In the Land of White Death: An Epic Story of Survival in the Siberian Arctic (10 page)

 

The first of June is my saint’s day. What a wonderful gift of Providence it would be if we could reach the 82nd parallel by that day!

 

 

During a dead calm, a thick fog rolled in during the night. Earlier I had noticed vast patches of water sky, while a remarkably luminous cloud floated above the horizon to the south and south-southeast. The cloud was concave in the middle and its edges blended into the horizon but it stood out very clearly. I observed it attentively through the binoculars but finally gave up all hopes of discerning land. And yet this unusual cloud might have been the reflection of a glacier lying on solid earth!

Yesterday evening I decided to increase our speed, but I must concede already that the best intentions do not automatically bring the desired results. The conditions have deteriorated so dramatically that it now requires a superhuman effort to force the sledges through the snow, which has become extremely slushy underneath. If that were not bad enough, wretched polynyas constantly hinder our sluggish progress, forcing us to make huge detours that do nothing to keep us from sinking into the slush. The kayaks are useless for crossing the polynyas, moreover, because of dangerous chunks of floating ice. Despite untold efforts we have advanced little more than two and a half miles to the south. We halted at the edge of a particularly bad stretch of open water and set up camp.

Fog all day long, with that dull light that makes one’s eyes so terribly painful. At the moment mine hurt so much that I see this diary only as through a veil, and hot tears run down my cheeks. From time to time I have to stop writing and bury my head in my malitsa. Only in complete darkness does the pain gradually abate, allowing me to open my eyes again.

In the morning the wind was out of the northwest, but veered to the northeast in the afternoon, and the horizon was quite dark. We tried to gauge the depth of the water, but our sounding line was too short. This abortive effort nevertheless allowed us to conclude that we were drifting noticeably southward, for the plumb line was definitely tilted toward the north. We also tried to shoot a few auks and a seal; but Diana must not have been pleased with us, for our prey escaped and we were left empty-handed.

Tomorrow the civilized world will be celebrating Pentecost. How delightful it must be in the south, while we languish here so miserably, drifting at latitude 82°30´ north.

 

 

Whitsunday: Today we were overjoyed. First of all we came upon the sort of lead that is normally difficult to cross, and yet we managed to dispatch it with relative ease and advance nearly two miles toward the south. One of the men came with me in my kayak. As soon as we had crossed the channel I disembarked, took a noon sight, and found 82°21´. I could not believe my eyes and immediately suspected an error. But a second calculation confirmed the first result. I had not been mistaken. This was a great surprise, a real Whitsuntide treat. And that would not be the only one, for soon the men in the last kayak came to tell me that they had shot a polar bear!

This announcement was indeed very welcome news to us all. The last time we had eaten roasted bear had been on board the
Saint Anna,
around September last year, and today we would again be very gratefully sitting down to a wonderfully plentiful meal—what inexpressible joy! Just as we had been picturing the future with grave concern, good fortune had sent us this “royal dish,” as Sverdrup* called it, which, in addition to feeding us, would provide us with fuel. Three kayaks immediately made ready to go back for the precious bounty, whose hide and fat would help us keep warm. We cut up the rest according to the rules of the meat-cutter’s art. The most skilled master butcher could not have done better. We removed the magnificent pelt, along with fat, to use as fuel (the skin, worth 200 rubles, had to be burned to save our own skins). The blood was collected in containers, and that same evening we had a choice of boiled or roasted bear meat. The liver, eaten raw with salt, is a real delicacy! The men were completely transformed. A boisterous good humor replaced their disheartened lassitude; hope and courage blossomed before my eyes. Their spirits soared. I would never have believed that they could have enjoyed themselves so much. Heaven had sent us succor at a time of utter distress, and our gratitude for this miraculous gift was apparent in our overflowing happiness.

The wind seems to be shifting; sometimes it blows from the south, sometimes the southwest or east-southeast. The sky is clear, the sun even feels hot, and the entire landscape sparkles with a dazzling whiteness, which is unbearably painful to our unprotected eyes.

 

 

We are still at the same camp, cutting up the bear meat. There is a flurry of activity both outside and inside the tent. Cooking, roasting, melting the fat, etc. I have been trying to dry some strips of meat in the wind. Now that we have at last been able to eat our fill, our energy and confidence in the face of danger have once more gained the upper hand.

Four of our men went looking for a good route. The weather is still excellent today, very clear with a strong northerly wind. Although my eyes are very sore, I was able, with great difficulty, to take a sun sight that gave me a reading of latitude 82°20´ north. The wind has therefore pushed us southward one whole nautical mile over the last twenty-four hours. As I walked with my sextant to a nearby observation site, I noticed the tracks of two polar bears.

 

 

Yesterday we struck camp at ten
P.M.
to continue our route toward the south. But we were forced to stop after three hours because there was so much shattered ice that we could not continue. Wind again from the west.

I will have to take back my praise for polar bear liver! On board the
Saint Anna
there had been rumors about the drawbacks or even the dangers of eating it. We had paid little heed to them then, and in any case at that time had no opportunity to taste it. Now I am convinced that the warnings were well founded. Bear liver is obviously very harmful to one’s health. All those who ate it came down with headaches and dizzy spells, as if we had been poisoned by carbon monoxide. The discomfort spread throughout the body and our stomachs suffered dreadfully. We were forced to accept the truth of the proverb that wisdom comes only through hardship, and I swore never again to eat bear liver, no matter how much it might tempt my palate.*

Another violent snowstorm during the night.

