Blazing Ice (40 page)

Greg's team left straightaway. Stretch lumbered forward on his head start. The rest of us hung back, patiently at first, waiting for Stretch to get ahead. By the time he'd made two miles, the rest of us felt stupid just standing around. We climbed in our tractors and started creeping slowly forward.

We'd not caught up with Stretch when he radioed: “
Fritzy
, I see something on the horizon to our right. Looks like a white structure of some kind.”

Stretch was passing Pole minus 9. Shortly we caught up, slowing our pace to match his, often stopping to give him more ground, then surging ahead again.

I wanted more than anything now to be with Stretch and Russ and Judy. I wanted to hear what they might be thinking, to share the joys they must be feeling. But I could only be happy for them and be alone with my own thoughts as South Pole Station again rose into clarity.

We came over the hill with our horizons in collision. South Pole Station by its mere structure took dominion over every sastrugi, over every compass point, over every space and orientation in our monotonous surroundings. The entire Plateau ordered itself around that station. Wallace Stevens's poem “Anecdote
of the Jar” drifted into mind. Had Stevens been on the Polar Plateau, instead of on a mountaintop in Middle Tennessee, he might've written “Anecdote of the Pole.”

“
Fritzy
, Feleppa here. We're at the hold-back line.”

Visions of a close order,
en echelon
formation of tractors smartly approaching the hold-back line was the stuff of fantasy. We were coming in spread out, but coming in nevertheless.

“Copy that. Whatcha doing, Greg?”

“I am liaising … with numbers of people who have come to meet us.”

“Very good. Who's there, and what do we know?”

“There're many of the same we saw yesterday. In addition, there's a fellow from NSF…”

Jerry Marty. I wonder if he is too busy to talk
?

“There're several from station management…”

B. K. Grant and Jason, maybe Liesl Schernthanner
.

“And there's the
National Geographic
photographer who'd like you to go on by. He wants moving video of the fleet pulling into the station.”

“Copy that. Please inform our hosts our intention is to stop at the holdback line as we discussed this morning.” Things were about to get busy.

The D8, the
Elephant Man
,
Red Rider
, and
Fritzy
all parked shoulder to shoulder. Greg, Tom, and John V. met us in front of Stretch's blade.

The crowd, twice yesterday's size, waited at the five black panels. Jerry Marty stood among them, politely standing back, but I beckoned him over to join us. The sandy-haired fellow's eyes sparkled. He looked like a surfer on a good day at Long Beach. I put my arm around his lean shoulder and said simply, “I'd like you to be here right now. It'd mean a lot to me. To all of us.”

“Thank you,” he said as a grin spread under his brush moustache. “This is great!”

Then Jerry and I, our backs to the hold-back line, faced the crew. In this last moment of privacy I addressed them:

“Today we have done something remarkable. Each of us knows the struggle we've gone through, so this will not be a windy speech. But we're about to get into a whole lot of people, and a whole bunch of other stuff we don't even know what it is yet. Before all that happens, I want to congratulate each of you on our achievement, and offer my hand in thanks. Allow me this formality.”

I sought Stretch first. “Thanks for everything, Stretch. You are the man who drove the D8 to Pole. How was your road today?”

“Umm … we made about three miles an hour. Pretty good, actually.”

Then to Russ. “Congratulations. This has been on your mind for many, many years. And here you are!”

“Yes, sir. And here we are!” Russ smiled back.

“Judy, you're not for handshakes.” I hugged her, saying, “Thank you for all your help,” as she hugged me back.

“Brad, you're great to work with. Thanks for being part of this.” We shook hands warmly, then I thought to ask: “Where's your girlfriend?”

“Ah, she had to work today. But she hears us. She works at South Pole Comms. She knows we're here.”

“Good. Good,” I smiled for Brad, and asked that he switch the milvan sled he'd just brought in for
Snow White
. That would make a better picture for the
Geographic
… going into Pole with its snow dump trailer.

I looked to Greg, Tom, and John V. “Think of it … a trail you've blazed across a continent! Simply magnificent!”

