Fly around the earth in five minutes
For as long as I can remember, there have been three grand adventures that I have dreamed of experiencing — climbing Mt. Everest, exploring the headwaters of the Amazon, and visiting the North Pole. While I've learned that I'm basically too lazy to tackle Everest, I have parachuted onto the top of a tepui, or mountain, in the Amazon rain forest, and this year I made my sixth trip to the North Pole.
The North Pole is 450 miles from the nearest land and more than 600 miles from the nearest airport. For six months of the year it is a totally dark, extremely cold (minus 130 degrees Fahrenheit) sheet of ice, and for the other six months — even when the sun shines 24 hours a day — it still is an awfully cold mixture of open water and ice. The water is 14,500 feet deep, and the ice varies from inches to several yards thick, with nasty 15-foot-high pressure ridges scattered about. This makes for a tough trip over the surface.
Adm. Robert Edwin Peary made the trip on foot and by dogsled, but it took months and cost him eight toes. Getting there over the ice (and water) is still an arduous task that requires weeks of near-superhuman effort in one of the most unforgiving climates on Earth.
An aircraft, however, can get you there quickly and comfortably. While helicopters and ski-equipped airplanes can do the job, range and payload considerations make them awkward and expensive to use. If only there were an airport at the North Pole, you could simply fly up, unfasten your seatbelt, take a walk around the world, have a champagne brunch, and get out of Dodge before frostbite set in.
Doing so is not a fantasy. Early every April, a very special group of men build a very special airport, entirely out of floating ice, near the North Pole. By early May it is gone, but for those fortunate few who have used it to visit the Pole, not soon forgotten.
My first trip to the Pole
My association with the North Pole actually began with a business trip to Russia in 1990. I own a parachute company in Florida; in 1984 I developed the concept of tandem jumping — two people sharing one parachute — and was traveling around the world to promote it. Although tandem jumping was developed to allow dual instruction for skydivers, it also allows a nonjumper, such as a doctor or other emergency worker, to be quickly transported long distances and delivered to remote areas that are beyond the range of helicopters.
After demonstrating a tandem jump at Tushino airfield near Moscow, I was approached by several gentlemen sporting large hats and chests covered with medals. One — rather unimpressed with my demonstration — remarked, "This system works well on a nice summer day in Moscow, but could you safely transport me to a really remote area?" Without thinking I responded, "General, it could put you on the North Pole in the dead of winter." I was both shocked and fascinated when he said, "We shall see, comrade, we shall see." Six months later I had an invitation to the North Pole.
I didn't know anything about the North Pole, except that it was really cold up there. A little reading told me to expect temperatures of minus 76 degrees Fahrenheit at the 10,000-foot exit altitude — not to mention an off-the-chart windchill factor in freefall — and about minus 40 Fahrenheit on the ground. Obviously, I researched cold-weather gear very carefully.
I also learned that what we call the North Pole is really more of an abstraction than it is an actual place. As a matter of fact, there are not one but four North Poles.
The absolute North Pole is the exact point around which the Earth is rotating at any particular moment. The problem is that the Earth wobbles a bit, so this point moves in an irregular ellipse. The area defined by this ellipse is called the average North Pole. You can easily define these poles using data from the Palomar Observatory and a few hours on a Cray supercomputer. Tough to do on the road.
Of more practical value is the concept of the geographic North Pole. This is defined as the point where all the lines of longitude meet. The problem here is that the Earth is not exactly round. Our system of longitude and latitude is a perfectly symmetrical grid laid over a not-so-perfect world, so the geographic North Pole's location depends on which map datum system you use. It has been generally agreed to navigate in the polar regions using the World Geodetic System 1984 (WGS 84) map datum as reference. Its "north pole" generally lies within the average north pole.
The fourth North Pole is, of course, the magnetic North Pole, and it is located about 650 miles south of the geographic North Pole in the islands of extreme northern Canada. The great distance between these two points is responsible for that inconvenient difference between true North and magnetic North.
