In the Land of White Death: An Epic Story of Survival in the Siberian Arctic (18 page)

After about two hours on the water, just as we were in the middle of the channel, a strong north wind sprang up and soon increased to hurricane level.

What had begun as an easy crossing had suddenly changed into a battle against the elements, putting both our frail kayaks and their crews in great danger. At the same time, to make things worse, we must have been caught in a tidal current, for we were swept out toward the open sea at an alarming speed. This all happened within a matter of seconds. In a flash the mirror-smooth surface had changed into a foaming, roiling sea, covered in a thick fog, and icebergs had begun to float out from the straits to threaten us. Our miserable little kayaks were tossed up and down like children’s toys, swamped by waves, and left to the mercy of a cruel sea, whose rage seemed to well from its very depths. At the same time there arose yet another potentially fatal calamity. Our sledges were lashed crosswise across the bows of our light kayaks, which frequently caused the puny vessels to turn broadside to the pounding seas, threatening to capsize us. Or, if we managed to run before the wind, the weight of the sledges on the bows made the kayaks nosedive dangerously into the waves. And that was not all: The fog and the surrounding icebergs hid the other kayak from our sight, as well as the islands. But what we could see all too clearly was that we were being blown toward the open ocean with frightening speed, much faster than the icebergs were.

It soon became obvious that it was useless to continue this unequal struggle against the storm and the sea, and we decided to try to approach an ice floe and climb onto it if possible. We managed to drift up to an iceberg on the port side, hoist ourselves onto it, and drag our kayak up after us. I could not be sure of the iceberg’s draft, so to speak, but it rose roughly twelve feet above the water level. The waves crashed onto our unstable platform with frightening force, but the iceberg stood firm and deflected their power.

We immediately searched for the other kayak, but without success, even from the top of our perch. Nevertheless, to show we were still afloat, we raised a flag from the top of a tall pole, in the hope that Lunayev would catch sight of our signal and reply.

It was impossible to continue our crossing until the storm abated, and as we were exhausted, we decided to get some rest and try to sleep.

The storm raged all around our floating fortress, and it was bitterly cold. Luckily each of us had his malitsa and we pulled them up over our heads without putting our arms in the sleeves. Then we huddled together in a hollow with Konrad’s legs up against my back, inside my fur, and mine inside his. We removed our boots and covered ourselves with care, closing all the gaps and pulling our heads down into the malitsi. We were able to keep warm but we found it somewhat difficult to breathe. Because we were so tired we fell asleep at once, and for seven or eight hours were lost in a dreamless slumber.

But our awakening was terrifying. There was a dreadful cracking sound and suddenly we found ourselves in the water. Our double “sleeping bag” filled with water and began to drag us toward the bottom. We struggled desperately to get out of this sheath, which, to our downfall, we had bound up far too well; the lower ends of the fur had been tucked in tightly, and the whole thing was frozen and stiff as a board. We were like two unwanted kittens thrown together in a sack to be drowned.

It was at that instant that I discovered how true it is that moments of extreme danger seem to last an eternity. I do not know for how many seconds we struggled in the water, but it seemed a very long time. During that brief instant, every stage of our journey flashed vividly through my mind with the speed of lightning. I saw the deaths of our three comrades; I saw Lunayev and Shpakovsky carried away in the midst of the storm, and finally myself and Konrad about to be drowned. I can remember exactly what I was thinking: “Who will ever know how we died?” “No one!” I told myself. The idea that no one would ever know how we had fought against these indomitable elements, and that our end would remain a mystery forever, was an unspeakable torture to me. My last ounce of strength rebelled against such an unsung disappearance. And in the midst of this torment I recalled my dream and its prophecy. Had it only been a vain illusion? Impossible! At that precise moment I was suddenly possessed with unknown strength; my feet met Konrad’s, and we pushed each other out of our deadly shroud.

