NORTH POLE 3

3 Bindings, Bondings and Buckets of Bravado

Posted by Satellite Phone, April 10

After a succession of tequila shots downed in the unmemorable bar of an insipid airport hotel, the conversation turned sharply from the ongoing prediction, anticipation and negotiation of tent-sharing logistics to the frustration on the part of the Alphas that we will not be sufficiently challenged by our walk to the Pole. This restlessness inflicting the four-strong A-team had been brewing for a number of days before leaving the UK.  Should we do more? Could we fly further away in order to give us a more testing adventure? Could we reach the North Pole in record time, take a photo, eschew the helicopter and sprint back?  Should we, infact, head for the other Pole? The tone of the conversation became more hushed as the sense of conspiracy escalated. By drinking with them, Sara and  I were automatically complicit: honorary recruitees to the potential coup. But while the whispered debate rumbled in the background, my mind wandered back over our day’s travel.  We’d managed to lose Our Esteemed Leader twice during a relatively easy journey, a journey unfettered by weather or any other unforeseen obstacles.  On one occasion he had to be fetched from the wrong baggage carousel long after we’d identified, counted, stacked and loaded up the luggage.  Once located he appeared to be blissfully unaware that he was missing anything or anyone and the fact that he’d demonstrated a zen like state of calm in the absence of 8 novice polar-explorers and 19 large pieces of luggage led me to wonder whether finding the Pole might yet prove to be adequately challenging after all. Meanwhile, with the arrival of more tequila the bravado increased proportionately.

Once at Longyearbyen we were greeted with the news that the runway integral to the success of our trip had not yet been built.  We were immediately warned of a delay, with perhaps 4 nights to kill in this stark but strangely beautiful mining town, nestled incongruously in the lap of a group of majestic ice sculptured peaks.  A delay could have been deeply dispiriting, but instead it presented the Alphas an opportunity to consider cutting the flight out of the equation altogether and instead swimming or waterskiing the 914 miles that still remained between us and our goal.  

Fortunately Our Esteemed  Leader was stern in his rebuff and impatient with their impetuousness. He was quite confident  we’d happily occupy the additional time with essential preparation and a bit more training.  There were skis to fit, bindings to master, tents to erect, disassemble and pack, pulks to load and an unfeasible amount of peanuts and cup-a-soup to distribute between us.

LYB is an atmospheric outpost, a heady mix of giddy, ice hungry explorers-to-be, the occasional lost soul and a smattering of experienced and possibly jaded guides, there to usher the polar hopefuls through the process as painlessly as possible.

The North Pole guides’ world must be a strange one.  One in which conventional measures of time fail to serve any useful purpose. The  polar explorer season lasts a maximum of six weeks, the runway that is being created now in preparation for our imminent arrival is just the beginning.  There’s a camp at Barneo with lodgings, provisions, staff and bulldozers and all of it, runway included, will be gone by 21st April. Time too gets twisted and distorted by the endless daylight, narrowing time zones and, ultimately, time freefalls as you teach 90′ north.  At this  point you can coexist in all time zones at once, or choose to abandon them entirely.

It’s amazing that regardless of your longitude, time flies when you’re preparing for an arctic adventure and it’s surprising how quickly you can redefine your parameters for fun.  A walk in the snow is the highlight, but shopping for powdered milk and tent brushes is a close run second.  

The Alphas’ consistent boys-own adventure mode is punctuated occasionally by surprising acts of sensitivity and generosity and their kindness was rewarded with a glimpse of paradise, a visit to Santa’s grotto itself.  This manifested in the shape of a warehouse racked and packed with everything they could dream of.  Pulks and skidoos nestled next to single pump action rifles and cases of oban single malt.  Skis and poles, boots and rope, spare parts and tool kits, sharp and dangerous objects.  Parked outside, of particular excitement to Gaffa Dave, was a  ”six serviced rubber duck with a swivel bucket, piped for a pecker.” I wasn’t quite sure what he was pointing at, or whether the Russian needed to fire a warning shot.

For a beautiful hour or so, in a dark warehouse illuminated by the glow of usefulness and purpose, the group worked side by side, sharing gaffa  tape, passing Stanley knives, cutting and measuring and praising each other’s handiwork with  heartfelt admiration. A harmonious moment of almost meditative quality, it was just one of several small nudges forward in the direction of comradeship.  

Now, as we finally get news that a 1km runway has been completed and is ready to receive us I dwell on the wait so nearly behind us.  As frustrating as it has been, perhaps the greatest benefit to me has been recognising the qualities that are beginning to reveal themselves in each of the team members.  Hidden depths are shining through. For instance, there’s a lot more to Techno-Doug than meets the eye.  The fact that he can identify the perfect location to mortally wound any animal is not a surprise (we all feel safer in the knowledge that he’s researched the physiology of the polar bear, is confidently familiar with its weakest spot but carries an aerosol can of bear repellent just in case.) But he is also a fountain of knowledge on a variety of fascinating topics… Where else could we have learned that the specific gravity of cheese can seriously undermine the efficiency of robotic cutting equipment?
 Meanwhile, The General remains single-minded, pragmatic and uninfluenced  by the drinking, the games or the drinking games. He is an observer and as such, will be closely observed. Rob’n'Roly are hilarious, frighteningly confident and will almost certainly trip over their own testosterone at some point soon. The Russian With The Gun appears from nowhere when you’re least expecting him. He is reassuringly armed and swarthy. And Deb?  She would rather remain anonymous.  And so, for the time being, she shall.