December 3, 2010 Arrival at Union Glacier Base Camp.

Minus 20 degrees Fahrenheit air took hold of any exposed flesh as we stepped out of the jet.  Collars were raised and closed; light gloves were exchanged for heavier versions. We were directed to a portable structure where hot tea and a kerosene heater provided welcome comfort.  Groups of eight would board a van just unloaded from the IL76.  With the benefit of snow tracks instead of wheels, the van easily crossed the 8 kilometer expanse to Base Camp.  Three large Quonset hut tents form the core of Union Glacier Base Camp. Two are laid out with rows of tables for dining and cooking stations at the rear.  Another is the designated library…a place for journaling, napping or silent board games.  A set of 4 restroom huts stand opposite the dining tents. One of these huts is lined only with urinals.  The second is designated for the ladies only – it's contents remain a mystery.  What is known is that all residents are expected to keep urine and feces separate, thus the remaining two huts have both drop toilets and wall urinals, and one is expected to use each accordingly.  Several grids of tents are arranged around the perimeter of the camp.  Outside of those, is a line of flags delineating the safe zone. We're living on a glacier…..a moving, cracking, expanding and contracting piece of frozen water.  Crevasse falls are a very real risk outside of the safe zone.  As such, the message of the flags is understood and respected by all.
The occupants of this camp form a very international populace. Many of the ANI staff working as support personnel are either Norwegian or Kiwi; the IL76 pilots are Russian; the pilots of the Twin Otter are Canadian; we share a dining tent with other teams hailing from Jakarta, Germany, Russia and Canada.  In the whole of this place I have found only one American, aside from myself. Though English seems to be the common linguistic thread, I often have to ask people to repeat themselves, as my ear is not tuned to the varied accents.       Germans study my blue eyes and prodigious beak, then initiate conversations in their native language…but for two generations, they would be quite correct. 
We have enjoyed the comforts of this place for 24 hours, waiting for clear enough weather for the Twin Otter to fly. Though the night time temperature was well below zero, our team logged a comfortable and much needed 11 hours of sleep.  There is a nervous energy about the team, a restless anticipation of our next leg up.  We pace and drink too much tea. We talk about other mountains, other interests.  We confess to already missing the women in our lives back home.  Phil, always ready with a bright smile and clever comment, suggested we take a warm bottle of water to bed.  This, he claimed, would abate the loneliness.  I further suggested that members shave one leg.  While the group appreciated the logic behind this, they also made it clear they are not THAT lonely. 
Word came at 10:00am that the Otter would fly today.  Mitchell will leave first, rounding out the passenger count on that flight.  The rest of the team will follow in the second flight, taking off about 4:30pm.  I'm watching Mitchell.  He is watching the Otter warm up. He has the eyes of a bird dog….focused and serious. The epitome of a modern adventurer, Mitchell has run endurance races all over the world, including one through the Amazon.  He has hunted big game in Africa, climbed six of the seven continental summits, surfed the breakers off Fiji, and dove among sharks.  Mitchell is already planning to next trek across Greenland.  At age 62 he shows no signs of slowing.  Mitchell is extremely well spoken in the fashion of the highly educated, but at times has difficulty keeping all of that knowledge contained.  He woke his tent mate, Guy, this morning, with a critical dissertation on the safety latch used on the German Mauser rifle

December 3,2010 The adventure begins.

