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- [00:00]
Mike Corey
Wondery subscribers can listen to against the Odds early and ad free right now. Join Wondery in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. A listener note against the Odds uses dramatizations that are based on true events. Some elements, including dialogue, may be invented, but everything is based on research. The following episode contains depictions of violence and is not suitable for everyone. Please be advised. Douglas Mawson stirs a bowl of bone broth with a spoon. The thin soup is for his friend and fellow explorer Xavier Mertz, who lies shivering next to him inside their makeshift tent. Mawson lifts a spoonful and brings it to Mertz's lips. Eat, Xavier. It's good for you. Mertz swings his arm and knocks the bowl out of Mawson's hand. The broth spills everywhere. No, boss. No more broth. No more Ginger. I won't eat her. Ginger was the last of the huskies to survive their expedition, but she had grown too weak to haul the sledge, so the starving men had no choice but to butcher her for food, just as they'd done with the other dogs. But Ginger was Mertz's favorite, and Masa knows it's no use trying to force him to eat broth made from her bones. Yes, okay, I understand. Just rest. It's around 5pm on January 7, 1913. Mertz is suffering from frostbite and dysentery, an intestinal infection that causes severe diarrhea. The dysentery and malnutrition have driven Mertz to delirium. He says the dog meat is making him sick, so he's refused to eat it. He's accused Mawson of thinking him weak and afraid, and at one point Mertz even bit some skin off his own frostbitten finger. Mawson patched it up. Mawson pulls back a corner of the tent canvas and peeks outside. The Antarctic summer sun hangs low in the sky, casting an eerie light across the icy crags he had hoped to sledge today. They have just eight days to get back to Cape Denison. Eight days until their supply ship is supposed to leave and head back to Australia, with or without them. But the two men still have a hundred miles to go. He turns back to Mertz, who's fallen into another fitful sleep. Yesterday, Mertz had talked about making penguin egg omelets for them, but Mawson realizes now that that will never happen. Mertz is too far gone. His journey will end here, on this barren patch of ice. Just then, Mertz lunges out of his sleeping bag Before Mawson can act, Mertz grabs a flimsy, yet valuable tent pole and snaps it in half. Part of the tent sags to the ground and Mawson grabs Mertz and forces him back into his sleeping bag, where the sick man rants uncontrollably. They're killing me. They're killing me. Mawson tries to soothe him. He pulls Mertz's sleeping bag up to his chin. He holds his hand and strokes his hair. Xavier. Xavier. Rest. You need rest. Mertz dozes off and Mawson takes the chance to lie down deep into the night. Mawson suddenly wakes. He's not sure why. All is quiet. He leans over to Mertz and touches his face. It's ice cold. Mertz is not breathing. Three weeks ago, Belgrave Ninnis vanished down a crevasse, and now Mertz is dead too. Mawson lies back, feeling a tear slide down his cheek. He tries to focus on his situation. It'll take him at least 10 days to cover the 100 miles. If he somehow makes it there in one piece, he'll miss the ship and he's almost out of food. There are no dogs to pull the sledge, and there's no one left to speak with, to laugh with, to consult with, to warn him of dangers. Douglas Mawson is now completely alone.
