September 9, 1975: Tuesday

Surprisingly, I’m awake at five a.m. Had a rough night’s sleep, too. Karen Aufenkamp and Greg Berger and their class got caught on the other side of a breaking away glacier. Karen was sweet.

We sit around waiting for the other vehicle to get their last minute details. It’s a snowtrack, a Volkswagen on tracks.

I get to sit in the middle of the Nodwell behind the engine and overlapping the gear shifter. I get to sit on a five-gallon bucket. It takes almost a half hour to figure out a comfortable position to shift in. It takes a good deal of physical dexterity to shift with me in the middle. But Cal’s too big to sit there.

We head out for the tip of the Dirty Ice. I thought it was southwest of McMurdo. It’s northwest. Oh, well, so I’m confused a bit. The Nodwell (R-41 as they say on the radio) is slow, but sure. The sea ice at the Tip is only 2 or 3 inches thick, so we have to go up on top of the Ice Shelf, which takes for ever because it’s rough. On the other side the ice is thick enough and we go chasing penguins, three of them. Emperors. Jack chases one and catches him. I stand out in the middle of them, looking like Harry Nillson amongst the fiddlers, while Cal takes a picture. You know, little Penguins, three feet high, carrying trays full of drinks and calling you “Guv’ner.”

It’s an endless ride towards the Blue Glacier. Another misconception, the Blue Glacier is on the right, not on the left. Distances are deceiving on the map.

I look for a mountain to name. The one hovering over the Blue Glacier is nice. It forms the bowl for the Hobbs Glacier (the one I thought was so pretty, it must be the Blue Glacier). Anyway, I don’t know if it has a name or not, and we don’t have a map.

At the next stop (the snow track gets way out ahead of us and has to wait for us to catch up), I look at the map, point the mountain out to the group, remark that it doesn’t have a name, and proclaim, “Hence forth and forevermore it shall be known as Mount Debrushka.”

I guess I’m just a helpless Romantic.

A sidebar: On the map its 1340 meters tall.

The mountain, twin spired and majestic, looks down upon the weathered Piedmont and the frozen Sound, glaciers on the left (the graceful, curving Hobbs, in delicate light it glows blue with a small silver cloud echoing its beautiful descent) and glaciers on the right (the Blue, in rushing torrents it cascades down to the ice). Between the spires, in shadowed light, a snowfield, gray, nestles its head against the second spire.

Alas this second peak may have a name. The map is ambiguous. The photos shall tell.

As we move on up the coast, the mountain is viewed sideways, instead of head on, the two peaks, side-by-side and slightly rounded. I think something obscenely remindful of Debbie’s figure and how adequate the mountain is. Debbie would blush, but be proud. I won’t mention it to her. She’ll probably see for herself (and bring it to my attention). She has a dirty mind.

I try to think of ways to make it official and get the name on the map. This will take some doing.

We continue our endless journey passed the Stranded Moraines (huge piles of ground up rubble left behind by a retreating glacier) and through New Harbour. I fell into the Ross Sea through a crack in the ice. Got my boot wet.

We stop at an iceberg and get samples for Dr. Nartsiss. I think it’s the strangest scene I’ve ever been in. Standing on a frozen sea, chipping ice from a towering ‘berg, bundled up in fur, wearing white “bunny” boots, and standing next to a snub-nosed tracked vehicle painted like a Coke truck (with out Coke®).

I trade places with Jim, who has frost bite and needs to keep his fingers warm. The snowtrack is bumpy.

We finally get to Marble Point, our destination, 65 miles from McMurdo and an eleven hour drive. Marble Point has a collection of abandoned road equipment and gouges in the rock where roads were trying to be made.

The village itself has a marker for mapping purposes, a hut with a heater, a blown over Wannigan (hut on skis), two Jamesways over the hill, and several dozen barrels of DFA (drilling fluid), which is what the heater runs on. We clean things up (plenty of food in the hut, even a pot with ice in it), pull over the Wannigan, and set up two tents. The hut is six by six with six people in it. The Wannigan is full of snow and old lumber. Jack sleeps in there. I’ll sleep with Jim Newman (the Kiwi).

We eat Long Range Patrol Rations, called lerps. They’re a self-contained meal in a pouch. All you do is pour in hot water. They come with a spoon and a candy bar and either coffee or cocoa. Spaghetti and Beef with Rice are O.K., except they both come with coffee. I look through all sorts of packets, but never get cocoa.

I go to bed.