Mark awoke us at 2:40am. We would fly, and our ride to the airport was leaving in 20 minutes.  I showered with an uncharacteristic brevity, then layered up with the fortification of garments necessary to step off the jet in Antarctica.  "We could get to the airport and have to turn right around" the ALE rep cautioned, as we loaded into the bus. Weather is never certain in Antarctica, thus nothing else is either.
Steve and Phil had not slept at all. Various shops had stayed opened for them late into the night, the last closing at 1:00am.  In the short time following, the pair removed tags and packaging. With sympathetic regards, the people at ALE agreed to loan several parkas, pants, boots and down sleeping bags to Phil and Steve at no cost.  Just the same, they had burned through over $8,000 of their own funds replacing the remaining needed items. With nominal maximums set for lost luggage , only a minor fraction of this sum would be coming back to them.
I was expecting the IL76 to ride like a garbage truck with wings. What more could one ask of a Russian cargo jet?  But the monstrous hulk sped down the runway with smooth efficiency.  Loaded with 45 passengers, their gear and a panel van on snow tracks, the IL76 lifted off, slicing through high winds with impressive stability.  Most of the passengers reclaimed lost sleep during the first few hours. Even the ship's navigator, a typically stoic Russian nodded intermittently.  The even whine of the jet turbines retreated to a reassuring hum behind my earplugs.   Passengers were moving about the cabin when I awoke.  A plate of open faced sandwiches was being passed around.  I took one and joined a group of Germans socializing near the still dozing navigator. What I had assumed to be charts in front of him, turned out to be a Russian crossword puzzle.  Soon there were potato chips and Sprite being passed around.  All about the cavernous belly of the beast, people in heavy down layers chatted and ate. The flight crew seemed to tinker endlessly with engine speed and pitch as they brought the big jet down.  So precise were these adjustments that the first touch of wheels to ice was barely perceptible.  Then the jets roared as their thrust was reversed to slow the aircraft - a procedure executed with care on a surface where brakes are useless.  We had arrived in Antarctica.

Plan B(uy)

The final inbound flight for the day has arrived. When asked about the missing baggage it shrugged it´s shoulders.  We are told the Fly decision for Antarctica will be made at 2:00 A.M. tomorrow morning, and it is likely a "Fly."  For Phil and Steve, the hand has been forced.  With the assistance of our Guide, Mark, they have embarked on a mad retail rampage. Lest Readers think this fun, it should be noted Phil and Steve are not likely to find the quality, size, and compatibility of items to adequately replace that which was lost.  As well, none of it will be properly broken in. Thus they will enter one of the harshest environments on the planet with untested kits.

Rubbing the toe.

December 2, 2010.
All members of the Team arrived in Punta Arenas yesterday. Each had been delayed enroute by as little as six hours and as much as two days. Phil, who lives on the Isle of Man, found his 30 minute flight to England cancelled when snow hit. Not willing to risk a second cancellation the following day, and thus his entire trip, he chose to take the four and half hour boat ride ashore. This, combined with the subsequent train ride to Heathrow, amounted to the better part of a day. In the mean time that short flight was restored. Exhausted from hauling his duffels of gear, Phil watched it land.

It is with much joy that I report the successful arrival of my gear! My backpack, however, was soaked clean through as though it had sat out in the driving rain all night in Atlanta. Everything had to be unpacked and hung to dry. The airport in Atlanta is truly remarkable for its conveniences, layout, flow, and state of the art automation. From everything I saw it seems clear a lot of forethought went into the design of this very large, very busy facility. About the only things not considered where rain and wind. All bets are off if they see much of either. The confusion and helplessness which ensue are mindful of the scene in The Wizard of Oz where the flying monkeys ravage Dorothy and freinds.

I could have done worse.  Such was the fate of Phil and Steve, who arrived without any of their gear. Both theory and promise on the part of airline representatives suggested the duffels in question to be in Madrid. Though no one could offer an eyes-on confirmation, Steve and Phil were reassured the wayward gear would arrive today in Punta Arenas. Both are presently staked out at the airport, hopeful to see their belongings on the last flight in. Absent that, they will be forced to purchase complete new sets of climbing equipment and clothing in the next five hours. The weather is ideal right now in Antarctica and it looks likely we will get the "Fly" clearance this evening. For general reference, the cost of outfitting a Climber for a high altitude arctic expedition is $3,000-$4,000.

Otherewise the Team is good. Spirits are high, and we have settled into the friendly cadence of six Ravens perched on a wire.  We reported to the headquarters of Antarctic Logistics Expeditions after breakfast this morning. Their we attended the required pre-flight orientation. We sat among the other forty or so passengers, people with casue to be in Antarctica; Climbers, Trekkers, Scientists, and Penguin Watchers. The Speaker told us what to expect of our experience aboard the Ilyushin 76, with particular emphasis on the primitive nature of onboard restroom facilities. The talk also outlined the procedures for keeping urine and solid waste separate at Base Camp. Both will be flown back.

