Polar Expedition Quotes

He thought what a fine thing it was that people made music all over the world, even in the strangest settings – probably even on polar expeditions.

I am just going outside and may be some time." Reportedly the last words of Lawrence Oates according to Captain Robert Falcon Scott, who commanded the ill-fated expedition to the South Pole 1911/12.

Here, on the borders of death, life follows an amazingly simply course, it is limited to what is most necessary, all else lies buried in gloomy sleep;—in that besides our primitiveness and our survival. Were we more subtly differentiated we must long since have gone mad, have deserted, or have fallen. As in a polar expedition, every expression of life must serve only the preservation of existence, and is absolutely focused on that. All else is banished because it would consume energies unnecessarily. That is the only way to save ourselves.

I don’t understand it,” Hans Castorp said. “I never can understand how anybody can not smoke—it deprives a man of the best part of life, so to speak—or at least of a first-class pleasure. When I wake in the morning, I feel glad at the thought of being able to smoke all day, and when I eat, I look forward to smoking afterwards; I might almost say I only eat for the sake of being able to smoke—though of course that is more or less of an exaggeration. But a day without tobacco would be flat, stale, and unprofitable, as far as I am concerned. If I had to say to myself to-morrow: ‘No smoke to-day’—I believe I shouldn’t find the courage to get up—on my honour, I’d stop in bed. But when a man has a good cigar in his mouth—of course it mustn’t have a side draught or not draw well, that is extremely irritating—but with a good cigar in his mouth a man is perfectly safe, nothing can touch him—literally. It’s just like lying on the beach: when you lie on the beach, why, you lie on the beach, don’t you?—you don’t require anything else, in the line of work or amusement either.—People smoke all over the world, thank goodness; there is nowhere one could get to, so far as I know, where the habit hasn’t penetrated. Even polar expeditions fit themselves out with supplies of tobacco to help them carry on. I’ve always felt a thrill of sympathy when I read that. You can be very miserable: I might be feeling perfectly wretched, for instance; but I could always stand it if I had my smoke.

I took quite an interest in polar expeditions. And I've been familiar with explorers who were still investigating polar zones, especially Greenland, with dog sleighs. What matters with dog sleighs is the guide. The guide is often a female dog, who is particularly subtle, and knows there's a crevice 25 or 30 meters ahead. Yet we can't see it under the snow. So we shall say she is violent because she warns the dog sleighs they're going to fall into the crevice, a 60 to 70 meter drop into a hole, and that will be it, death. Well, maybe I have the astuteness of a female dog leading dog sleighs, nothing more than that.

Oh, but I like yeh like this, caught and squirming against me, such good little prey.

As if he sensed her staring, his head rose and his attention was on her. The corner of his mouth lifted in a shy smile. Oof, that kind of smile could knock a girl off her feet.

Just before noon on February 28, 1882, the thin outline of a glowing orb pierced the southern skyline and hung there, like a wafer pasted in the air. Though faint, the sight was glorious: It was the first time they had seen the sun in 137 days.

There are not, I am afraid. All of the fish Daddies, as yeh say, have fled the area. There are reports of predatory southern women in the village,” he said gravely. “And such women need things like bears to keep ’em in line, so it is. They’d walk all over a poor wee fish Daddy.

Shackleton, who had witnessed on the Scott expedition the corrosive tensions among team members, sought recruits with the qualities he deemed essential for polar exploration. First, optimism; second, patience; third, physical endurance; fourth, idealism; fifth and last, courage.

Shackleton, who had witnessed on the Scott expedition the corrosive tensions among team members, sought recruits with the qualities that he deemed essential for polar exploration: “First, optimism; second, patience; third, physical endurance; fourth, idealism; fifth and last, courage.

