October 22, 1975: Wednesday

Kiwi’s are always slow. And never on time. Got everything rounded up and down to the pad about fifteen ‘til nine. The surveyor was already there. Orville got us a drill that I picked up from the Chalet. Then ran down to the pad.

I had the impression from Cal that helo people were snobbish. That’s not so. They were very, very friendly, and helpful, and used to novice passengers. Our pilot was Lieutenant Commander Gordon. He’s short, with a sometimes gray beard and a pug nose. The copilot seemed to be a new guy. A third crewman always rides with the helo. He’s stationed at the rear right cargo-passenger door. His name was Auskaps, with freckles and twinkling eyes. Before we took off, Gordon told the copilot what the ignition switch was for, without even laughing.

Auskaps takes a fire extinguisher, gets out, and makes sure everything is thumbs-up before lift off. It’s not. There’s not enough charge in the batteries. So we hook up to a little gadget, and pretty soon it’s thumbs-up.

Auskaps gets in, leaves the door open, and watches the landing gear during lift off. You have to wear a helmet, in case you hit the roof, and to protect your ears from the noise. I got to wear a headset, plugged into the roof with a little button you push to talk to the rest of the crew. I had to wear one, because I was the only person who knew where the drill site was.

I realize why they used to call them “gyrocoptors,” because before you get off the ground, you oscillate in 360 degrees while lurching up and down on the springs. Then you’re off, floating. It feels, like, so smooth and easy. And the ground rushes away from your window and the shadow of the helo flies against the ice.

We fly at a medium height. The tracks are separate and the flags visible. I thought how smooth the ride was until I took a picture. Jolt, jolt, jolt. I hope 1/1000 is enough to catch things.

The first thing you notice from the air is the line of open water, a lake of dark blue gray in the ice white sea. Then you notice the line of the shelf ice and across the horizon, the edge of the rubble that makes up the Dirty Ice.

The pilots are worried about the road, which leads close to the edge of the water. I inform them about ice thickness, who’s in the party we’re going to meet, etc.

Antarctica has been made worthwhile (again), listening to the experienced pilot tell the young copilot what to do with all the switches (and I mean it’s got a control panel that makes a truck driver’s dash look like a tinker toy), and finally let him take control. And I’m part of this conversation, electronically.

And there, in front of me, the Mountain Debrushka, like a beacon, white and gray against the soft blue sky.

We turn north and follow the tracks and flags and, at Butler Point, the fresh tracks depart from the old ones. Gordon gives the young pilot a geography lesson.

I spot the Navy flagging party, with Cal and Don, about two miles from 1A. They think that’s 1A, and I correct them, telling them to fly on further. We come in right over the top of the iceberg, it’s a monstrous thing, circle camp, and land.

Gordon tells the copilot what he did wrong during the landing. He didn’t bounce up and down to make sure the snow was hard.

They even helped us unload, took pictures of everything, and took off, measuring the height of the iceberg. It’s 300 feet high. Not sure how long.

Dr. Treves, Peter, and Mike were waiting for us, very happy and in a good humor. They had already dug a 3 feet by 3 feet hole halfway through the ice. They were glad to see the drill. Their drill had lost the nut and bit that held the drill rod on.

The ice was 195 cm thick. I got my picture taken taking notes for the surveyor. He looks a bit like Bio-Mike.

Cal, Howie, Don, and Otis show up and we have eleven people at the site. The SAR (Search and Rescue) vehicle is like a Winnebago motor home. They got hot sleeping in it last night. The reason they stopped just out of town was to tighten the track.

Cal and Peter took the pick-up (if it could get across, 590 should very easily) and put a network of flags around the camp to use as survey points when we do our depth chart of the area. The surveyor made his solar observations and made bearings on the icebergs, which are probably grounded. If the angle changes, we know the fast ice is moving.

We take turns in the hole with the chain saw (even me!), cutting the ice into blocks that we chip loose and throw out, gradually getting down to the water. Once a hole has been put through, the whole hole fills up rapidly. We tie a line around the person in the hole and chip away.

I act as a relay between Peter in the pick-up, Otis communicating with him, and the surveyor, who is siting the flags as they drive to them.

I talk to Otis. He’s a heavy equipment driver and it’s his second year on the ice. He’s not bothered by driving a Nodwell across the ice. He’s very interested about what we’re doing. While the chain saw was buzzing, he asked me how deep it was. I said 400 feet.

He asked, “How much rock are you going to dig a hole in after that?”

“1000 feet.”

“No way.” He turned around and headed for the truck.

“Well, not all of it today.”

Mike burned a hole in my jump suit from the chain saw exhaust. They used a little McCullough and didn’t even start the big one we brought along.

I was in the SAR when Terry hit water. He got about half the hole bottom out before he scrambled out. We lost both ice breaker bars into the deep, and the spout for a five gallon gas can.

The helo landed; we had a total of fifteen people gathered around the hole. They brought the mogas, two shovels, and a net. We cleared the hole of ice, using the tripod to break off the rest of what was in the bottom.

Dr. Treves wanted me to take lots of pictures. He even told me to go ahead while people were working. Then he talked to Gordon abut taking pictures of the camp from the air, with low-angle obliques of the iceberg, camp, and coast line.

So when we got back in the air, at 600 hundred feet, the pilot leaned the aircraft over, Auskaps opened the door, I leaned out and clicked away. Almost felt like a professional photographer.

Didn’t even think about the fact that I was leaning out of a helicopter 600 feet above the ground. It’s pictures I’ll probably never have a chance to take again.

The helo has a motion like a motion picture moving at slightly slow speed. A jerky, frame-by-frame motion across the window.

The other Navy guy is Joe Hendly. He has to go to Marble Point to check on the equipment there. The Outhouse is still standing, but the Wall to the Catabolic Winds has caved in considerably. The Jamesways are filled with snow, again, and the Navy people had to say “hello” to the Nurses at Marble Point. I picked up Sam’s red parka and white balaclava in the Wannigan.

On the way home, I get the pilot to let me get some shots of the camp, iceberg, and open water beyond, seals all over the place with splotches of blood on the snow and young pups following their mothers. I took well over fifty pictures in five hours.

On the way home we try to contact McMurdo. Can’t get them, so we call Christchurch, which relays the message. You can get McMurdo from the SAR vehicle on the ground. Yesterday they had to go through the South Pole to get a message to McMurdo. Strange.

We return and I run up to the Chalet to have them call our truck down. No luck. The administrative assistant helps, but one of the drillers beats us down to the pad in 587.

He and I take things up to the lab. I take the coat to Sam. He’s glad to see it, hugs it, and expresses his happiness.

I go eat, talk to Dave, who is sitting at the officer’s table. I sit next to the blonde-haired lady officer. I know who she reminds me of, Christie G. The dark-haired one looks like a Sullivan with a bit of Lindy Doty thrown in.

I can’t remember when I’ve been so tired and not realized it. I went to sleep at six, didn’t stir until nine, took a shower, wrote this, and retired. I’ll run the negatives tomorrow.