stay in Iceland another night? Gloom. Twenty
minutes later, another phone call. 'Get over to the airport'. A
second aeroplane materialised, carrying all of our pre-freighted kit,
two crew, a mechanic, a huge jack and a complete aeroplane wheel.
This enigma took off to fly over to Greenland - but to Constable
Point, a very isolated airstrip nowhere near where we were supposed
to be going. As we landed and screeched to a very abrupt stop, the
'technical problem' was obvious - fifty metres further up the runway
stood the ski-plane, canted over to the left with a mangled wheel and
blown-out tyre. This had happened when it had landed to refuel
earlier in the day so it hadn't been able to come to collect us.
The mechanic began to earn his overtime pay. Everyone else who worked
at the airstrip gathered to watch. We waited. Encouragingly, after
only a couple of hours we were asked to board the ski-plane and we
were off in the evening sunshine. Over the brown tundra of Jameson
Land, over the dappled sea-ice of Scoresby Sound, over the gigantic
glaciers of the Blosseville Coast, and then over more and more
spectacular mountains until after an hour we flashed down onto the
massive Broadway Glacier not long before midnight.
In half an hour the plane had gone and it was quiet as we put up
three tents and made some tea. The sun shone on us from the north - a
sign that we would never get benighted while we were here. Our first
night out, sixteen hours later, was taken up with a ski-tour to spy
out the land and size up any mountains we'd be brave enough to
tackle. We went up a steep bay next to a big rocky pyramid of rubble,
nice to look at from a distance but terrifying close-up. Norman took
off his non-wax skis as they were slipping - the rest of us were
gripping, using skins.
Just before a col, we had to cross a couple of crevasses. The
snowbridges weren't too good. 'Watch this lot, Norman' I warned
before crossing over and skiing up behind some rocks. Four of us were
there, Norman and Graham followed a bit behind. Suddenly there was a
lot of very urgent yelling. We rushed out from the rocks. All that
could be seen of Norman was his head and arms, with Graham rather
white-faced a bit further back. With great haste we unfurled the rope
we'd brought and hauled Norman to safety, then belayed Graham past
the hole. Norman was a bit quiet for a while - fortunately his
reflexes had been quick. As he'd punched through he had the adrenalin
rush to dive forwards for the upper lip of the crevasse and jam his
ski poles iii, while his legs and body swung clear into the abyss.
His frantic yelling was thus understandable. The rest of the ski-tour
was a calmer experience.
Our first attempt to climb brought home to us the power of the all
day and all night sunshine. We chose a nice-looking, south-facing
ice-face and set off up it late one evening, but even though it was
in the shade we found ourselves knee-deep in breaking crust. At
two-thirds height we gathered on a safe rock outcrop where we decided
to go down rather than risk ourselves further, and also to avoid
south faces on other mountains.
We skied some more, eyed up some really nice peaks and tried to get
used to sleeping in hot sunshine. Norman set to work to build an
igloo - he'd already built the latrine complete with battlements on
its retaining wall. You could have slept in the igloo - but only if
you were willing to stand up in your sleeping bag for eight hours, as
the thing was more of a sugar-loaf shape than a dome! Nevertheless
you could step inside it to be cool for a while.
After that we began to climb some good stuff. The three summits on
the South Side Traverse, linked together by lovely aretes; the
north-east face and ridge of Majordomo Peak, steep ice and a
never-certain until the end descent north-west through seracs and
crevasses; the south face arid ridge of Jack Tar Peak, breaking our
own rule but finding flowers growing on the rocks; the long and
interesting Starboard Ridge on the right edge of Anchorman Peak's
east face to the big, unstable pinnacles forming the summit. Then we
were a bit tired as the hot daytime sun prevented us from getting
quite enough sleep. A cloudy afternoon turned worse and then it
snowed and blew a cold north wind. We were actually glad to get a
rest and work out which day it was. Twenty-four hour daylight can be
confusing - earlier, on getting back to camp from one of the
mountains, Norman announced it was his birthday, so we made inroads
into the malt whisky supply (disdaining the 'cooking whisky' which
Dave, last of the big spenders, had bought at Glasgow airport during
our enforced detour). After a few drams Norman then announced that on
reflection he thought his birthday had actually been the day before
and he'd forgotten it, so we had to have a few more drams to
commiserate with him about this oversight.
