The Ice Balloon

The path in the Arctic had two ends: arrival or death, which of course was its own arrival. And it was imagined to be the cleanest death, nearly conceptual, a wasting away slowly, an exhaustion relaxing into sleep, it was said; a perishing, an erasure, which was essentially different from a mauling or a withering amid fits of fever or the weakening effects of a larva or a parasite that had worked its way through the bloodstream and the body. A man was believed to have his wits in the Arctic until nearly the end. It was a godly place, fierce and unknowable, the spooky and capacious territory of the imagination. Onto its blackness any idea could be projected. Men who went to the Arctic enraptured, who saw God in the austerity and the otherworldly ice, were often disabused by the experiences they had there, though. A holy-minded American explorer named Charles Hall, viewing the frozen body of a comrade, wrote in a journal, “O, My God, Thy ways are not our ways!”

Finally, while exploration in the tropics might be a treasure hunt, the Arctic offered no riches that could be held in one’s hand. In the Arctic what prizes might be obtained would fall mostly to others—the route one found would be traveled. The science one might work would be for selfless gain, and was more likely to be specific than practical, since the conditions of the landscape—a region of ice, not land—were duplicated nowhere else. Certainly one’s name would be revered. One would get a statue. One could leave the names of one’s family and sponsors and friends on the landscape, although that wouldn’t necessarily fill a bank vault.

In 1881 a member of a British Arctic expedition, describing the allure of the frigid places, wrote, “It seems to us certain that the Arctic world has a romance and an attraction about it, which are far more powerful over the minds of men than the rich glowing lands of the Tropics.”

The pole was the chaste and pitiless heart of a god-dwelling region. People thought of the tropics and saw golden cities. People thought of the cold territories and shuddered.

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Why did they go, then, this parade of fanatics heading for the deep places? You have to wonder. What they did was so extravagant that their impulses can’t be assumed to have been those of an ordinary citizen, even allowing for the differences between our period and the ones they lived in. It is no observation of my own that the nineteenth century was the last to have been receptive to the enactment of myths, to see the footprints of larger, ineffable beings laid out like dance steps on the map and to feel them wandering through their art and writing. The last to pursue their models and outlines and to feel the rightness of embodying them. Selfless heroism, and the public pursuit and praise of it, reverberates throughout their centuries. The walls of the known, the boundaries, were closer at hand. It was as if the restraints that men felt in sociable life made them feel compelled to rush into the wild.

Who were they? Not a single type but a multiplicity. A procession of thrill seekers, god chasers, romantics, pragmatists, visionary dreamers, nomads, criminals hiding where they thought no one would look, withdrawers from more complicated lives, penitents, mourners, long-shot followers, defeated characters hopeful of redemption, careerists, misfits, and malcontents ill at ease anywhere but the solitary places. Add to them brooders. And self-testers, anxious and feeling vital only when facing a challenge; men whose neurology was sufficiently deadened that only the most profound experiences could stir them. Upright men who adhered courageously to the highest codes of conduct, while marked for death. Devious men who took money from patrons to find Franklin when their intent was to get to the Arctic to find the pole. Ambitious men avid for attention and profoundly receptive to impulse. They set themselves a forbidding task, and came back or didn’t, the way heroes do in legends, and in children’s books, too.

Very few of them were adequate self-explainers. Someone responding to intuition, to chance and fortune, to sudden insights and epiphanies, often can’t explain himself well. Such people act because the gesture feels right, or because they feel provoked, convinced by the obscurity, the persistence, and the vitality of their desires, the self-persuading and incontrovertible correctness of something they see in a vision. “The history of polar exploration is a single mighty manifestation of the power of the unknown over the mind of man, perhaps greater and more evident here than in any other phase of human life,” one of them, Fridtjof Nansen, a Norwegian, wrote.

No explorer says, I’ll go a little farther than the one who went farthest. He declares for the pole or its equivalent, and he breaks down and turns back or dies sometimes just short of, or just past, where the last mark stood—sometimes merely from luck, bad weather, poor planning. And sometimes determination and a rigorous constitution assert themselves in the vacuum created by hopelessness.

