CHAPTER IX
MIDWINTER AND ITS WORK
With the advent of the fateful Ides of March, winter ii
had practically set in, and work outside had a chequered career. When a
few calm hours intervened between two blizzards a general rush was made
to continue some long-standing job. Often all that could be done was to
clear the field for action, that is, dig away large accumulations of snow.
Then the furies would break loose again, and once more we would play the
waiting game, meanwhile concerning ourselves with more sedentary occupations.
There was a familiar cry when, for some meteorological reason, the wind
would relapse into fierce gusts and then suddenly stop, to be succeeded
by intense stillness. ``Dead calm, up with the wireless masts!'' Every one
hastily dashed for his burberrys, and soon a crowd of muffled figures would
emerge through the veranda exit, dragging ropes, blocks, picks, and shovels.
There was no time to be lost.
So the erection of the wireless masts began in earnest on April 4, continued
feverishly till the end of the month, suffered a long period of partial
cessation during May and June, was revived in July and August, and, by September
1, two masts, each consisting of a lower-mast and top-mast, had been raised
and stayed, while between them stretched the aerial. For four weeks messages
were sent out, and many of them were caught by Macquarie Island. Nothing
was heard in Adelie Land, although, between certain hours, regular watches
were kept at the receiver. The aerial was about sixty-five feet from the
ground, and it was resolved to increase its height by erecting the top-gallant
masts; but before anything considerable could be done, a terrific gust of
wind on October 13 broke three wire-stays, and down came the mast, broken
and splintered by the fall. That is a brief resume of the fortunes of the
``wireless'' during the first year.
During February and March there were various other operations of more immediate
importance which prevented concentration of our workers on the erection
of the masts. There were many odd jobs to finish about the Hut, the Magnetograph
House and Absolute Hut were ``under way,'' the air-tractor sledge had to
be efficiently housed, and all these and many other things could be done
in weather during which it was out of question to hoist a mast into position.
At first we were fastidious and waited for a calm, but later, as we grew
more impatient, a top-mast was actually hauled up in a wind of thirty miles
per hour, with gusts of higher velocity. Such work would sometimes be interrupted
by a more furious outbreak, when all ropes would be secured and everything
made as ship-shape as possible.
On March 15 the following note was made: ``The wind was on the cool side
just after breakfast. A few loads of wireless equipment were sledged up
to the rocks at the back of the Hut, and by the time several masts were
carried to the same place we began to warm to the work. One of Hannam's
coils of frozen rope (one hundred and twenty fathoms) had become kinked
and tangled, so we dragged it up the ice-slope, straightened it out and
coiled it up again. Several `dead men' to hold the stays were sunk into
ice-holes, and, during the afternoon, one mast was dragged into position
by a willing crowd. Rocks were sledged to and packed around the `dead men'
in the holes to make them compact. Towards sundown snow clouds filled the
northern sky and a blizzard sprang up which is now doing sixty miles per
hour. We philosophically expect another week cooped up in the Hut.''
It took a long time to establish the twenty good anchorages necessary for
the masts. Within a radius of eighty yards from the centre, ice-holes were
dug, cairns of heavy boulders were built and rocky prominences dynamited
off to secure an efficient holding for the stout ``strops'' of rope. April
24 was a typical day: ``We spent the morning fixing up `strops' for the
wireless masts. The wind was blowing strongly in fifty- to sixty-mile gusts
with drift, but most of the fellows `stuck at it' all day. It was cold work
on the hands and feet. Handling picks and shovels predisposes to frost-bite.
Several charges of dynamite were fired in one hole wherein a mast will be
stepped.''
Each mast, of oregon timber, was in four sections. The lowest section was
ten inches square and tapered upwards to the small royal mast at a prospective
height of one hundred and twenty feet. At an early stage it was realized
that we could not expect to erect more than three sections. Round the steel
caps at each doubling a good deal of fitting had to be done, and Bickerton,
in such occupation, spent many hours aloft throughout the year. Fumbling
with bulky mitts, handling hammers and spanners, and manipulating nuts and
bolts with bare hands, while suspended in a boatswain's chair in the wind,
the man up the mast had a difficult and miserable task. Bickerton was the
hero of all such endeavours. Hannam directed the other workers who steadied
the stays, cleared or made fast the ropes, pulled and stood by the hauling
tackle and so forth.
One day the man on the top-mast dislodged a heavy engineering hammer which
he thought secure. No warning was given, as he did not notice that it had
fallen. It whizzed down and buried itself in the snow, just grazing the
heads of Close and Hodgeman.
The ropes securing the aerial and running through various blocks were in
constant danger of chafing during the frequent hurricanes, from their proximity
to the mast and stays, or from friction on the sharp edges of the blocks.
Unknown to us, this had happened to a strong, new manilla rope by which
Murphy was being hauled to the top of the lower-mast. It gave way, and,
but for another rope close by, which he seized to break his fall, an accident
might have ensued.
Frost-bites were common. There were so many occasions when one had to stand
for a long time gripping a rope, pulling or maintaining a steady strain,
that fingers would promptly become numb and feet unbearably cold. The usual
restorative was to stamp about and beat the chest with the hands--an old
sailor's trick. Attempting to climb to a block on the top-gallant mast one
day, McLean had all his fingers frost-bitten at the same time.
