February 22nd - A short misty climb

Chris here: We are still anchored in Paradise Harbour. This may sound like
a small cosy anchorage but in fact is a large but well protected U shaped
channel between the mainland and an island. Within the protection of the
mountains there are many safe anchorages whichever way the wind blows.
There is still the problem of ice and last night we were all kept awake as
what sounded like huge bergs, but were in fact small pieces of brash ice,
scraped down the side of the yacht. A relatively early start this morning
with breakfast at 7:15. The by now slick ritual of too many people in too
small a space, eating breakfast, making lunch, finding climbing gear and
packing rucksacks swung into action. Alan, Dan, Gerry and I now seem to
have got used to where all our gear will be in the disaster area that is our
cabin.

We set off to climb Mount Laprida a small 610m peak just above our
anchorage. The weather this morning was overcast with some breaks in the
cloud and for the first time on a climbing day a brisk wind. The weather
forecast for the next couple of days is not that great, so we were all keen
to stretch our legs. We set off up the slopes, all twelve of us together,
roped up in three groups of four. After the first couple of hundred yards
of hard ice we started wading through very porridgy slush. Crossing several
crevasses, one of which was only about 15 cm wide but seemed to go down
forever, we ascended into the mist. At one point we stopped for nearly an
hour as the guides were keen to make sure we did not fall into some of the
massive crevasses or be standing under potential ice cliffs. A certain
amount of frustration was apparent, particularly as we have spent the last
two days of reasonable weather motoring aboard the Evohe. Eventually we
carried on upwards only to be halted 20 minutes later. Guy Cotter went
forward on the rope to investigate but came back with the news that the
visibility was too bad to continue. A safe decision on mountain that no
one knew the route to the top and we had not had chance to view properly.
The descent was quiet with the porridgy snow towards the bottom even deeper
and thicker than before - just what we all needed to finish off a
frustrating day.

We may now be in the last few days of our stay in Antarctica. We are close
to a couple of points where we can set off north for Argentina when the
weather looks suitable. We may even leave as early as the 25th February
should the weather be suitable. That means we will finish off our climbing
in Tierra Del Fuego rather than in Antarctica. Here's hoping for a few days
of bad weather in the Drake Passage and good weather on the peninsula. Last
night, Murray the first mate, showed us a film from the 1920s of a voyage on
a clipper around Cape Horn. The narrator admitted to having prayed for "an
A1, first class storm" around the Cape. He got his wish three times over
and some very impressive footage of waves crashing across the deck. We are
all now hoping not to encounter one of these " A1 first class" storms on our
voyage north. In fact most of us wish Murray hadn't shown the film until we
were safely back in Ushuaia.

Apologies if this is not as upbeat as some of our other despatches, but
there is a feeling of expedition blues settling over the yacht. The good
weather seems to be behind us, we haven't had the chance to climb everything
we wanted to and perhaps we are all just a little jaded with the lack of
space and washing facilities. We still have to conserve water so the
rejuvenating experience of a "bird bath" shower is no longer available. We
don't seem to notice the smell - either we are all managing personal hygiene
well under the circumstances or we have become used to our collective odour.

Anyway we now have a guest despatch from one of our fellow climbers Mark
Bryan. Mark is a vet from Scotland who emigrated to New Zealand ten years
ago - over to Mark:

Antarctica is near and dear to Kiwis, due to proximity and history, and has
fascinated me for many years. The opportunity of visiting- let alone
climbing- on this amazing continent was too good to miss, and so it is that
I find myself buried under a sea of down and goretex with 11 other smelly
climbers of various mixed origin in a space as small as our old kitchen in
West End Park Street. The analogy with Scotland continues, for the Antarctic
Peninsula in summer is merely a greatly enlarged Scottish winter playground,
without the pubs.

Weather is the first similarity. All fluffed up with down and the latest
technical gear, it comes as a shock to the modern Antarctic Hardman that old
fashioned Buffalo-style clothing and Dachsteins are the optimum 'layering
system'. Then we have snow and ice conditions. The Antarctic Hardperson has
spent months dreaming of pristine blue ice and virgin fluffy snow; shocking
blue skies and stunning vistas. In reality he/she finds wet snow and rain;
slush and soggy porridge; ice lines disintegrating through mist and grey
clouds; dripping buttresses and that familiar post-Kyoto feeling that 'if
only it were a couple of degrees colder' we could really push the boat out.
If Scottish winter conditions hadn't already requisitioned the word,
'dreich' would belong to the Antarctic Peninsula in summer.

At least access is easier- sometimes. No horrendous, wet, 4am starts from a
miserable Golf Course car park and a 2 hour trudge up to the Ben. These are
swapped for leisurely breakfasts and freaky Zodiac rides through dense ice
sharp enough to lacerate the boat, or brief but very wet zips across
storm-tossed bays. And the snow and ice starts from the shore, so no mud and
glaur to get to the meaty bits, just penguin guano and aggressive Skuas.

But when it's good- just as in Scotland- it's unbelievably fantastic.
Despite the damp and the dreich and the demoralising effect of sailing past
perfect lines on gorgeous faces inches from the boat but protected by
snarling ice cliffs which make landing impossible, we have had some very,
very good days. Gearing up on the beach under the gaze of curious penguins;
picking a route up a complex crevassed glacier that nobody has even named
let alone skied through; ridge lines to die for, climbing suspended between
a sea studded with ice like galaxies and mountains that go on forever;
whooping down powder slopes never visited by man; climbing in Antarctica is,
like the song, truly working in a goldmine. Even the 'bad' bits- backing off
routes that looked great but aren't in condition; losing yet more gear to
the deep litter system that has become the boat; mooring the boat in wet but
strangely subzero temperatures, the wind flaying cold hands on soaked ropes-
all become part of the unique experience that this trip has become.

We have collected an eclectic bunch of climbers from around the world who
all, somehow, get along well. Sometimes too well: the alcohol-fuelled
evenings have yielded a remarkable collection of hidden stories and tales,
many of which may have been better left hidden. We are blessed with a crew
from heaven who -in the best expedition traditions of Sherpas- feed us meals
to die for from basic facilities in appalling conditions, and put up with
our appallingly sexist comments and usually give as good as they get. We
have a skipper who tolerates our continual requests to 'look around the
corner', or to 'just sail over to that peak over there', or 'get us a bit
closer to those ice cliffs'. On top of all this, the fun to be had in
watching Alan 'ski' roped up is only surpassed by reliving the experience
back in the boat. As for the pub, we have enough alcohol on board to sink a
ship...... perhaps not the best phrase, but this has been a great experience
with some great people. Who knows, we may even have to make this an annual
event. I think all of us are hoping that we can squeeze a few more epic days
in before the dreaded crossing of Drake Passage, and back to reality once
more with a heave.