The presentation then shifted to a discussion of frost bite. It can come on quickly, but there are warning signs; numbness, white skin, a hardened wood-like feel to the flesh. Several graphic photos drove home the point. "If you freeze part of your body," we were instructed,"don´t thaw it unless you are sure you can keep it thawed."  The Speaker said that a medical tent was available with treatment to stabilize various forms of injury until the afflicted could fly out. However, no special flight would be ordered outside the normal once a week IL76 visit unless the condition were life threatening. To frame this last point she stated that frost bite and broken appendages are not considered life threatening.  Anyone who had come still thinking this is just another tourist excursion left the talk in a state of informed sobriety.

After lunching with Guy and Doug, I set out to find some cold medicine. I am 95% over a cold that kept me out of training during the final week of preparation, but a persistent runny nose continues. As I speak no spanish, the signs mean nothing. I am effectively both illiterate and mute. Still, many words can be broken down to familiar clues. This combined with a willingness to mime form both my communication and low level entertainment for those I engage. My "Guy with a head cold" was a real crowd pleaser at the Farmacia.

I walked around Punta Arenas for an hour or so. December is their spring time here. Yet the chill wind coming off the sea is biting.  Sporatic snow flurries came and went without accumulation. A lone penguin stood, breast to the sun, on the beach. I wished I had my camera with me. Soon a couple happened along and, posing for ever-closer photos, drove the bird back into the brine.

Punta Arenas is that tired but kind city one finds in corners where dogs wear no collar and few people choose to live. There is a stately park in the center of the city. Vendors of inexpensive handcrafts man booths around the perimeter. At the center is a massive bronze statue commemorating Hernando De Magallanes. The elements have fatigued it´s finish to a mackeral grey, save the toe of one figure rubbed to a shiny lustere by the many who believe it to be good luck. Any Everest expedition visits the prayer wheels for similar reasons prior to ascent. It cannot hurt. I rubbed the toe.

The Brocolli Crown. A Haiku.

I eat thee with haste,

unrinsed, uncooked, raw.

Damned the aphids.

Closer to fine.

Much of mountain climbing involves the efficient use of energy. One learns to not squander same by way of anger, regret, or frustration. A trashed tent represents an opportunity to see how a team gets by putting six climbers in a couple two-man tents. Faulty communications equipment invites mid-mountain commerce, trading toilet paper ("mountain money") for a few minutes use of another team's satellite phone. A delayed move to the next camp is a chance to recheck vital gear and better appreciate the view of the camp you are stranded in. Normally this applies to just the days spent on the climb, but in practice it kicks in the moment you leave home.

My flight out of Phoenix was delayed an hour. This left me ten minutes to make my connection in Atlanta for Santiago, Chile. The odds were stacked against me pulling it off, Atlanta being the world's busiest airport with sprawling distant terminals. But I negotiated my way to a forward cabin seat and hoped for the best. The best passed as we sat on the tarmac in Atlanta for 35 minutes, waiting for another jet to clear out of our terminal. My flight left without me. As this particular flight occurs only once a day, I would have to stay the night in Atlanta and catch this connection the following evening. I cued up with numerous other travelers awaiting the chance to scan their now worthless boarding pass and learn their fate. A burly woman in a Delta Airlines uniform stood next to the machine. She was not there to offer sympathy. Whatever demonstrable remorse she once had was used many shifts ago.  It seemed most likely she was there to protect the scanner.

"You booked on the nine thirty flight tommora," she would say to a disbelieving Passenger. "This voucher is for you to stay the night at the Wellesley Hotel and you pay $50," she continued. She almost always had to repeat this before it sunk in that a person was not only going to be a day late for a business meeting, cruise, wedding, or organ transplant, but that he would also pay $50 for the inconvenience. Watching this was nothing short of Human Theatre.

People stormed off, only to circle back and re-engage. They pleaded their case that this was not their fault. The burly Delta Attendant would examine the voucher and note that weather was the cause of delay, stating "Delta caint control the weather." Indeed the hub for Delta, Atlanta, was experiencing very stormy weather. This granted them a virtual carte blanche for blamelessness worldwide. "But the weather was fine in Phoenix," one woman complained. "Yes, but that aircraft came from Atlanta," she was told. "We were delayed because of a power outage in Minneapolis," the man in front of me challenged. "That's the city power," the Delta rep countered, "Delta caint be responsible for that. Besides weather probably caused that outage." As their were few remaining flights that evening to anywhere, it was clear most of us would be spending a rainy night in Atlanta. The $50 was all that remained to be debated. If you could prove the delay was Delta's fault entirely, they would pay the full cost of your room and offer a meal stipend. When my turn came I decided to try the only thing I had not yet heard. "Alien abduction," I stated, dropping my boarding pass on the scanner, too late realizing this too was not Delta's fault.

