Wind and Rain – Rick Atkinson (continued)
Sue, who was not renowned for her feminine patience, attacked with a fury that expressed all our frustration. Seizing the chance I rushed forward, grabbed Penny and broke up the fight. At last we were under way heading towards Ridge Island. It was soon apparent that the night’s war-mongering had taken its toll and the Huns were moving desperately slowly and we only made four miles before lunch. The weather was showing signs of breaking up but we pushed on in the afternoon and finally in appalling conditions we had to make camp on the sea ice knowing full well that camping away from land was to break the first rule of sea-ice travel. We were reasonably sure that we were sufficiently far into the shelter of Bourgois Fjord, but with sea ice you never can tell. The wind, reported by radio, at Adelaide base was blowing at 90 knots and the temperature had risen 36 C in six hours and was now well above freezing.
As the night progressed, although we were only a foot apart, my companion and I had to shout to be heard above the noise of the wind. Try and imagine yourself inside a badly balanced spin drier that was running flat out. Occasionally in the lulls we might hear a dog’s whimper but we just lay there contemplating our fate with the rain, yes RAIN, lashing against the tent. We were sure that we could feel the sea ice moving and imagined ourselves floating out to sea as we lay there with all our clothes on, our bags packed in anticipation of an emergency departure which seemed to us to be inevitable.
As had happened so often before our tents survived all that that Antarctic night could throw at us. In the morning as the weather slightly moderated all the snow had blown off the surface of the sea ice, the dogs were each lying on mounds of snow. The sledges, loaded with our emergency survival equipment, remained in place firmly picketed Fortunately for us the sea ice had held but not a mile to the west the dark horizon indicated open water.
Long before the storm had petered out we had broken camp as we were determined not to spend another night on the ice. The dogs, true to form, made light of their ordeal and were raring to be off. Our progress across the hard ice as we headed for Blaiklock Island was very different from the sluggardly pace of the day before.
Rick Atkinson – GA, Adelaide 1976, Rothera 1977