Foul Language (continued)
Of the men who first went south as part of the Falkland Islands Dependencies Survey, only Ted Bingham, base leader at Stonington Island, had any previous experience of driving dogs. The others, recruited for a combination of their specific skills and all-round abilities, initially saw dog driving as a means to an end. They were soon to discover it was a skill in which to take pride and from which to draw pleasure every bit as much as the scientific work for which they were being paid. Bingham taught them that in order to accomplish safe and efficient travel, the organisation of the team was all-important: accordingly it had to be specially tailored to suit the nature of Antarctic field work where vast distances, featureless horizons and heavily crevassed terrain would so often be the order of the day.
On many of the early polar expeditions, a man had walked ahead of the dogs, leading the way and warning of oncoming dangers; but Bingham recognised that method presented additional dangers of its own. Firstly, if the surface were hard and smooth the man would have to run – pursued, and often overtaken, by a team of enthusiastic huskies.
Secondly, with a man ahead, it is more difficult to maintain accurate direction than with a dog-led team steered by command on a compass bearing. And thirdly, perhaps most importantly, if the area ahead is crevassed the man must be tied to the sledge by a safety rope. A rope dragging in the snow would worry the dogs, whilst walking ahead with no rope was an unjustifiable risk. Better a dog down a crevasse than a man; better still, neither. Thus it became a ‘rule’ that dogs should always lead in front, and that men should not be allowed out in the field until they had proved they could drive them from behind. This rule imposed a discipline that was hard to adhere to, for whilst huskies love to pull, few take the initiative and lead with nothing to follow. Over the years, however, the rule was to minimise disaster and maximise achievement.
Dogs are naturally gregarious competitive animals and quickly establish a hierarchy among the packs they form. Bingham, as others had before and after him, soon learned to observe this hierarchy and to exploit the dogs’ different personalities in the arranging of a team. Teams were usually run in formations of either seven or nine, the general principle being brains at the front, brawn at the rear. Partly because of this, the best leaders tend to be female: more sensitive, more alert and less inclined to fight. Harnessed behind, the stronger dogs are content to chase after them all day! Alternatively, one dog might hold a grudge against another and will spend his days trying to catch him in order to air the grievance. Almost always a ‘king dog’ would also emerge, one who, perhaps because of age or size, would boss the other dogs and keep them in order. Another dog might take the role of cheer leader – forever anxious to be underway and able to galvanise the others into action. But invariably it was the lead dog who became the heroes of the stories. They were the ones who had to set the pace and keep the team strung out; they chose the safe route through the crevasse field, gave warning of thin ice and, perhaps most importantly, responded to the commands of their driver and made it possible for him to control the team by word of mouth from the relative safety of the rear of the sledge.
Because these were Eskimo huskies, efforts were made to retain the commands they recognised — ‘Auk’ meaning right, ‘Irra’ left, ‘Up, dog,’ to get ready, ‘Huit’ to go, and ‘Ahhh’ to stop. Learning the words was easy: learning how to express them so that the dogs would respond to them, was not. Most Fids have memories of inheriting their first dog team, and finding themselves incapable of achieving anything with them. The result is a rather depressing sit-down strike by some confused huskies. In the process of trying to move them, the driver shouts himself hoarse driver and exhausts himself pushing his own sledge. Alternatively, if the driver has not asserted his position rear of the sledge he may find a mill scale dog war erupting before him,
Equally difficult once ‘on the road’, was learning just how much encouragement to give the dogs. If the driver was continuously shouting at them, they either became winded trying too hard, or they began to ignore his rantings and ravings so that when that extra bit of effort required it became difficult to achieve.
The driver’s other fear was, of course, to have the team run off without him. Watching a team disappear into the great white yonder, together with sledge and all essential items required for survival, is at best embarrassing and at worst dangerous. To reduce the risk, many tricks had to be learnt: for instance, never leaving the sledge to walk back along the trail, and making use of a short length of rope affectionately known as the ‘dongler’; one end of this rope would be attached to a waist belt, the other looped over the handle bar upright. Another precaution was to tie a long rope, with a large knot on the end, from the rear of the sledge, the idea being that the driver could make a dive for this if the dogs took off unexpectedly — always a last resort as he might well find himself dragged along in the snow for a mile or so before they came to rest.
The reality behind good training was months, if not years, of blood, sweat and tears in the field, with the driver and dogs gaining confidence in each other, learning to exploit and accommodate their respective strengths and weaknesses, and adapting techniques to travel in varying terrain. With a good diet and careful breeding, the result was a team that could pull a heavy load up hill and down hill; through deep snow, slush and water; over complex crevasse fields, glare ice and sea ice; in sun or blizzard; and for eight or more hours a day.
‘Huskies are amazingly tough animals. My bitch “Joanna” once slipped and fell over on some hard frozen snow: I was unable to steer the loaded sledge away in time and one runner of the sledge went right over her stomach, but she got up and continued as if nothing had happened.’
Angus Erskine, Detaille Base Commander, 1957