Polaris Expedition - Blog Posts
I’ve always had a fascination with early Antarctic Exploration. But I’ve mostly sidestepped the related early Arctic exploration except where the two directly intersect; now I’m reading Furthest North, which goes through the early exploration (from the 1500s to 1926), and focuses on telling the stories through eyewitness accounts. It's a great book, but man, arctic exploration is so much more depressing than Antarctic exploration.
Like, the usual Antarctic exploration story will be something like, “The 26-man expedition lost 1 man when he was driven mad by the sunless winter and died for no clear medical reason, and 1 man to scurvy because he refused to eat seal meat, but the other 24 safely returned home, having mapped huge previously unknown areas and achieved immense scientific research. And also there were several delightful stories of penguin encounters, and here's a photo of the most badass member of the crew adorably snuggling some puppies.”
And the usual Arctic story will be, “25 men laboriously dragged their ship across the endless fields of ice to find the legendary Open Arctic Ocean. At first, they somehow managed to make 15 miles a day, but due to the southward flow of the ice, they only gained a net 17 yards per day. As they one-by-one got scurvy, they started losing ground. Things took a turn for the worse when the captain suddenly died of a mysterious illness; a century later, his body was found buried in the ice, and the mass levels of arsenic suggests he may have been right when, in his dying words, he accused the expedition’s doctor of poisoning him because they were writing love letters to the same girl back home. Without their navigator, they finally gave up and attempted to drag the ship back to the open sea so they could get back to land. But just as they were approaching open water, the ice trapped the ship and crushed it. They reverted to their lifeboats, one of which disappeared in a light fog, never to be seen again. The exhausted, undernourished, fatally sick final survivors made it to a desolate island. There they all slowly starved to death while the one healthy man among them was three days’ travel away, trying and failing to communicate to the confused Siberians he’d found that there were people who urgently needed rescue. He finally moved onto a second village, where one guy spoke German for some reason, and he was able to mount a rescue party. They arrived two days after the last journal entry of the expedition leader:
“ ‘October 28 - Hungry. Ate last of the boots yesterday. Feet cold. Spirits high.’ “