At just over eight million square miles, Antarctica was bigger than both Australia and the United States combined, with ninety-seven percent of its land mass covered by an ice sheet that averaged two miles thick. The only continent not to possess an indigenous human population, Antarctica was divided into three distinct sections: its east and west regions and the peninsula.
A short flight for tourists arriving from Chile, the Antarctic Peninsula, nicknamed the “Banana Belt” by snarky scientists, included the South Orkney Islands and South Georgia. The peninsula’s climate was mild compared to the rest of the continent and was home to a myriad of summer wildlife that included seals, whales, birds, and the emperor penguin. The male emperor penguin was the only warm-blooded animal that remained in Antarctica throughout the winter months. Their job: to stay on land and keep their offspring’s egg warm by covering it with a flap of abdominal skin. While the females swam off to warmer waters, the males huddled in groups in sub-zero conditions, often going nine weeks or more without eating.
And here I was complaining about a twenty-hour sub ride.
West Antarctica occupied the landmass below the peninsula and was separated from the larger eastern region by the Transantarctic Mountains, TAM for short. It possessed two immense ice shelves: the Ronne and the Ross, the latter being home to McMurdo Station and its four airfields, owned and operated by the United States.
East Antarctica was the largest of the three regions and spanned two-thirds of the continent. It stretched from the TAM clear to the eastern coastline and encompassed the South Pole. A desert of ice, East Antarctica was the coldest, most desolate location on the planet.
Being in the Southern Hemisphere, Antarctica’s spring and summer, and its extended hours of daylight hours, were the reverse of Scotland, running from October through February. Darkness arrived in March, and the temperatures plunged another forty degrees. The mean annual temperature at our East Antarctica destination was minus fifty-six degrees Fahrenheit. We could hope for summer highs in November and December approaching zero degrees.
The coldest temperature ever measured on Earth was a boneshattering minus 135.8, recorded in East Antarctica… at Russia’s Vostok Station.
After twenty hours in the air, the last plane ride of our first leg of travel touched down at the Presidente Carlos Ibáñez del Campo International Airport in Punta Arenas, Chile, just after seven o’clock in the evening. Exhausted, True and I collected our luggage and stepped outside into the frigid night. A taxi took us to the Blue House, a hostel Ming’s assistant had booked us into for our stay. The moment my head hit the pillow, I passed out. Not even True’s grumbling snores could keep me awake.
The southernmost city in the world, Punta Arenas is known as the gateway to the Chilean Antarctica. Perched on a hillside overlooking the Straits of Magellan, the Spanish town is a mix of colonial architecture and low-rise buildings with colorful metal roofs. Miles of gridded streets face the sea. Windswept grasslands and sheep ranches sprawl to the east, spectacular fjords and glaciers to the west.
True and I rolled out of our beds around noon, more from hunger than a restful sleep. Following the advice of the hostel owner, we bundled up in our ski jackets and wool hats and walked along the wide avenues past street vendors until we arrived at a stone building that was home to la Luna, a popular tourist spot. True ordered the crab casserole while I had scallops stewed in a garlic sauce, and we drank until we were tipsy.
The night and its drop in temperature arrived early. We shopped, checked out the seaport, and ate dinner in a pub where True attempted to bridge the language gap with our Portuguese waitress. Reminding him we had a noon flight, I returned to our room alone and called Brandy from a land line. Forgetting about the time change, I woke her from a sound sleep and caught hell for being drunk.
Two days down, 182 to go.
My first official trepidation of the trip began when I walked across the runway beneath a low ceiling of dark clouds and saw the twenty-six-passenger Aerovías DAP seaplane rocking with the weather. A rough take-off and instantly it seemed we were flying over the Magellan Strait and Tierra del Fuego Island past Cape Horn. We dipped and rose with each gust, the pilot momentarily derailing our thoughts of crashing by pointing out a stretch of shoreline that was known as a whale graveyard, the bones of the dead leviathans cast up on the rock-strewn beach by the heavy currents.
The winds grew nastier as we flew over the Drake Passage, one of the more volatile waterways in the world. It was here that the depths dropped in excess of sixteen thousand feet — roughly the distance Ben Hintzmann and I would soon be plunging through ice. True and I watched the turbulent surface. We saw whales breaching and schools of dolphin torpedoing through the deep blue sea as, high overhead, our plane pitched against the elements. Before long, small islands of ice began appearing below, progressing into frozen sculptures of towering white and turquoise and blue, carved by the wind and shaped by the water. These were followed by flat city blocks of snow that quickly occupied the horizon.
After a harrowing five-hour flight we descended to King George Island.
Located seventy-five miles north of Antarctica, King George Island was the largest of the South Shetlands, an island chain that extended away from the peninsula into the Southern Ocean. Still in its final weeks of winter, King George’s surrounding seas remained fragmented with tabular acres of ice undulating beneath an early evening overcast sky.
Dressed in thermal underwear, jeans, gloves, wool caps, sunglasses, and our expedition jackets, True and I stepped off the plane into the elements and realized our attire was barely serviceable for the “Antarctic tropics,” let alone what awaited us at Vostok. Trudging over a pebble-covered frozen dirt runway in our boots, we hurried past two abandoned Russian amphibious haulers on our way to the airport terminal, the skin over our exposed faces tightening painfully as it froze.
Gasping for breath, I paused. Up on the hill to our left, overlooking the airfield, was a Russian Orthodox Church that appeared like something out of an Alfred Hitchcock movie. True nudged me and pointed to our right.
We were being watched.
Penguins. Ten to fifteen of them stood on the packed snow like a welcoming party. From their markings I surmised they were chinstrap penguins. As we watched, three more suddenly popped out of an unseen ice hole in the water straight onto their feet, standing with their wings extended as they cooled off from their swim.
Unlike the penguins, True and I were not doing well in the freezing cold. Ducking against the wind, we continued across the unpaved airfield to the airport terminal.
Waiting for us inside was a fit-looking man in his twenties. Around his neck hung an I.D. badge that read Caner Gokeri — Davis Station.
“Caner? Zachary Wallace. This is my associate True MacDonald. Are you our liaison?”
“Yes, sir. And it’s pronounced John-Air Go-Carry. It’s a Turkish name. There’s a Hercules C-130 transport on loan from the Uruguayan Air Force waiting to take you to Davis Station, but before you board I’ve been instructed to outfit you for the weather.”
“Glad you said that. It’s pretty damn cold outside.”
Caner smiled. “This is balmy compared to where you’re going. Summer runs from mid-November through mid-February on the ice, and even then you’ll be lucky to hit minus twenty. If you gentlemen will follow me, I’ve borrowed one of the lounges to get you suited up.”