“At least I shall have made my mark on the world,” Adolphus Greely, an American explorer, wrote, before leaving on a journey that had a hideous outcome. Nansen’s explanation was drawn from that part of the landscape where romance and mysticism merge. During the Arctic night, aboard a ship stuck in the ice, he wrote, “What demon is it that weaves the threads of our lives, that makes us deceive ourselves, and ever sends us forth on paths we have not ourselves laid out, paths on which we have no desire to walk? Was it a mere feeling of duty that impelled me? Oh, no! I was simply a child yearning for a great adventure out in the unknown, who had dreamed of it so long that at last I believed it really awaited me; and it has, indeed, fallen to my lot, the great adventure of the ice, deep and pure as infinity, the silent, starlit polar night, nature itself in its profundity, the mystery of life, the ceaseless circling of the universe, the feast of death, without suffering, without regret, eternal in itself. Here in the great night thou standest in all thy naked pettiness, face to face with nature; and thou sittest devoutly at the feet of eternity, intently listening; and thou knowest God the all ruling, the centre of the universe. All the riddles of life seem to grow clear to thee, and thou laughest at thyself that thou couldst be consumed by brooding, it is all so little, so unutterably little…. ‘Whoso sees Jehovah dies.’”

Spoken straight from the unconscious, which is wild and ungovernable and used to be called the soul.

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Flying over the pole in a balloon appears to have occurred to Andrée on the evening of March 16, 1894, after a meeting of the Swedish Anthropological and Geographical Society in Stockholm, when the explorer A. E. Nordenskiöld asked Andrée to walk home with him. In 1878 Nordenskiöld, on the Vega, had finally discovered the Northeast Passage. He was interested to know what Andrée thought of using captive balloons—ones tethered to the ground, that is—to rise above the wall of ice surrounding Antarctica and see what lay beyond it. Andrée said, Why not rise above the ice and keep going?

A year later, on February 13, 1895, Andrée described his intentions in an address to the Swedish Royal Academy of Sciences. The following August, in London, at the Sixth International Geographical Congress, during a morning session devoted to polar exploration, he gave essentially the same speech, called “A Plan to Reach the North Pole by Balloon.” He followed General Greely, the American, whose subject was a history of Arctic expeditions, in which he delivered a sort of roll call of nations and names, prefaced by remarks depicting the Arctic as a place where “solitude and monotony, terrible in the weeks of constant polar sunlight,” nearly overthrew the mind “in the months of continuous Arctic darkness.” It was a territory “of silence awful at all times, but made yet more startling by astounding phenomena that appeal noiselessly to the eye; of darkness so continuous and intense” that a person was led to wonder “whether the world has been cast out of its orbit in the planetary universe into new conditions.”

S. A. Andrée

Courtesy of the Grenna Museum, Sweden (www.grennamuseum.se)/The Swedish Society of Anthropology and Geography.

Because I would have chafed at such dramatized talk, however fervent or earned, I imagine Andrée as waiting impatiently to speak. He was thirty-nine, blond, tall, and well built, with wide shoulders and a strong jaw. A woman in the audience described him as “heroic-looking.” An acquaintance portrayed him in a letter as “a worthy descendant of the old Vikings.” When he felt something passionately, he wasn’t above rhetoric, and he liked the long run-up. In his Swedish accent, words such as “have” came out “haff.”

“The history of geographical discovery is at the same time a history of great peril and suffering,” he began. “While forcing their way through unknown regions across the vast deserts of Australia, Asia, Africa, the prairies of North America, or through the forests of South America and Central Africa, the explorers have encountered dangers, endured hardships, and been obliged to conquer difficulties, of which no clear idea can be formed by those who have never passed through similar experiences.”