Jerry chimed in then. If he'd had a tail, it would've been wagging. “This is truly historic. This is a great day. My personal congratulations to all of you. We'll make it official at 90 degrees South when you can muster your tractors there. Can we do that? Would that be all right?”

“We wouldn't miss that picture for the world, Jerry.” I laughed for all of us. “How about right now we just mingle a bit.”

Our trail-worn travelers merged with the well-parka-ed group of Polies, mixing seamlessly and easily. B. K. Grant, the South Pole area director, was among the small crowd moving toward us. I'd always admired her competence. Though I'd little to do with her except on formal occasions, I identified her with South Pole Station itself. Now, I walked right up to the blonde boss-of-the-place. B. K. in turn approached me, bearing a sparkling smile and a hearty laugh. The formality I expected from her melted away the moment before we met. Both our arms, now suddenly outspread, clasped each other in warm embrace.

“B. K., I can't begin to tell you how much your holiday welcome means to our weary crew. Thank you so much for that,” I choked.

“Oh sure! Your timing couldn't have been better!” She was a frontier ranch woman declaring the latch strings were out to a gang of trail busters.

The crew joined me back at Stretch's blade with Jason.

“He's going to lead us into the station. There's no air traffic now, so we're cleared to go in. We've a quarter mile of virgin snow between here and Marisat. We don't want to get stuck in that snow right in front of the photographer.”

As one, we rolled our heads back, nodding in understanding.

“Once we've rounded the corner at Marisat, we'll be on packed snow from then on. Greg, your Marine Corps flag looks mighty good flying from the back of our PistenBully. Stretch, follow Greg with the Stars and Stripes. Judy, Brad, and I will follow you in the same order. As soon as we get parked, shut down and plug in. They're going to show us where the bathrooms are, and then we'll get the orientation. We won't bother to refuel today. We won't think about work for the next two days. The day after Christmas we'll start our turnaround. Probably two days of that, and we'll head back to McMurdo the next morning.”

That sounded strange.

Back in our tractors, each operator responded to my hail. No pedestrians lingered about our sleds. “Okay, Captain Feleppa, give Jason the go sign.”

Our procession swung into line. We crossed the last quarter mile of snow swamp at the stately pace of two and a half miles per hour. Once we got to Marisat, the D8 leaped forward to four miles per hour.

Jason led us through long, organized rows of huge cardboard boxes and metal machine parts stacked on elevated snow platforms. This was the storage yard on the station outskirts. Pole denizens popped their heads over nearby berms to wave their welcome. The workers on station were men and women dressed just like us: brown overalls and grimy jackets, faces protected by fleece mufflers, eyes hidden by omnipresent glacier glasses and goggles. They cheered when our flags passed by.

Around the next corner, a large cardboard sign lay propped up against the end of a berm. It read:

CONGRATULATIONS SOUTH POLE TRAVERSE!
FROM YOUR FRIENDS IN SILVERTON, CO,
ELEVATION 9,318 FEET—AMERICAN LEGION POST 14

I lost it then. Scotty Jackson must've placed the sign that morning. Scotty, from my hometown, worked with me the last year of the tunnel project. He'd since stayed on at Pole with the cargo group. He knew we carried our hometown flag each of these years. He knew we brought it into Pole today, fulfilling my old promise to Post 14. Today, Scotty's sign brought home, and the remembrance of friends, to South Pole. Tears streamed down my face. I choked back sobs of thanksgiving.

Several hundred yards and a few twists and turns later, our fleet stopped in line at the base of a steep snow berm behind Summer Camp. Summer Camp above us was a collection of a dozen Jamesway tents: olive, canvas-covered Quonset huts just like the one we'd used at the Shear Zone that first year. Many of South Pole's seasonal workers berthed at Summer Camp. Bringing our own berthing, we'd be their downwind neighbors for a few days.

The PistenBully crawled up the berm first and disappeared from view. Stretch went next with the D8 and the module train bearing the Colors.
He
disappeared from view.

My radio squawked: “
Fritzy
, you have any preference for how we park up here?”

“Negative on that.” I couldn't see a thing from down below. “Just make sure we can turn around.”

