“Dogs have been banned,” Murphy’d explained. “They were passing on distemper to the seals. This is the last team still in operation, and the only way we could grandfather them in was by claiming they were part of a long-term study.” He’d rolled his eyes. “You have no idea of the paperwork, but Danzig wouldn’t let it go. They’re the last dogs at the South Pole, and Danzig’s the last of the mushers.”
Even from his less-than-ideal vantage point, Michael could see how perfectly the pack ran together, pulling at the harness, following Kodiak’s lead. He was amazed at the speed and the power they could muster. At times, they just seemed a blur of gray-and-white fur, bobbing and heaving like the painted horses on a carousel, and the sled seemed to soar behind them. Even without Danzig’s occasional cry of “Haw!” for left, or “Gee!” for right, the dogs knew exactly where they were going—they were heading for the old Norwegian whaling station, about three miles down the coast; Danzig made this their regular exercise run. He had suggested Michael might want to come along—“while your Sleeping Beauty melts”—to photograph the abandoned outpost. Michael had decided to take him up on the offer. He’d visited the marine biology lab earlier in the day, but there was nothing much new to photograph, and Darryl had assured him it would be another day or two before any big change occurred.
“Better safe than sorry,” Darryl had said of the slow process, and Michael agreed.
But watching ice melt, he’d discovered, was about as interesting as watching grass grow.
The last time Michael had tried to make this trip to Stromviken, he’d been drowned in a thick fog that made taking photos impossible. Today, in contrast, it was bitterly cold—twenty-five below zero—but clear. And the light—the constant, unyielding light—gave the air a strange, pellucid quality. Things that were far away could look much closer than they were, and up close things could look like they were almost under a magnifying glass. The Antarctic air and light made taking pictures—crisp, clear, and properly exposed pictures—even more of an intellectual challenge than ever.
Michael’s arms were folded over his chest, with his camera nestled under his parka.
“How do you like it?” Danzig shouted, leaning down toward him, his walrus-tooth necklace brushing the top of Michael’s hood.
“Sure beats the bus!”
Danzig patted him on the shoulder and leaned back again. He could never show off his dogs enough.
But it was difficult for Michael to see much, especially straight ahead, so the first intimation he had of the old whaling station was off to his right—the rusting hulk of a Norwegian steamboat, beached on the rocky shoreline. The pier beside it had long since collapsed, crushed by the ebb and flow of the ice. At its bow, pointing inland rather than out to sea, was the harpoon gun—a Norwegian invention—which had once fired a lacerating spear about six feet long, and loaded, in later years, with explosives. The fleeing whale, hit between the shoulder blades if the gunner was good, would dive for cover, only to have the bomb detonate inside it, ripping apart its heart and lungs.
That was if the creature was lucky. If the gunner was off, or the strike wasn’t lethal, the battle could go on for hours, as the whale breached, bleeding and spouting, and more harpoons were launched. A massive winch, pulling on the cables, provided a further drag, and as the animal—first humpbacks, then right whales, and finally, as even those began to disappear, the more difficult to catch rorquals—grew weaker, it was gradually reeled in, like a shark, until it could be gaffed with sharpened hooks and stabbed to death at will.
This particular whaling station had operated, off and on, since the 1890s, until finally closing down in 1958 and leaving everything, from locomotives to firewood, behind. Supplies that were worth bringing in were too difficult and costly to bother taking out again. Not that the Norwegians even then had entirely given up whaling; like Japan and Iceland, they continued to assert their customary prerogative to hunt whales, and when this was mentioned in passing over dinner one night in the commons, Charlotte had thrown down her fork in disgust and said, “That’s it—I’m getting rid of every Norwegian thing I own.” Darryl had asked her what that would entail and on reflection she said, “I guess I’ll have to throw out this reindeer sweater.”
“Don’t be too hasty,” Michael said, plucking out the label and laughing. “See? It’s made in China.”
Charlotte had breathed a sigh of relief. “It is awfully warm.”