All during this time of jollification the weather was poor, we
thought, until Rob had to go out to the 'battlements' for a leek. He
came back to tell us the sun was shining and so it was. Less than an
hour later we skied away from camp to explore another glacier further
east, where we were overflown by a fluorescent white Ivory Gull which
circled twice over us, couldn't decide which of the six people to try
to crap on, then flew away.
As we skied back to camp the beautiful light of the early hours
highlighted what we had decided was the best-looking mountain in the
area and now we were ready to try it. Next night we skied over to the
foot of our chosen route, the long and attractive north arête. Roping
up as usual in two threes we set off. At the front I sought a line
slanting up an ice slope to get alongside the rock towers and
buttresses of the lower section. This meant going through an area
with some crevesses, firstly announced by the sound of water flowing
into deep holes, then by weak snowbridges which shed lots of tinkling
ice when probed with an axe. A foot went through - time for caution.
A solid anchor of ice screws was set up. The crevesses had to be
literally crawled over, with knees punching holes here and there.
Eventually all six of us were safely across then up a ropelength of
ice to a 'moat' by the rocks. Now for the long arête itself.
Norman was keen to lead and I was keen to photograph, so I handed him
the much-derided bunch of wired nuts which had been up everything so
far but not used, and waved him on in front. The next few hours were
delightful, progressing upwards with gentle night sun warming our
backs, turning rock towers and steps on steep ice as we went. As I
followed there were all these wired nut runners to retrieve, causing
me to smile. The upper ice arêtes were terrific, more and more
exposed, Norman picking a line sometimes on the right, sometimes on
the left, and sometimes delicately duck-footing right up the narrow
crest. I balanced carefully to get my shots. At the top the arête ran
into a long convex slope of very hard ice where we front-pointed from
ice screw to ice screw to finally get all six of us onto the small
summit cone. Superb - the first ascent of Harpoon Ridge on Narwhal
Tooth Peak - like an Arctic version of the Biancograt.
To top off the night we opted to traverse the mountain, so changing
rope positions we went down the very interesting west ridge, also
steep and exposed. At its foot we had to cross a rocky gap to get
back onto the glacier where we had parked our skis, but our journey
back to camp was a happy one. The whisky took another celebratory
bashing.
Later we climbed the zig-zagging Zorro Route on Farawa' Peak, and for
a finale made a very long ski-tour up to the high Col Beyond to look
out over the Inland Ice, the main ice-cap. A wind-chill of minus 25°C
meant we didn't stay long before a rapid ski descent. A relaxing
couple of days rest followed, packing up our gear while waiting for
the ski plane, shifting a bit more whisky. We were due to go out on a
Monday morning. Snow fell on the Saturday night, which was the
coldest one of the whole trip at our campsite. Sunday started cloudy
but as the sun finally reappeared I passed the hours in sculpting a
life-size polar bear from the snow. This magnificent specimen was
much photographed, not without I may say, suffering some indignities
of which the RSPCA would not approve. Nevertheless it provided some
humour to help the time go by. In the afternoon the sky clouded up
and a little doubt insinuated itself into my mind. The evening turned
quite cool and by nine o'clock I retreated into my sleeping bag to
keep warm.
After only fifteen minutes my dozing was interrupted by distinctive
engine noise. Instantly I knew - a Twin Otter. Looking out of the
tent in disbelief I watched the plane circle then drop in to land.
Rush, rush! Where are my pants? By the time I'd dressed the wingtips
were almost over the tent and it was a mad scurry to pack away the
rest of the kit. 'The weather is due to worsen' the pilot told me 'so
let's go now'. Up into the air, Akureyri bound. The duty-free shop
was opened specially for us, and just after mid-night we were downing
cold beers. Later, in Reykjavik, we downed a few more, even at £5.50
a pint, but nice ones, particularly when pulled in the African theme
decor of the Cafe Svart by the girl with no navel. Another enigma.
June/July 2001. Jim and Sandy Gregson were in the Rignys Bjerg area
of NE Greenland, extending their list of first ascents to almost
fifty. Since then they have been on a hut-to-hut tour through
Austria's Zillertal Alps where there was a lot of new snow to make
things more interesting.
December Newsletter Index.
Copyright © 2001 Karabiner Mountaineering Club
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