In May the weather was atrocious, and in June building the Astronomical
Hut and digging ice-shafts on the glacier absorbed a good many hands. In
July, despite the enthusiasm and preparation for sledging, much was done.
On August 10 the long looked-for top-mast of the southern mast became a
reality:
``We were early astir--about 7 A.M.--while the pink coloration of dawn was
stealing over the peaceful Barrier. For once, after months, it was perfectly
still. We hurried about making preparations--hauled Bickerton up to the
cross-trees and awaited the moment when we should raise the top-mast. We
pulled it up half-way and Bickerton affixed a pin in its centre, above which
two stays were to be attached. Suddenly, down came the wind in terrific
gusts and, after securing the stays, the job had to be given up.... We were
just about to have
lunch when the wind ceased as suddenly as it had begun. We all sallied out
once more, and, this time, completed the job, though for a while the top-mast
was in imminent peril of being blown away by a
sharp northerly gust.''
Next day the aerial was hoisted in a wind of sixty miles
per hour, but the strain was so severe on the block, upwind, that it carried
away. Fortunately the insulators of the aerial were entangled by the stays
in their fall to ground, otherwise some one may have been hurt, as there
were a dozen men almost directly below.
Six days after this accident, August 17, the top-mast halliard of the down-wind
mast frayed through, and as a stronger block was to be affixed for the aerial,
some one had to climb up to wire it in position. Bickerton improvized a
pair of climbing irons, and, after some preliminary practice, ascended in
fine style.
Finally, by September 30, the aerial was at such a height as to give hope
that long-distance messages might be despatched. There was a certain amount
of suppressed excitement on the evening of that day when the engine started
and gradually got up speed in the dynamo. The sharp note of the spark rose
in accompanying crescendo and, when it had reached its highest pitch, Hannam
struck off a message to the world at large. No response came after several
nights of signalling, and, since sledging had usurped every other interest,
the novelty soon wore off.
``Atmospherics''--discharges of atmospheric electricity--and discharges
from the drift-snow were heard in the wireless receiver.
While messages were being sent, induction effects were noted in metallic
objects around the Hut. A cook at the stove was the first to discover this
phenomenon, and then every one conceived a mania for ``drawing'' sparks.
A rather stimulating experience--the more so as it usually happened unexpectedly
and accidentally--was to brush one's head against one of the numerous coils
of flexible metal gas-piping festooned about the place. Sparks immediately
jumped the interval with startling effect.
October 13, the day when the mast blew down, was known in wireless circles
as Black Sunday. All had worked keenly to make the ``wireless'' a success,
and the final event was considered to be a public misfortune. However, the
honours were to be retrieved during the following year.
It fell to the lot of most of the Staff that they developed an interest
in terrestrial magnetism. For one thing every man had carried boulders to
the great stockade surrounding the Magnetograph House. Then, too, recorders
were regularly needed to assist the magnetician in the absolute Hut. There,
if the temperature were not too low and the observations not too lengthy,
the recorder stepped out into the blizzard with the conviction that he had
learned something of value, and, when he sat down to dinner that night,
it was with a genial sense of his own altruism. In his diary he would write
it all up for his own edification.
It would be on this wise: The Earth's magnetic force, which is the active
agent in maintaining the compass-needle in the magnetic meridian** at any
particular spot, acts, not as is popularly supposed, in a horizontal plane,
but at a certain angle of inclination with the Earth's surface. The nearer
the magnetic poles the more nearly vertical does the freely suspended needle
become. At the South Magnetic Pole it assumes a vertical position with the
south end downwards; at the North Magnetic Pole it stands on its other end.
At the intermediate positions near the equator the whole force is exerted,
swinging the needle in the horizontal plane, and in such regions ordinary
ships' compasses pivoted to move freely only in a horizontal plane give
the greatest satisfaction. On approaching the magnetic poles, compasses
become sluggish, for the horizontal deflecting force falls off rapidly.
The force, acting in a vertical direction, tending to make the needle dip,
correspondingly increases, but is of no value for navigation purposes. However,
in the scientific discussion of terrestrial magnetism, both the horizontal
and vertical components as well as the absolute value of the total force
are important, and the determination of these ``elements'' is the work of
the magnetician. Affecting the average values of the ``magnetic elements''
at any one spot on the Earth's surface are regular diurnal oscillations,
apparent only by the application of very delicate methods of observation:
also there are sudden large irregular movements referred to as magnetic
storms; the latter are always specially noticeable when unusually bright
auroral phenomena are in progress.
** The magnetic meridian is the straight line joining the North and South
Magnetic Poles and passing through the spot in question.
The observations made in the ``Absolute Hut'', carried out at frequent intervals
and on each occasion occupying two men for several hours together, are necessary
to obtain standard values as a check upon the graphic record of the self-recording
instruments which run day and night in the ``Magnetograph House''.
But this is another story. Three hours, sitting writing figures in a temperature
of -15 degrees F., is no joke. The magnetician is not so badly off, because
he is moving about, though he often has to stop and warm his fingers, handling
the cold metal.
