Into the Frozen South

by J. W. S. Marr

During the war there was on Ascension a big wireless station, with a coaling station for our patrolling cruisers also; and the garrison of marines is still maintained, probably in readiness for the next war, or it may be that they have been forgotten. Anyhow, there the garrison still is, and also the Eastern Telegraph Company have a cable station on the island; so no doubt the two groups keep each other company.

Ascension lies very near the Equator, and is naturally hot. With the exception of St. Paul’s Rocks it is, I think, the hottest place I have so far struck. It is an amazing contrast to St. Helena; utterly barren of vegetation except, strangely enough, on the very summit of the peak, which is 3,000 feet high or thereabouts, there is a single farm, which supplies the garrison with fresh meat and vegetables. For the rest the island is nothing but a monotonous series of huge red mounds of ashes and piles of clinker, due to the one-time extraordinary volcanic action here. There still remain some two dozen perfectly discernible volcanic craters, any one of which appeared ready to start into immediate eruption.

Early on the morning of arrival I accompanied Mr. Douglas ashore, clad weirdly in his garments for the most part, for hard work had taken a bitter toll of mine. We walked for a little while along the road that leads to the farm on the ultimate peak, and then struck off towards a hill known as Dark Slope Crater. The geologist had learned that there was some ejected granite to be found there, and was curious to investigate.

Our way led us across many piles of clinker, which emitted a strangely musical tinkle when we set foot on them. It was intensely hot; the scorched cinders struck through our boot soles as if they were merely paper. They say at Aden that there is only a single thickness of brown paper between them and the nether regions; the same remark applies to Ascension. On top of the crater we ate our modest lunch and inspected the crater itself—extinct, though suggestive. At the bottom was a yellow, sun-dried area like the bottom of a pond in a severe drought. Mr. Douglas took samples of this dried mud, thinking it to be fuller’s earth, and no doubt dreamt of uncountable riches; he also got samples of the granite he sought. Having satisfied our hunger for the unusual, we entered Wideawake Valley, called by this unexpected name because it teems with millions of wideawake birds. When I say millions I mean millions; there is no exaggeration. It was nesting time, and the noise as we walked through amongst the sitting mothers was deafening, whilst the air was literally darkened by the wheeling, startled birds, who pecked gallantly at our headgear in the endeavour to beat off our innocent intrusion. Unfortunately they were in the right of it, for so thickly were the nests strewn on the open ground that we trampled eggs and so on into a hideous omelette in our progress, without in the least wishing to do anything of the sort.

From this yelling tornado of ornithological resentment we made a detour, the general direction being toward the peak road. Ascending a dried-up creek we came upon a beautiful specimen of a lava flow. The flow was in the act of rounding a bend, and was so good an example that Mr. Douglas took photographs and measurements. Ascension is, indeed, a rare spot for a geologist. Farther on I picked up half a volcanic “bomb,” and a piece which might have been a “teardrop.” Mr. Douglas took samples from many striking dykes, one running for half a mile down the side of a hill. Every foot of the journey brought some new surprise, something of keen interest. A large mass of grey rock—trachyte, I think it is called—was weathered into fantastic shapes. We also found ejected gneiss, and the presence of this, together with the granite, supports the theory that Ascension is connected, under water, with the main African continent.

Presently we gained the peak road at “God-be-thanked Well,” a most appropriate name, for I was dying for a drink, as were unquestionably those who originally named the well. A long draught of cool water bred feelings of profound thankfulness in our souls.

At length, with what seemed at least a hundredweight each of rock specimens slung on our backs, we arrived at the station, racing the swiftly falling darkness during the last lap of the journey, to discover that a mail-boat was in the harbour. Whilst awaiting the arrival of our boat it was interesting to watch the marines working by the light of acetylene flares; and there was superior joy in realizing our own immediate immunity from labour of this trying sort.

Next day, securing shore leave again, I dressed myself appropriately to the consuming heat that threatened, and Mr. Douglas and I pushed off for the land. When aboard ship for a long time even a naked rock promises a relief from cramped surroundings, and we welcomed these shore excursions very cordially. We started at once up the hot, dusty road to the peak, halting three miles inland at God-be-thanked Well for a relished drink and an equally enjoyed smoke. As the gradient began to steepen we encountered sparse vegetation—thin-growing grass and cactus plants, palms and casuarinas—which vegetation culminates in the fertile farmland of the peak. About two and a half miles from the actual summit we left the road and climbed a steep grassy ridge, but frequently crossed the main thoroughfare, which ascended in a series of remarkable bends. Emerging on the road at one of these bends we met a fine old gentleman in khaki shorts, with a horse and a little daughter. He was very tall, with silver-grey hair and a fresh countenance. This was Mr. Cronk, who runs the peak farm. With astonishing generosity he lent me his mare, which promptly bolted up the hill as I set foot in the stirrup, being exceptionally spirited from long confinement in the stable. Nor did she slacken speed, notwithstanding the steepness of the way, until she drew up with a clatter at the stable door. She gave me a hazardous passage, for every time she swung round a bend I was nearly off, retaining my seat only by dint of my sailor’s grip.

At the farm we bathed and were entertained most regally, afterwards making our way round the left slope of the mountain, along a path cut with no little skill by Mr. Cronk. On the way Mr. Douglas poked his stick into what seemed very like an ordinary rabbit burrow, and a huge land-crab immediately emerged, ready for battle. He presented a most ferocious front, but decided that the odds against him were too heavy, so promptly retreated. We saw many more of these unsightly, nightmarish brutes. We made a thorough inspection of the country surrounding the peak, saw many strange sights, and returned to the farm, where Mr. Cronk served us with an excellent dinner; and then to bed. How deliciously inviting a landsman’s bed can be!

The following morning, in clear sunshine, with a swift, cool breeze to temper the heat, we set forth again. Mr. Douglas promptly occupying himself with photography, secured some amazing views. The vistas were beyond description, and well worth recording permanently. One gazed on a scene which, except for the dirty yellow-white of the scattered patches of withered grass, had but little variation in colour. The dominant features were the bright red of the conical hills and craters and the darker brown of the piles of clinkers; and the impression conveyed was that one stared out over the raw world as it must have been almost immediately after the creation. Growing on the distant lower slopes were palms, casuarinas and green grass, and on the peak itself was an extensive vegetation of conifers, greener grass and bamboos, these last being on the very summit, sheltering a small pool made by Mr. Cronk.