It was probably easier for me than most passengers. I was scheduled to arrive a day early in Punta Arenas and this simply meant I would arrive on the same day as the rest of my team. The only damage to me being the omission of the trip I planned to take to the penguin colonies that day. It was not the same as missing a wedding  ...though I have been to many weddings I would sooner trade for a penguin colony. Really, they look pretty similar if you think about it.

I took my vouchers and walked a short distance away. From there I watched a few more acts of the Theatre. One poor woman, who spoke almost no English, seemed convinced she was being taken advantage of. She was correct, of course. But in the tradition of all great greek trajedies, the Fates were the pick-pockets. She collared a Security Guard standing on a Segway. With a toxic voucher pinched between the fingers of each hand, she waved her arms in grand sweeping arches. She spoke fast and lucid, punctuating her conviction with a squeaky noise like that of a dog toy. One foot stomped all the while. Unfortunately, the Security Guard knew no Lebanese. Frustrated, the woman stalked off in the direction of an ice creamery. "Yes, happy food," I said to myself, "it can only help."

In short order I found myself waiting in cold drizzle for the hotel shuttle. I passed the time watching people, guessing their stories. One woman was nine feet tall. That was my first guess. She was remarkably tall. But nine feet seemed implausible. I lowered my estimate to six feet seven inches. Still she may have been seven feet. My goodness she certainly was tall. I thought about how awful it would be to be tall against your wishes. Short people have a similar problem, but at least it does not stand out like a flag pole. "Tall can be a disability," I thought to myself. The woman seemed particularly vexed by something. In the absence of further information I assumed it to be her height.

Later that evening I ate dinner at the hotel bar, sitting next to an Army Sargent named Robert. Robert was on his way to Afghanistan. He had served there and in Iraq on several prior deployments. When I asked Robert about his experiences he opened up a photo gallery on his IPhone and started talking. "Why have you taken pictures of these people," I asked as he scrolled through shots of Afghans walking down the street. "Because they are part of my life," he answered. Though a bronze star and purple heart are also a part of Robert's life, he seemed to carry no animus for the people of the country which sponsored them. "Buildings like this," he instructed, pausing on one photo,"don't take bullets well. You and I would go in hip to hip, always touching so we knew where each other was in the darkness. There would be shooting. Bullets bounce around inside concrete buildings like this, so it would be important to stay about a foot away from any wall." Robert had worked trading Municipal Bonds for Merrill Lynch at one time. It was safe. But that may have been the problem. Already a member of the Reserves, Robert matriculated into active service and has served, by his account, in over 400 combat missions since. He is 43 years old. Very old for a combat warrior. I asked Robert if he ever feels fear in combat. In a very believable tone he said he did not, adding "you're already dead." "By that, do you mean you live with a sense of destiny," I asked. "I don't wanna put words in your mouth, but do you feel you are meant to be here, you are here for a purpose, and if you die here then that is the way things were meant to be?" Robert smiled a little as he considered this. "Yes, " he said, "and no."

I am languishing away the hours before my flight this evening in the Delta Sky Lounge. It costs the suspiciously similar sum of $50 for non-members to spend a day here. I tried to negotiate gratis admission, recounting my faultless delay the prior evening. They would have none of it. Though I must say it was the most relaxed and pleasant "no" I have ever enjoyed. I invited them to consider my Alien abduction story. (Note to self: The Alien abduction story does not work.) I pointed out what a great organization Delta Airlines is and how this represented an opportunity for them to truly stand out among the mouth-breathing competitors who masquerade as fellow eagles in their congress. They returned a still nicer "no." "You are clearly an important and powerful person within this organization," I fixed upon the woman behind the mahogany counter, "but I wish to speak with someone still more powerful, someone your power plus one." She handed me a phone a moment later.  The Supervisor on the other end explained Delta has several thousand similarly afflicted passengers wondering the terminals of Atlanta International Airport at that moment. Delta could not afford, nor did they have room for, free admission for these refugees into their lounge. I suspect this Supervisor is the Nice Trainer for the Lounge Reception people. There was something about her refusal that made me like her more. I felt like a sorority girl.