The Magnetograph House had by far the most formidable name. The Hut, though
it symbolized our all in all, sounded very insignificant unless it were
repeated with just the right intonation. The Absolute Hut had a superadded
dignity. The Hangar, in passing, scarcely seemed to have a right to a capital
H. The Transit House, on the and other hand, was the only dangerous rival
to the first mentioned. But what's in a name?
If the Magnetograph House had been advertised, it would have been described
as ``two minutes from the Hut.'' This can easily be understood, for the
magnetician after leaving home is speedily blown over a few hillocks and
sastrugi, and, coming to an ice-flat about one hundred and fifty yards wide,
swiftly slides over it, alighting at the snow-packed door of his house.
The outside porch is just roomy enough for a man to slip off burberrys and
crampons. The latter are full of steel spikes, and being capable of upsetting
magnetic equilibrium, are left outside. Walking in soft finnesko, the magnetician
opens an inner door, to be at once accosted by darkness, made more intense
after the white glare of the snow. His eyes grow accustomed to the blackness,
and he gropes his way to a large box almost concealing the feeble glimmer
of a lamp. The lamp is the source of the light, projected on to small mirrors
attached to the magnetic needles of three variometers. A ray of light is
reflected from the mirrors for several feet on to a slit, past which revolves
sensitized photographic paper folded on a drum moving by clockwork. The
slightest movements of the suspended needles are greatly magnified, and,
when the paper is removed and developed in a dark-room, a series of intricate
curves denoting declination, horizontal intensity and vertical force, are
exquisitely traced. Every day the magnetician attends to the lamp and changes
papers; also at prearranged times he tests his ``scale values'' or takes
a ``quick run.''
To obtain results as free as possible from the local] attraction of the
rocks in the neighbourhood, Webb resolved to take several sets of observations
on the ice-sheet. In order to make the determinations it was necessary to
excavate a cave in the glacier. This was done about three-quarters of a
mile south of the Hut in working shifts of two men. A fine cavern was hewn
out, and there full sets of magnetic observations were taken under ideal
conditions.
On sledging journeys the ``dip'' and declination were both ascertained at
many stations, around and up to within less than half a degree of the South
Magnetic Pole.
While the wind rushed by at a maddening pace and stars flashed like jewels
in a black sky, a glow of pale yellow light overspread the north-east horizon--the
aurora. A rim of dark, stratus cloud was often visible below the light which
brightened and diffused till it curved as a low arc across the sky. It was
eerie to watch the contour of the arc break, die away into a delicate pallor
and reillumine in a travelling riband. Soon a long ray, as from a searchlight,
flashed above one end, and then a row of vertical streamers ran out from
the arc, probing upwards into the outer darkness. The streamers waxed and
waned, died away to be replaced and then faded into the starlight. The arc
lost its radiance, divided in patchy fragments, and all was dark once more.
This would be repeated again in a few hours and irregularly throughout the
night, but with scenic changes behind the great sombre pall of the sky.
North-west, northeast, and south-east it would elusively appear in nebulous
blotches, flitting about to end finally in long bright strands in the zenith,
crossing the path of the ``milky way.''
By the observer, who wrote down his exact observations in the meteorological
log, this was called a ``quiet night.''
At times the light was nimble, flinging itself about in rich waves, warming
to dazzling yellow-green and rose. These were the nights when ``curtains''
hung festooned in the heavens, alive, rippling, dancing to the lilt of lightning
music. Up from the horizon they would mount, forming a vortex overhead,
soundless within the silence of the ether.
A ``brilliant display,'' we would say, and the observer
would be kept busy following the track of the evanescent rays.
Powerless, one was in the spell of an all-enfolding wonder. The vast, solitary
snow-land, cold-white under the sparkling star-gems; lustrous in the radiance
of the southern lights;furrowed beneath the icy sweep of the wind. We had
come to probe its mystery, we had hoped to reduce it to terms of science,
but there was always the ``indefinable'' which held aloof, yet riveted our
souls.
The aurora was always with us, and almost without exception could be seen
on a dark, driftless night. The nature of the aurora polaris has not yet
been finally demonstrated, though it is generally agreed to be a discharge
of electricity occurring in the upper, more rarefied atmosphere. The luminous
phenomena are very similar to those seen when a current of electricity is
passed through a vacuum tube.
One receives a distinct impression of nearness, watching the shimmering
edges of the ``curtains''in the zenith, but all measurements indicate that
they never descend nearer than a few miles above the land-surface.
Careful records were taken to establish a relation between magnetic storms
and aurorae, and a good deal of evidence was amassed to support the fact
that auroral exhibitions correspond with periods of great magnetic disturbance.
The displays in Adelie Land were found to be more active than those which
occur in higher latitudes in the Ross Sea.
An occupation which helped to introduce variety in our life was the digging
of ice-shafts. For the purpose of making observations upon its structure
and temperature various excavations were made in the sea-ice, in the ice
of the glacier, and in that of the freshwater lakes. The work was always
popular. Even a whole day's labour with a pick and shovel at the bottom
of an ice-hole never seemed laborious. It was all so novel.
