|
By
Margi Moss
Published in Pilot, August 2000
Sir Hubert Wilkins, the Australian explorer, was the first man to take to the air over the frozen wastes of Antarctica back in 1928. He was flying in a single-engined Lockheed Vega that had reached the White Continent by ship. Now, in a single-engine turbo-prop Cessna Caravan owned by Australian aviator Dick Smith and registered VH-SHW in Wilkins' honour, we head down to the very same spot.
The magical name of Antarctica seems an impossibly long way off as we - Dick and his wife Pip, my husband Gérard Moss and I - head for Patagonia from Don Torcuato (SADD), in Buenos Aires.
Headed initially for the Valdés Peninsula, 520 nm away, we are holding short of the runway when the Tower advises that if we wished to proceed VFR, we can only do so by flying overhead Moron airport if radio communication is done in Spanish. Otherwise we will have to wait for an instrument departure clearance. Gerard continues doing the radio in Spanish and keeps Dick informed. When we are clear of Ezeiza TMA, Gerard inquires what the next frequency will be. "Frequency?" the controller asks, seeming astonished. "Just switch your transponder to stand-by and if you wish, monitor 126.8 for traffic advisories." This provokes whoops of delight from Gerard. We are free to fly as we will through Argentina's endless empty skies. The mansions and swimming pools of Buenos Aires retreat behind us under gloomy skies. Up ahead, the vast monotonous pampas stretch lazily before us under a thin layer of very high cloud. We are at 2,000 feet, but there is no danger of hitting terrain out here. A bird perhaps, or even a UFO, but no crinkle of mountains mars the
horizon.
We land on the grass airstrip of Estancia Adele and drive out to see the peninsula's fauna of elephant seals, sea-lions and penguins. The Welsh immigrants who colonized this part of Patagonia left a lasting mark in the town names - Trelew (Lewis Town), Rawson, Puerto Madryn and Trevelín. Next day, after refuelling at Trelew (SAVT), we battle south at 8,000 feet over desolate brown pampas against 30 knot headwinds. Rio Gallegos (SAWG), 530 n.m. away, is our refuelling spot and our exit port before continuing to Punta Arenas, in Chile. After waiting a couple of hours for the Customs officer to show up, we are airborne again. It is only 100 nm to Punta Arenas (SCCI), but it is a battle against 30-40 knot winds that have turned the waters of the Strait of Magellan decidedly choppy.
From the air, the First and Second Narrows of the Strait look to be very tight channels and it seems all the more remarkable that Magellan, way back in 1520 on his quest for a route to the Orient, actually discovered this passage. We follow its windswept bank round to Punta Arenas, to our surprise flying over a bomb-pitted dirt airstrip on the way. Both the Smiths and we have flown extensively all over the world, but none of us had come across such a strip before.
In Punta Arenas, it is 10°C and blowing hard. Parked nearby is a Uruguayan Hercules headed, like us, for the Chilean aerodrome of Teniente Rodolfo Marsh on King George Island. Initially, it is comforting to think that we will have company flying across the dreaded Drake Passage. This comfort is short-lived - two aircraft are not permitted to head for the base simultaneously. There is no apron at Marsh and the Hercules that use this airstrip park in the middle of the runway near the station to offload. The Uruguayans, taking cargo to their own base located a helicopter ride away from the Chilean base, are to depart very early next day. So we will go later.
Fuel in Antarctica costs over US$4/litre, and must be paid for in US dollars cash. We search for a bank prepared to give an advance of 4000 dollars against a Visa card, but a problem arises. The bank manager refused to hand over money to a passport holder called Richard Smith who uses a credit card belonging to Dick Smith. It takes a vexing 20 minutes to convince him. At last, clutching a wad of 2,100,000 Chilean pesos, Pip and I dash to a backstreet money dealer and change it all into dollars cash.
Now we are all set for Antarctica. The Uruguayans have long gone and are already headed back. Out at the airport, as we deal with the bureaucracy of paying landing fees, refueling and waiting for Immigration, we recheck the weather, keeping an eye on the satellite picture. Antarctic systems can sweep out of nowhere. The helpful Met office staff repeatedly phone Marsh (the official name of the base is Presidente Eduardo Frei, Marsh is the aerodrome) for up-to-date weather
reports.
