A Prelude to the Shackleton Traverse

Waiting for a weather window. . . . . . using our time wisely.

In my previous six Shackleton Traverses we never waited more than three days in getting started.  In 2011 we sailed directly into King Haakon Bay, landed at Cave Cove where the James Caird first came ashore, then sailed up the fjord, dropping anchor in the lee of the Vincent Islands near Pegotty Bluff.  That afternoon we made a depot above the beach caching our pulks, skis and camping kit, then back to Pelagic Australis for a meal and last night on board. At 0600 the following morning we were off and skinning up the glacier to the Shackleton Gap. Easy. Looking back, too easy.

This dream scenario was not to be, not even with a few days wait. I had been watching the weather patterns for weeks before we set sail from Stanley on August 25th. Granted, this was an early season trip, late winter, not yet early spring. In previous expeditions to South Georgia from late August through September weather patterns seemed to be more stable than later in the spring and certainly less volatile than the windy summer months, where snow conditions are poor and the joys of pushing our skis pulling pulks must be foregone for the less pleasant mode of travel in boots carrying big ruck sacs. 

With Amundsen close astern we pass through the Shag Rocks, an outlier 130 nm from South Georgia.

Powerful low pressure cells were marching across the island one after another and high pressure northeast of the Falklands was also feeding the system. After slipping through the majestic Bird Sound at the northwest tip of the island with our sistership Amundsen alongside – four days out of Stanley, having split the Shag Rocks in two - we decided to bail out into the first available shelter of Right Whale Bay to take stock. Amundsen carried on to the administrative base at King Edward Point and docked at the ruined whaling station of Grytviken to check in; obligatory as it was the vessel’s first trip to the island. It did not take much analysing of weather models for us to decide to follow them in the next day to avoid ferocious winds and sea state from the westerly quadrant in the offing. The place to be was on the Tijuca Jetty with mooring lines well tied in to old rusty bollards and pieces of unmovable machinery from the whaling era.  Not least of all this is a tactic to avoid ‘cabin fever’ as you can step off and stroll around on shore. It was quite a sight to see these two Pelagic 77’s together on tour, on this magnificent sub-antarctic island.  Not a cruise ship nor another yacht was within a thousand miles of our position.

Vinson and Amundsen on the Tijuca Jetty, Grytviken.

Strange as it may seem, within the two arms of Cumberland Bay striking into the central section of the island a vacuum of sorts can be created whereby the winds jump up and over the Allardyce mountain range, leaving the Grytviken environs windless and sunny, although with dramatic lenticular clouds stationed aloft along the spine of the island - a not too subtle warning to take care. The rule for all outings here is dress and be prepared for the worst, not for the day.

Not to waste a precious moment, Jerome (yes, the Poncet himself) got stuck into butchering one of our four mutton carcass halves (with an electric multi tool) and chucking a leg and shoulder in the oven for ‘slow cooking.’ The rest of our traverse team of Hamish and daughter Lenny, Frank and son Zu with me, Lara and Luca, Falkland Islander and Vinson veteran Steve Brown, and finally Kenneth Perdigon from Barcelona, in at the beginning of the ‘Life of Vinson,’ were off on skis and skins up 500m to Glacier Col for a warm-up. We were joined by a full contingent from Amundsen led by Stephen Venables - so we had 18 people of mixed abilities to keep track of somewhat spread out between the dock and Glacier Col itself! It was a glorious day; a seven-hour jaunt to limber up after the incarceration of the voyage. 

This was also a day of respite for the Vinson’s South African crew; skipper Tor, Melissa and John got some space to square things away with time for some spectacular sledding on the slopes above the church at Grytviken. The videos of this ‘activity’ were frightening . . .

Before the days of accurate forecasting (at least for three days, maybe four in this region), this deception of amazingly good weather in Cumberland Bay would have instilled a sense of angst in our climbers and skiers chomping on the bit to get out and rise up to their lofty objectives, thinking the management (me) was overly hesitant, possible afraid to stick my nose out there along the coast. Luckily, we have a relaxed group, a combination of paternal maturity coupled with inexperienced youth, both leaving our next move in the hands of the weather gods. ‘Playing it by ear,’ is another way to describe the methodology, used often in our art of ‘sailing to climb.’

On September 2nd we pulled away off the dock, with Amundsen following. They were on the way to Larsen Harbour, the majestic deep fjord at the south end of the island. They would work their way back north ski touring and visiting the wildlife sites, while we headed north on standby to begin the Shackleton Traverse. The hope was to reunite somewhere in the middle of the island and cruise together for a time. Amundsen had to be back in Stanley for the group to fly on the 20th, while we had an extra week in hand. Nevertheless, for us the pressure is on to get started, and the forecast is not auspicious.

Landing at Salisbury Plain, Bay of Isles.

We made a brief stop at Jason Harbour in Cumberland Bay West for a walk ashore, still hiding in part from big sea conditions along the coast. Female fur seals were in the hundreds in the tussac above the beach. We reckoned these might be non-breeders, as the mass exodus of females to join the harems with the bulls is not until mid to end of November. Two bull elephant seals were on the beach but other than that wildlife was thin on the ground.

Ski touring on a windy day from Right Whale Bay.

Next day we made a nostalgic pilgrimage up the bay to the head of the Neumayer Glacier. In 2002 three of us had camped for four days in the middle of the dry glacier (on ice, no snow) having to call a halt in knock down windy conditions on the way to climb the Three Brothers. We trekked in under enormous ruck sacs from the abandoned whaling station Husvik via Gulbrandsen Lake, an ephemeral body of water held in place by a moraine and ice dam on the Neumayer. Occasionally the dam breaks, the lake empties leaving small ice bergs grounded in the dry lake bed, and then it replenishes – a surreal geographical phenomena to walk through.

The Neumayer has the reputation of the fastest retreating glacier on the island. Where we camped in 2002 is now ocean 200m deep. The front, or snout of the glacier is now close to reaching the shoreline below the Kohl Plateau. Antarctic terns were en masse feeding on the upwelling at the snout, the Three Brothers (climbed solo by the Welshman Crag Jones that year) towered above us with the summit of Admiralty Peak, climbed by Hamish in 2018, coming and going in the mist. 

On the trek from Stromness to Leith, touring around the abandoned whaling stations.

Moving up the coast slowly but surely, we spent a day and night at Stromness Bay with a grand tour of the abandoned whaling stations, then a windy landing at Salisbury Plain in the Bay of Isles for the king penguin colony, followed by a return to Right Whale Bay with snow on deck - once again, blocked by more strong winds from the west with no point in going further.  High pressure shows on three weather models to be moving in over the island mid-week. 

King penguins on the beach at Right Whale Bay – leopard seals on guard for a meal.

So, the routine continues. Jerome’s quick bread, Frank’s sourdough, Melissa’s corn bread and John’s braided white loaf – it is a veritable bread-making competition on board in amongst some very elaborate cuisine. Reading, editing photographs, repair of gear, back gammon, discussion of various and ‘arts and crafts’ have taken over the expedition. Speculation, some doubt, renewed enthusiasm when the sun makes an appearance - all very similar (excepting the digital world) to the golden era of polar exploration when the weather halts all forward progress.

Skip Novak

Expeditions Leader