A calm morning in June, the sky is clear and the north ablaze with the colours
of sunrise--or is it sunset? The air is delicious, and a cool waft comes
down the glacier. A deep ultramarine, shading up into a soft purple hue,
blends in a colour-scheme with the lilac plateau. Two men crunch along in
spiked boots over snow mounds and polished sastrugi to the harbour-ice.
The sea to the north is glazed with freezing spicules, and over it sweep
the petrels--our only living companions of the winter. It is all an inspiration;
while hewing out chunks of ice and shovelling them away is the acute pleasure
of movement, exercise.
The men measure out an area six feet by three feet, and take a preliminary
temperature of the surface-ice by inserting a thermometer in a drilled hole.
Then the ice begins to fly, and it is not long before they are down one
foot. Nevertheless it would surprise those acquainted only with fresh water
ice to find how tough, sticky and intractable is sea-ice. It is always well
to work on a definite plan, channelling in various directions, and then
removing the intervening lumps by a few rough sweeps of the pick. At a depth
of one foot, another temperature is taken, and some large samples of the
ice laid by for the examination of their crystalline structure. This is
repeated at two feet, and so on, until the whole thickness is pierced to
the sea-water beneath. At three feet brine may begin to trickle into the
hole, and this increases in amount until the worker is in a puddle. The
leakage takes place, if not along cracks, through capillary channels, which
are everywhere present 1n sea-ice.
It is interesting to note the temperature gradually rise during the descent.
At the surface the ice is chilled to the air-temperature, say -10 degrees
F., and it rises in a steep gradient to approximately 28 degrees F.; close
to the freezing-point of sea water. The sea-ice in the boat-harbour varied
in thickness during the winter between
five and seven feet.
In contrast with sea-ice, the ice of a glacier is a marvel
of prismatic colour and glassy brilliance. This is more noticeable near
the surface when the sun is shining. Deep down in a shaft, or in an ice-cavern,
the sapphire reflection gives to the human face quite a ghastly pallor.
During the high winds it was always easy to dispose of the fragments of
ice in the earlier stages of sinking a shaft. To be rid of them, all that
was necessary was to throw a shovelful vertically upwards towards the lee-side
of the hole, the wind then did the rest. Away the chips would scatter, tinkling
over the surface of the glacier. Of course, when two men were at work, each
took it in turns to go below, and the one above, to keep warm, would impatiently
pace up and down. Nevertheless, so cold would he become at times that a
heated colloquy would arise between them on the subject of working overtime.
When the shaft had attained depth, both were kept busy. The man at the pit's
mouth lowered a bucket on a rope to receive the ice and, in hauling it up,
handicapped with clumsy mitts, he had to be careful not to drop it on his
companion's head.
The structural composition of ice is a study in itself. To the cursory glance
a piece of glacier-ice appears homogeneous, but when dissected in detail
it is found to be formed of many crystalline, interlocking grains, ranging
in size from a fraction of an inch to several inches in diameter. A grain-size
of a half to one inch is perhaps commonest in Antarctic glacier-ice.
The history of Antarctic glacier-ice commences with the showers of snow
that fall upon the plateau. The snow particles may be blown for hundreds
of miles before they finally come to rest and consolidate. The consolidated
snow is called neve, the grains of which are one-twenty-fifth to one hundredth
of an inch in diameter, and, en masse, present a dazzling white appearance
on account of the air spaces which occupy one-third to one-half of the whole.
In time, under the influence of a heavy load of accumulated layers of neve,
the grains run together and the air spaces are eliminated. The final result
is clear, transparent ice, of a more or less sapphire-blue colour when seen
in large blocks. It contains only occasional air-bubbles, and the size of
the grains is much increased.
Lake-ice, freezing from the surface downwards, is built up of long parallel
prisms, like the cells of a honey-comb on a large scale. In a lakelet near
the Hut this was beautifully demonstrated. In some places cracks and fissures
filled with snow-dust traversed the body of the ice, and in other places
long strings of beaded air-bubbles had become entangled in the process of
freezing. To lie down on the clear surface and gaze ``through the looking-glass''
to the rocky bottom, twenty feet below, was a glimpse into ``Wonderland.''
In the case of sea-ice, the simple prismatic structure is complicated owing
to the presence of saline matter dissolved in the sea water. The saline
tracts between the prisms produce a milky or opalescent appearance. The
prisms are of fresh water ice, for in freezing the brine is rejected and
forced to occupy the interstices of the prisms. Water of good drinking quality
can be obtained by allowing sea water ice to thaw partially. The brine,
of lower freezing-point, flows away, leaving only fresh water ice behind.
In this way blocks of sea-ice exposed to the sun's rays are relieved of
their salty constituents, and crumble into pellucid gravel when disturbed.
A popular subject commanding general interest, apart from the devoted attention
of specialists, was zoological collecting. Seals and birds were made the
prey of every one, and dredging through the sea-ice in
winter and spring was always a possible diversion.
It was a splendid sight to watch the birds sailing in the high winds of
Adelie Land. In winds of fifty to seventy miles per hour, when with good
crampons one had to stagger warily along the ice-foot, the snow petrels
and Antarctic petrels were in their element. Wheeling, swinging, sinking,
planing and soaring, they were radiant with life--the wild spirits of the
tempest. Even in moderate drift, when through swirling snow the vistas of
sea whitened under the flail of the wind, one suddenly caught the silver
flash of wings and a snow petrel glided past.