- [04:24]
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- [06:31]
Mike Corey
From wondery I'm Mike Corey and this is against the OD in November 1912, Douglas Mawson, Belgrave Ninnis and Xavier Mertz and their team of sled dogs set out across Antarctica. Their goal was to journey 350 miles southeast into uncharted territory and then return to their expedition's home base at cape Denison. But 315 miles into their journey, Ninnis and his sledge fell fell into a seemingly bottomless crevasse. Nearly all of the party's food and supplies were lost with him. Mawson and Mertz began the long trek back, but with nothing to eat. All their dogs slowly died. Then, when Mertz also perished, Mawson was left alone. He'd have to rely on ingenuity, luck and sheer will if he was going to make it back to the base alive. And he was racing against the clock. His expedition supply ship, the Aurora, was set to leave on January 15th. If Mawson missed it, he'd be stuck in Antarctica for another winter. This is Episode three the Last Man Douglas Mawson lifts his serrated pocket knife to the side of his sledge and starts sawing. He grunts with the effort, using such a small knife to cut through such thick wood. But it's all he's got and he needs to cut the sledge in half. He's going to be able to pull it by himself. It's the late afternoon of January 8, 1913, the day after the death of of Xavier Mertz. He was in such agony that Mawson is grateful for the mercy of his Passing, Mawson spent much of the morning cutting blocks of snow to create a kind of mausoleum for Mertz's body. Then he wrote a note describing the deaths of Ninnis and Mertz and their bravery during the journey for anyone who might find the memorial. He slipped it into Mertz's sleeping bag, along with photographic plates of Mertz and Ninnis. Then he dragged a sleeping bag holding Mertz outside the tent and covered it with the snow blocks. By the time he finished, Mawson was tired beyond belief. His muscles ache and his skin is raw from head to toe. His face is covered in boils and all the cuts and bruises he's suffered the past few weeks have stopped healing. But he doesn't have time to rest or feel pity for himself. He keeps sawing, moving his knife back and forth, back and forth, as if in a trance. It takes another hour, but he eventually cuts the 11 foot long sledge in half. Then he starts going through his few remaining supplies, ready to toss anything that isn't completely necessary. As he sorts, he picks up Mertz's diary. He can't afford its weight, but he can't bring himself to toss it. Mertz's family back in Switzerland would want it. He places it in the keep pile. Mawson has no illusions that the journey back to Cape Denison will be easy. He doesn't have enough food and there are no seals or other animals to hunt along the way. But even if his chances are slim, he wants to keep moving. At the very least, if he dies closer to the Cape, there's a better chance someone will find his body and the party's diaries. He looks up at the sky. Dark clouds are gathering. An icy wind cuts through his clothes. Even the weather is against him. Douglas Mawson is pulling his sledge on all fours, crawling through an area full of sastrugi, the sharp ridges of ice formed by the howling polar winds. The sastrugi are so uneven and slippery he's forced to crawl. He's in a dog harness, which digs into his raw skin. His muscles ache and his fingers are black from frostbite. Every move is agony, but he's vowed to go 10 miles today. It's the morning of January 11, 1913. It's been three days since Xavier Mertz died, leaving Mawson on his own. He had wanted to set out again right away, but fierce winds and blinding snow forced him to shelter in his tent for two days. Now he's finally back on the move, but the going is tough. He slips on the ice, and the sledge nearly tips over. He stands to readjust the harness, but a sharp pain shoots up from his foot. He drops to all fours again and tries to put more weight on his knees, but the foot pain only worsens. Both his feet feel strangely squishy, as if his boots are packed with molasses. The sun peeks out from behind the clouds and he stops to rest. He takes off his boots to examine his feet. Between the cold and the fatigue, he hasn't looked at them in weeks. He slowly removes one pair of soaking wet socks, then another, and finally his last pair. He cannot believe what he sees. The thick skin on the soles of both his feet has completely fallen off, and his socks are filled with a watery discharge from the raw tissue underneath. Mawson realizes that's what caused the squishy feeling. Mawson wonders how he'll even be able to walk, but if he wants to survive, he has no choice. He smears the exposed tissue with lanolin, then arranges the separated skin under each foot to use as a cushion. Then he wraps his feet in bandages and puts on the three pairs of wool socks he removed, plus three more. Each foot is now encased in six socks. He jams his feet into his boots, then straps on his crampons. The sastrugi have given way to a flat surface, and he hoists himself up to a standing position. He puts the harness on and he trudges forward. All the padding dulls the pain, but each step still hurts. He's covered just one mile so far today. Nine more to go. Mawson bolts upright in his sleeping bag, awakened from a deep sleep by a loud banging