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Up at the crack of an Arctic dawn today. Today's the day that I am going to see the ice team – or so I thought.
I talked to them late last night. They sounded happy and excited. It’s resupply day for them. That means extra rations of food, fresh socks and thermals and the thing they fantasize most about, an extra 5-litre can of fuel. With the latter they can heat the tent to their hearts content, dry their clothes, thaw out their sleeping bags and warm body parts that have been cold for the last 15 days, most importantly their toes.
So, off to the airport Charlie and I went. The pilots reported good weather at all of our landing spots and that the team had called in saying that they had found the ideal runway. All was good. Ahead of us was a 12-hour day of flying and getting cold, but that didn't matter, we were going to see the Ice Team.
The journey consists of four legs. The first leg of two hours should get us to the edge of the sea ice to refuel at a disused weather station. Re-fuelling takes about 45 minutes, so we’ll have to wander around at -40C trying to keep warm. Then two hours on to the ice to land with the Ice Team. There, if conditions permit, we'll have up to an hour on the ice to sort resupplies and mend any of the equipment that needs it. This is set to involve replacing a battery in one bit of equipment and down loading a program into another. At room temperature no problem, at -40 degrees C, a different story.
Take off was smooth and we were on our way. The scenery is spectacular. Geology, glaciology, and whatever oily frozen sea ice is, in the raw. We flew over mile after mile of white, barren, but stunningly beautiful landscape. There are lone mountaintops that have been shattered by the glaciers that surround them – the same glaciers that flow down into the frozen sea.
From up in the plane the conditions that the Ice Team report daily suddenly come to life. Areas of seemingly impassable jumbles of ice boulders, great pressure ridges disappearing into the distance and, interspersed amongst the mess, areas of flat smooth ice pans (well they look smooth from up here). I can imagine the joy of coming across one of these flat pans after hours of hauling a heavy sledge over boulders and huge ridges. No open water though. There are signs of great rifts in the older ice, but they have been refrozen by glass smooth new ice.
What a beautiful day.
Clear skies from horizon to horizon and I am going to see my friends. A few concerns mingle in the back of my mind though. Did I pack everything that they wanted? I checked the lists 10 times or so, as some of the gear could be crucial to their survival. But still, did I? What is the landing on the ice going to be like? Smooth or bumpy? Will we damage the plane on landing (unlikely, but still a possibility) and will I have to stay on the ice until a plane can get to us a day or two later? Can I do all the fixes and modifications that I have to do at such low temperatures without getting frost-damaged fingers?
The pilot turns around and says, “20 minutes until landing”. First leg done I think to myself.
10 minutes to go until landing. I'd better wake up Charlie.
5 kilometres out. Bugger there’s some cloud ahead! The first that we've seen today.
We are above the landing site. We can’t see a thing. The cloud has completely obscured the landing site.
We circle tfor 20 minutes. Nothing! The pilot turns and signals it’s a no go today.
Can we wait it out? No, we only have enough fuel to get us back to Resolute. Can we land and get some fuel somewhere else? No, Resolute is the nearest fuel.
Now back in my warm room in Resolute I feel absolutely deflated - so near yet so far. If I feel like this, how do the ice team feel? The one small consolation, for me, is that I did not have to put through the call to the Ice Team to tell them it was off for today.
Let’s hope we’re more successful tomorrow!
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