White Out

I wake up to an icy gust that makes me shudder and Harry’s voice calls from the open door.

   "We can't wait for fine weather, so keep the place warm. We'll return in ten days.”

   Stay and chop wood or hunt for food in the white out.

   Just my luck. I drew the short straw last night.

   Harry and Jimbo get to venture out.

   “There’s ammo on the table,” said Jimbo. “If the pack ice comes down with a bear and it checks out the hut, shoot it.” 

   I know the drill. First bullet in the chest and even if it looks dead, another in the head. Polar bear meat wouldn’t be my first choice for protein, but needs must.

* * *

   The rasping scrape of wooden skis fades as they slide away from the hut and vanish into early morning mist. Then everything is silent apart from the spit and crackle of burning wood. The plucky cast-iron stove occupies a central position in our modest dwelling and emits a cheery glow. It wasn’t ever going to compete with the sub-zero temperatures outside, but its cheerful pot-bellied design does its best, providing we feed it enough fuel. Of course, the crooked chimney has seen better days and belches smoke into our claustrophobic quarters, depositing a layer of soot and ash over our few meagre possessions.

   Out of doors, dawn’s first rays are lost in the whirl of snowflakes descending like confetti at a royal wedding. I shiver at the thought of the arduous journey to the hunting ground and our make-shift traps. The pack ice hadn’t arrived as we’d expected and there was a distinct possibility we’d all be disappointed. We’ve seen precious little wildlife outside for days. Neither game birds nor artic foxes are present. Our rations were running thin a week ago and we need to eat.

   I notice the daylight is retreating by the minute and feel the oppressive weight of the pregnant clouds. Above me, the sky has darkened to the colour of a crude oil spillage, polluting the ice crystals with its dreadful presence. Maybe, I’m better off here after all. For a moment, I’m glad not accompany them and dose off to sleep.

* * *

   When I awake, toward midday, it’s grown still darker out there. Now and again powerful gusts of wind rap on the walls of the hut. The wind speed ascends in pitch and beneath its shrill whistle I catch the deep, hollow rumble of a storm. No, it wasn't the right sort of weather for the two of them to be out. All of a sudden, my stomach churns and my brow feels cold with sweat. I need to secure all our things out of doors against the storm. I haul on my heavy coat and boots and stumble out of the hut.

   I’ve never seen Mossel Bay looking like this. The snow is driving like a tsunami over the land, churning the black sea, and blasting our creaking hut in its wake. High above, the storm is booming like a deep, long-drawn organ note in a god-forsaken cathedral.

   The window shutters are already buried under snow. I need to shovel them out and put them in the passage. The skis, however, are rammed down in a spot sheltered from the wind. The boat is lying obliquely to the wind, already half under snow and tethered to rocks. I notice the thermometer shows minus ten degrees. It can descend a lot lower tonight. There’s no doubt about that.

   We’re short of fuel in the hut. I set about chopping the sawn logs that were lying against the north wall. I chop away for dear life and recall the stories Harry told me. He’d said, storms like this can last three weeks. Although protected from the wind by the hut, the work’s no pleasure. The flying snow whirls in my face, burning my nose and exposed cheeks. It takes me three hours of hard labour to generate enough fire wood to last for a couple of days. I hurl all the wood I can find into the hut, followed by the axe and the chopping block. They are essential and I imagine them buried and lost if they’re left outside. 

   In my haste to get fuel I’d not eaten and set about preparing my breakfast. But the damn stove won’t burn. There’s a draught that blows out every flame. It takes all my patience, half a litre of paraffin, and a great deal seal fat before the fire catches at last. And then it’s the same old story as in every storm. The heat whistles out of the chimney pipe, while reeking fumes of smoke blow into the hut. It was pitch-black and near nightfall before I have a cup of hot coffee in my hands.

   The gale increases in violence. The hollow, roar outside swells into continuous thunder. Now and again, I can hear the first dull rumbling blows of the approaching storm at sea, beating on the cliffs. Although the stove is stoked high, it’s cheerless in the hut. The wind whistles through the wooden walls and in spite of my fur jacket and fur hood I’m freezing.

   I wonder how long it will be before this storm drives the pack ice down to our bay. Will any polar bears come on the first ice floes to drift this way? Jimbo thought so. Perhaps, I should cover the window, so that at least I won’t see the bears if they peep through the window? 

   To add to it all, my little lamp goes out. So, there I am in darkness, in the midst of that diabolic storm. I feel around for the paraffin bottle; I find it, but it’s empty. As far as I can recall, the cask of paraffin is kept out of doors, somewhere between the hut and the foreshore, and the paraffin is funnelled into the bottle through a tube. But I have no desire to set about this in the dark, and who knows if I can find my way back to the hut.

   So, I huddle up in the light reflected from the stove. My mind races in the gloom and I draw my furry hood around my face. I think of what a dreadful fate it would be to spend a whole winter alone in a hut without any light.

   The fire burns down quickly, and all I can do, to save fuel precious fuel, is go to sleep. I feel my way into my little room. It’s ice-cold, and I creep fully clothed into my little bunk. But it’s easier to think of sleeping than to fall asleep, for here the noise of the storm is far worse. To the crashing thunder of the storm is added the knocking and rapping of all the boards and posts leaning against the east wall. The wind howls in the stovepipe, and the roof boards tap and knock without any respite. Soon it’s impossible to distinguish one noise from another. All are fused into one deafening roar. From within the hut, it sounds as if an express train were being driven by a maniac through screaming tunnels that have no end.

   I conjure up a picture of the two men, struggling ahead in the raging wind and darkness along the rocky shore of Mossel Bay and hope to God they’ve reached the hut at Cross point. The barometer was unpromising when they set off. But their expedition is necessary, come what may, before total darkness set in, to lay the traps in their hunting ground.

* * *

   For nine days and nine nights the storm rages. I carry on working day after day, during the hours when there is still some dusky light out-of-doors, with a strength I didn’t think I possessed and a savage recklessness, that seizes me afresh each day. Each morning, I feel the same almost trembling, craving to rush out to do battle, until one day the storm stops. A new experience makes an even more violent and terrible impact on my excited mind than the days of furious storm. For the first time I realise that in the solitude of an all-too-powerful nature things have a different meaning. It dawns on me that in many cases it may be more difficult for a man to retain his ordinary humanity in the Arctic than to sustain his life in battle with the elements.

The End