This photo was taken 110 years ago today, on June 27th, 1910. These three men set out from base camp, to trek 60 miles through the deep dark cold of Antarctic midwinter. Their destination was an Emperor penguin colony, where they would collect, for the first time, eggs with embryos inside them, to learn something about the evolution of birds. Three and a half weeks later, having pulled their sledge sometimes only a mile a day, slept in frozen sleeping bags in -77° cold, and stumbled through a maze of ice cliffs in the dark, they had their eggs, and took shelter in a stone igloo roofed with a sheet of canvas.
Then a blizzard struck. They had seen many blizzards, but this one was fiercer than any of them, and after a day of hurricane-force winds, the roof of their igloo tore off. All they could do was get deep into their icy bags and let the blizzard rage overtop of them. Sometimes they would thump each other to say they were still all right, and sometimes, when the wind lowered enough to hear anything, they would sing hymns to keep their spirits up. It happened to be the 39th birthday of this party's leader, Edward Wilson, known to them by his nickname “Bill.”
I “met” Bill Wilson 13 years ago, and he has completely changed my life. I grew up in the rapacious 1980s, with the belief that humans were fundamentally callous and self-serving: you could try to be better than that, but that was really all you could expect, especially when times got tough. Wilson single-handedly proved this wrong. He was a paragon of selflessness and generosity of spirit, and when times got tough, he only shone brighter. He showed me that we don't have to be limited by our weaker natures, and a better way to live was not only possible but achievable, if only one made the effort. Wilson's character was shaped by his profoundly spiritual Christianity, and the simple observation that if one claims to believe this, then it follows that one must behave thus. And so a lifetime of self-perfection was undertaken.
There is no privacy in the Antarctic, but his comrades were still shocked to discover, well after his death, how religious he was. Coming closer to God through knowledge of Creation was as valuable to Wilson as prayer or scripture, and his scientific work as well as his watercolours were, to him, acts of worship. His faith was not worn on his sleeve, but worked behind the scenes and came out in what he did. His sledging companion Apsley Cherry-Garrard wrote: “You must not think of Bill as a 'religious' man. ... When we were going to die on the slopes of Terror we sang hymns because they were easier to sing than La Bohème and it was a good thing to sing something. ... [W]e knew little of those deep feelings which are revealed in his letters and diaries and which were the foundations of his character. ... Whatever was the matter you took your trouble to Bill and, immediately, he dropped what he was doing, gave you his complete attention, and all his help. If you were doing your best he would do his best for you: though maybe you could not reach his standard, he was immensely tolerant of your shortcomings; he treated you as an equal even if you were not so.” [Introduction to George Seaver's Edward Wilson of the Antarctic, pp.xiv and xvi-ii]
The inspiring thing about Wilson is that he didn't start out perfect. He was standoffish, anxious, judgemental, and snarky. But he saw these not as immutable features of his personality, rather as faults that could be improved, and he set about doing so, with great effort, over the course of many years. He did not seek to erase himself, but rather to become a better version of himself. For him, it was a journey towards a more perfect imitation of Christ, with many setbacks and sloughs of despond, but he kept himself on that path and saw it through, even to the point of laying down his life for his friends.
Wilson was in the party with Captain Scott, which reached the South Pole in January 1912. As things started to go wrong on their return journey, he put all his time and energy into tending the ill and injured, forfeiting his own rest to do so. When, in their last camp, they were stuck in a blizzard, running out of food and fuel, Wilson and Bowers were prepared to walk 25 miles to the nearest depot and back while Scott stayed in the tent with a frostbitten foot. This would almost certainly have been suicide, but it was their only hope. The weather was too bad for them ever to set out, though, and a few days later they were facing their end. Scott wrote to Wilson's wife, “His eyes have a comfortable blue look of hope and his mind is peaceful with the satisfaction of his faith in regarding himself as part of the great scheme of the Almighty. I can do no more to comfort you than to tell you that he died as he lived, a brave, true man – the best of comrades and the staunchest of friends.”
We tend to think of a pilgrimage as spatial: a journey from one geographical point to another. But, of course, its real purpose is spiritual – the journey transforms you; you are not the same person when you finish that you were at the beginning. The refinement of character is a lifelong pilgrimage of the soul: starting where you are, every day you put one spiritual foot in front of the other and try to get a little closer to your ideal. Some days see more progress than others, but the main thing is not to stop. So long as the internal journey is undertaken, one can be a pilgrim without leaving home. For many of us, Lockdown has been a pilgrimage, journeying through unfamiliar situations and confronting aspects of ourselves we have never had to face. We will none of us come out unchanged.
On the winter journey to the penguin colony, Wilson, with his long legs, set the path through the deep cold snow, and Cherry-Garrard followed literally in his footsteps. My pilgrimage has been much the same: As Christians, we are called to imitate Christ, but it's hard to figure out how to get there, when one is not a first-century Jewish carpenter who is also God. Wilson, who lived in a world very much like our own, and who I'm pretty sure was fully human, is an invaluable guide. I am more grateful than I can say for every step he has placed for me in the snow.
No pilgrimage is easy, but it is always worthwhile. Cherry-Garrard survived the expedition but was traumatised by the loss of his friends. Nevertheless, his memoir ends with an exhortation that we go out and explore. “If you are a brave man you will do nothing: if you are a coward, you may do much, for none but cowards have need to prove their bravery. Some will tell you that you are mad, and nearly all will say, 'What is the use?' For we are a nation of shopkeepers, and no shopkeeper will look at research which does not promise him a financial return within a year. And so you will sledge nearly alone, but those with whom you sledge will not be shopkeepers: that is worth a good deal. If you march your Winter Journeys you will have your reward, so long as all you want is a penguin's egg.” [The Worst Journey in the World, pp.577-8]
No one knows which hymns they sang in the blizzard on the slopes of Mt Terror, but one of the hymns at Cherry-Garrard's funeral was “To Be A Pilgrim.” It's about the spiritual journey through darkness and strife towards a better existence, gaining strength through hardship along the way. And it's a proper belter, so what better to sing in defiance of a howling gale? It always makes me think of Wilson and his pilgrimages, spatial and spiritual. Perhaps that's why it was chosen. I hope his story makes it meaningful to you, too.
If you wish to learn more about Wilson, his great-nephew David Wilson maintains a website here: https://www.edwardawilson.com/ He has also published a very good illustrated biography, Cheltenham in Antarctica.
1. He who would valiant be
'Gainst all disaster,
Let him in constancy
Follow the Master.
There's no discouragement
Shall make him once relent
His first avowed intent
To be a pilgrim.
2. Whoso beset him round
With dismal stories,
Do but themselves confound –
His strength the more is.
No foes shall stay his might,
Though he with giants fight;
He will make good his right
To be a pilgrim.
3. Since, Lord, thou dost defend
Us with thy Spirit,
We know we at the end
Shall life inherit.
Then fancies flee away!
I'll fear not what men say,
I'll labour night and day
To be a pilgrim.
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