If all this weren't confusing enough, the ice over the North Pole is constantly moving, often up to 10 miles a day — so there can be no permanent structures there. Everyone who seeks the North Pole must find it for themselves. For this reason, it is the one place on Earth that will always remain pristine and new.
Every pilot knows that getting there is at least as much fun as being there. My first trip to the North Pole was no exception. On April 1, 1991 — no, the irony of the date was not lost on me — I flew from Moscow to Tiksi, Siberia, in an Antonov An-12, a four-engine turboprop similar to a Lockheed C-130. After my third cup of tea, I was surprised to find out that there was no bathroom, nor even a relief tube or jug, on board for our six-hour flight. Those Russians certainly are a tough lot.
In Tiksi, the general had assembled nine aircraft and nearly a hundred support personnel. Not unexpectedly, the general insisted that before we went any further, I had to do a few "practice" tandem jumps with assorted "volunteers" out on the edge of the icecap. My passenger for the actual North Pole jump, Dmitri Shparo, head of the Russian Explorers' Club, looked on very carefully. Everybody lived. We were a go for the Pole.
But before we left, the Russians had a surprise for me. They flew me in a Mil Mi-8 helicopter to the nearby grave of George DeLong, the first American to attempt the Pole. I had never heard of DeLong, so they filled me in. Apparently DeLong set out from Alaska by ship in 1879. After a month or so, his ship was crushed by the ice, so DeLong and company tried to make it the rest of the way on foot. They eventually all perished, save one. This intrepid soul somehow made it to Tiksi. After hearing his tale, the Russians went out on the icecap, found DeLong's body, and "buried" it. (You actually don't bury anything in northern Siberia. The ground is frozen solid year-round.) His grave, which is made of ancient ships' timbers, sits on a solitary, 1,000-foot-tall rock, marked by a huge wooden cross, in the Lena River delta near Tiksi.
We then flew in the several An-12s to the island of Graham Bell, which at 650 miles south is the nearest Russian base to the Pole. The island is named after Alexander, who — among other things — was president of the National Geographic Society when the island was discovered in 1899. Here we slept in huge converted fuel tanks to avoid being eaten by polar bears. They gave me the best accommodations in the place; I had the only tank with an attached "outhouse." Trouble was, my luxury "bathroom" wasn't heated. When your toilet seat is a crisp 40 degrees below zero, you don't spend a lot of time reading magazines. I unscrewed the toilet seat from its plywood base, brought it into the tank, and hung it on the radiator. When the base commander visited (it was his place) and saw the toilet seat on the radiator, he literally got down on his hands and knees and kissed my feet. He'd lived there for two years and hadn't figured this out yet.
On April 10, responding to a mock air disaster, we flew up to the top of the world in an An-12 and made the first tandem parachute jump directly over the geographic North Pole.
I had expected a flat, featureless terrain, devoid of any character, but when we arrived, we were greeted by one of the most gorgeous aerial vistas imaginable. There was not a cloud in the bluest sky I had ever seen, and with no dust or water vapor in the atmosphere, you could see forever. The "icescape" literally sparkled, and the low sun angle cast long shadows along the multiple pressure ridges that protruded through the snow. There were several large cracks in the ice that looked like rivers, but there was no sign that life existed on Earth. It was as if we were about to visit the moon.
Shparo and I exited the An-12 with freefall photographer Norman Kent. The view during freefall and under canopy was even grander and more magical than that from the airplane. We never got cold at all. I guess the adrenaline rush gave us all the warmth required.
When we were down safely, the general broke out the champagne, which quickly froze in our glasses before he finished the toast. I wandered around for hours, playing on the ice formations. This place was amazing, and I wondered at how easily we had gotten here.
To ensure our safety on the return trip, three An-12s were orbiting at 200-mile intervals to keep track of us and provide radio relays back to Graham Bell. Another helicopter was waiting for us at a refueling station on the ice about halfway back. This station, and the polar base, had been supplied by air- drop with fuel for the return trip — it was quite an operation.