In warm climates, however, “nearly every hindrance can be said to contain a means of success.” Natives often “bar the way of the explorer, but just as often, perhaps, they become his friends and helpers.” Lakes and rivers carried him places; plus he could drink from them and find in them things to eat. In the desert, despite the harsh sun, there could also be “a luxuriant vegetation that serves as a shelter,” not to mention people who have been where you are going and can tell you the best way to get there.

In the Arctic, “the cold only kills,” Andrée continued. There were “no oases in the icy desert, no vegetation, no fuel,” just “a field of ice that invites to a journey,” but this field, “covered with gigantic blocks,” had proved too daunting to cross. The current might lead a vessel forward, but only into waters filled with ice that crushed ships, and in the high reaches of the Arctic desert, no natives were around to help you. The sun lit one’s way in the summer, but it also rotted the ice so that your sledge balked and bogged down and with each step you might sink to your knees. Only by considerable toil could you advance, and then only farther into a landscape that had no comforts or shelter.

“If we further remember that the Arctic explorer can engage in active traveling during a brief season only,” Andrée said, “and that during the remainder of the year he is compelled to inactivity under the weakening influence of cold, together with darkness, while he has to resort to the nourishment that is usually unsuitable and often insufficient, and that is always haunted by the consciousness, that the results he can attain will almost inevitably be meagre in comparison with those which can be secured by explorers in other parts of the globe; then it must be admitted that Arctic research offers drawbacks which are materially greater than those encountered by geographical explorers in other places.”

Laying out his case, Andrée went on—perhaps incautiously—to malign the sledge, the only means for Arctic travel that had “hitherto been used or even been available for use.” Whether drawn by dogs or men, it had failed to carry anyone far enough, “although new efforts to make them a success have repeatedly been made. The fact remains that, in the attempts made for centuries to cross the polar ice, numerous lives and vessels have been lost and large sums of money wasted.”

No nation took greater pride in its sledging or its sledgers than Britain, and no nation had lost more of them. Perhaps Andrée was giving the same speech he had given in Sweden, where sledging was not so revered. Possibly he didn’t care what the British thought. Or maybe, as his friends sometimes said, he had a tin ear and didn’t understand the effect his remarks might have. It requires little of the imagination, however, to hear throats being cleared and feet shuffling.

Nevertheless, Andrée was now at the hinge of his speech. “It would seem,” he went on, “as if it were about time to look into the matter carefully, with a view to ascertaining whether there is no other means of transportation than the sledge available for a journey in the regions referred to. We need not pursue the investigation very far to discover such a means, one that appears to be created for the purpose in question. I refer to the balloon.”

The perfect and navigable balloon, “which is worshipped because nobody has ever produced one,” was not what was needed, he said. The version at hand would suffice—people weren’t aware of how suitable it was because, more than seeing its advantages, they were accustomed to noting its defects. “Such a balloon is capable of carrying an exploring-party to the pole and back again,” Andrée said. “It is possible, with such a balloon, to cross the Arctic plains.”

His purpose declared, he now needed to persuade, and he softened his tone. “To make a journey across the Arctic deserts, is not a purely scientific, but a technical problem.” The results of such a voyage were important for science, but the means must be devised by the engineer. A balloon to reach the pole needed to carry three people, he continued, all the instruments they required for scientific experiments, and their food. It should be able to remain aloft for thirty days (the record was fifteen), and, unlike all balloons thus far known, it had to be able to be steered. Last, it had to be inflated in the Arctic.

A larger balloon, with sufficient lift, had been built and displayed in 1878 in Paris at an exhibition, where it made fifteen hundred ascents, each time carrying thirty or forty people, Andrée said. Since then a number of balloons had had the carrying power that the Arctic balloon required. “It is evident that the problem involving the manufacture of a balloon that will satisfy requirement No. 1 has long since been solved by the arts,” he said.