sound. It sounds like gunshots. For a minute he wonders if he's hallucinating, but then he hears it again. Now fully awake, he remembers where he is. It can't be gunfire. There's nobody for miles around. Still, the cracks startle him each time. It's January 13th, just two days until the Aurora is scheduled to leave Cape Denison and return to Australia. But with more than 80 miles still to go, all hope of making it to the Cape in time is gone. Even so, he's going to keep moving anyway. I mean, who knows? Maybe the boat will be delayed. Maybe men from the other expeditions will be late, too. No matter what, he can't give up. Mawson reminds himself that he is making good progress. He's traveled about 5 miles each of the past two days, according to his sledge meter, far short of his goal of 10 miles. But the shorter, lighter sledge is helping him move faster. Despite his ruined feet. He's now camped close to what he's been calling Mertz Glacier, the glacier closest to Cape Denison. He's decided to name another one Ninnis Glacier. He wanted to honor his two dead companions. Sometimes it's like their ghosts push him forward. At other times, thoughts of Mertz and Ninnis remind him how very alone he actually is. He imagines himself as a man in prehistoric times, or a space traveler alone on Mars. He hears more sounds like gunshots, but now he's becoming less startled each time. In the tent, he tries to ignore his many discomforts. His feet are worse than ever. Any movement causes discomfort. The banging resumes and Mawson winces through the pain as he forces on his boots and goes outside. He wants to see if he can determine what's causing these godforsaken sounds. Outside the tent, the wind feels like a thousand icy needles on his face. The sounds return, so loud that they seem to shake the whole glacier. Then it dawns on him. The noises are from the moving of the ice. He speculates that the entire glacier must be filled with pockets of compressed air, trapped when the ice rapidly freezes. And when the ice thaws or shifts, the air is explosively released, making a sound like a gunshot. He returns to his tent, proud that he figured out the mystery. Despite the noise from the glacier, he knows that he has to get some sleep. He's going to need all of his strength for what's to come. It's Approaching noon on January 17, 1913, and Douglas Mawson pulls his half sledge over a dangerous valley full of crevasses. The pain in his feet is murder, but he still digs his crampons into the ice to move the sledge forward one excruciating step at a time. He squints toward the horizon. It's overcast, and the glare through the clouds makes it hard to distinguish where the ice ends and the sky begins. If it was the beginning of the expedition, he would take the day to rest, given the poor visibility. But Mawson can't afford to take days off now. He's already two days late to Cape Denison and still 65 miles away. All the parties are supposed to be back by now. The Aurora will only wait for so long. Mawson reaches an expanse of smooth snow and the sledge glides through it easily. But then, on an uphill slope, he takes a step and falls right to the surface. It's a crevasse that's been camouflaged by snowpack. Fortunately, it's not deep and just a few feet down. His boots hit solid ice with a mighty heave. He scrambles up and out, then stands and brushes snow off his legs. In the dull light, he tries to discern the edges of the crevasse so he can walk around it. He backtracks 50 yards from where he fell in just to make sure he's safe. Mawson knows that lately he hasn't been as vigilant as he should be. The lack of food, sleep and warmth and the never ending pain in his feet are sapping his ability to think clearly, and he's anxious to keep moving as quickly as he can. With each passing day he grows weaker and his chances of catching the aurora grow more remote. He takes another step and his boot plunges into the snow and keeps dropping. He has no time to react. Mawson is falling into a crevasse, and this time he has no idea how deep it goes.
- [18:27]
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- [18:41]
Mike Corey
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- [19:36]
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- [20:45]
Mike Corey
Douglas Mawson dangles like a Christmas ornament, swinging back and forth. The harness he's wearing is attached to an alpine rope, and 14ft above him on the surface, the other end of the rope is attached to a sledge. As he was falling into the crevasse, Mawson believed this was the end, that he'd plummet to his death like Belgrave Ninnis, never to be found again. But then the rope went taut, and he realized the sledge must have caught on something. For now, anyway, he's alive. Mawson looks around him. The crevasse walls are six feet away on either side, too far to reach them and possibly climb out. And it's so deep that he can't see the bottom. Below him, there's only darkness. As he sways on the rope, his mind, as usual, turns to food. He's been so careful about preserving his supply, and now he won't even be able to eat the little that remains. Mawson forces himself to return to the problem at hand. He looks up. The only way out is to climb the rope. He has no doubt that he could do it if he was rested and well fed, but here in heavy, wet clothes after weeks of malnutrition, it