But most memorable of all were certain winter mornings of unexpected calm,
when ruddy clouds tessellated the northern sky and were mirrored in the
freezing sea. Then the petrels would be en fete, flying over from the east
following the line of the Barrier, winding round the icy coves, darting
across the jutting points and ever onward in their long migration. In the
summer they flew for weeks from the west--a never-ending string of snow,
silver-grey and Antarctic petrels, and Cape pigeons. The silver-grey petrels
and Cape pigeons were only abroad during that season and were accompanied
by skua gulls, giant petrels, Wilson petrels, and penguins. The penguins
remained in Adelie Land for the longest period--almost six months, the skua
gulls and giant petrels for five months, and the rest for a shorter period--the
tolerable season of midsummer.
Birds that haunt the wide oceans all make use of the soaring principle in
flight, some much more than others. The beautiful sliding sweep of the albatross
is the most familiar example. With wings outspread, it is a miniature aeroplane
requiring no engines, for the wind itself supplies the power. A slight movement
of the tail-feathers and wing-tips controls its balance with nice precision.
Birds employing this method of flight find their home in the zone of continuous
steady winds which blow across the broad wastes of the southern seas.
Many petrels on the wing were shot during the winter. Laseron, who prepared
the skins of our Adelie Land collection, determined, in the case of a number
of specimens, the ratio of weight to horizontal area exposed to the wind.
This subject is one which has lately exercised the curiosity of aviators.
The ratios are those evolved by nature, and, as such, should be wellnigh
perfect. Below is appended a table of the results obtained.
WEIGHT OF CERTAIN ANTARCTIC BIRDS IN RELATION TO WING AREAS
(Stated in pounds per square foot of wing surface)
Each is the mean of several determinations by Laseron
| Giant petrel |
3.5 |
| Albatross |
2.4 |
| Antarctic petrel |
2.1 |
| Skua gull |
1.6 |
| Snow petrel |
1.1 |
| Wilson petrel |
0.6 |
Values from a book of reference quoted for comparison
| Bat |
0.1 |
| Sparrow |
0.4 |
| Wild goose |
1.7 |
During the winter, for a long period, no seals ventured
ashore, though a few were seen swimming in the bay. The force of the wind
was so formidable that even a heavy seal, exposed in the open, broadside-on,
would be literally blown into the water. This fact was actually observed
out on the harbour-ice. A Weddell seal made twelve attempts to land on a
low projecting shelf--an easy feat under ordinary circumstances. The wind
was in the region of eighty-five miles per hour, and every time the clumsy,
ponderous creature secured its first hold, back it would be tumbled. Once
it managed to raise itself on to the flat surface, and, after a breathing
spell, commenced to shuffle towards the shelter of some pinnacles on one
side of the harbour. Immediately its broad flank was turned to the wind
it was rolled over, hung for a few seconds on the brink, and then splashed
into the sea. On the other hand, during the spring, a few more ambitious
seals won their way ashore in high winds; but they did not remain long in
the piercing cold, moving uneasily from place to place in search of protecting
hummocks and finally taking to the water in despair. Often a few hours of
calm weather was the signal for half a dozen animals to land. The wind sooner
or later sprang up and drove them back to their warmer element.
Under the generic name, seal, are included the true or hair seals and the
sea-bears or fur seals. Of these the fur seals are sub-polar in distribution,
inhabiting the cold temperate waters of both hemispheres, but never living
amongst the polar ice. The southern coast of Australia and the sub-antarctic
islands were their favourite haunts, but the ruthless slaughter of the early
days practically exterminated them. From Macquarie Island, for example,
several hundred thousand skins were taken in a few years, and of late not
a single specimen has been seen.
Closely related to the fur seals are the much larger animals popularly known
as sea-lions. These still exist in great numbers in south temperate waters.
Both are distinguished from the hair seals by one obvious characteristic:
their method of propulsion on land is by a ``lolloping'' motion, in which
the front and hind flippers are used alternately. The hair seals move by
a caterpillar-like shuffle, making little or no use of their flippers; and
so, the terminal parts of their flippers are not bent outwards as they are
in the fur seals and sea-lions.
Of the hair seals there are five varieties to be recognized in the far South.
The Weddell seals, with their mottled-grey coats, are the commonest. They
haunt the coasts of Antarctica and are seldom found at any distance from
them. Large specimens of this species reach nine and a half feet in length.
The crab-eater seal, a smaller animal, lives mostly on the pack-ice. Lying
on a piece of floe in the sunshine it has a glistening, silver-grey skin--another
distinguishing mark being its small, handsome head and short, thin neck.
Small crustaceans form its principal food.
The Ross seal, another inhabitant of the pack-ice, is short and bulky, varying
from a pale yellowish-green on the under side to a dark greenish-brown on
the back. Its neck is ample and bloated, and when distended in excitement
reminds one of a pouter-pigeon. This rare seal appears to subsist mainly
on squid and jelly-fish.
