The Living Ice Age

            by Ana Weidenfeld

 

In the North there is a world so strange, so different from the one most of us know, that a visit to it is like a trip to another planet. Where birds wheel and cry and in clear, frigid pools hundred-legged tadpole shrimp wriggle and dart in urgent instinct to live out their short life span before their puddles freeze over. Where there are no springs, no swamps or bogs and the land is terribly exposed to freezing winds. Yet life exists there, and even thrives.

 

Newt lived in Boothbay Harbor, Maine, where he had just been fired from his position at “Hamilton’s Watches and Clocks.” He had recently graduated from college but could not keep a job due to his sticky fingers. That evening, on his way home, he looked toward the treacherous shores of Labrador and saw an illuminated schooner tied up at the docks. Her hull was arched and rounded like it was strengthened with molded cement and her bow was gracefully curved. He walked toward the docks in order to get a closer look.

“Do you know where’s she headed?” Newt called to a man standing by the schooner. 

“Greenland,” said the man. “Our destination is a fossil forest on the west coast of Greenland near Disko Island. We’re leaving tomorrow.”

“Are you a scientist?” inquired Newt eagerly.

“Yep. I’m a research student under Captain Carp. We’re off to find out what natural life exists in the Far North. Are a student too?”

Newt paused for a moment. “I just graduated. How do I sign up?”

 

Newt slowly entered the plush dormitory of Admiral Carp, the proud captain of the 88-foot Charmed Lad, and told him how he had just graduated with a major in ecology. Carp, who appeared to be no younger then sixty, stared at him incredulously.

“Why do you want to come aboard son?” said Carp.

“I’d like to see something other than Maine. I’ve lived here my whole life.”

He eyed Newt. “In this ship I’ve sailed the cold coasts of Baffin and Ellesmere Islands and the rocky shores of west Greenland. I’ve lost three fingers to the cold and half of me toes.”

            “I won’t be a problem. I used to work in an outdoor recreation store.” And with that Newt was given a pair of boots, a large jacket and a canteen. The rest of the crew was sound asleep when Newt entered the sleeping quarters and he tried to do the same but something was at the end of his cot and Newt could smell its breath.

 

Early the next morning, Carp took Newt and the rest of the crew zigzagging from point to point inside the reefs. Few men would have dared to bring such a deep-draft ship so close inshore along the coast.

If the skipper of a Newfoundland fishing vessel saw the bold course, he would merely shake his head and say, “There goes Carp!” And if a bad storm blew up, that same fisherman knew that the best course was to follow Carp to safety.

But even Carp’s luck did not always hold. Once Newt staggered on his way to his bunk as the ship gave a lurch, a bounce, and a cruel crunch. The Charmed Lad stopped short, listed, and hung as though impaled, like a great white bird that had been shot in the water.

An ordinary ship might have broken in two, but the Charmed Lad was built to withstand far harder shocks. Her white oak ribs were doubled, her planking three-inch oak was beneath two inches of Australian ironwood; her bow was shod steel.

Carp had built the Charmed Lad after years of Arctic experience. So when ice squeezed her sides with irresistible pressure, the curved shape of the schooner permitted her to rise, as an orange seed escapes the squeeze of fingers.

With all ready, the schooner nodded, heeled, slowly revolved, and at last slid away from the hidden ice unscathed. The skipper calmly noted the obstruction on his personal chart, and they were once more under way.

 

Eventually, they sailed across the invisible line of the Arctic Circle. At times Newt could glimpse the icecaps, a gleaming white line hanging between the gray of the coastal cliffs and the deep blue of the sky. And when they sailed closer they could see the copious splashes of lichens on the boulders along the fronts of the Greenland glaciers. Newt thought to himself that it was impossible that in this world of immense scale, in which an iceberg half a mile across is a mere speck and schooner with its tall masts seems to vanish, a plant kingdom could really survive. Newt followed the others as they filled their “plant-collecting boxes” with brilliant wildflowers. He attempted to write down the Latin names of firewood, buttercup, and poppy and identify the properties of the rock specimens that they found. He mechanically shook his head in comprehension when Carp explained that the growing season lasts only a matter of weeks and that during that time the sun is continuously shining.

“Can anyone identify this individual?” asked Carp, pointing to four-leafed plant. “How about you Newt?”

 “Sure thing Captain,” said Newt as he inspected the fleshy tissue. “Is it perhaps Smallus flowerus?” 

            Some of the crew laughed but Carp shook his head with a frown.

 

Newt spent much of his down time alone, allowing his imagination to take over to the point where he could see every figure in geometry and every symbol in art in the icebergs. There was a classical Pegasus with tail flying, neck arched, hoofs churning the water. Here laid a great turtle on its back with four legs lifted into the air.

He thought about how a painter would delight in the tints of the bergs. The ice aglow with auroras of blue and white and so lucid that they were shot with tints of indigo, emerald, sapphire, gold, and rose. Newt had a gift for art but he would trade it in a heartbeat for a wily mind like his father’s. 

