North Pole Tenderfoot. Doug Hall
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We were selling radio audiences on connecting with their kids.
Jon Paul Buchmeyer—the account supervisor from the aptly named Bragman, Nyman, and Cafarelli, a public relations firm I commissioned, lined up the interviews, along with dozens more for when we are on the ice. The interviews would depend on whether my expensive Iridium telephone technology functioned properly. Jon Paul, who had represented Whoopi Goldberg and Cameron Diaz, was skeptical about the prospects but excited about the potential.
To the guys with the “Al & Rich Show” on the USA Radio Network in Dallas, I said, “This is a bizarre charity. Don’t send money. Please. Instead, sit down and spend ten minutes with a child. It’ll have more of an impact on that kid than any dollar amount ever could.”
To make the Great Aspirations! charity work, we have to generate publicity. And I’m the charity’s P.T. Barnum. My problem is that we can’t claim any firsts, other than the fact that Alan Humphries would be the first Irishman to walk to the North Pole. Granted, I might have pitched myself as the first life member of the International Jugglers Association or MENSA to make the trip, but who would care?
Jon Paul met us in Edmonton to tape “B roll” footage of the trip. TV stations don’t do stories if they don’t have video to go with them, and once we hit the icy trail to the pole, it would be impossible for us to provide it. So Jon Paul wanted to have footage in the can to offer any stations that might show interest.
The team, except for Mike Warren and Corky Peterson, posed for photos at Rabbit Hill.
He planned to tape the team slogging along in the snow. Unfortunately, when we pulled into Edmonton, the snow had melted—and the 40-degree temperature didn’t promise to offer more. But the resourceful Jon Paul had the New York staff make phone calls throughout the area and found a ski resort called Rabbit Hill that had snow machines. They still had a dusting of snow on the ground and they could make more if we needed it.
I nervously approached Paul Schurke about taking the dogs and a sled to the ski resort to cook up some Arctic-y footage.
Paul understood. He also realized that the team might be less enthusiastic about the idea. Paul worked a little marketing magic and presented it to the team as a tune-up trip, a sort of last-minute dress rehearsal.
No one bought it. Some members of the team weren’t interested in staging a situation. One suggested we might as well stage the entire expedition, phoning interviews to radio stations across the world, waxing on about the cold, grueling the conditions as we munched blueberry muffins in our hotel rooms. Two days later, when we were dropped on the ice at the 88th parallel, some of us would think that wouldn’t have been a bad idea.
Paul, Alan, and Celia watch the scene. Alan thought it was a bit absurd.
Rabbit Hill was really more of a bunny hill. But at least it offered some snow. Three camera crews came along to film us—the PR firm’s team along with crews from two of the Canadian television networks.
Paul gave the “experienced explorer” take on the trip.
We put on our bright red expedition jackets, covered with seventeen sponsor patches. We scrambled in the snow as we’d been trained to do, making our actions look as realistic as possible. The only hitch occurred when a black Rottweiler appeared out of nowhere as Alan ran a dog team and sled past the cameras. The dog chased Alan, nipping at his leg when suddenly the nine sled dogs caught its scent and turned on it. I’ve never seen a big bad Rottweiler run away as fast as that one did.
The crews then filmed Paul Schurke, asking him what it’s like to go to the North Pole. Paul gave the big-picture perspective: “The North Pole has often been compared to a horizontal Everest. It has the same extremes of climate and remoteness.”
“I’m scared to death,” I explained.
Then they interviewed me as the head of the charity. Jon Paul had briefed me on what to say, but in the anxiety of the moment, my response didn’t come out as I expected. Over a shot of the dogs barking, the announcer said, “The dog team is ready to go. But the man behind this expedition may be having second thoughts.”
Then the camera turned to me and I said. “I’m scared to death. To be perfectly honest, it is, absolutely terrifying.”
Not exactly the bravest statement I could have made, I guess. But at least I was honest.
Before such challenging expeditions, it’s common to engage in a ritual of gathering and selecting gear, a practice that probably dates back to prehistory, when cave dwellers squatted around fires chipping away at flint spearheads, selecting the truest arrows, restringing bows, assembling food caches, and articulating their anticipations in jagged streaks of war paint.
Back at the hotel, Paul told us to examine our gear and make our final selections on what we would take. I had spent hundreds of hours and thousands of dollars searching for the most effective gear. From long underwear to high-tech communications systems, I had given a lot of thought to my equipment, and I enjoyed going through it one last time, picking the things I most needed.
Bartlett (in the center) had a real “toughness” to him.
I looked again with pride at the expedition jacket with its patches. In the weeks before leaving, I’d put it on many times to see how I looked. I even had my picture taken in it before the trip. Real explorers definitely have a look about them that says they’re serious, and in the photo above, Bob Bartlett looks like a rugged explorer. In the picture of me in my winter gear, I don’t evoke quite the same ruggedness. However, I was more interested in promotional power anyway, publicizing the roles that Ziggy and Fuzz would play on the trip.
Never in history had an explorer posed with two cartoon characters — Ziggy and Fuzz.
Though posing with cartoon characters may not seem appropriate for an Arctic explorer, I think the admiral would have gone along with it. When it came to raising money and generating publicity he was very aggressive. He endorsed cigarettes, ammunition, Pianolas, rifles, pencils, razors, watches, toothbrushes, whiskey, toothpaste, socks, and cameras. He even promoted the “Peary coat,” a heavy fur greatcoat that he designed.
When it came to selecting gear, the admiral was very much a scientist. He tested everything. He described the importance of preparation this way.
Thorough preparedness for a polar sledge journey is of vital importance, and no time devoted to the study and perfection of the equipment can be considered wasted.
That evening, Paul called us together to review key issues and talk about gear. He opened two gun cases. “Each sled will have a gun,” he said in a serious tone. “They’re to be used in the case of a polar bear attack. It’s unlikely, but you need to know where the guns are. Just in case.”
The more he talked, the more my fear grew.
Paul’s gear was amazingly sparse. Mine weighed twice as much.
He then showed us his gear. We were most impressed not by what he had but by how little he had. He was taking a few spare clothing items along with a mug, plate, and spoon tied by string to a bowl, a pee bottle for use