The sea-leopard, the only predacious member of the seal family, has an elongated
agile body and a large head with massive jaws. In general it has a mottled
skin, darker towards the back. It lives on fish, penguins and seals. Early
in April, Hurley and McLean were the first to obtain proof that the sea-leopard
preyed on other seals. Among the broken floe-ice close beneath the ice-cliffs
to the west of Winter Quarters, the wind was driving the dead body of a
Weddell seal which swept past them, a few yards distant, to the open water.
Then it was that a sea-leopard was observed tearing off and swallowing great
pieces of flesh and blubber from the carcase.
The last variety of hair seal, the sea elephant, varies
considerably from the preceding. Reference has already been made to the
species earlier in the narrative. The habitat of these monstrous animals
ranges over the cold, south-temperate seas; sea elephants are but occasional
visitors to the ice-bound regions. Although they have been exterminated
in many other places, one of their most populous resorts at the present
day is Macquarie Island.
In the case of all the hair seals a layer of blubber several inches in thickness
invests the body beneath the skin and acts as a conserver of warmth. They
are largely of value for the oil produced by rendering down the blubber.
The pelts are used for leather.
The operation of skinning seals for specimens, in low temperatures and in
the inevitable wind, was never unduly protracted. We were satisfied merely
to strip off the skin, leaving much blubber still adhering to it. In this
rough condition it was taken into the work-room of the Hut to be cleaned.
The blubber froze, and then had the consistency of hard soap and was readily
severed from the pelt. It was found that there exuded amongst the frozen
blubber a thin oil which remained liquid when collected and exposed to low
temperatures. This oil was used to lubricate the anemometer and other instruments
exposed outside.
The main part of the biological work lay in the marine collections. Hunter
with the small hand-dredge brought up abundant samples of life from depths
ranging to fifty fathoms. In water shallower than ten fathoms the variety
of specimens was not great, including seaweeds up to eighteen or more feet
in length, a couple of forms of starfish, various small mollusca, two or
three varieties of fish, several sea-spiders, hydroids and lace corals,
and, in great profusion, worms and small crustaceans. In deeper waters the
life became much richer, so that examples of almost every known class of
marine animals were represented.
Early in June the sea bottom in depths less than ten fathoms had become
so coated with ice that dredging in shallow water was suspended.
Floating or swimming freely were examples of pteropods, worms, crustaceans,
ostracods, and jelly-fish. These were easily taken in the hand-net.
In those regions where ice and water are intermingled, the temperature of
the water varies very slightly in summer and winter, remaining approximately
at freezing-point. In summer the tendency to heating is neutralized by a
solution of some of the ice, and in winter the cold is absorbed in the production
of a surface layer of ice. This constancy of the sea's temperature is favourable
to organic life. On land there is a wide range in temperature, and only
the meagre mosses and lichens, and the forms of insect life which live among
them can exist, because they have developed the capacity of suspending animation
during the winter. The fresh-water lakelets were found to be inhabited by
low forms of life, mainly microscopic. Among these were diatoms, algae£e,
protozoa, rotifera, and bacteria.
The last-named were investigated by McLean and were found to be manifold
in distribution. Besides those from the intestines of animals and birds,
cultures were successfully made from the following natural sources: lichen
soil, moss soil, morainic mud, guano, ice and snow. The results may open
some new problems in bacteriology.
Of recent years much attention has been given to the study of parasites--parasitology.
Parasites may be external, on the skin; internal, in the alimentary canal;
or resident, in the corpuscles of the blood. In tropical countries, where
there is great promiscuity of life, one is led to expect their almost universal
presence. But in polar regions, where infection and intimate co-habitation
for long periods are not the rule, while the climate is not favourable to
organic existence, one would be surprised to find them in any great number.
The fact remains that internal parasites were found in the intestine of
every animal and fish examined, and in all the birds except the Wilson petrel.
External parasites were present on every species of bird and seal, though
individuals were often free of them. This was so in the case of the Adelie
penguins. It is a demonstration
of the protective warmth of the feathers that Emperor penguins may harbour
insect parasites in great numbers. It is only less wonderful than the fact
that they are able to rear their young during the Antarctic winter. A large
number of blood-slides were prepared and stained for examination for blood-parasites.
Searching for ``fleas'' amongst the feathers of birds and the hair of seals,
or examining the viscera for ``worms ''is neither of them a pleasant occupation.
To be really successful, the enthusiasm of the specialist is necessary.
Hunter allowed no opportunities to pass and secured a fine collection of
parasites.
Amongst other work, McLean carried out monthly observations on six men,
determining the colour-index and haemoglobin value of their blood over a
period of ten months. The results showed a distinct and upward rise above
the normal.
Among societies privileged to see the daily paper and to whom diversity
and change are as the breath of life, the weather is apt to be tabooed as
a subject of conversation. But even the most versatile may suddenly find
themselves stripped of ideas, ignominiously reduced to the obvious topic.
