In the Land of White Death: An Epic Story of Survival in the Siberian Arctic (8 page)

In the meantime we had reached the hummocks of ice we had long been heading for. Now we would have to find a route through them.

It would soon be time to pitch camp, and this seemed like a good, sheltered spot. Our long, exhausting march had brought us less than four miles. We checked to see if we had any superfluous equipment that we might burn to provide us with some heat. That day we had no tea to drink, only hot water, and our supper consisted of a pound of biscuits and a tablespoon of frozen butter each. Soon we slipped into our malitsi to sleep off our fatigue and discouragement. The next morning I awoke feeling quite refreshed. I had had a very optimistic dream. I immediately described it to my companions, who attached a great deal of importance to it. In fact, each of them bound his destiny to the flimsiest of threads!

In my dream I saw all of us crossing endless pack ice with our sledges. In the distance I could see a large crowd of people who were watching something intently and chatting with animation among themselves. They seemed to be waiting for something, so they paid no attention to us, and we did not heed them either. As we drew near, we asked if they were waiting for someone or something. And one of them, pointing to a scrawny old man with white hair who had just appeared from behind a block of ice, replied, “He is a fortune-teller.”

Not wishing to let this lucky opportunity slip by, I approached the old man and asked him to tell us our fortune, to tell us whether we would reach land and be saved. At the same time, I held out my hands with the palms up, as one normally does before a soothsayer. The old man glanced briefly at my hands, then pointed to the south with his right hand and said, “You will reach your goal, open water is not far away, but there . . .” and his sentence broke off as I awoke.

My story immediately erased the previous evening’s discouragement, and everyone experienced a new burst of courage and enthusiasm for our cause. I, too, was influenced by the optimistic theme of my dream; I was certain that it had been Saint Nicholas himself who had appeared before meto reveal the outcome of our enterprise. Of course, I may have simply been ill at the time, as my hallucinatory state the previous day had shown; but from then on I would never forget that dream. It was still vivid in my memory, despite all our trials and tribulations, when we finally arrived safe and sound at Cape Flora. My traveling companions also gained renewed strength from my dream, and their confidence grew even greater when on that same evening we came upon a large polynya,* where we were able to shoot some seals, which gave us a supply of fresh meat and blubber for fuel. We were happy to be able to eat our fill for once and enjoy a good rest. The disastrous state of the terrain we had to cross often depressed us, but our spirits revived rapidly and we found new energy whenever we met with unexpected good fortune.

——

The expanse of open water before us was extremely vast, and the pack ice on its opposite side was only vaguely discernible on the southern horizon. For several days now the north wind had been blowing, sending smears of grease ice and thickening clumps of frazil ice
^†
streaming across the polynya like a frozen porridge. Through the binoculars one could see that a large quantity of this “ice porridge,” badly shattered, had accumulated on the far side of the polynya; since there was a significant swell running, the heaving movement of the grease ice was clearly visible. We launched one of the kayaks and tried to paddle across the polynya, but quickly became convinced that it would be impossible to penetrate the ice porridge, which extended for half a mile from the southern side of the open water. Thus we had to search for a route around the polynya. To the east, the open water extended for many miles. We walked for six nautical miles without seeing its far shore, the water being hidden under a heavy layer of frost smoke. Patches of water sky were visible above the eastern horizon. To the west, the expanse of water grew narrower, but still seemed endless after three miles of walking. There were large numbers of beluga and minke whales in the polynya. Every minute one would hear them blowing. They would rush back and forth in pods, breaching the ocean’s surface, then disappear into the depths again.

We also saw many seals, but always at a distance. If one starts whistling at them, however, as if to a horse one is leading to water, the seals will approach, evidently intrigued, peering curiously with heads held high. In this fashion we were able to kill four or five of them. To our delight, this lucky catch greatly enriched our dwindling reserves of flesh and blubber, and we could look forward to several days of abundant and nourishing food.

Whether boiled or roasted, seal meat remains dark and tender, with a pleasant taste, similar to venison, at least as far as the animals we killed to the north of Franz Josef Land were concerned; seal meat I had eaten in the Kara Sea often had an oily, blubbery taste, even after being left a long time to marinate in vinegar. Polar bear meat is without a doubt much tastier, although it also takes on an oily taste if it is kept for any time after it has been cooked, especially the meat near the bone. This difference in taste probably depends on the environment in which the animal is found, as well as its diet. In the stomachs of all the seals we killed north of Franz Josef Land—and that was a considerable number—we invariably found the remains of small crustaceans, but never any fish. In my opinion, seal meat is entirely edible; the liver of the seal is even a delicacy. All of us on the ship ate it with relish, even when we still had abundant and varied provisions. Seal brains fried in seal oil also taste very good. The front flippers, well baked, are reminiscent of calves’ feet.

Initially my companions overindulged in seal blubber. They would cut it into small pieces and fry it thoroughly, producing what is called cracklings. If they ate them with ship’s biscuits, they would quickly become sated. But we were rationing biscuits, so the cracklings were often eaten alone, just with salt. This delicacy has a pronounced effect on a stomach that is unaccustomed to it, like a powerful laxative. Eventually, however, one’s stomach gets used to anything, and we found we could eat the cracklings with impunity.

During the full two days we camped beside this stretch of open water, the grease ice and frazil ice congealed into a thin but solid surface that spanned the polynya’s narrower, western reaches, allowing us to finally haul our sledges across it. Once on the far side, we pressed onward in a slightly more easterly direction, hoping to find a greater expanse of open water, but this goal eluded us. Now and then we would encounter small polynyas in which we could shoot seals for food and fuel, but none permitted us to travel far in our kayaks.