Balloons had also been made that retained gas long enough to suggest that a thirty-day flight was achievable. The hydrogen could be manufactured at the launching place or brought in canisters aboard ships. To prevent the wind from interfering with the balloon while it was being filled, a shed could be built as a hangar. Finally, the difficulty in sailing a balloon to a specific destination was that conventional balloons could travel only where the wind blew. A balloonist might take to the air hoping to be carried by currents to where he wanted to land, but the currents could change on him. Andrée announced that he had designed a system using guide ropes and a sail that had allowed his balloon to travel at cross-purposes to the wind.

Next Andrée described the attributes of the balloon he needed. The basket should be “spacious and comfortable,” have floats attached, and be hung from the balloon in such a way that it could be disengaged quickly, possibly by pulling a single rope. “The occupants will thus be able to save themselves at sea, when a vessel heaves in sight, by descending to the surface, and, if a heavy wind is blowing, ridding themselves of the balloon.” (Such an escape was possible only if a ship was seen. When asked what he would do if his balloon came down in the water with no one around, he said, “Drown.”) The balloon should also carry “a sledge, a canvas boat, a tent, arms and ammunition, and provisions for four months, all with a view to making a rescue possible in case of a mishap.”

To build the balloon and equip the expedition would cost about thirty-eight thousand dollars. The balloon would travel approximately 250 meters above the ground—below the clouds, that is, and above the fogs. It should start as close to the pole as possible, and as early in July as a brisk and steady south wind arrived. A moderate wind would be better than a powerful one, since the ground would pass in a more regular way, and more of it could be added to the map. “The stay in the unknown regions should be of such long duration as circumstances will permit,” he said, “and if chances to visit the surface should occur, they must be improved,” meaning acted on.

Being almost finished, Andrée said that he couldn’t “help adding a few remarks which will tend to show that not only is it possible to cross the Arctics by balloon, but that these regions are particularly well suited for balloon voyages.” Obstacles for other expeditions would be advantages for a balloon trip, he said. Since the sun never set during the Arctic summer, he and his companions would be able to take photographs at all hours of territory that had never been viewed, and, since they could always see where they were going, they would not have to tie up at night, “and incur the risk of a heavy gale destroying the harnessed balloon.” In addition, the constant sun kept the temperature steady, which helped preserve hydrogen. “In the tropics, on the other hand—for instance, in Central Africa—a balloon would be strongly heated during the day, and considerably cooled at night, whereby great losses of gas and ballast would result.”

Furthermore, with the balloon traveling continuously, the trip would take half as long as otherwise. The “glossy” ground without trees to tangle the guide ropes meant that the basket would proceed at a constant altitude, making photographs and scientific measurements easier to manage than if the balloon were passing over a forest. Thunder and lightning, which were common at the equator, and which the balloon, with its ropes wet from rain, would be especially vulnerable to, were almost unknown in the Arctic. Finally, snow, which might collect and sink the balloon, hardly ever fell during the Arctic summer. Any that appeared when the temperature was warmer than freezing would melt, Andrée said, and if the temperature was lower the snow would blow away. What portion settled on the balloon would evaporate, “the evaporation in these regions being very considerable during the season in question.”

“The methods heretofore employed to cross the polar ice have not led to the desired result,” Andrée said in closing, “and there is no reason to suppose that future attempts of the same nature will be more successful.” Undoubtedly, more was to be learned from people who set out in ships and sledges, he conceded, but the knowledge would arrive in increments and only gradually, and a century might pass before the pole was reached. Moreover, the farther the sledges advanced, the more difficult the terrain was likely to be, and the slower their progress.

“With these facts before us, it is only natural to look for other means of accomplishing the difficult task, and every reasonable proposition with a view to solving the problem should be carefully considered,” he said. “The solution here proposed, to explore the Arctics by balloon, is not based on obscure theory, but on clear and indisputable facts, which appear to me quite convincing. They teach us—(1) That a balloon can be sent far into the Polar Regions; (2) that it can be kept afloat there a sufficiently long time for the purpose in question; (3) that such a balloon can carry the exploring party there and back; and (4) that many of the peculiarities of the Arctic Regions that have heretofore been a great hindrance in making Arctic exploration, prove to be factors in favour of an expedition by balloon.