To us, instead of being a mere prelude to more serious matters, or the last
resort of a feeble intellect, it was the all-engrossing theme. The man with
the latest hare-brained theory of the causation of the wind was accorded
a full hearing. The lightning calculator who estimated the annual
tonnage of drift-snow sweeping off Adelie Land was received as a futurist
and thinker. Discussion was always free, and the subject was never thrashed
out. Evidence on the great topic accumulated day by day and month by month;
yet there was no one without an innate hope that winter would bring calm
weather or that spring-time, at least, must be propitious.
Meanwhile the meteorologist accepted things as he found them, supplied the
daily facts of wind-mileage and direction, amount of drift, temperature
and so forth, which were immediately seized by more vivacious minds and
made the basis of daring speculations.
The daily facts were increased by the construction of a new instrument known
as the puffometer. It was entirely a home-made contrivance, designed to
measure the speed of heavy gusts of wind. A small aluminium sphere was arranged
to blow out at the end of a light cord exerting tension on a calibrated
spring. The pull was transferred to a lever carrying a pencil, which travelled
across a disk of carbonized paper. The disk, moving by clockwork, made a
complete revolution every hour. The recording parts of the instrument were
enclosed in a snow-proof box in which there was a small aperture on the
leeward side, through which ran the cord attachment of the sphere. This
may give a rough idea of the apparatus employed to measure the momentary
velocity of the cyclonic gusts. The idea is not an original one, having
been previously applied for use on kites.
It was not always possible to use the puffometer in the strongest gusts
because these were often transient, occurring unexpectedly or during the
night; while it took a little time to get the instrument into running order.
Even in daylight, with the landscape clear of drift, it was a time-absorbing
and difficult task to secure a record.
Two men start from the Hut with iron crampons and a full complement of clothes
and mitts. Outside they find themselves in a rushing torrent of air, pulsating
with mighty gust-waves. Lowered from the estate of upright manhood, they
humbly crawl, or make a series of crouching sprints between the gusts. Over
the scattered boulders to the east of the Hut, across a patch of polished
snow they push to the first low ridge, and there they stop for breath. Up
on the side of ``Annie Hill,'' in the local phrase, the tide sweeps by with
fiendish strength, and among the jagged rocks the man clutching the puffometer-box
has a few desperate falls. At last both clamber slowly to an eminence where
a long steel pipe has been erected. To the top of this the puffometer is
hauled by means of a pulley and line. At the same time the aluminium sphere
is released, and out it floats in the wind tugging at the spring.
The puffometer was left out for an hour at a time, and separate gusts up
to one hundred and fifty and one hundred and eighty miles per hour were
commonly indicated. I remember the final fate of this invention. While helping
to mount it one day, the wind picked me up clear of the ground and dashed
myself and the instrument on some rocks several yards away. The latter was
badly damaged, but thick clothing saved me from serious injury.
The wind velocity and wind direction charts for Midwinter's
Day,
when the steady south-by-east gale was broken after noon by a
welcome lull--the wind veering the while all round the compass.
The average velocity for the day 66.9 miles per hour, and the
maximum of the average hourly velocities, ninety-six miles.
The steadiness of the temperature was a subject for debate.
The stronger the wind blew, the less variation did the thermometer show.
Over a period of several days there might be a range of only four or five
degrees. Ordinarily, this might be expected of an insular climate, but in
our case it depended upon the fact that the wind
remained steady from the interior of the vast frigid continent. The air
which flowed over the Hut had all passed through the same temperature-cycle.
The atmosphere of the interior, where the plateau stood at an elevation
of, say, eight thousand feet, might have a temperature -45 degrees F. As
the air flowed northwards over Adelie Land to the sea, it would rise slowly
in temperature owing to the increased barometric pressure consequent on
the descending gradient of the plateau. At sea-level the temperature of
the river of air would be, approximately, - 20 degrees F.
Such a rise in temperature due to compression is a well-known phenomenon,
referred to as the Foehn effect.
The compression of the atmosphere during the gusts affected the air temperature
so considerably that, coincident with their passage, the mercury column
could often be seen rising and falling through several degrees. The uniform
conditions experienced during steady high winds were not only expressed
by the slight variation in the temperature, but often in a remarkably even
barometric curve. Thus on July 11 the wind-velocity for twenty-four hours
was, throughout, seventy miles per hour; the temperature remaining within
a few degrees of -21 degrees F., and the barometric curve did not show as
much range as one-twentieth of an inch.
In attending to the many instruments and in gathering the voluminous meteorological
data, Madigan had his hands very full. Throughout two years he carried on
the work capably and thoroughly. It was difficult to keep the instruments
free from the penetrating snow and in good running order. The Robinson anemometer
was perhaps the greatest source of worry. Repairs and readjustments were
unavoidable, as the instrument was constantly working at high pressure.
In order that these might be carried out efficiently, the whole apparatus
had to be carried down to the Hut. Here, Bickerton and Correll were continually
in consultation with the meteorologist on the latest breakdown. Cups were
blown off several times, and one was lost and replaced with difficulty.
Most aggravating of all was a habit the clocks developed of stopping during
the colder spells. The old fashioned method of boiling them was found of
assistance, but it was discovered that the best treatment was to put them
through successive baths of benzene and alcohol.