Once we were free we found ourselves standing on the lower edge of the iceberg, water up to our chests, while all around us floated reindeer hides, boots, gloves, and a dozen other objects that we hurriedly fished out of the sea. The furs were incredibly heavy, as was the blanket, which we could not pull out of the sea and finally left to the waves. The icy wind was dying down, the storm seemed to be abating; but we were still in the water, our feet were frozen stiff, and we shivered so much that our teeth chattered. And what now? Would we die of cold? That was all I could think of.

But benign Providence once again showed us the way to safety. As if in reply to my anxious question, “What is going to happen now?” our kayak crashed into the water from the top of the iceberg. And it fell perfectly; after all, everything depended on that! If the sailcloth hull had been torn open on a sharp edge of ice, our fate would have been sealed irrevocably. We would have drifted with the iceberg out into the ocean to perish. But now we would have to summon up our last remaining strength. We quickly tossed the objects we had rescued into the kayak, wrung out our jackets and socks, put on those clothes that were the least sodden, and dismantled the sledge in order to stow it on the kayak. Then we rowed with the courage of desperation. We had to get warm again; our survival depended upon it. I realize today that this hard rowing is what saved us.

The fog soon lifted. The sky grew brighter and the islands came into view again. Bell Island was the nearest, the same island we had left behind on the morning of that ill-fated day. It was now eight to ten miles away. We advanced quickly, although a headwind slowed us down. Because we were not using our legs, they were freezing cold. We tried wherever possible to head for the leeward side of the large floes to find shelter from the wind. With a last burst of energy we finally reached Bell Island after having paddled for roughly six hours. As soon as we were on solid shore ice, we ran madly about to get the blood flowing through our stiff frozen legs. But the place where we had landed was exposed to the wind and our efforts were in vain. We tried to warm ourselves by building a bonfire with the remains of our sledge, skis, bandages from our medical kit—in short, anything that would burn. As soon as the flames caught, we wrung out our fur hides and crouched close to the fire. We had been lucky enough to shoot a few diving ducks, which made an excellent soup. The soup went some way toward restoring us, but we were far from dry. During a night of insomnia, feverish tremors racked my body. Konrad did not lie down at all, but ran about incessantly so he would not succumb to the cold.

The next morning brought better weather. The sun broke through the clouds, the wind died down, and the sea grew calmer. But we remained desperate in mind and body. Both of us could not stop shivering, and Konrad’s toes were frozen. But we refused to give in to despair. Action alone could save us, and we decided to set off at once for Cape Flora, but not until we had shot a few ducks, for we had no provisions left of any sort.

 

 

 

Only now, after all our trials and misadventures, am I becoming myself again. I am sitting in a small, warm hut at Cape Flora on Northbrook Island. There is a fire burning in a cast-iron stove. As hot as it is inside the hut, I suffer from fits of shivering. I have just finished bandaging Konrad’s frozen toes.

We now have an abundance of provisions. On the table there is a plate of ship’s biscuits. If one steams a biscuit carefully, one can produce bread—real white bread! It is now more than two weeks since we ate even moldy rye biscuits; we haven’t seen white biscuits for much longer, since they ran out on board the
Saint Anna.
But I will relate the events in the order in which they occurred:

On the ninth, it must have been around five in the morning when we set off again for Cape Flora. And once more, as on the previous ill-fated attempt, the weather was splendid, but we had learned our terrible lesson and no longer trusted this apparent calm. We chose the narrowest passage for our crossing, and rowed the length of Bell Island toward the north, as far as Mabel Island, in order to avoid crossing the straits, where, as usual, a strong current was running, carrying ice floes and a few icebergs toward the south.

The kayak with Lunayev and Shpakovsky had no doubt disappeared; yet we still nurtured the faint hope that during our sleep on the iceberg, they had managed to reach Cape Flora. They were carrying our only rifle, all the ammunition, part of my diary, and a few documents. All we had left was the double-barreled shotgun with forty shells—a grossly inadequate supply that would not last long. If we reached the cape, we would somehow have to make bows and arrows, traps and snares in order to hunt for food.