Before taking off, the four of us go through the emergency gear: two liferafts, 2 normal EPIRBs and a smaller handheld one too. We contort ourselves into survival suits -a feat easier to accomplish on dry land than in a panic emergency situation in the air. We depart Punta Arenas at 2.40 pm local time. The distance to Teniente Rodolfo Marsh (SCRM) is 670 miles, an estimated 4 hours 30 minutes. We glimpse the chilly waters of the Magellan Strait beneath us, bare patches of Tierra del Fuego and then, in a sudden break, the snowy Darwin Range soaring upwards alongside a narrow branch of the Beagle Channel. Ice forms almost immediately on the struts, wheels and leading edges. We chug on, glimpsing False Cape Horn on the Hardy Peninsula, through the cloud. The real Cape Horn lies 40 miles further on, slightly to the East of our route. Then the world disappears, leaving Pip and I shivering our way (OAT -10°C) across Drake Passage in cloud. We make a ground speed of 162 knots, with the wind from 250°at 54 knots - a bonus tailwind component of 3 knots. Great! We had expected head
winds.
Half way into the flight, still in cloud, the winds have swung to 268° at 42 knots, giving us an 18-knot tailwind. Ground speed is 179 knots. We have good HF radio contact with the Chileans on Marsh on 10.024 MHz, where the latest weather (considered excellent) is broken at 2000, scattered at 6000, temp. 1°C, dew point -2°C, wind 270 at 21 kt, and visibility 10 km. After HORNO reporting point, 238 nm from Punta Arenas, we are flying in Argentine air space, but there is a tacit agreement that ATC is carried out by the Chileans on this
stretch.
With 300 miles to go to Marsh, our nearest alternate, Ushuaia, is 240 miles back on Tierra del Fuego. We are still in IMC, moving at a TAS of 162 knots and a ground speed of 181 knots, but the ice on the struts appears to be thickening. Dick is delighted that this is not causing any perceptible effect on the aircraft's performance. He has flown in Antarctica before, when he crossed the continent in a Twin Otter with Giles Kershaw, in 1988. Pip and I are apprehensive about the icing, but our spirits are high and we are excited about landing in Antarctica.
With an hour to go, we break out of cloud and fly between layers. We are still at FL110 but the outside air temperature has dropped to -12°C. There is a film of ice on the inside of the cabin windows. Although the Caravan has cabin heating, Dick chooses to leave it off, thereby saving precious fuel. He jokes that Pip and I will be well acclimatized in case of ditching in the freezing
water.
As we cross 60° South, where the magnetic variation is 12° East, the GPS stops using magnetic north and the readings are all based on true. When the DME comes in, we are 126 miles from Marsh. Seventy nm out, Marsh calls us on VHF. "Runway 29. Wind 270 at 17kts, unlimited visibility, SCT at 2000, BKN at 6000. QNH 985." We descend to FL060, becoming vaguely VMC, and are instructed to maintain this altitude until 25 DME, whence we can descend at our
discretion.
During descent, there is a sudden shudder when ice picked up on the prop is shed by the electrical de-ice prop heating. At 36 DME, a large blue-and-white iceberg looms into view. We break out of cloud finally at 3,500 feet and continue descent. Beyond a field of icebergs being pushed about by the wind and waves, we can easily discern the dark contours, splashed with white, of King George Island ahead. The IFR plate warns: 'Beware of icebergs on approach'.
We swing over the brightly coloured roofs of the tiny settlement and land on the 1, 300-meter gravel runway, 4 hours 8 minutes after leaving Punta Arenas. "Welcome to Antarctica," the controller says. Groups of men huddled into navy blue or orange polar gear and goggles are watching and taking photos. Apart from planes operated by ANI (Adventure Network International, the aviation outfit that carries and supports polar expeditions on the continent and has a camp at Patriot Hills, located on the ice at Lat. 80° south), civilian aircraft are a rarity in these parts. We are given a warm welcome and a corner is found for the Caravan, away from the runway, in front of the hangar containing a Twin Otter and a helicopter. The long strips of ice stuck to the leading edges begin to hit the gravel with a crunch. We are surprised how thick they are.
