First to the North Pole!

[Bilge_Rat]

so it turns out Perry never made it and the first overland expedition to actually reach the North Pole was a group of U.S. snowmobilers in 1968:

Reminders of the risks were everywhere. One night, zipped two to a sleeping bag and listening to the groaning ice, as Plaisted later told a re­porter, the men were horrified when the ice pan they were camping on suddenly started to roar and rumble, as if coming to life. No one said a word. In the morning, Pitzl was the first out of the tent, and he reported that the entire south end of the ice pan was rubble; they’d missed ruination by a matter of yards.

‘‘We don’t care what’s going on to the south,’’ Pederson said. ‘‘We’re going north.’’

On April 8, after a month and a day on the ice, it looked as if another big blow was coming: A specter appeared on the horizon, shimmering and ethereal. As they neared it, though, they realized that they were seeing mist rise from a tremendous expanse of open water two miles wide and stretching to the horizon in both directions. The scale of it was terrifying. The men agreed that they would have to hope it would freeze over. But the ice was getting softer, giving way underfoot in an unnerving fashion.

‘‘How deep is the ocean here?’’ Bombardier asked as they looked at the lead, according to ‘‘First to the Pole.’’

‘‘Ten thousand feet,’’ Pitzl said.

‘‘Maybe we should wait,’’ Bombardier said.

Trapped on a floe drifting southward, they continually checked the thickness of the ice over the next few days: Bombardier probed with a chisel and then carefully stepped on to the gray ice, progressing inch by inch until the ice grew black and watery. The situation seemed hopeless. Pederson and Bombardier kept patrolling up and down the length of the lead, looking for a place where their floe might connect with the floe to the north. Then Pederson saw a large extrusion that appeared to be about to collide with their ice pan. He raced back to camp and urged the team to pack up and prepare for when the floes smashed into each other. They’d be able to cross during the collision, Pederson told them eagerly. The plan sounded far too dangerous to Plaisted, but the other three in­sisted. A kind of polar fever had taken over. Revving their engines, the din breaking the vast silence, they awaited word from Pederson until the floes crashed with an enormous boom.

‘‘Now,’’ Pederson shouted.

The expedition set forth at full throttle, skimming on to the other floe. But there was an almighty roar and a crack as the ice fractured, splitting the party into two pairs of sleds. Pitzl gunned his Ski-Doo and made it to the main floe, the others grabbing his sled and pulling it ashore before he sank into the abyss. Now Pederson was left drifting away, with open water spreading among the fragmenting ice islands. He had no choice but to go as fast as he could until he reached an expanse of thin black ice. As he tried to cross it, his machine bogged down and began to sink, its snow track spinning ineffectually.

Plaisted, overpowering his own fear, stepped off the safety of the hard floe onto the gelatinous ice and picked his way gingerly to the machine, his feet sinking with each step. He tugged the skis of Pederson’s Ski-Doo and pulled it from the grasp of the frigid sea. Others told different versions of the story, but years later, Pederson still recalled the ‘‘miracle’’ that saved his life.

Later that night, as they lay in the tent contemplating the risks they were taking, Plaisted told his compadres: ‘‘If any of you think we’re doing anything like that again, you can forget it right now.

http://www.nytimes.com/2016/03/20/ma...=top-news&_r=0

[Dowly]

And for people other than the Superman:

Reminders of the risks were everywhere. One night, zipped two to a sleeping bag and listening to the groaning ice, as Plaisted later told a re­porter, the men were horrified when the ice pan they were camping on suddenly started to roar and rumble, as if coming to life. No one said a word. In the morning, Pitzl was the first out of the tent, and he reported that the entire south end of the ice pan was rubble; they’d missed ruination by a matter of yards.

‘‘We don’t care what’s going on to the south,’’ Pederson said. ‘‘We’re going north.’’

On April 8, after a month and a day on the ice, it looked as if another big blow was coming: A specter appeared on the horizon, shimmering and ethereal. As they neared it, though, they realized that they were seeing mist rise from a tremendous expanse of open water two miles wide and stretching to the horizon in both directions. The scale of it was terrifying. The men agreed that they would have to hope it would freeze over. But the ice was getting softer, giving way underfoot in an unnerving fashion.

‘‘How deep is the ocean here?’’ Bombardier asked as they looked at the lead, according to ‘‘First to the Pole.’’

‘‘Ten thousand feet,’’ Pitzl said.

‘‘Maybe we should wait,’’ Bombardier said.

Trapped on a floe drifting southward, they continually checked the thickness of the ice over the next few days: Bombardier probed with a chisel and then carefully stepped on to the gray ice, progressing inch by inch until the ice grew black and watery. The situation seemed hopeless. Pederson and Bombardier kept patrolling up and down the length of the lead, looking for a place where their floe might connect with the floe to the north. Then Pederson saw a large extrusion that appeared to be about to collide with their ice pan. He raced back to camp and urged the team to pack up and prepare for when the floes smashed into each other. They’d be able to cross during the collision, Pederson told them eagerly. The plan sounded far too dangerous to Plaisted, but the other three in­sisted. A kind of polar fever had taken over. Revving their engines, the din breaking the vast silence, they awaited word from Pederson until the floes crashed with an enormous boom.

‘‘Now,’’ Pederson shouted.

The expedition set forth at full throttle, skimming on to the other floe. But there was an almighty roar and a crack as the ice fractured, splitting the party into two pairs of sleds. Pitzl gunned his Ski-Doo and made it to the main floe, the others grabbing his sled and pulling it ashore before he sank into the abyss. Now Pederson was left drifting away, with open water spreading among the fragmenting ice islands. He had no choice but to go as fast as he could until he reached an expanse of thin black ice. As he tried to cross it, his machine bogged down and began to sink, its snow track spinning ineffectually.

Plaisted, overpowering his own fear, stepped off the safety of the hard floe onto the gelatinous ice and picked his way gingerly to the machine, his feet sinking with each step. He tugged the skis of Pederson’s Ski-Doo and pulled it from the grasp of the frigid sea. Others told different versions of the story, but years later, Pederson still recalled the ‘‘miracle’’ that saved his life.

Later that night, as they lay in the tent contemplating the risks they were taking, Plaisted told his compadres: ‘‘If any of you think we’re doing anything like that again, you can forget it right now.

[Bilge_Rat]

not sure what happened to the font, anyway its readable now.

[Dowly]

NVM.