Before long, Sean invited Penny and Don to join him in the cab. Through the double-glazed windscreen, they watched the running lights of the other vehicles. The Nodwell’s headlights glared on glittering wind-crust, upon which even the D8’s treads had left little mark. “Good sign,” Sean said. “It’s no fun bogging down in something as big as this beast.”
The tractor moved at little better than walking speed, and the rest of the convoy gradually pulled ahead. Occasionally, as they heaved over the crest of a ridge, they could glimpse lights ahead; otherwise they might have been utterly alone. Apart from occasional sastrugi and the convoy’s faint tracks, there wasn’t much to see.
It took almost another hour to reach the edge of the island, where the rest of the convoy had halted. It was just past midnight. Carter Benson came in through the rear door and gratefully accepted a cup of hot tea.
“We’ve already sent people down the hill to look for soft spots,” he said, speaking mostly to Sean. “We’re lucky — the slope faces the wind, and it’s packed down like cement. Howie’s taking the D8 down first. He should be able to push through the patch of pressure ice at the bottom. Then we’ll let the sledges down. The rest of the vehicles will follow. You’ll be last.”
“Think it’ll hold us?” Sean asked.
“Yes, but it’ll probably be the most exciting part of the whole traverse.”
They worked for the next few hours in a glowing ice fog formed by the vehicles’ exhaust. The D8 made it down without incident; the first sledge, however, bogged down and had to be hauled most of the way to the Shelf. The rest of the sledges were winched down by the D8.
It was past 0600 the next morning, July 6, before the entire convoy stood on the Shelf. Penny found herself stuck yet again with kitchen duty, though only for the Nodwell crew. Sean, Don and Herm went outside to refuel and to make sure everything was secured on the sledges.
“My God, it’s cold out there!” Don gasped when they got back inside. His short black beard was heavily frosted, and his dark face was grey. “The wind is picking up, too.”
All three of them unrolled their canvas bunks and wrestled themselves into sleeping bags.
“Aren’t we pulling out soon?” Penny asked.
“Not until eleven,” Herm said. “Carter says everyone should get some sleep.”
“Easier said than done,” Sean shivered, “when your balls are frozen solid.”
“Well, can’t you even start the engine and warm this place up?” Penny asked plaintively.
“Uh-uh. Carter says we gotta save fuel. And it’s not so cold that the engine might seize up.”
“Hell.” Cold was already seeping through the fibreglass in the walls. The primus stove gave a little light and less heat — which was lost in any case, since Katerina insisted on turning it off to prevent carbon monoxide build-up.
Penny thought she would be unable to sleep, but suddenly woke to find the engine roaring again and the Nodwell swaying as it began to move. — Now, she thought, the journey’s really begun.
Gordon and Roger roved ahead of the convoy, looking for the easiest route. Their snowmobiles were fairly new Bombardiers, with semi-enclosed saddles, good radios and powerful headlights. Even so, they found it hard going; a wind was rising from Grid South, chilling them, and the headlights weren’t much use against the drift. At least they had good radio contact with the convoy, and it was reassuring to eavesdrop on the vehicle drivers’ chatter.
Their course had been roughly Grid South-East since leaving the scree slope, and Laputa’s cliffs were now only a distant greyness off to the right. The horizon was a dim band of greens and pinks, against which another ice island stood out in black profile. The Shelf was smoother than Gordon had expected, with only occasional hills and hollows, and the wind-crust was firm.
It was nearly noon, and they were about to stop for lunch when they suddenly came upon a pressure ridge looming out of the drift. Gordon stopped, swore and picked up his microphone. A hundred metres to his left, Roger’s headlight showed that he had also halted.
“How does it look over there, Roger?”
“Pretty bad. Must be four, five metres high, and really rough.”
“Same here. Well, I’m gonna climb over it and see what the other side is like.”
This side of the ridge was in the lee of the wind, and the ice was jagged and bare. Gordon had to pick his way slowly, a flashlight clumsily held in one mitt, and it took him almost ten minutes to reach the top. The wind was like a punch in the face. Squinting, he tried to see how far the ridge extended. It seemed to run Grid South for at least a couple of kilometres. But it wasn’t very wide — maybe ten metres — and the Shelf beyond looked clear and smooth.
He slid back down, glad to be out of the wind, and got back on the radio.
“Carter, this is Gordon. We’ve hit a pressure ridge.”
“Can we get over it or around it?”
“I don’t think so. But we oughta be able to blast a hole through it.”
“Okay. Sit tight. We should reach you in an hour or so.”
Gordon saw a light twinkle briefly in the distance: one of the vehicles, coming up over a rise. It made him feel good just to see it.
The convoy, however, took almost three hours to reach the ridge. The wind was a full gale now, carrying enough snow to half-blind the drivers. Gordon and Roger had pitched a tent under the ridge, and listened to the bellowing of the wind while they ate a tepid stew for lunch. The wind was so loud that the sound of the D8’s engine was drowned out until the big tractor was almost on top of them.
The men crawled out of their tent and stumbled towards the convoy. Carter, who’d been riding in the cab of Sno-Cat 1, got out and led them to the wanigan behind it.
“Hell of a wind,” he said as Gordon and Roger huddled around the heater with Will and Ben. “But it shouldn’t take too long to plant some charges and start clearing a way.”
“Good. Well, come along, Ben. I’ll teach you the fine art of blowing holes in ice.”
“Where’s Steve?” Roger asked.
“He’s been driving the Sno-Cat for the last hour,” Will said. “We’ve been spelling each other — just too bloody cold to stay in the cab more than an hour at a time. Speak of the devil,” he added as Steve came in.
“Hi, you guys.” Steve said. His beard and eyebrows were thick with frost. “Thank God you found this ridge. I’m not sorry to stop.”
“Neither were we,” Gordon said. “Jeez, and this is just the first goddamn day.”
“We haven’t done too badly,” Steve said, pouring tea into a mug. “Almost twelve kilometres since we left the slope. Not bad in this weather.”
“At this rate we’ll reach Outer Willy in about a month,” Will muttered as he tightened the drawstrings on his anorak and stood up.
The wind increased all afternoon. When the charges were detonated, no one in the vehicles could hear them; there was just a trembling in the ice while the wind went on screaming. Howie in the D8 and George in the D4 began to bulldoze a path through the fractured ice of the ridge. The work went slowly, and more charges had to be set off that evening before the path could be finished. By then a blizzard was raging, but Carter ordered the convoy through at once; he was afraid the path might drift over if they waited.
On the far side of the ridge they were exposed to the full force of the storm. Carter held a quick meeting by radio with the vehicle drivers, who reluctantly agreed to push on until midnight. The snowmobiles were lashed to a sledge, and their drivers happily moved into the D4’s wanigan. By 2000 hours the convoy was moving again, with Sno-Cat 2 in the lead and the others following at close intervals.