Читать книгу The Ice Balloon - Alec Wilkinson - Страница 5

In August of 1930, a Norwegian sloop, the Bratvaag, sailing in the Arctic Ocean, stopped at a remote island called White Island. The Bratvaag was partly on a scientific mission, led by a geologist named Dr. Gunnar Horn, and partly out sealing. On the second day, the sealers followed some walruses around a point of land. A few hours later, they returned with a book, which was sodden and heavy, and had its pages stuck together. The book was a diary, and on the first page someone had written in pencil, “The Sledge Journey, 1897.”

Horn rode to shore with the Bratvaag’s captain, who said that two sealers dressing walruses had grown thirsty and gone looking for water. By a stream, Horn wrote, they found “an aluminum lid, which they picked up with astonishment,” since White Island was so isolated that almost no one had ever been there. Continuing, they saw something dark protruding from a snow-drift—an edge of a canvas boat. The boat was filled with ice, but within it could be seen a number of books, two shotguns, some clothes and aluminum boxes, a brass boathook, and a surveyor’s tool called a theodolite. Several of the objects had been stamped with the phrase “Andrée’s Pol. Exp. 1896.” Near the boat was a body. It was leaning against a rock, with its legs extended, and it was frozen. On its feet were boots, partly covered by snow. Very little but bones remained of the torso and arms. The head was missing, and clothes were scattered around, leading Horn to conclude that bears had disturbed the remains.

He and the others carefully opened the jacket the corpse was wearing, and when they saw a large monogram A they knew whom they were looking at—S. A. Andrée, the Swede who, thirty-three years earlier, on July 11, 1897, had ascended with two companions in a hydrogen balloon to discover the North Pole.

Before the twentieth century, more than a thousand people tried to reach the pole, and according to an accounting made by an English journalist in the 1930s, at least 751 of them died. Only Andrée used a balloon. He had left on a blustery afternoon from Dane’s Island, in the Spitsbergen archipelago, six hundred miles from the pole. It took an hour for the balloon, which was a hundred feet tall, to disappear from the view of the people who were watching from the shore—carpenters, technicians, members of the Swedish navy who had assisted in the weeks leading up to the launch.

Two years of planning had led Andrée to predict that he would arrive at the pole in about forty-three hours. Having crossed it, he would land, maybe six days later, in Asia or Alaska, depending on the winds, and walk to civilization if he had to. Ideally, he said, and perhaps disingenuously, he would descend in San Francisco. To meet the dignitaries who would be waiting for him, he brought a tuxedo.

Every newspaper of substance in Europe and North America carried word of his leaving. The headline on the front page of the New York Times said, “Andrée Off for the Pole.” A British military officer called the voyage “The most original and remarkable attempt ever made in Arctic exploration.” For novelty and daring, the figure to whom he was most often compared was Columbus.

Then, having crossed the horizon, he vanished, the first person to disappear into the air.

It may be the strangest image in the annals of exploration—a dark gray orb in a white landscape. My wife found it in a slim English book from 1948 called Ballooning, by C. H. Gibbs-Smith, Companion Royal Aeronautical Society. The twenty-eight pages of text refer to prints, woodcuts, engravings, and photographs that range chronologically from “The First Public Balloon Ascent, Annonay, 1783,” to “World Altitude Record. 1935.” In between are “Death of Madame Blanchard, 1819” (fall from balloon); “An Alarming Experience in Gypson’s Balloon, 1847” (lightning); and “The ‘Zenith’ Tragedy, 1875” (crash). Plate 28 is the orb on its side, with two men contemplating it as if detectives sent to determine the circumstances.

All around the balloon is white from snow and ice, and the sky is white from fog, so there is no horizon, and only a fine line, which the balloon delineates, between the background and foreground. The photograph is not entirely in focus, which makes it appear to be more a print than a photograph, and so somehow obscurely unrealistic, or, on the other hand, realistic in an exaggerated way.

When my wife showed me the image, I assumed it was staged, a Victorian entertainment of some peculiar kind, a lark in an alien landscape, because a balloon couldn’t be where this one appeared to be any more than an airplane could be on the moon. And if it wasn’t a stunt, I could view it only with a sense of dread for the two men in it. Their craft is wrecked, the landscape is forbidding, and something about the static quality of their forms makes their situation seem utterly hopeless. The caption said, “Andrée’s balloon on the ice.” Who was Andrée, I wondered? How had he come to be standing beside this ruined contraption, and where was this forlorn place? What had he intended? And what happened to the men in the photograph? Had they made their way safely home? And if they hadn’t, how was it that this photograph existed?