seems like an impossible task. He does have one thing going for him, though. Days ago, anticipating this very scenario, he tied knots along the rope to make it easier to climb. He takes a breath and reaches above his head. Finding a grip on the rope just above the first knot, he starts to pull himself up. His shoulders and biceps scream at him to stop, but he keeps going, one knot at a time. And just as his last ounce of strength has been drained, he finds himself at the top of the crevasse. He's done it. Feeling both exhausted and triumphant, he puts an arm over the lip and starts to lift himself out. But then the lip collapses under his weight. With nothing to grab onto, Mawson falls back until the rope catches him again and leaves him dangling over the abyss. Mawson is right back where he started, except now he's used up all his strength. He lets the rope slowly twist him around as a feeling of acceptance washes over him. He can't climb the rope. He can't make it out. His journey ends right here. He wishes that he had a poison pill to hasten his death, rather than being forced to hang here for however long it takes to freeze or to starve. His end will be slow and it will be painful. Unless, of course, he releases himself from the harness by cutting the rope with his pocket knife. Then he could go like Ninnis. Death by abyss. But then Mawson thinks of his fiance. Put Akita back home. How she'll always wonder what happened to him. He mumbles a passage from his favorite poet, Robert Service. Just have one more try. It's dead easy to die. It's the keeping on living that's hard. Mawson lifts his arms again. They feel like they each weigh a hundred pounds. He finds a knot and pulls. Finds another knot, then two, then three. Every inch feels like a mile. With each knot, he doesn't think he can go any further. But then he does. He's climbing for his life. He has no idea how long it takes. But eventually he reaches the edge of the crevasse. With a mighty heave, he hoists his depleted body onto the snowy surface. He closes his eyes and lies still.
- [24:44]
Narrator
He made it.
- [24:56]
Mike Corey
Mawson pulls a length of alpine rope tight. He checks his knot. It's strong. It's the morning of January 19th, and Mawson is camped about 55 miles from Cape Denison. After his escape from the crevasse two days ago, he passed out for two hours. He barely mustered the energy to put up his tent that night. With so many miles left to go and the Aurora likely getting ready to leave without him, he wondered briefly if he should just try to make his last days as comfortable as possible, eat the remaining food and sleep in his tent instead of torturing himself by continuing his trek. But last night, as he was looking at his swollen, frostbitten fingers, he had a revelation. He laid one set of fingers perpendicular to the other, and it dawned on him. He needs to make a ladder. So this morning, he set to work. He ties another knot into the rope on his lap. He's fashioning a rope ladder for from Mertz's old towing line and some pieces of wood stripped from the sledge. When he's finished, he ties the ladder to the harness and slings one end of it over his shoulder. Now, if he falls into a crevasse, it'll be much easier to climb out. Even as weak as he is, he can still climb a rope ladder to make Sledging easier, he casts aside more gear, including some extra rope and and his crampons, which he's been barely using and which hurt his damaged feet. Hours later, Mawson falls into another crevasse. But this time he uses the ladder to climb back out on the surface. He sits in the snow, glad he didn't give up before he devised this solution. He sledges three and a half more miles before he can go no further. He looks ahead and realizes he's finally off Mertz Glacier. The worst crevasses are now behind him, but there's still at least 50 miles to go. That's 10 days of sledging, and his food is almost gone. Mawson folds up his tent and places it on his sledge. He slides the makeshift poles beneath the canvas and he gets ready to embark on another day of sledging. He's practically delirious with hunger and exhaustion. It's January 29th, and he's been moving in a trance for several days. There are moments as he's pulling the sledge that he fears he'll pass out. He's two weeks past the date he was supposed to be at Cape Denison, and he figures it's still at least 30 miles away. All he has left is 20 small chips of cooked dog meat, about half a pound of raisins, and a few ounces of chocolate, about the amount he'd normally eat in a single day. On the outward journey before everything went wrong, Mawson does some more calculations. About six months ago, Mawson and Ninnis helped build an ice cave that they stocked with food and named Aladdin's Cave. The shelter is meant as a rest stop for the explorers. It's only about five and a half miles from Cape Denison. He figures he's about a week away from the cave at his current pace, and he should be able to pinpoint the cave's location with his theodolite, an optical instrument used for surveying. But the question is, with so little food, how can he keep up his current pace? Can he even last another week? Mawson pulls the sledge up a small ridge. He takes out his compass to make sure he's heading in the right direction. A gust of wind nearly knocks him off his feet. When he regains his