Such things are real problems, they are serious matters to us, they cannot be otherwise. Here, on the borders of death, life follows an amazingly simply course, it is limited to what is most necessary, all else lies buried in gloomy sleep;—in that besides our primitiveness and our survival. Were we more subtly differentiated we must long since have gone mad, have deserted, or have fallen. As in a polar expedition, every expression of life must serve only the preservation of existence, and is absolutely focused on that. All else is banished because it would consume

most viable path toward the North Pole, Petermann insisted. “Perhaps I am wrong,” he told the Herald reporter, “but the way to show that is to give me the evidence. My idea is that if one door will not open, try another. If one route is marked with failures, try a new one. I have no ill will to any plan or expedition that means honest work in the Arctic regions.” But make no mistake, Petermann said, an Arctic voyage was dangerous work. He always underscored that point. “A great task must be greatly conceived,” he had written before one of the German polar expeditions. “For such tasks, one must be a great man, a great character. If you have doubts or scruples, back out now.” Petermann pledged to give Bennett’s expedition a full set of charts and maps of the Arctic and to help the expedition any other way he could. But beneath his enthusiasm for Bennett’s new

Surely misfortune could scarcely have exceeded this last blow. We arrived within 11 miles of our old One Ton Camp with fuel for one last meal and food for two days. For four days we have been unable to leave the tent - the gale howling about us. We are weak, writing is difficult, but for my own sake I do not regret this journey, which has shown that Englishmen can endure hardships , help one another, and meet death with as great a fortitude as ever in the past. We took risks, we knew we took them; things have come out against us, and therefore we have no cause for complaint, but bow to the will of Providence, determined still to do our best to the last. But if we have been willing to give our lives to this enterprise, which is for the honor of our country, I appeal to our countrymen to see that those who depend on us are properly cared for. Had we lived, I should have had a tale to tell of the hardihood, endurance, and courage of my companions which would have stirred the heart of every Englishman. These rough notes and our dead bodies must tell the tale, but surely, surely, a great rich country like ours will see that those who are dependent on us are properly provided for.

The English too, were turning their eyes to the South. In 1769, there was to be a transit of the planet Venus across the disc of the sun, a rare event which astronomers wanted to observe. The newly discovered island of Tahiti was judged the perfect site. The Royal Society in London asked the Royal Navy to organize the expedition. The Navy obliged. This was to have profound and unlooked-for consequences. It led to the virtual monopolization by naval officers of British Polar exploration until the first decade of this century. The voyage inspired by the transit of Venus was commanded by a man of quiet genius, James Cook, one of the greatest of discoverers.

Ultimately, with ice pressing in on them from all sides, Greely had made the decision to commit the boats and men to the mercies of the floes, with the forlorn hope that tides and winds would propel them south to Cape Sabine. If that failed, they would abandon everything not essential and attempt to cross ice bridges from floe to floe until they reached land. Some of Greely’s men disagreed with him, muttering that his decisions were madness and amounted to suicide. One of the men said he feared “another Franklin disaster.” The expedition doctor scribbled furiously in his journal: “It is terrible to float in this manner, in the snow, fog, and dark. This seems to me like a nightmare in one of Edgar Allan Poe’s stories.” And in many ways, it was.

Miss Boyd’s voyages to Greenland were conducted during a transitional period in polar exploration between “the Golden Age,” in which conquering the poles was accomplished by overland routes and by sea, and the modern technological era heralded by early polar flights by Amundsen, Ellsworth, and Byrd. Gillis wrote that Louise Arner Boyd “represented one of the last revivals of a Victorian phenomenon the wealthy explorer who poured a personal fortune into expeditions aimed at advancing science and satisfying profound personal curiosity.” [3] In rejecting a sedate and sheltered life as a wealthy wife and mother, she defied societal expectations. But she also challenged the ideal of a polar explorer as defined by manliness, stoicism, and heroism. Her seven daring expeditions to northern Norway and Greenland between 1926 and 1955 paved the way for later female polar explorers,

As the following pages deal with the practising life, they lead - in accordance with their topic - to an expedition into the little-explored universe of human vertical tensions. The Platonic Socrates had opened up the phenomenon for occidental culture when he stated expressis verbis that man is a being potentially 'superior to himself'. I translate this remark into the observation that all 'cultures', 'subcultures' or 'scenes' are based on central distinctions by which the field of human behavioural possibilities is subdivided into polarized classes. Thus the ascetic 'cultures' know the central distinction of complete versus incomplete, the religious 'cultures' that of sacred versus profane, the aristocratic 'cultures' that of noble versus common, the military 'cultures' that of brave versus cowardly, the political 'cultures' that of powerful versus powerless, the administrative 'cultures' that of superior versus subordinate, the athletic 'cultures' that of excellence versus mediocrity, the economic 'cultures' that of wealth versus lack, the cognitive 'cultures' that of knowledge versus ignorance, and the sapiental 'cultures' that of illumination versus blindness. What all these differentiations have in common is the espousal of the first value, which is considered the attractor in the respective field, while the second pole consistently functions as a factor of repulsion or object of avoidance.