 

 

The blizzard continued into the day and kept us in our tent until noon. The wind shifted first to the south then the east. In the afternoon we risked a departure and were plagued for the rest of the day by innumerable cracks and channels. It was hard work. Often our feet would plunge into a foot of water beneath the slushy snow. In spite of all our efforts we got no farther than two and a half miles; we were exhausted and soaked to the skin. We tried taking a depth sounding, but the plumb line was still not on the bottom at seventy fathoms, though the line’s angle through the water confirmed that we were drifting southward once again.

Despite this heartening conclusion, our situation was hardly to be envied. Nobody had any doubts about that, and I was not at all surprised when the sailor Konrad, followed by four other crewmen, came to see me that evening to express their wish to abandon the kayaks and sledges and continue on skis. Although I thought it extremely risky to resort to such measures at this stage, I could not refuse their request, given the fact that my way of doing things held equally scant promise of success.

I put forward a few objections, explaining that—depending on the circumstances—without kayaks we risked finding ourselves in some very critical situations. I argued that we could still continue pulling the sledges and kayaks, as they were not really that heavy. “Imagine how it will be,” I told them, “if we reach land and find ourselves with no warm clothes, no dishes or utensils, no ax, and none of the other important items we now have stowed in the boats.” I did not feel that I had convinced the men, but at least they remained silent. We had already started burning parts of our tent, and it would not be long before we dispensed with it. When traveling by kayak, the tent creates a problem because is it very cumbersome and has to be laid in a certain complicated way across the craft, and it is also quite dangerous due to its considerable weight, especially when wet.

An inventory of our supplies has shown that we still have sixteen bags of biscuits, our staple diet, which weigh three hundred and twenty pounds. To that we can add a few bags of ground peas and some bear meat. Our ammunition is almost as heavy as the biscuits. But with the best will in the world we simply cannot eliminate any of these vital items.

 

 

Endless channels, cracks, and polynyas have been hampering our progress. The ice pack is breaking up. Nansen told how he found a lot of fractured ice as he approached Franz Josef Land. All the channels lie east-west, not one of them running in the direction we wish to travel. Confronted by this confusion of fragmented ice floes, we feel as if we had been shipwrecked, and we wonder how we will ever find our way to safety.

Lunayev shot two seals today, so we shall now have fresh meat and blubber again for some time. Seal blubber when heated gives a much better light than bear fat; it ignites more easily, gives a clearer flame, and its ashes replace the wick.

The wind is out of the northeast. The ice pack is drifting to the southwest; every day it becomes clearer that we are moving ever southward. My sun sight today gave a position of 82°08.5´. May this good fortune never abandon or deceive us!

 

 

At dawn, a northwesterly wind, force 5.* Shortly after breakfast a violent blizzard arose. Nevertheless we prepared our kayaks and set off toward the south, over very difficult terrain. The ice floes are becoming smaller and smaller, forcing us to use our kayaks most of the day. As soon as we cross one stretch of open water, another one immediately becomes visible. Sometimes they are no farther apart than one to two hundred yards. It may be sea ice of this sort, which we are now encountering regularly, that Nansen compared to a fisherman’s net. In any case it seems that we are well and truly captured in such a net. May God give us the strength to emerge safe and sound from this unrelenting danger!

Even after pushing ourselves to the limit, today we hauled the sledges no more than two miles, though we are drifting irresistibly southward all the while. Not so long ago I hardly dared entertain the thought that we might reach the 82nd parallel by June 1! What colossal efforts would have been required for us to reach the goal of our dreams solely under our own power! If I compare our daily progress to that of a tortoise, it would be an insult to the poor tortoise. But I was to learn that miracles do exist, for today my noon calculation situated us at 82°01´, and as I write these lines, we have certainly drifted south of 82°!

If I look at my map, the extreme northern point of Prince Rudolf Land is situated at 82°12´. As we have already passed below 82°, that land must either be to the east or to the west of us; probably to the east, if our calculations of the
Saint Anna’s
drift were accurate. I am certain that we are drifting westward, as proved by the prevailing winds, the constant inclination of my sounding line, and even my chronometer, which has now become all but useless. My map shows two peaks of over twelve hundred feet on Prince Rudolf Land. If my figures are correct, I should have been able to see those peaks long ago, and yet I have seen nothing of the sort.

But my navigational tools are now almost worthless. What would I not give for a good chart and an accurate chronometer! Still, even if I had had a better timepiece, it probably would not have withstood the constant battering. The only service this particular chronometer has rendered is to prove, each time I shoot the sun, that we are almost always drifting to the west. Inside my kayak, it has also functioned as a most comfortable seat!

If we do manage to reach land and determine our coordinates, I should be able to trace our course on the map without error. Scanning the horizon for some sign of land is thus extremely important. But I cannot expect much assistance from my comrades in this regard, for they remain curiously indifferent to such matters. Hoping to persuade them to search the horizon from the top of a high block of ice now and then, I have promised twenty-five rubles to the first man who sights land.