We are at S 62° 11, W 058° 59. A signpost spiked with place names and distances, tells us that the South Pole is still 3,095 km away. We are accommodated in the nearby former hotel just repossessed by the Chilean Air Force. The rooms are small and neat, with double bunks and too much heating. Colonel Klock, the Chilean base commander, takes us on a tour of 'town' in his car. It has all the trappings of the settlements we have seen in the Arctic - chapel, school, post office, bank, supermarket, gym. Officers, who are stationed here for two years, are entitled to bring their families.
Within walking distance are the smaller bases of the Russians (Bellinghausen), the Chinese (Great Wall), the Penguins and the Elephant-seals. Further away but also on King George Island, are the Brazilians, the Uruguayans, the South Koreans, the Peruvians, the Poles, more penguins and more seals. Inland is the Nelson Glacier, which the Chileans use as an emergency landing strip for the Otters as well as for practicing landings on ice.
That night - it is dark only for a couple of hours -, a cold front sweeps through bringing the ceiling below minimums. In the early morning, a coat of snow covers all, but it soon thaws in the sunlight. By mid morning, the sky is a deep royal blue and we are anxious to fly again and see the continent from above. However, a Chilean Hercules is due in, bringing down the voting urns for the second round of the presidential elections, and we are not permitted to take off until it has landed and departed again. Even though Hercules land often at the base, a small group of people gather to watch it. And it is a thrilling sight to see that huge aircraft emerging from the clouds and gliding in to land. At last, after lunch and the departure of the Hercules, we are airborne in the sparkling visibility, headed for the Argentine base of Marambio (SAWB), 135 miles away across on the other side of the Antarctic Peninsula. We meander our way leisurely, swooping over glorious icy mountain ranges. Protected from the winds that pound the western side of the Peninsula, enormous icebergs sunbathe on the glassy
ocean.
Rocky Seymour Island (now called Isla Marambio) surges off the Weddell Sea ahead of us at Lat. S 64° 14', its top lopped off at 760 feet. The aerodrome, classified as public, is equipped with VOR/DME/NDB and runway lights. It operates all year round. The 1200-metre strip of compacted earth, which can turn very muddy during the thaw, was built in 1969, the first permanent one in Antarctica. On the other side of the continent, airstrips are built on ice or on frozen sea-ice and only used a few months a year.
A small gathering awaits us in front of the cheerful red units of Marambio base. A biting wind sweeps over the plateau. The windchill factor is down to -15°C. Below -30°C, exposed human skin freezes in one minute. One gentleman stands out. His bare bald pate gleams bravely as he strides towards us with a magnificent smile. "Vicecomodoro Klix," he says, "mucho gusto". A team immediately sets about refueling the Caravan, hoisting a man with the fuel hose up in the air in the bucket of a Caterpillar in order to reach the high wing tanks. We had secretly thought it amusing that the Argentine Base commander was Klix and the Chilean, Klock. They evidently find it comical themselves for Klix tells us with a grin that, although he has never met his Chilean counterpart, they head their email exchanges "Klix-Klock" and
"Klock-Klix".
Klix leads us towards the Base buildings along raised walkways of tough aluminum plates that, he tells us wryly, had been intended for extending the runway at Stanley during the Argentine occupation of the Falklands in 1982. They never got there in time and at the end of the Conflict, were put to good use at Marambio instead. As he shows us round the base, Klix, a fighter pilot during that war, tells us of the difficulties they encountered against the British Sea Harriers. The Argentine pilots had been trained to dogfight with airplanes that fly forwards, not ones that stop dead in their tracks midair.
Marambio Base is extremely impressive, not only for its immaculate organization but for its extraordinary location, on the edge of a plateau overlooking cliffs that plunge sharply down to the sea. Fuel arrives by ship from Argentina and is helicoptered up to the airport at 700 feet above sea level in rolling tanks of 2,000 litres each. It is scarcely surprising that it costs US$4.05 per litre, and we are extremely grateful to have it.