The rest of the Team." Your search result preceeds you."

You may have had the experience of starting to tell what you were sure to be unique tale, only to be waved off by the listener a few sentences into it. It turns out you are among the last to have heard this story, and the fact that you did not realize this attests to both your lameness as a story teller and a profound unawareness of that lameness. If it is possible to be disrespected in the same manner by technology then I suffered such a fate recently while researching the other members of my team. I entered the home country of each Climber into my search engine. Then I began typing the respective name. In each of the four cases the name was completed for me by the search engine, a clear indication it already knew where I was going. It had heard this story.

I omit the last names of each climber pending the completion of this Blog and their approval to include same.

Mitchell.  Originally from New Zealand, Mitchell now lives in Johannesburg, South Africa. In May of this year he summitted Mt Everest, the highest peak on the planet. He is 62.  “Too many people get to a certain age and think they are too old to do something,” he commented during an interview after returning home a local hero.  “I would like to encourage people to look at their lives: there are so many fantastically exciting things to do,” he continued. And it would seem Mitchell has done many of them. Having already stood atop the continental summits of all but Antarctica, the upcoming expedition is nothing less than an exclamation point to his philosophy of living, the seventh summit and his place in history among the very few humans to have touched them all.      

Steve.  At the age of 36, Steve found himself battling cancer. To this day, he harkens back to the difficult treatments he had to endure. When things seem tough during a climb and his body pleads with him to quit, he reflects on those treatments and finds strength in the knowledge that he can take so much more. Though he had done a fair bit of climbing prior to cancer, there was something about having survived the disease that awoke a sense of still greater ambition in him. While traveling internationally in his role as an Investment Banker, Steve trained wherever he was. He competed in marathons and Iron Man Triathlons. He went ice climbing in the French Alps. He did most of the things a person would do to train for a major mountain climb. Yet he had no such design. I believe many plans in life are made for us. We live the truth of our path and trust in where it is leading.  On short notice, in 2008, an opportunity arose for Steve to join a team planning an attempt on Mt. Everest. He thought of the inspirations in his life: his sister (who was born with a disability), and his brother (who died when Steve was 17). “You only live once,” he said in a subsequent magazine interview, “and it can sometimes be shorter that we like, so take risks and live life to the fullest.”  At age 38, two years after battling cancer, Steve stood atop Mt Everest.

Phil.  Phil is a policeman on the Isle of Man, UK.  I suspect he is the lone Isle of Man Reader of this Blog whom I identified recently (see The Produce is Selling well).  In as much as that is the case, I hope he persuades and few neighbors to start following along as it could easily triple my presence there. This would also be the kind of selfless act Phil has come to be known for.  In the course of preparing for his attempt of Mt Everest in May of 2010, Phil used public awareness of his feat to raise funds for Ronald MacDonald house.  Even as he descended the mountain after successfully summiting Everest, Phil’s call back home reminded those who might be listening “It is not too late to make a small donation at any police station. They all have a box ready for anything that you can spare.” The first person from the Isle of Man to ever stand atop Everest, Phil was welcomed home to great celebrity. The Manx flag he held during his moment of triumph (an odd configuration of three legs in a pinwheel) was placed on public display. Phil is 40 years old.

Doug Bates: Guide.  Doug has traveled the world extensively, from skiing seasons in Utah, Europe, Japan and Canada, to kite surfing in Vietnam, Hawaii, Australia and Ecuador. A senior guide for Adventure Consultants, Doug has led successful Nepalese expeditions on Ama Dablam, Cho Oyu, Lobuche East, Island Peak, Mera Peak, and Everest. He has also guided on the continental summits of Denali, Elbrus, Carstenz Pyramid, Aconcagua, and Antarctica’s Vinson Massif. It would be difficult to imagine a more robust climbing resume. In the vernacular of mountain climbers, Doug is alternately described as a Goat, Beast, Animal, Troll, Mutha, and Stud. An active writer and photographer, Doug also organizes the annual New Zealand Mountain Film Festival. You should check it out …next time you happen to be in New Zealand.