balance, he looks north and peers through the blowing snow. He sees the outline of something dark about 300 yards away. Mawson changes course and heads toward the dark object, dragging his sledge. As he gets closer, he slides out of the harness to move quicker. Soon he can make out what the dark object is. A stack of snow blocks covered in a black cloth. There is barely any snow on top of the cloth, so it must be newly built. He looks around, but he sees no one. He removes the cloth and finds a waterproof bag. Wrapped inside the bag is a metal tin and a second, smaller bag made of bright red fabric. The sight of it brings tears to Mawson's eyes. Paquita made the red bag for him as a gift, saying that in Antarctica, bright colors would become precious. He'd left the bag at Cape Denison, fearing it would be damaged on the Far Eastern party's long journey. But now here it is again, like a beacon from another world. With trembling hands, Mawson opens Pakita's bag. Inside, he finds a cache of food. He says a silent prayer. He's found his salvation in this little red bag. He takes out the food piece by piece. Pemmican. A bag of sugar, butter, biscuits, chocolate and oranges. There's more than enough to fuel him through these final miles. No more. Conserving every last crumb. He immediately starts eating the pemmican, a type of dried meat mixture. He still can't taste much, but it feels so good to have something in his stomach. Mawson can't believe his luck. He easily could have missed the stash in his haze, or by traveling a path just a few hundred yards off in either direction. He decides it must be providence. Inside the metal tin, he finds a letter from other members of the expedition. Three men named Archibald, Alfred, and Frank. Just seeing their names almost brings him to his knees. The letter contains the first news that Mawson has received from anyone outside the Far Eastern party since November. It says that all the other exploring parties have returned to Cape Denison alive in well. The food cache was left specifically for Mawson's party, just in case they ran low on supplies on their way back to the base. The letter also says that Mawson is now just 23 miles from Aladdin's cave and that the Aurora is still anchored off Cape Denison. When Mawson gets to the end of the letter, his heart stops. It notes the time the cache was left there. January 29th, at 8 in the morning. Oh, my God. Mawson realizes that's today. He looks at his watch. He's missed his friends by just six hours. Still, the news that the Aurora hasn't left yet fills him with hope. He stuffs some food in his pockets and packs the rest onto his sledge. The food will provide enough fuel for him to make it back to Cape Denison. He puts on the harness and he starts hauling. Mawson twists a large screw through a small piece of wood with the blade of his pocket knife. He twists until the screw breaks through the other side of the wood. It's not easy with his swollen fingers, but at least he's well fed enough since finding the food cache. It's morning on January 30th and Mawson is making crampons. Ten days ago he tossed a bunch of gear to save weight, including his old crampons which he hadn't been using. But two days ago he came across an expanse of sastrugi interspersed with slick ice. His reindeer hide boots don't offer much traction and he's been falling non stop. He even tried going on all fours again, but it didn't help. So he's making a new set of crampons with whatever random parts he can scrounge up. He scavenges material from the surveying equipment, the sledge meter and the box that holds the stove. After hammering a few nails through two flat pieces of wood, he holds up his jerry rigged crampons. They look like something you'd see in a junkyard. He ties them onto the bottom of his boots and takes a few steps. They're uneven and it's hard to keep balance, but they'll have to do. He packs up the sledge and starts hauling. He knows he's not far from Aladdin's cave. A couple hours later, he sees a black dot in the distance. When he finally can make out what it is, Mawson's heart soars. It's a pile of rocks with a pole sticking out the top. There used to be a flag hanging from it, but it's gone now. It doesn't matter. It's the marker for Aladdin's cave. He enters the cave through its corner vertical shaft. It seems so long ago that Ninus had named this place. The silence in the cave is surreal. He's heard wind non stop all day, every day since November. To be surrounded by such quiet feels almost miraculous. He finds food, including some fruit that's been preserved by the ice. He sits and eats a half frozen pineapple. He sees signs of the other parties that have come through here. An open box of biscuits, empty tins of cocoa, discarded clothing. He remembers leaving a pair of crampons here, but they're not here now. One of the other men must have taken them. That means for the last five and a half miles he'll have to make do with the crampons he made. It will be tough going, but he feels a surge of optimization optimism. After more than three weeks alone, he's now just a day's journey away from Cape Denison and, he hopes, a trip back home.
- [34:55]
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- [35:52]
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They all saw how much I loved him. They didn't have to take him from me.