The most chronic sufferer throughout the vicissitudes of temperature was
the clock belonging to Bage's tide-gauge. Every sleeper in the Hut who was
sensitive to ticking knew and reviled that clock. So often was it subjected
to warm, curative treatment in various resting-places that it was hunted
from pillar to post. A radical operation by Correll--the insertion of an
extra spring--became necessary at last. Correll, when not engaged
designing electroscopes, improving sledge-meters and perfecting theodolites,
was something of a specialist in clocks. His advice on the subject of refractory
time-pieces was freely asked and cheerfully given. By perseverance and unlimited
patience, the tide-gauge down on the harbour-ice was induced to supply a
good series of unbroken records.
The tide-gauge
The rise and fall of the tide is coincident with the movements
of a perpendicular wire to which the Float is attached. The Wheel is revolved,
and through wire connections (indicated above) displaces vertically the
Pen. This traces a record on paper folded on the drum which is driven by
clockwork. In all weathers, the box was enveloped in drift-proof canvas.
Antarctica is a world of colour, brilliant and intensely
pure. The chaste whiteness of the snow and the velvet blackness of the rocks
belong to days of snowy nimbus enshrouding the horizon. When the sky has
broken into cloudlets of fleece, their edges are painted pale orange, fading
or richly glowing if the sun is low. In the high sun they are rainbow-rimmed.
The clouds have opened into rifts and the sun is setting in the north-west.
The widening spaces in the zenith are azure, and low in the north they are
emerald. Scenic changes are swift. Above the mounting plateau a lofty arch
of clear sky has risen, flanked by roseate clouds. Far down in the south
it is tinged with indigo and ultramarine, washed with royal purple paling
onwards into cold violet and greyish-blue.
Soon the north is unveiled. The liquid globe of sun has departed, but his
glory still remains. Down from the zenith his colours descend through greenish-blue,
yellowish-green, straw-yellow, light terra-cotta to a diffuse brick-red;
each reflected in the dull sheen of freezing sea. Out on the infinite horizon
float icebergs in a mirage of mobile gold. The Barrier, curving to east
and west, is a wall of delicate pink overlaid with a wondrous mauve--the
rising plateau. A cold picture--yet it awakens the throb of inborn divinity.
Despite contrary predictions, there were some enjoyable days in June. Occupation
had to be strenuous, making the blood run hot, otherwise the wind was apt
to be chill. So the Transit House was founded, and there were many volunteers
to assist Bage in carrying the tons of stones which formed its permanent
base. The nearest large collection of boulders was twenty yards away, on
the edge of a moraine, but these after a while became exhausted. Plenty
of rocks actually showed above the surface, but the majority were frozen-in,
and, when of suitable size, could only be moved by a heavy crowbar. Some
of the men, therefore, dislodged the rocks, while others carried them.
When Bage was wondering how long the supply would last, Ninnis and Mertz
came to the rescue with sledges and dog-teams. Boxes were piled on to the
sledges and away the teams went, careering across the ice-flat towards the
Magnetograph House close to which there were many heaps of stones, wind-swept
and easily displaced. Soon a regular service was plying to the foundations,
and, at the same time, the dogs were being trained. This occupation was
continued, weather permitting, for several weeks before Midwinter's Day.
Thus the drivers gained experience, while the animals, with a wholesome
dread of the whip, became more responsive to commands. Eagerly the huskies
strained at their traces with excited yelps. The heavily laden sledges would
break out and start off with increasing speed over the rough ice. The drivers,
running at full speed, jumped on the racing loads--Mertz in the lead shouting
some quaint yodel song; Ninnis, perhaps, just behind upbraiding a laggard
dog.
Midwinter's Day! For once, the weather rose to the occasion and calmed during
the few hours of the twilight-day. It was a jovial occasion, and we celebrated
it with the uproarious delight of a community of eighteen young men unfettered
by small conventions. The sun was returning, and we were glad of it. Already
we were dreaming of spring and sledging, summer and sledging, the ship and
home. It was the turn of the tide, and the future seemed to be sketched
in firm, sure outline. While the rest explored all the ice-caves and the
whole extent of our small rocky ``selection,'' Hannam and Bickerton shouldered
the domestic responsibilities. Their menu du diner to us was a marvel of
gorgeous delicacies. After the toasts and speeches came a musical and dramatic
programme, punctuated by choice gramophone records and rowdy student choruses.
The washing-up was completed by all hands at midnight. Outside, the wind
was not to be outdone; it surpassed itself with an unusual burst of ninety-five
miles per hour.
Menu du Diner
Escoffier potage a la Reine
Noisettes de Phoque | Claret
Haricot Verts | Tintara
Champignons en Sauce Antarctique |
Pingouin a la Terre Adelie | Burgundy
Petits Pois a la Menthe | Chauvenet
Pommes Nouvelle | 1898
|
Asperges au Beurre Fondu |
Plum Pudding Union Jack | Port
Pate de Groseilles | Kopke
|
Desserts |
Cafe
---------------0------------
During dinner the Blizzard will render the usual
accompaniment--the Tempest. For Ever and Ever etc.
MIDWINTER'S DAY MENU AT THE MAIN BASE, ADELIE LAND,
1912
CHAPTER X - THE
PREPARATION OF SLEDGING EQUIPMENT