 

One day Carp announced that they would be stretching their legs in a nearby Eskimo community in Greenland. Their settlement was difficult to pick out against the rocky, rugged background, as their huts seemed merely boulders reflecting the sunlight. The village seemed to cling together as if against the elements. Along the huts laid piles of fish heads and entrails, patches of grass, seal carcasses, harpoons, sealskin bladders, and kayaks.

                       

            As the hour grew late Carp suggested a drink. Newt and rest of the passengers followed him into a small, primitive hut where a large man with a black beard shook hands with Captain Carp.

            “I am Aukaneck and this is my daughter, Buniq,” said the man, pointing towards a woman in bearskin pants and sealskin boots. She stood by a table and poured whiskey into fist-sized cups.

While many of the men just had a few drinks, Carp drank like a fish.

“Listen up lads. I have a right good idea. Tomorrow we shall head towards another village by foot.”

 

The next day they were off. A transparent avalanche of wind poured steadily against the men, an unobstructed, bitter cold, but they trekked on. Soon they could no longer see the town and a silence fell upon them. They made their way to a point directly under a bridge of ice where a tinkling sound permeated the cloistered area. Newt found that it came from a most unhallowed source. Jars and containers of various sizes sat under the multiple drips of a seeping spring. Water dropped as though from a dozen leaky faucets, and each receptacle gave off a slightly different note. The men all fell to their knees under the weeping ledge and drank from the jars to quench their thirst.

As he looked around, Newt could see that bridges surrounded him. He wandered under these perfect and delicate archways and pictured himself looking up at the ribs of a great animal.

“No time for a break gents,” yelled Carp.

“Ease up, Carp,” laughed Newt. Carp smiled but Newt was sure that he had seen a shadow cross his face.

They walked for hours at a quick pace up and down steep hills of snow and Newt’s breath began to come in short, shallow gulps.

“Carp,” he said. “I need to stop and catch my breath for a minute. Go on ahead and I’ll catch up.”

“This is not a good time to stop,” said Carp firmly. “It’s too cold.”

“I have to rest. I’ll just follow your tracks. Honest.” Carp gave a hesitant glance at Newt and with a slight nod of his head, turned away.

Newt sat on a fallen stump and tried to catch his breath but his lungs would not inflate. A light snow began to fall as he sat there and the path of his comrades slowly became hidden. Newt knew that he could not go after them or else he would collapse. His best plan was to stay put and hope that Carp would return. He gathered a pile of debris and then forced his hands blindly into his pockets. Using his teeth to place a match between his thumb and index finger, he scratched it with great force. The match burst into flame and he held it up to a piece of bark.  He felt a great surge of joy as he watched the flames of his small fire grow in strength.

Newt, however, had not thought to protect the fire and all at once a mighty gust of wind began to bellow. He stared in horror at the blackened snow at his feet.

“Oh god,” he said aloud.

It was around seventy-eight degrees below zero and the thought of freezing had now seeped into his thoughts and he knew that he had to stay calm.

 It was surprising how rapidly his extremities were growing numb. His fingers seemed to be disconnected from the rest of his body and he began hitting them savagely against his legs. Panic began to wash over him but he fought against it and forced himself to think of the task at hand.

Newt worked methodically, gathering pieces of bark and small twigs. When he had a small pile, he pulled off his glove and thrust his hand back into his pocket. He could not feel the small matchbook; the pearls of lint or the stray button that he knew were there. Pulling his mitten back on he began thrashing his arms wildly.

Soon he could feel a sharp pain and he quickly pulled off his glove and grabbed the matchbook. But it was so cold that his fingers had failed before they could extract a match. This time Newt’s panic arose with such a force that he felt nauseous. But once again he willed it away. Carefully, he pushed the matches between his forefinger and thumb and then between his strong teeth and then back to his hand. He scratched the pack against his arm again and again until they ignited into a ball of fire! He held the blazing matches to the debris but his hands would not drop the matches. The smell of flesh filled his nostrils and with a sway of fear he forced his hand downward into the snow. He had failed.

Shivering now replaced Newt’s shortness of breath. He could picture Carp sitting in a warm tent, smoking a pipe and meticulously picking stray pieces of tobacco off of his tongue.

“It certainly is cold,” Newt said aloud.

No matter how forcefully he thrashed his arms they would not awaken and Newt had the impression that they had been replaced with blocks of cement. He pictured his warm sleeping bag that was strapped to Carp’s pack and he felt a wave of drowsiness wash over him.

 

Almost directly above Newt a single Matterhorn-like summit towered in lonely splendor, forming with its lower and more distant slopes the wall of a valley. Wastes of ice, snow, and jagged rocks characterized the valley. A few sparse patches of green grass did indeed clothe the slopes here and there, but they only served to emphasize the barrenness. Everything was still and not even a marmot’s shrill whistle could penetrate the silence.