I just had to share this experience with as many other people as possible. Over the next four years, the Russians and I took hundreds of skydivers for the jump of their lives. As much fun as my first trip was, I found that it was even more fun to show what I had found to others. In 1996, after five trips to the Pole, I retired.
I went again this year because I had told my 12-year-old daughter, Katie, that if she scored higher than 1,000 on the college boards (SATs) I would give her anything she wanted. When she scored 1,210 (in the seventh grade, mind you) and said, "Take me to the North Pole, Daddy," I was delighted. In my five previous trips, I had developed tremendous respect for the Russians' ability to conduct a safe and sane operation in a very remote area of the world, under conditions that most pilots would find impossible. The trip would be long and hard, but Katie would have memories that would last a lifetime. She would be the youngest American ever to visit the North Pole.
I e-mailed my Russian partner from previous excursions, Sergei Insarov, and asked if Katie could come this year. He said that he thought it would be a great idea, and that he would bring along his two daughters, Era and Tanya, for company. They gave Katie the grand tour of Moscow and even took her to school with them for a day. When the three girls got to the Pole, they held hands around the world as a gesture of international friendship.
Building the ice airport
Over the years, to make the trip faster, easier, safer, and far less expensive, the ice airport concept was developed. It has allowed hundreds of people to visit the Pole each year for less than $8,000 each. By comparison, a ride up from Canada in a ski-equipped Twin Otter costs about $25,000, as does an icebreaker trip from Russia during the summer. Here's how it works.
A week or so before we arrive, two Mi-8 helicopters, with 12 men aboard, start out from the Siberian town of Khatanga and fly to Sredny Island, a Russian base near the edge of the icecap. Here they refuel and head north until fuel gets low. They land, set up a tent with a shortwave radio, and call for a fuel drop. Soon, an An-12 appears overhead and starts parachuting drums of fuel. The helicopter crews scurry out with sleds and retrieve the drums, one by one, and refuel the choppers. Two men remain to man this desolate gas station for the return trip, and the two helicopters head north toward the top of the world. As they approach the Pole, they look for a smooth, unbroken stretch of ice on which to build the airport.
Once an apparently perfect stretch of ice is spotted, they land and begin surveying the spot. They measure the distance of flat ice available (they need 3,000 feet) and drill holes to measure the ice thickness. They tell me that it takes about two feet to support a helicopter and about four feet for landing our An-74 jet. (Since they can't measure the ice before landing the helicopter, they touch down under full power and bounce up and down a few times to see if the ice will hold them. Needless to say, this is quite disconcerting the first time that you go through it.) If the ice is OK, they set up a tent, get warm again, unload a small bulldozer from one of the choppers, and start to scrape ice.
At the Pole, there are basically two kinds of ice, as well as new snow, to deal with. The bulldozer easily moves the fresh snow and breaks up the approximately two-foot-thick layer of old hard-packed snow (white ice) beneath it. This white ice is what you make igloos out of. It can be sawed into perfect, lightweight blocks. This leaves only the pack or "blue ice," which seems to average about six feet thick. Igloos are not made out of blue ice. It is far too hard to cut and much too heavy. But as it turns out, it does make a beautiful runway.
While one guy runs the bulldozer, the others walk ahead with long, pointed steel rods. They break up any outcroppings of blue ice that could damage the bulldozer's blade. All such chucks (hundreds of them) must be removed from the runway to prevent foreign object damage to landing aircraft. Blue ice at 40 degrees below is very hard and can be very sharp.
After all snow, white ice, and blue ice outcroppings have been removed, the men survey the runway for any depressions. If they find one, they use an ice auger to drill down to water. Water flows up through the hole, and naturally fills the depression. Wait a couple of hours, and you have a level runway.
