NORTH POLE 4

4 That, is the most ridiculous question I’ve ever been asked.

Posted by Satellite phone, April 12th

In a welcome flurry of activity, we were loaded into an Antonov 74, a hulking cargo plane with its wings fixed oddly high to avoid snow. It was 7am in the morning and we were seated in a plane full of vodka- swilling Russians, huskies on the loose and a hungover stow away sleeping soundly atop the sleds, skis and drums of fuel.
 The icy landscape below was everything expected – long, flat and white – but fairly featureless from that height. Visibility had been good but as we approached Barneo the cloud was gathering. Landing in the dense fog was interesting, with no sign of life until one lone oil drum from perhaps 50 feet. The pilot made one pass and through the gloom we were able to make out the helicopters, tents and welcoming committee of Barneo. We were being guided by two men holding beacons though in this fog the light was about as effective as candles. We roared up into the cloud again, circled and made a second attempt, this time landing heavily on the ice runway. It was perhaps better that we couldn’t see the large patch of thin new ice at the end of the runway and even more fortunate that we didn’t know that only that morning a seal had been playing there.

The camp is extraordinary – a logistical feat of immense proportions. A mess tent, kitchens, dormitories, porta loos, it was all surprisingly substantial. So substantial in fact that it was hard to imagine that this temporary airport with its attendant hotel was all drifting in a slow ellipse around the north pole. As we ate lunch we moved some ninety feet west.
There were briefings and much debate of flow, weather and ice conditions amongst the guides and experts. There was sauerkraut and beetroot, a group of chiseled Russians singing melancholy folk songs and plenty more vodka. The fog lowered further if possible and it was clear we were going nowhere. So clear that Gaffa Dave opened the Jamesons and we shared a cup or two before trying to settle down for the night. Less than an hour later at around 11 pm, we were woken rudely from a deep whisky-improved sleep and told we were leaving. (Never trust the weather in the arctic. And never drink alcohol on the basis of that trust.) We bundled ourselves blearily into our coats and harnesses, readied our sleds and awaited departure. All day a film crew, led by Phil, had been capturing the mood of the camp. This had provided the Alphas some welcome diversion and an opportunity to perform. Phil was there, camera at the ready, as we prepared to go. As we stood awaiting our instructions , he thrust his camera in my face and asked in his searching presenter’s voice, “so tell me, what do you make of the helicopter?” I stared at it, genuinely reaching for something profound to give him but realised with a moment of clarity that my lack of eloquence was not the fault of my whisky-fuddled brain but more to do with the fact that the inaneness of the question had completely stumped me. “that” I said mustering as much contempt as I could manage through a face mask, “is the most ridiculous question I have ever been asked. It’s a fucking helicopter.” there was a moment’s hesitation before he grinned and we both climbed on board laughing hysterically and continued to giggle uncontrollably for much of the flight. Instant friends.
The helicopter rose from the ground and for the first time I had a clear vision of the enormity of the polar cap. We flew low enough to discern every feature, the staggering open leads – cracks in the ice with the sea showing inky black – and pressure ridges where plates of ice had pushed together with terrifying force, forming long chains of spill, instant mountain ranges for as far as the eye could see. It was natural for the eye to watch for, recognise and identify familiar features amongst the icy patterns. Pressure ridges became dry stone walls and twisted hawthorn hedges marking out fields of freshly ploughed ice. There were mountains of meringue like peaks, and other ranges of hills, curved and soft. There were surprising numbers of hard straight lines , hatchings and cuts , the ditches and viaducts of the ice. There were the pebbles , rocks and boulders of a south coast beach and the spikes, spires and chimneys of a distant snow covered village. The open gashes in the ice, hard and straight, were more canal like than river – though there were those too, twisting and bending and snaking for as far as they eye could see . The landscape was stunning, an ice sculpture of immense, spine-tingling, awe inspiring proportions – a frieze depicting all the possibilities of water caught in a single moment.
 We were set down on the ice and our pulks were ejected, sliding away from the craft and lining up like ten body bags.
 With a roar of its engines the helicopter choked upwards and pulled quickly away leaving us alone in the silence. The only noise we could hear was the creaking of the ice beneath our feet.