Judy and the
Elephant Man
climbed the berm. She paused at the top, waiting for Stretch to settle into position. After Judy moved on, Brad and
Red Rider
climbed the hill.

In a few minutes, Greg radioed, “Come ahead
Fritzy
.”

The platform above opened to a broad flat surface, big enough to hold a soccer field. Our modules and tractors lined up just ahead to my left. The refrigerator van sled, a pair of fuel tank sleds, and
Snow White
sat sidetracked, well off to my right.

“Show me where you need me to park,” I requested over the radio.

John V. stepped out from behind the module train and motioned me forward.
Fritzy
, with Pole's tractor in tow, pulled ahead.

Six hundred miles dragging that deadweight cripple … delivered. Forty-three days out of McMurdo. Nineteen crossing the Plateau … all cargo here. Two three-thousand-gallon tank sleds … one full, one nearly empty. All souls intact
.

I gave up on thinking.

John V.'s hand signals guided me to parking. Through my windshield, a crowd of faces looked back at me. I leaned over
Fritzy
's steering wheel and switched off my engine. The entire world's noise stopped. I drew a deep breath, and rocked well back in my seat for a moment. Then I opened the cab door to my left. Slowly, I descended the side steps to the ground, making sure of my balance, making sure not to slip and fall when I touched down.

I managed two steps toward the crowd when a fellow with a wispy short beard and straight dark hair hanging chin-length stepped forward. He was fortyish, trim, half a head shorter than me and sported a McMurdo-issue red parka. “Do you mind?” the
Geographic
photographer asked.

“Uh, no. What?” I answered absently.

He shouldered his massive video camera and thrust a microphone to my face. “And how does it feel to be here at last?”

Had I been thinking about it, I would've predicted that question. But I wasn't thinking any more. Not until I realized he waited for my answer.

How does it feel? Fine, great … good trip, man?

I recalled my exchange with Trevor Griffiths some years back. Griffiths wrote the screenplay for
The Last Place on Earth
, a magnificent 2002 documentary drama of Amundsen's and Scott's race to the Pole. It
felt
like what his Amundsen said when he got to Pole. I grabbed for, and mangled, that speech:

“I have no great words for you. No grand emotions to share. This is a good day to be alive, and we are glad to be here.”

Dressed in our cleanest wrinkled clothes
,
we made our way to the new station a quarter mile from camp. The easy walking made my legs uncertain and wobbly. For a month and a half, in soft snow, I'd been compensating in advance for a fall I expected with each step. Now with firm snow beneath my feet, I
still
compensated in advance. Phantom pressures in the small of my back mimicked tractor vibrations. My brain surged forward looking for more trail to bust.

Across the snow-packed spacious campus, I passed over my tunnel and wondered what shape it was in now. The blue cargo office to my left had been located somewhere else a few years ago. To my right, stacks of refrigeratorsized cardboard boxes full of construction debris lay in long, neatly arranged rows. Future traverses would probably haul them back to McMurdo. The famous geodesic dome covering the 1970s station hadn't been torn down yet. It lay up ahead, nearly hidden by snowdrifts, and dwarfed by the immense elevated station.

The new two-and-a-half-story structure perched fifteen feet above the snow on massive steel pedestals. A temporary exterior wooden staircase led from the ground level to the first floor. Inside, other floors led to other stairs and down long hallways. Ultimately all paths led to the galley.

The galley was a high-ceilinged, airy room. Dining tables crossed its egalitarian space. Broad picture windows graced the long wall on the room's upwind side. From the sheltered comforts of the plush galley, one looked directly down on the Pole monument, planted at exactly 90 degrees South. The long
wall opposite the picture windows held the buffet line where the galley staff laid out wonderful meals.

Our crew drifted into the galley on their own schedules and spread out to different seating. I found Scotty Jackson, my hometown neighbor who'd placed the welcome sign on the station's outskirts. Scotty was a bit older than me, my height, and wore a long black ponytail. He'd been a sheriff's deputy in my hometown for a number of years. Scotty was always calm in a crisis. I was about to confide my reactions to his sign when Megan Whitmore, a heavy equipment operator, joined us.