I've never seen men work harder, in worse conditions, for less pay, but when they're done, they've created a beautiful blue-ice runway 3,000 feet long and about 75 feet wide. They line it with black flags; set up a windsock, an NDB, and an aircraft-frequency radio station; and voilà — the North Pole Airport is open for business.
While these guys are busy on the icecap, we tourists meet in Moscow and see the sights. Aside from the obvious — Red Square, the Kremlin, and the Bolshoi — you might want to include a side trip to Star City, the Russian space center, or to a nearby airbase to fly your very own MiG-29. After a day or two in Moscow, we fly to Khatanga, Siberia, in an Ilyushin Il-76 jumbo jet. There is so much room inside, we once set up a volleyball game to pass the time. After checking into our hotel, we wait for good weather and then fly nonstop in an An-74 jet to the aforementioned Sredny Island. After refueling there, it is less than two hours up to the Pole.
The An-74 is one of the neatest airplanes that I've ever seen. It was made for hauling large loads (maximum takeoff weight is 76,060 pounds) out of rough places, yet it cruises at nearly 400 knots. Its engines, twin Lotarev D-436 turbofans each capable of producing 16,550 lb of thrust, are mounted forward and on top of the wings. Thrust is directed over the wings and down the huge flaps, providing lift even before the wheels start rolling. I've seen it get off the ice airport after only an 11-second run. Because the engines are mounted very high, with inlets almost as far forward as the nosewheel, foreign object damage is very unlikely. There could not be a better airplane for landing at the Pole.
The jumpers fly nonstop from Khatanga and jump out of the Il-76 to get a jumbo jet in their logbooks. Those who aren't jumping land at the ice airport in the An-74 and take an Mi-8 to the pole. The ice airport has heated tents, cooking facilities, and even a restroom made out of white ice blocks, but we leave the Pole pristine so that we can simply wonder at the magnificent desolation. Besides, we didn't travel all this way to huddle in a tent. You can wander around the Pole for two hours or two days. It's up to you. Just don't miss the last chopper out. It's a really long walk home.
Next year's expedition
People go on polar expeditions for many reasons. Some parachute onto the Pole. We drop others off at 89 degrees north so that they can cross-country ski the last degree (60 nautical miles) to the Pole. Some go scuba diving, while others go hot-air ballooning. Next year the Russians are planning a special program just for pilots. How would you like this logbook entry: "Flew around the world, nonstop, non-refueled"?
The program would work like this. After landing at the ice airport, you would board either an Antonov An-2 biplane on skis or a Mi-8 helicopter. It's amazing, but even after sitting for days on the ice, the Russian aircraft always start right up.
Your preflight will confirm your suspicions that you are indeed in a different world. Before you take off, pull out your trusty E6B and calculate the density altitude. At sea level and minus 40 degrees Celsius, it'll read negative 7,400 feet. (However, you are so far from "standard atmospheric conditions" that that number is probably incorrect, although no one can tell me by how much.) Now take a close look at the Kollsman window in your altimeter. It will read near 1,050 millibars (32 inches of mercury), which is way off scale for standard altimeters. This is some of the highest-pressure air on Earth. Don't even bother to look at your magnetic compass, unless you want to get dizzy. Besides, every direction is south anyway. Don't ask what time it is, either — the question is totally without meaning at the Pole, where all time zones converge. And don't worry about other aircraft in pattern; you're going to be number one on the runway.
You'll fly up to the Pole and take turns doing standard-rate turns around "the" point. And you will be able to honestly say that you flew around the world in five minutes. Eat your hearts out, Dick and Jeanna.
For information on the next polar expedition, tentatively scheduled for April 2000, visit the Web site ( www.flynorthpole.com) or e-mail the author at [email protected]. Bill Booth has been a pilot since 1967, owns a Lake Amphibian, and has accumulated 2,500 flight hours. He also owns a parachute-manufacturing company, The Relative Workshop, in DeLand, Florida, and has made more than 5,000 jumps.
