There are two ways to reach the top of Mount Markham: by helicopter, or one step after another until you reach the top
In Antarctica, first ascents of mountains generally fall into two categories: the easy way, set out on the summit by a helicopter, and the old-fashioned way, one step after another till you reach the top. During my 13 seasons of NSF-funded geological research in the Transantarctic Mountains, I've done plenty of both. It comes with the territory. However, my most gratifying first ascent, that of Mount Markham, falls somewhere in between. Mount Markham is a 14,275 foot peak in the central Transantarctic Mountains, discovered in December, 1902, by the Southern Party of the British National Antarctic Expedition, Robert Falcon Scott, Ernest Shackleton, and Edward Wilson.
During the 1985-1986 season, I was working out of a large, helicopter-supported field camp at the head of Lennox-King Glacier. Mount Markham is a huge buttress with intricate ridge systems rising up its north, east, and west sides. To reach the summit from any of these ridges remains a challenge for extreme mountaineers. The south approach, on the other had looked easy to me, at least by comparison. The summit morphology of the Mount Markham massif is that of a three-sided escarpment or buttress surrounding a flat area about a half-mile wide. The Markham Plateau, as it is called, sits at about twelve thousand feet and descends gently to the south over a distance of thirteen miles to a saddle at about nine thousand feet, one thousand feet lower than the normal, allowable ceiling for flying helicopters in the field.
The others in the party were Russell Korsch, a geologist from Australia, and David Edgerton, my graduate student. Our plan was to be put in by helicopter in the saddle along with our snowmobile and sled, and then to drive to the top. The day of the put-in was still and clear. Once the helicopter had departed, we quickly packed the sled and started up the long ramp. Russell and David rode on the loaded Nansen sled, and I drove. With the combination of the weight, the incline, and fairly soft snow (in which we left a two-inch deep track), the snowmobile crept for most of the distance at full throttle.
Because air thins with increased elevation, we had to rejet the carburetor every thousand feet to maintain the proper air-to-gas mixture. The jet was a thin metal tube about three quarters of an inch long that screwed into the throat of the carburetor. I loosened and tightened it with a special little wrench about two inches long, and when I took it out or set it in place, I needed a bare finger and thumb to hold it, gloves being too bulky to fit into the throat of the carburetor. The whole procedure took about eight minutes, and generally I had to put my bare hand back into a mitten once or twice to regain feeling.
Although the day had started out calmly, after several hours a headwind sprang up, flowing directly down on us out of the north. To make matters worse, a ceiling of cloud began to form as the wind quickened, settling in at about eleven thousand feet. I stopped about one hundred feet below the cloud to do the last rejet. Although we could still see rock outcrops that bounded the ramp we were climbing, all surface definition on the snow at our feet was gone. I worried that if the cloud was too thick, I would have no visual means of staying in the middle of the ramp.