“Besides, is it not more probable that the north pole will be reached by balloon than by sledges drawn by dogs, or by a vessel that travels like a boulder frozen into the ice? And can anybody on good grounds deny that it will be possible, by a single successful balloon journey, to acquire in a few days greater knowledge of the geographical aspect of the Arctic Regions than would otherwise be obtainable in centuries?”

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Among the first in the audience to rise and respond was the president of the Royal Geographical Society, Sir Clements Markham, who had been to the Arctic to look for Franklin. Markham said that clouds might keep Andrée from seeing the ground, or even from knowing whether he was above “land, ice, or snow.” Furthermore, unless Andrée descended, he wouldn’t be able “to collect natural history specimens,” or to take celestial readings to find out where he was. Finally, if the balloon ran into a cliff or an iceberg and was wrecked, how would he get back?

A British explorer of Africa named A. Silva White said that experiments he had conducted with balloons in Scotland had led him to conclude that they couldn’t be steered and that Andrée’s attempt was “foolhardy, and not one to be seriously discussed at a meeting of this character.”

General Adolphus Greely, the American who had spoken before Andrée, added that Andrée’s balloon would lose too much gas to complete the trip. If Andrée had solved the problem of permeability, “which has engaged the attention of some of the acutest minds in France and Germany,” and to which “money in great sums has been applied,” Greely hoped he would share it before he left. Moreover, the southerly winds that might carry Andrée to the pole would converge there and strand him. “As geographers, looking at these things from a practical point of view, and having some knowledge of air and currents,” Greely said, “this Congress should not give the weight of their influence or their endorsement to this expedition.”

While Andrée listened, he made notes with a pencil. When he returned to the lectern, he said that the discussion seemed to have “wandered somewhat out of the region of the methods by which I propose to make my polar journey.” He was aware of how hard flying a free balloon was, he said, but his balloon would control its course by means of guide ropes and a sail. The suggestion that fog might appear in his path had no support. The polar region was about the size of Europe, and as in Europe, there would be fog in some places and not others. He described a trip in the Baltic in which he had controlled his course.

Then he pointed a finger at several explorers. “When something happened to your ships, how did you get back?” he asked. Greely, on his expedition a decade earlier, had lost eighteen of his twenty-five men. “I risk three lives in what you call a ‘foolhardy’ attempt, and you risked how many?” Andrée continued, “A shipload.”

He crumpled the paper he had written his notes on and left the stage, arriving at his seat “wiping his brow and taking deep breaths like an athlete,” a witness wrote. Meanwhile the audience “cheered until the great hall of the Colonial Institute rang.”

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The first mariners to go toward the North had no idea what they were approaching. Homer described people in The Odyssey called the Men of Winter, who lived at the edge of the ocean and never saw the sun. What the Greeks knew of the Arctic they derived from observing that the stars went round a stationary point and that some stars could be seen every night whereas others were only occasional. The two classes were separated by a circular boundary that ran through Arktos, the Great Bear. From astronomical speculations they had deduced that north of the Arctic Circle there was sun at midnight during midsummer, and no sun at midwinter.

The first sailor to advance some ways north was a Greek named Pytheas, who probably lived in the third century BC, about the time of Aristotle and Alexander the Great. He sailed around Britain and six days north to a land he called Thule. What he wrote, which was apparently a geography more than a travel account, survives only in references by other writers, mainly Polybius, and those only brief. It is not possible to tell where Thule was for sure—some people think it was the Shetland Islands, some people think perhaps Iceland—but Pytheas, possibly having encountered ice and fog, wrote that in its vicinity the air, the earth, and the sea all blended, and it was no longer possible to navigate northward.

The next known journeys were made in the seventh and eighth centuries by Irish monks who were seeking a haven. At least some of the monks had followed the flocks of geese that flew over their monasteries. Proof of the monks’ visits appears in the form of place-names. Their legacy may be the impression of the Arctic as a sanctified territory, a refuge where a soul might withdraw to cleanse itself.