 

Here we were, once again making our way across the pack from ice floe to ice floe, sinking into deep snow. Our sledges, made with improvised tools, were simply not up to the task; every day we had to stop for long and complicated repairs. Fortunately we had reinforced the runners with iron strips; when the runners broke, the only way we could repair them was to screw the metal strips back onto the shattered runners, thereby holding the damaged sections together, however tenuously.

But the month of May had arrived. It was at around this time that the sailor Bayev asked me to head in a more westerly direction because, according to his observations, there were long uninterrupted stretches of ice to be found in that direction which would speed up our progress. “They are,” he insisted, “as flat as a skating rink.” I gave in to his request, but although we headed westward for an entire day, the promised stretches of smooth ice did not appear. Bayev insisted that his level ice field really existed. “I saw it with my own eyes, sir. I skied along it myself. It stretched all the way to the island.”

The next day, May 3, I resolved to head more to the south-southeast, to search for a better route. Bayev again asked permission to explore the terrain to the west.

With several companions, I set out to the south-southeast. We found a fairly practicable route, and returned to our bivouac after three hours. Bayev was not there. Noon came, and still he had not arrived. At four
P.M.
, sure that something was amiss, we decided to search for the missing man.

Taking some biscuits, Regald, Konrad, Shpakovsky, and I set off on the trail. Bayev was not a good skier, and he had left his skis behind. We could easily follow the tracks of his skin boots in the deep snow. At first they led to the southwest, but gradually curved to the west. About three miles from camp we encountered thin ice with very little snow on it. Bayev had followed the left edge of these ice fields, apparently in the hope that they would swing toward the south, but ice blocks continued to obstruct his route.

In the meantime the weather had deteriorated, and snow had begun to fall. We soon ran across small leads, which we crossed on skis with no problem; but Bayev would have had to cross them by hopping from floe to floe. We followed Bayev’s trail for two hours, having covered at least six to eight miles. Finally the tracks turned back, but Bayev had not retraced his outbound route, veering instead to the left. Our flag, hoisted atop an ice hummock near camp, had long since disappeared from view behind the pressure ridges. Now Bayev’s track grew faint, as fresh snow covered it: We would find a few footprints, then lose the track altogether. The snow had even begun to obliterate our own tracks. We shouted, whistled, and fired our guns without success. Bayev had a rifle with about twelve shells with him. Had he been nearby, he would have heard our shots and responded in kind. But we heard nothing.

We hurried back to the camp to resort to other methods of rescue. There, with the help of long sticks and ski poles, I raised a mast thirty feet high with two signal flags that could be seen from a great distance. If Bayev was lost not far from the camp, he could not fail to see them and would easily find his way back to us. Moreover, the weather was improving by the hour. When Bayev had not returned by late evening, we became increasingly worried. The night did not calm our anxiety. At first light we once more began to explore the area around us, but without success. We waited three days, still hoping to see him reappear. We could only assume that he must have fallen through a fissure in the ice. Perhaps he succumbed to the shock of the icy water, for he had often complained of a bad heart.

We had done everything in our power to save him. Now all that I could do was to organize our departure, in order not to further endanger the lives of those who remained. This sad turn of events was enough in itself to dampen the men’s spirits; they sincerely regretted the loss of their companion, who had set off with such noble intentions, only to meet his death.

To continue my story, I refer to the notes in my diary:

 

 

We are continuing our journey, but have traveled only two and a half miles in six hours. Today is a noteworthy day because we are now sixty nautical miles* away from the
Saint
Anna,
but we have mixed feelings as we realize that despite all our efforts, our average progress has been only two miles a day! Nevertheless we celebrated the event with a soup made from dried cherries and blueberries, enhanced with a bit of condensed milk, and a rye biscuit. The wind is blowing from the northwest, and the temperature is dropping. To the south we can see a vast water sky.

* The significance of this to Albanov was that sixty nautical miles equals one degree of latitude.

 

 

We will once again have to make do with a cold meal due to lack of fuel. This precarious situation is extremely upsetting to me, since I am entirely responsible for it. I find it odd that this fails to worry my companions. Not only are they incapable of any serious thoughts, but they also lack determination and enterprising spirit. Their interest in our daily tasks is solely motivated by their desire to reach home: Serious or critical situations drain them of all their strength. My concern for their future is sometimes an enormous burden to me, but they scarcely realize it!

Today we have covered just over a mile; cold, misty weather.

 

 

Further calamitous events! Yesterday three of the men almost drowned. Fortunately, their shipmates were able to rescue them in time. But our shotgun and “stove” were immersed in corrosive seawater, and most of our remaining fuel was lost. As a result, our meat must now be eaten raw. We have reached the end of the polynya, and must continue our trek without further delay. The entire region is shrouded in fog; not long ago we could still see a lot of water sky.

 

 

Yesterday our kayaks hardly made any headway as the water was obstructed by chunks of ice, which made our crossing particularly difficult. Today we were luckier and were able to paddle roughly six miles to the south-southwest. Our kayaks have been very useful; we can fit all our belongings in the bottom of their hulls and then sit comfortably on top of them. Although our craft are not completely waterproof, they transport us quickly and safely wherever we find a favorable lead.

I paddled ahead of the others with the sailor Nilsen. When we reached the edge of the open water, I climbed on top of a high block of ice to search the horizon. I could see only two of our kayaks, the other two being probably too far away. Two hours went by, and the kayaks still had not arrived.