A film, The Lost Continent, throws a clear light on the current myth of exoticism. It is a big documentary on 'the East', the pretext of which is some undefined ethnographic expedition, evidently false, incidentally, led by three or four Italians into the Malay archipelago. The film is euphoric, everything in it is easy, innocent. Our explorers are good fellows, who fill up their leisure time with child-like amusements: they play with their mascot, a little bear (a mascot is indispensable in all expeditions: no film about the polar region is without its tame seal, no documentary on the tropics is without its monkey), or they comically upset a dish of spaghetti on the deck. Which means that these good people, anthropologists though they are, don't bother much with historical or sociological problems. Penetrating the Orient never means more for them than a little trip in a boat, on an azure sea, in an essentially sunny country. And this same Orient which has today become the political centre of the world we see here all flattened, made smooth and gaudily coloured like an old-fashioned postcard. The device which produces irresponsibility is clear: colouring the world is always a means of denying it (and perhaps one should at this point begin an inquiry into the use of colour in the cinema). Deprived of all substance, driven back into colour, disembodied through the very glamour of the 'images', the Orient is ready for the spiriting away which the film has in store for it. What with the bear as a mascot and the droll spaghetti, our studio anthropologists will have no trouble in postulating an Orient which is exotic in form, while being in reality profoundly similar to the Occident, at least the Occident of spiritualist thought. Orientals have religions of their own? Never mind, these variations matter very little compared to the basic unity of idealism. Every rite is thus made at once specific and eternal, promoted at one stroke into a piquant spectacle and a quasi-Christian symbol. ...If we are concerned with fisherman, it is not the type of fishing which is whown; but rather, drowned in a garish sunset and eternalized, a romantic essense of the fisherman, presented not as a workman dependent by his technique and his gains on a definite society, but rather as the theme of an eternal condition, in which man is far away and exposed to the perils of the sea, and woman weeping and praying at home. The same applies to refugees, a long procession of which is shown at the beginning, coming down a mountain: to identify them is of course unnecessary: they are eternal essences of refugees, which it is in the nature of the East to produce.

Herbert Ponting, the expedition’s photographer, or “camera artist,” as he prefers to call himself, tries to photograph a pod of six killer whales that are attempting to hunt penguins at the edge of the sea ice. He takes his camera and tripod to the very edge of the sea ice but the whales, seeing him, go under the ice, coming up and breaking it into small floes. Ponting is left rocking on one of the floes when one of the whales rears out of the water, its head over the edge of the floe, trying to grab him.

She tapped her lunula for stealth and speed, somehow knowing he’d chase her.

She would prove her dedication to the Lady—gorgeous strangers and dreams of domestic happiness be damned.13

After a moment, she started humming to herself. What a silly wee woman.

She bit her lip, yes, this was a fellow who would be able to manhandle a solid girl like herself. She would not mind one bit, she decided.

Berne burst out laughing. It was rich and sonorous, and it reminded her of roasted caramel. She loved the sound of his laugh, she decided.

Lady damn me for a fool,” she growled, rubbing her hands down her face, “why did I think that this was a good idea? Will I never stop rushing in? Is this just who I am, single-minded to the point of recklessness?

Well, it feels nice to be wanted! Most people I know aren’t happy to see me darken their door,” she said with a wry chuckle. “Are yeh pulling me leg?” He frowned as he handed her the bowl and turned to fill his own. “Anyone disappointed to see yeh would have to be touched in the head.Why you’re adorable an—

It wasn’t that he needed someone to wait for him with dinner prepared. What he wanted was having someone waiting for him, to greet him with kind and loving words,

And you’re leading me to believe you've bound her to yeh already?” Gunna asked, eyebrow raised. “I have.” Berne gulped, and looked over at Sirin with a pained expression and mouthed, “Sorry.” Sirin frowned at him, obviously confused. He reached down to her wrapped arm, the one with his bite. He poured all of the compassion and pleading into his eyes as he could. “Please understand,” he whispered, “I’m just trying to help. Just try to trust me.