I was reminded of the story about a team of Russian seal hunters who had been shipwrecked on one of the many islands of the Svalbard archipelago. They, too, had no weapons. Like the Swiss Family Robinson, they lived for seven years on that island, relatively happy and content. They fed and clothed themselves by hunting with bows and arrows. They built all sorts of traps that they put to good use. They were finally picked up by a ship that happened to call at the island. I thought of this story as we crossed the straits, so poorly armed. If any walruses chose to attack us, the outcome would certainly be disastrous. We might have had some chance of success against a bear, but bitter experience had taught us to avoid walruses at all costs.

Although we put a great effort into our paddling on that fine day, our progress was slow. It was not until nine in the morning that we approached Northbrook Island, whose shores we carefully explored, keeping a sharp lookout for any signs of human settlement. We were driven by the same spirit of determination that we had experienced on the ice pack before we first discovered land; it was therefore not surprising that our imaginations would at times conjure up the mirage of a cabin where there was in fact only a large rock. As we drew nearer to the west coast of the island, we veered to the south and paddled along a stretch of shore where it seemed most promising to land. As we wove our way among the ice floes, we saw a good number of walruses basking in the sun, but, needless to say, we carefully avoided them.

We soon came upon a good landing place, so we made for the shore. Columbus himself, first stepping onto the soil of the New World, could not have been more moved than we were that day as we beached our kayak. After such a terrible journey that had lasted for over three months, we had finally reached our goal! We stood on Cape Flora.

Our stiffened legs would no longer support us, and we had to lie down on the ground. It was fortunate that we arrived no later than we did: We had never felt so exhausted, and our weakness was a cause of great worry. Perhaps some invidious illness was going to strike us down at the last minute, and the fate of Arhireyev and Nilsen still awaited us.

For even if our legs had not refused to obey us, we felt sick and broken. Only an irresistible curiosity managed to bolster our weary spirits. Lying on our backs, we began to rub our legs vigorously and exercised them as best we could. Then, tentatively, we tried jumping up and down while hanging on to the kayak. After a while, our efforts were rewarded. Our legs gradually loosened up and came back to life. Armed with binoculars and shotgun, we set off eagerly in search of the famous Jackson camp, but soon doubts mingled with our hopes: What if we found nothing but ruins?

The entire shoreline was exposed rock, without soil or clay, and formed a vast stretch of land running from east to west. To the north of this barren beach, the island rose in large terraces that ended in a wall of vertical basalt columns like those we had observed on other capes. The shore unfolded ahead of us in a long, undulating line that curved slightly to the left, in such a way that allowed us to take in the entire coastline at a single glance. Above the basalt cliffs, the island appeared to be capped by glaciers. Countless streams tumbled down from the heights toward the sea. The snow had already melted in places that caught the most sun; heather was growing everywhere, and on the slopes we found the same flowers we had seen at Cape Harmsworth. But Nature was more generous here than on the other capes we had visited. Cape Flora certainly lived up to its name.

There was mud and standing water everywhere; the ground was saturated with runoff, and in places it had been eroded and deeply scoured by the rushing water. The rocks were inhabited by scores of birds, whose strident cries were startling after our silent passage across the vast sea. Little gray birds that reminded us of our Russian snipe ran across the ground among the large boulders. The coastline was almost free of ice; only a few blackened, landfast floes were visible here and there.

We hurried our steps, stumbling over stones, but were often forced to stop and rest our legs, which were still quite stiff. As we traveled on, we saw in the distance the vague outline of something that appeared to be made by the hand of man, which soon disappeared behind a large rock. About 300 yards farther, we thought we could see a tall pole behind the boulder. As we drew nearer, we saw that it was not an illusion: The pole became increasingly clear. There could be no more doubt; a very special surprise was in store for us. It could hardly be a tree as there are no trees at Cape Flora. We moved forward, more and more excited. A few yards farther on, a second pole came into sight to the left of the first one, and now we could see something attached to each one. . . . The mystery would soon be revealed.