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- [37:01]
Mike Corey
Frank Bickerton tinkers with a broken wind gauge outside the huts at Cape Denison. He adds a bit of lubricant to the gears. A few days ago, a huge storm blew over the wind gauge and froze some of its mechanical parts. It's February 8, 1913. Bickerton Bickerton is a 24 year old Englishman with a thick mustache and muscular build. He was brought on the Australasian Antarctic expedition for his mechanical skills, which are coming in handy today. Bickerton stands up and looks east like all the men at Cape Denison. He's been spending a lot of time staring in that direction. He hears footsteps behind him. Then a voice. Any sign of them? It's S. Cecil Madigan, an Australian geologist and meteorologist. Bickerton shakes his head. No. Just snow and ice. Four of the five exploration parties have returned, including Bickerton's Western party and Madigan's coastal Eastern party. But Mawson's Far Eastern party is still missing. Now they are more than three weeks past the January 15 deadline when all parties were supposed to return. Bickerton returns to his tinkering. But then he hears Madigan call out, frank. Frank, look. Madigan points, and Bickerton sees a blurry dark shape up a steep hill about half a mile away. It's moving. It almost looks like it's waving. Bickerton drops the wind gauge and starts running. The deep sea snow from recent heavy storms slows his pace up the hill. As Bickerton gets closer to the figure, he sees him collapse. The man is lying next to a sledge that looks like it's been cut in half. He's emaciated and his clothes are ragged. Bickerton lifts the man up and props him against the sledge. He brushes ice from the man's hood so we can get a better look at his face. His eyes are sunken. His face face is frostbitten and so covered in boils that Bickerton can't recognize him. My God. Which one are you? The man struggles to speak. I'm Mas. Bickerton takes a closer look at the windburn, haggard face in front of him. Now he recognizes his boss, but he must have lost a third of his body weight. He wants to ask about Ninnis and Mertz and why he's arrived so late. But Mawson speaks first, with great difficulty. Aurora. Is she here? Bickerton wants nothing more than to have good news, but he cannot lie. I'm sorry. My friend, the Aurora. She left just six hours ago. We were assigned to stay behind and wait for you. Bickerton watches Mawson close his eyes. The poor man has just missed his ride back to Australia. He holds Mawson in his arms. The story of whatever he's gone through will have to wait until after he's fed and rested, but they'll have an entire Antarctic winter to talk about it. It's December 12, 1913, and Douglas Mawson is sledging again. Actually, he's walking alongside the sledge as the dogs pull. He looks over at the huskies and smiles, having the dogs is so much better than being in a harness himself. He's at the tail end of a trip to recover items that two of the parties left behind in their mad dashes back to base. Now he and two other men are on their way back to Cape Denison. After he returned back in February, Mawson told the men at the base what happened to the Far Eastern party. He told them about Ninus and Mertz and why he was so delayed. He had reached Aladdin's Cave on February 1st, but then it stormed for a week straight. And so he stayed in the cave that whole time before limping back to the Cape. Mawson is still amazed that he made it back alive. He was crushed that he missed the Aurora's departure by just six hours. It meant another 10 months in the wind and cold and another winter away from his fiance, Paquita. But the extra time allowed Mawson to gradually regain his strength. Now it's just before midnight and still light out. He can see the base about 1,000ft away. A welcome sight after sleeping in tents for two weeks. Looking further, he sees an even more welcome sight. A faint black bar on the front horizon. He takes a pair of binoculars out from the sledge and points them at the dark line in the distance. It's the Aurora. Mawson puts down the binoculars. He can't see through his tears anyway. He climbs on the sledge and calls out to his dogs. Hike. Hike. He can't believe it. He's going home. Douglas Mawson walks down a quiet hallway on the second story of the South Australian Hotel. He stops in front of an ornate door and lifts his hand to knock. But then he hesitates. He hasn't seen Paquita del Pratt since December 1911, more than two years ago, and he's worried that she's moved on. It's the night of February 26, 1914. The Aurora landed in Adelaide, Australia, earlier that afternoon to a jubilant cheering crowd. They were eager to congratulate the men returning from the Australasian Antarctic Expedition. Compared to other Antarctic expeditions, Mawson's was considered a success in that only two men died. Most others sacrificed far more lives. Paquita doesn't like crowds, so she asked him to meet her at the hotel. Mawson wanted nothing more, so he escaped as quickly and politely as he could and found his way here. HE KNOCKS Mawson hears footsteps moving towards the door. Then the click of a lock. The door opens and there in front of him is Paquita, tall and lovely and even more beautiful than the images Mawson has conjured in his head all those months in Antarctica. For a moment, they just look at each other, too overcome to speak. Finally, Mawson steps inside. Paquita closes the door, then takes a long stare at her fiance. But then her face softens. Oh, Douglas, I missed you so very much. She hugs him and holds him tight. He doesn't ever want her to let go.