A delicious lunch of Patagonian lamb is put before us but before dessert could arrive, the Met officer rushes in with a warning that a frontal system is moving rapidly towards Marsh. Vicecomodore Klix and his men have shown us great hospitality, and it is with regret that we have to race away before having the chance to hear more about life on the base. We take off in brilliant sunshine, scarcely believing that bad weather is on the way.
The original plan is to swing over Deception Island, where Sir Hubert Wilkins had made his first flight, before returning to Marsh. Halfway there, the horizon darkens ominously. Fog rolls up the valleys between the mountain peaks which themselves disappear in cloud. On the radio, we learn that the weather at King George Island is down to SCT at 300 feet. The detour via Deception Island has to be abandoned. We make a dash for Marsh and land before the weather can cut us off.
Preparing for our return flight across Drake Passage to Tierra del Fuego, we visit the impressively-equipped Met station and the Tower. The controller turns out to be Cristián Miranda, who had been on duty at Los Cerrillos airport in Santiago, when Gérard and I arrived there from Easter Island in 1992, having completed the first crossing of the Pacific by light aircraft from Australia to South America. Cristián tells us how our flight from Easter Island had caused panic in the Civil Aviation Department and that there had been talk of prohibiting it. In the end, they resolved simply to make us sign a declaration that we were making the flight at our own peril, relieving the Chilean Government of any responsibility. We had indeed signed this document before a notary public, but we had no idea of the hullabaloo it had caused in Santiago!
On departure morning, the temperature was one degree above, with a 12-knot wind bringing the windchill down to 10°C below. The wind direction was 240° - marvelous, we would even have a tailwind back across the Drake Passage! The fuel tanks are topped up, this time at US$4.80 per litre. Our destination, the Argentine town of Ushuaia (SAWH), lies 526 n.m. away on the island of Tierra del Fuego where, not unusually, it is blowing 40 knots.
We take off over the slate gray ocean where the icebergs look less picturesque under gloomy skies. Ice forms immediately on the leading edges as we climb through cloud towards our designated level of FL100. A tailwind - again it is only 3 knots -, is a blessing under any guise. It is much colder than when we had flown south: at only 7,000 feet, the outside air temperature gauge reads -18°C, and the windows are soon coated with ice on the inside again. We break out between two cloud layers and briefly maintain visual conditions to reduce icing. Just 35 miles north of Marsh, there is a welcome patch of blue sky above and we go for it, breaking out under the azure dome at 9,000 feet (exactly as forecast). Drake Passage has disappeared below the clouds. Out of sight, out of mind. The wind swings round to 225° and increases to 70 knots!
Cristián comes on the radio to bid farewell. "Siga volando lindo, Gérard," he says and switching to English, adds: "Dick, thank you for your visit." An hour after leaving Marsh, we are still flying in blue skies but have climbed to 11,000 feet, as the tops keep rising. Another hour later, we track direct to Cape Horn but are suddenly unable to make contact any longer on the HF, due probably to weather interference.
We begin a descent, hoping to have a glimpse of Cape Horn. By the time we are at 2,000 feet, things become complicated. The ceiling keeps dropping, the infamous Drake Passage is in frothy turmoil and the wind is blowing 50 knots. Ahead, surge numerous mountainous islands. Prudently, we climb back up to 5,000 feet and settle between two layers, still unable to make contact with Ushuaia until Lennox Island.
At last, we swoop into the legendary Beagle Channel, bouncing in heavy turbulence just below the cloud ceiling. Green mountains, some still patched with snow, soar up on either side. The channel is extremely choppy, whipped up by 36 knot winds that beat from 200°. Three hours 45 minutes after leaving Antarctica, we land on Runway 25 at the fancy new airport at Ushuaia that bears the wishful-thinking name of "Malvinas Argentinas". Funnily enough, that's precisely where we hope to fly to next. Well, to the "Malvinas*" part of it, anyway.
(*Malvinas is the Spanish name for the Falklands) |
