Where is Mount Luyendyk?

Mount Luyendyk is a summit in the western Fosdick Mountains of the Ford Ranges of Marie Byrd Land, West Antarctica. It forms a prominent exposure in the northwestern Iphigene massif. So reads the introduction to its description by the U.S. Board on Geographic Names.

Mount Luyendyk, as seen from the air. Photo C. Siddoway

How does a geographic feature get a name?

According to Wikipedia, “the BGN has members from six federal departments, the Central Intelligence Agency, the US Government Publishing Office, the Library of Congress, and the US Postal Service.

“The board has developed principles, policies, and procedures governing the use of domestic and foreign geographic names, including underseas. The BGN also deals with names of geographical features in Antarctica via its Advisory Committee on Antarctic Names.

The original name for Mount Luyendyk was Peak 1070, as it appeared on reconnaissance maps of the US Geological Survey. This anonymous label didn’t imply any meaning.

During our expedition to the Ford Ranges, we made a satellite base camp in sight of 1070. From there, we explored nearby peaks, mapped them, and took geologic samples.

We spent a sublime Christmas there with clear skies and no wind. After Christmas, that disappeared. A blizzard engulfed us with terrorizing wind and whiteout. This is an account of that storm from my book Mighty Bad Land.

A storm at the foot of Mount Luyendyk

“Outside, gale winds of Marie Byrd Land howled, buffeted the tent canvas, and blasted it with driven snow, indifferent to our existence. How can we matter? The walls shuddered—cracked like rifle shots, snapped, cracked, snapped, the tent protested—relentless, endless. The wind carried sounds of subterranean echoes, earplugs little help. I looked up at the tent’s dim orange peak, with no sunlight to brighten it.

“Each gust bent the two-inch thick hardwood tent poles. My mind drifted towards the idea that this whole enterprise seemed crazy and my fault. Why should I, or anyone endure this brutality? My idea? Our circumstances felt irrational, the isolation, the risk. Six humans alone—no help or refuge for hundreds of miles. That fact sometimes terrorized me—more so when I lay idle in this biblical storm. I’ve put all of us in danger. Because I wanted an adventure and bragging rights? Now I have one. I felt stupid and selfish.

I thought of the world globe on my desk at home. I’d turned it upside down so that the South Pole sat at the top, and I could see Antarctica. That told me the truth, the isolation of the Antarctic. Now we lay in our tents in one of the more remote parts of that continent. I imagined myself in touch with space, the white emptiness around us, and the blue-black sky above the blizzard—beyond the gale that trapped us in this void. The gale that repeated, you are mine, you are mine, you are mine.”

Expedition camp with Mount Luyendyk in the background. Photo S. Tucker

A phone call from Christine

About thirty years later, our team had gone on with their separate lives. I worked in my office at UC Santa Barbara. My phone rang. Below is part of that call reproduced from my book.

“The incoming call alert on my cell showed Colorado—Christine. Hadn’t spoken to her in a year or more. She was now a professor of geology at Colorado College and continued her Antarctic work. I felt curious, and my voice revealed I was happy to hear from her. ‘Hi Chris. How are you? What’s up?’ ‘Hi Bruce. I hope this is a good time. I have great news for you.’ She spoke in her deliberate and careful way. I could tell that she had something important to say.’ Always open for great news.’ ‘The US Board on Geographic Names just approved naming a mountain in Antarctica after you.’

‘I have a terrific photo of your mountain. Took it in 2010 during a fly-in. I’ll email it to you.’

I opened her email and looked at Chris’ photo of Mount Luyendyk taken from the air at a low altitude. The view to the southeast exposed the tall gray cliffs of Mount Luyendyk. Snow capped the peak and blanketed the south flank. A lake of blue ice stretched in front of the mountain on the Balchen Glacier. Happiness wrapped around me. I tried to find our 1989 campsite in the photo. A bit out of the frame, I guessed. What would that spot look like now? What’s happening there at this moment—that place where we endured a ferocious blizzard? The raw, penetrating danger and thrill of surviving that storm surfaced in me. The impossible aloneness of that place came back to my mind. I thought of my privilege to experience Antarctica in its beauty and harshness and accepted gratitude. I let myself dream of the white ocean of ice.”