happens when you emerge, seemed brighter than ever-but I still could
not decide whether to begin my letter simply with 'Katya' or 'Dear
Katya'.
There were the mountains. They rested on the clouds, lit up by the
sun, some bare, others covered with dazzling snow. Through the rare
rifts in the clouds gorges could be seen, long picturesque gorges,
spelling certain death in the event of a forced landing. I could not help
thinking of this, then I went on composing my letter, continuing this
until I was compelled to give my attention to other, more urgent
matters.
There did not seem to be any wind, yet huge cloudlike caps of snow
started to break away from the mountain tops and whirled up and up.
Within ten minutes it was impossible to imagine that there had just
been sun and sky above us. There was now neither earth, nor sun, nor
sky. All was chaos and confusion. The wind caught up with us and
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struck us first from the left, then in front, then from the left again,
blowing us off course, to where there was a mist and falling snow—
small, brittle snow which stung your face and pierced through every
buttonhole and gap in your clothing. Then night closed in. You could
not see a thing around you, and for a time I flew the plane in utter
darkness. I seemed to be running into walls, for all around us were real
walls of snow bolstered up on all sides by the wind. At one moment I
broke through them, at the next retreated and broke through again, or
found myself far beneath them. It was a frightening experience to feel
the plane suddenly dropping a hundred and fifty or two hundred
metres, without your knowing how high the mountains were, as they
were not marked on my map. All I could do was to wheel round in a
half-circle and go back to the Yenisei. I would see the backs there, fly
over the high bluffs and steer clear of the blizzard, or, if it came to the
worst, return to Zapolarie.
Turning round was easier said than done. The plane began to shudder
when I pressed my left foot down and we were flung aside again, but I
continued swinging her round. I believe I said something to the
machine. It was at that moment that I felt something was going wrong
with the engine. This was too bad, because we still had those gorges
beneath us, which I had been hoping we had left far behind. We caught
glimpses of them here and there—long and utterly hopeless: nobody
would find us there or ever know what had happened to us. I had to get
away from these death traps, and I did, though I was having engine
trouble and would have to put the plane down soon. I began to descend
very slowly, keeping an eye on the turn indicator and thinking all the
time about the ground, which was somewhere below me, though I did
not know where it was or what it was like. Something was beating in my
brain, like a clock ticking, and I talked loudly to myself and to the
machine. But I was not afraid. I only remember feeling hot for a
moment, when some great bulk swept past me. I flung the plane away
from it and almost grazed the ground with my wing tip.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE BLIZZARD
I am not going to describe those three days and nights we spent in the
tundra, not far from the banks of the Pyasina. One hour was like
another, and only the first few minutes, when we had to make the plane
fast somehow to prevent it being swept away by the blizzard, were
different from the rest of the time.
Just try securing a plane down in the tundra, which is bare of
vegetation, and with a force ten wind blowing! With the engine still
running, we placed the plane with its tail to the wind. We thought of
burying it, but the moment we touched the snow with a spade the wind
blew it away. The plane was still being tossed about and we had to think
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of some reliable way of anchoring it, because the wind was building up
and in half an hour it would be too late. We then did a simple thing—1
recommended it to all Arctic pilots—we tied ropes to the wings and to
these in turn we attached skis, suitcases, a box containing cargo, and
even a funnel-in short, everything that might help snowdrifts to form
rapidly around them. Within fifteen minutes snowdrifts had piled up
around these objects, but in other places under the plane the snow was
still being blown away.
Now we could do nothing but wait. Not a very cheerful prospect, but
the only thing we could do. To wait and wait—who knows how long!
I have already mentioned that we had everything to meet the
emergency of a forced landing, but what can you do with a tent, say, if a
simple thing like getting out of the plane is a complicated and agonising
business, which you can only bring yourself to do once a day and then
only because you have to get out once a day.
So passed the first day. A little less warmth. A little more sleepy. To
keep from falling asleep I try all kinds of tricks which take a lot of time
doing and are of little use. I try, for instance, to light the primus-stove,
while I order Luri to light the blowlamp. A difficult task! It's hard to
light a primus-stove when every minute you feel your own skin from
head to foot, when you suddenly feel yourself going cold somewhere
deep inside your ears, as if у our eardrums were freezing and when the
snow immediately plasters your face, turning it into an icy mask. Luri
tries to crack jokes, but the jokes freeze in mid-air, in a fifty-degree (C.)
frost and there is nothing left for him but to joke about his ability to joke
under any circumstances and at any time.
So ended our first night and the night after that. A little more sleepy
still. And the snow kept rushing past us until it seemed as if all the
world's snow was flying past us... The thing was not to let the mechanic
fall asleep. He looked the strongest of us, but turned out to be the
weakest. The doctor from time to time slapped him and shook him.
Then the doctor himself began to doze and I had to shake him from time
to time, politely but persistently.
