Header Photo: Running on a center trace – Photo: Gordon McCallum
Depot Laying on Adelaide (continued)
At the top of the steep section of the slope I stopped to pick up my extra load and hitch on a trailer sledge with three empty old drums lashed to it. These were destined to be survey beacons and their bulk forced me to use another sledge. Turning round I saw Frank had picked up his share of extra boxes and we both now had our complete loads.
The route from Adelaide leads east, following a crevasse-free slope about a mile wide up on to the relatively flat Fuchs-Ice Piedmont. On each side of the slope the ground falls away rather more quickly to finish in an ice cliff, averaging well over 100 feet high. In addition, all the ground within half a mile of the cliffs is riddled with crevasses.
Bearing almost due east across the wind was no problem and we moved steadily along. The ground drift increased slightly as we climbed and occasionally the dogs would almost disappear into a swirling blanket. We covered two miles and I then stopped for a breather and turned round to find “Lance”, Frank’s lead dog, just alongside me, using my sledge as a shelter from the wind.
I decided to try the dogs into the wind for a bit, and with an “Irra!, Irra! Annie”, we started off. Annie, my lead dog, turned gamely into the drift. After 100 yards or so, however, the first three dogs behind her started to balk and edge off the eye of the wind. Despite repeated commands, they gradually wove round to the east again. After that things happened very quickly: they continued their swing till facing almost south – then took off down the slope and down wind.
I passed Frank going in the opposite direction. At that time I could still raise a flicker of amusement at the surprised expression on his face; but any humour in the situation disappeared when I found my foot brake was no use and my repeated “Aaahh nows”
were equally ineffectual.
The team was now out of control and my only recourse was to try to overturn the sledge. Unfortunately I had loaded up with dog food, which is very heavy and compact, giving a low centre of gravity with good stability. I only succeeded in exhausting myself. During one attempt, a painful bang on my ankle reminded me of the trailer sledge, which was now behaving like a mad thing, bucking on sastrugi and swinging wide to overtake me at intervals on each side. The sledge moved quicker as the slope steepened, almost bouncing over the hard frozen waves of snow. It required all my energy to stay aboard.
I knew that the course I was on led to severe crevassing and a sheer cliff. I seemed to have only one option – to stop braking, let the sledge overrun the clogs and allow the trace to stop it. This would probably have worked at the expense of damaging some dogs but as, at that moment, they were all hell bent for destruction, tails up and thoroughly enjoying themselves. I had no choice.
Just as I stopped braking, the sledge gave a buck and a twist. I swung sideways to help it on its way and the next thing I knew I was hanging by my elbows on the insubstantial cornice which was all that remained of a crevasse bridge. About six yards further down the slope the sledges lay on their sides by a fantastic gaggle of dogs.
How to get out of here? Try pulling up gently on the cornice? No good – kangaroo pouch is too full of useless necessities. Kick out with my feet backwards and try to bridge the crack with my body? No good. Try again. Ah! A purchase for one foot, then the other, and I was bridged across the crack in a reasonably comfortable position, with time to think and a disturbing view right down a deep crevasse. Before I could assess my position properly I heard Frank shout and, looking to my right, just caught a glimpse of him in the gloom as he thundered down the slope out of control. It was reassuring to hear him shout, “Hang on!” but I reckoned he had troubles of his own and eventually I managed to slide gently out of the hole by traversing to the right and pulling up where the bridge was still complete and more solid. As I crawled down to the sledge I met Frank prodding his way up the slope and after a few seconds of mutual “I thought you had had it!”s we roped up and returned downhill to Frank’s sledge.
Frank had experienced a similar incident. His sledge had also overturned as it broke through a crevasse. Fortunately it was a narrow one and his sledge was lying across it. One of his dogs had broken through and fallen out of his harness. Poor old -Nebro” was sitting on a bridge 15 feet below, looking up at us with a most mournful expression on his face. Frank looked after the rope on top and I climbed down to be greeted and licked with great glee by Nebro. After much hauling, heaving and pushing we eventually retrieved Nebro. We sorted Frank’s sledge and dogs out so that they faced uphill again. Frank drove his team up to mine and we spent the next half hour sorting my sledge out.
During all this time the wind and drift had been increasing. This deterioration in the weather dictated a course set back to base. Nebro had not finished making trouble, however, and now escaped from his harness and ran off. No amount of enticement would attract him back; and, as we watched him circling the sledge, he suddenly plopped out of sight about 200 yards away.
All the business of re-picketing the sledges and roping together had to be carried out all over again. We were quite certain Nebro had fallen down a crevasse and so, with Frank leading, we prodded our way through the drift to where he had disappeared. Just as I thought Frank had reached the spot, I saw him. Leap backwards, turn round and wave me back to the sledge. As he explained later, “The snow suddenly ended and space began!’ Nebro had added a fall over a 100-foot ice cliff to his already eventful day.
We now had to return to base and within the hour that’s where we were welcomed by Nebro who had walked back to base on the sea ice. He had chosen his own way. There was not a mark on him and he had certainly taken the fastest and easiest way home.
That night Nebro sat in front of the stove while a whisky bottle passed not infrequently over his head. After three days in the hut for observation he was returned to the dog lines and the next week left on the depot run replay.
Gordon McCallum – GA, Wordie – 1960, Adelaide – 1961