Berne, you didn’t steal me from anyone,” she assured. “You think anyone I was in a relationship with would let me go haring off into the wilderness alone like this?” He scoffed, “Sure, I’d not. I’ll tell yeh that.

Sirin, I told yeh, I wouldn’t dare presume—“ “Oh shut up, you silly bear,” she said with a blush.

This morning, she’d been convinced she was getting close to finding something she’d looked for her entire life. She’d had no idea she would find it and something far more precious than she’d ever imagined.

No, we don’t. What should we bring?” he asked, though he mouthed “Honey cakes,” at the same moment she said it aloud.

Only an hour ago, she’d charmed him with her silly little voices and wonder at everything, her sudden giggles, and happy dances. She was supposed to flit wildly from each thing she found fascinating, careening here and there on a whim. And now, she lay motionless in a hole

Just like carrying my nieces, says I. Ha! Just like carrying the girls my arse! No, carrying Sirin was not the same, and it was likely a big mistake.

John Robert Francis ‘Frank’ Wild is legendary in Antarctic exploration. The only person to have received the Silver Polar Medal with four bars, he made five expeditions to the Antarctic with the three major explorers of the heroic era of Antarctic exploration.

they were now a part of “the largest staff of scientific specialists ever carried on a Polar expedition.

Greely had managed to lead this unlikely unit in one of the epic expeditions in the history of Arctic exploration and scientific discovery. It was remarkable.

Throughout his 720-page book Three Years of Arctic Service, Greely’s

He held many of them in his arms as they whispered their final words and breathed their last breaths. The pages of his book and journals reveal a profound sense of caring and humanity, a deep responsibility for those he was destined to lead. The dedication he wrote at the beginning of his book offers insight into the man, and it seems fitting to close this book with that same dedication, to serve as a reminder of what grace looks like: To the Lady Franklin Bay Expedition These volumes are dedicated: To its dead who suffered much— To its living who suffered more. Their energy accomplished Farthest North Their fidelity wrought out success; Their courage faced death undauntedly; Their loyalty and discipline in all the dark days Ensured that this record Of their services should be given to the world.

At the other end of the earth, at the farthest reach of each sailor’s due north, the British transarctic expedition, led by English explorer-author Wally Herbert, was at the same time approaching the North Pole after more than 400 days on the polar ice cap.

The ultimate success of Amundsen’s expedition in reaching the South Pole in December 1911 would depend on two crucial logistical choices: the decision to use skis and the reliance on dog teams to haul the sledges. It was the tried-and-true Norwegian style of polar travel, but one that British explorers never fully embraced.

It’s also a lot harder to bullshit your peers than your boss. In talking to a project manager without tech chops, programmers can make a thirty-minute job sound like a week-long polar expedition, but if their tall tale is out in the open for other programmers to see, it won’t pass the smell test.

Mock-turtle soup, salmon, fricasseed guillemot, spiced musk-ox tongue, crab-salad, roast beef, eider-ducks, tenderloin of musk-ox, potatoes, asparagus, green corn, green peas, cocoanut-pie, jelly-cake, plum-pudding with wine-sauce, several kinds of ice-cream, grapes, cherries, pineapples, dates, figs, nuts, candies, coffee, chocolate.

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Thirst is one of the troubles that confront the traveller in polar regions. Ice may be plentiful on every hand, but it does not become drinkable until it is melted, and the amount that may be dissolved in the mouth is limited.

Behren's work resists easy classification. It is part expedition journal, part museum installation, part allegorical theatre. At the centre of the evolving vision stands a deceptively humble object - a brightly coloured toy submarine, discovered on a North Frisian island in 1974. Since then, this modest vessel has become a recurring avatar in his practice: a symbol of human curiosity, displacement, naivety. It drifts through imagined polar landscapes, burrows into archaeological strata, and even interrupts canonical works of European art history with both humour and quiet poignancy.