- [44:28]
Narrator
Thank you.
- [44:30]
Mike Corey
Thank you for waiting for me, Paquita. I wouldn't be alive if it weren't for you. They walk, hands hand in hand, out onto the veranda. It reminds Mawson of the veranda where he asked Paquita to marry him. He thinks he might be even happier than he was that day. He wishes his friends, Ninnis and Mertz could experience their own reunions. He hopes that wherever their souls are, they are as warm and tranquil as Mawson is on this veranda with the woman that he loves. The five sledging parties of the Australasian Antarctic Expedition covered 2,600 miles of unexplored Antarctic territory, and the Aurora helped map nearly 3000 miles of uncharted coastline. Mawson and Paquita del Pratte got married on March 31, 1914, just a few weeks after their reuniting in Adelaide. They had two children. Mawson visited the families of Belgrave Ninnis and Xavier Mertz to share what happened. Both families were inconsolable. The glaciers that Maussen had named to honor his friends are still known today as the Ninnis and mertz glaciers. In June 1914, Mawson was knighted by King George V, but his expedition and accomplishments were soon overshadowed by Australia's entry to World War I later that year. Mawson taught geology and mineralogy at the University of Adelaide for many years and returned to Antarctica in 1929 for the British Australian and New Zealand Antarctic Research Expedition. He retired from teaching in 1952 and died of a stroke in 1958, surrounded by family in the home that he designed over the long winter in Antarctica. In the days after Mawson's miraculous return to Australia, there was a public celebration for the men of the Australasian Antarctic Expedition, during which a speaker said, douglas Mawson has returned from a journey that was absolutely unparalleled in the history of exploration. Collaboration.
- [46:59]
Narrator
If you like, against the odds, you can binge all episodes early and ad free right now by joining Wondery in the Wondery app or on Apple podcasts. Prime members can listen ad free on Amazon Music. And before you go, tell us about yourself by filling out a short survey@wondery.com survey.
- [47:21]
Mike Corey
This is the third episode of our three part series alone in Antarctica. A quick note about our scenes in most cases, we can't exactly know what was said, but everything is based on historical research. If you'd like to learn more about this event, we recommend the books Alone on the Ice by David Roberts, Mawson's Will by Leonard Ben and the Home of the Blizzard by Douglas Mawson. For more incredible true stories of everyday people facing life or death situations, plus tips and expert insights, order our new book, how to Survive against the Odds, available now at Amazon, Barnes and Noble or wherever you get your books. Click the link in the episode description. For more I'm your host Mike Corey. Shawn Raviv wrote this episode. Our editor is Steve Fennessy. Sound design by Joe Richardson. Audio engineer is Sergio Enriquez. Original theme music by Scott Velasquez and 2K for freeze on sync Fact checking by Alyssa Jung Perry Produced by Emily Frost Managing producer is Desi Blaylock Senior managing producer is Colin Plews Senior producer is Andy Herman. Executive producers are Jenny Lauer, Beckman, Stephanie Jens Marshall, Louis and Aaron o'. Flaherty. For wondering.
- [48:45]
Narrator
Yo, it's your man Nick Cannon. And we are back with a brand new season of We Playing Spades. And to the left of me is the best of me. The one and only, my bestie, Courtney B.
- [48:54]
Mike Corey
And you know what the B stands for?
- [48:56]
Narrator
Beat your ass. And that's exactly what we doing right here this season because we We Playing Spades is back and better than ever.
- [49:04]
Mike Corey
That's right. So make sure you hit the subscribe button on YouTube.
- [49:07]
Narrator
They gave us our own YouTube channel. It's we Playing Spades.