A trip down south: in which our heroes visit Antarctica.

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BARRY GOLDWATER traveled everywhere, and one time we found ourselves together in a remote place. I was less surprised to see the 1964 Republican candidate for president in Christchurch, New Zealand, eight years after his presidential campaign, than he was to see me. Barry Goldwater was a hardy naturalist, son of the sun of Arizona deserts, and a man of exploration and science. No tool of the trade, in his fields of interest, was unfamiliar to him, and none failed to attract his attention. The airplane was in his blood, and the radio, and instruments of magnification and miniaturization. He was perpetually curious about oddities of nature and geography, and he always had at hand the most alluring paraphernalia, cameras especially. Although I had flown in his airplane with him, pirouetting about the Grand Canyon, he teased me now, bound for the Antarctic, that my interest in natural wonders was synthetic--that I was drawn to other adornments of life. When, many years later, I performed a harpsichord concerto in Phoenix, a reporter accosted him, asking how, in the senator's judgment, Mr. Buckley had acquitted himself. Goldwater replied, "Wonderfully. Absolutely first rate." He paused. "Of course, this is the first time I ever went to a concert."

Neither of us had known the other was on the roster of this trip. There were a dozen of us altogether, the latest crew of a regular pilgrimage brought together by the secretary of the Navy every other year to publicize the American enterprise in the Antarctic. Our country's role began as a celebration of the International Geophysical Year in 1957, a common undertaking of a dozen nations, featuring the United States and the Soviet Union. The principals had made an enduring commitment to maintain two stations in the Antarctic: one of them housing at least twelve American scientists and a single Soviet scientist, the second housing at least twelve Soviets and a single American. The alien scientist had a symbolic role, a reminder that the geophysical expeditions were nonpartisan. And, we all assumed, the extranational scientist also served a peekaboo purpose, to assure that neither monolith was turning its Antarctic igloo into a laboratory for the development of ice-age warfare.

Goldwater, child of the Grand Canyon, was always impressed by sheer magnitude, and the dimensions we would be visiting were very grand indeed. Antarctica is larger than the United States and Mexico combined. Its coastline is 11,000 miles long. During the winter, the ice doubles the size of the continent. The ice at the South Pole is about two miles thick. If it were all to melt, the water level of the world would rise by 200 feet, which means that the first 14 stories of the Empire State Building would be under water. The ice in Antarctica is a deposit of 70 percent of the earth's supply of fresh water.

Goldwater pulled out, from a deep pocket of the heavy GI trousers we had all been issued, a sheet of figures. Ocean water absorbs 90 percent of the sun's heat. Snow and ice reflect 85 percent. Secretary of the Navy John Chafee, our host, had supplied Goldwater with a few graphic words. "This tells you," Goldwater held the paper up to the light, "that Antarctica is the principal generator of the energy that governs the metabolism of the earth. Its effect on weather currents and temperature is critical. Its potential uses, if we"--he pointed his finger at his throat--"us and our Russian pals out there--if we come to know how to domesticate Antarctica, that would be, Chafee's memo said, something very like the development of a key"--he simulated a key in hand, turning his wrist--"a key to the universe. Satisfied, Buckley?"

I admitted my derelict ignorance of these universes.

"Okay, just take it from me. There is everything there, potentially: the control of the weather; the answer to the freshwater problem. A vat of energy greater than the known supply of the world's oil. If I had been elected president, you'd have seen it all come to life." Goldwater pursed his lips into that muted, mischievous smile, as he had so many times done over a lifetime in politics. He had the ability to attract a kind of devotional concern, the very same that had animated a majority of the delegates at the 1964 convention in San Francisco, who had made him their presidential candidate.

We had ahead of us a hideous eight-hour plane ride, lying on our backs, maneuvering for comfort by twisting ourselves about with our legs splayed out. It was a naval transport, a C-130 "Herc" turboprop. Secretary Chafee was humiliated at having to use it, but no jet plane could be trusted to land at our destination. Although it was summertime in Antarctica, the runway was unreliably icy. The airplane would deposit us at the thousand-man U.S. naval base at McMurdo, from which we would set out the next day for the 800-mile journey in a small plane with ski-like landing gear. On consecutive days we would undertake our formal visits to the tiny scientific quarries. In 1957, Moscow had coveted the post at the actual South Pole, and so had we. We won the coin toss; the Soviet Union got the magnetic South Pole, seven hundred miles distant. In these little outposts the two teams of scientists labored with their instruments, periodically receiving supplies by airplane. In the winter months the airplanes can't land but have to drop their supplies. Neither site receives a human visitor in those months.

At McMurdo I suggested to Goldwater that we team up with his son Barry Jr., member of Congress, and my brother Jim, United States senator, who were also members of the delegation. I suggested a drink at the McMurdo Station BOQ, but Goldwater communicated the grave news that he was on the wagon for a month. We attempted festiveness nonetheless, and chatted with brother Jim and son Barry, and with our host, Secretary Chafee, about the exciting time ahead.

Two days later, at noontime, I was sitting in the crowded Soviet igloo at the magnetic South Pole. At my side were Barry Jr. and one Vostov, a talkative Russian scientist who knew no English. From time to time he would reach out over the crowded floor-level dining canvas we ate from, seeking help from an interpreter. Every five minutes he would pass great trays of caviar and tumblers of vodka, the sounds of amity welling from our cramped bodies as we ate and drank and ignored the Cold War. I acknowledged and returned a Russian toast to peace and prosperity, and then broke to respond to Barry Jr.'s sharp elbow thrust--"My dad wants to see you," he whispered to me, pointing to the igloo's entrance. Senator Goldwater, peering in from the dark cold, motioned me to follow him. I worked my way up and out, and followed him into the adjoining igloo. We ducked in quickly, dodging the outside temperature of 56 degrees below zero.

"Thought you might like to talk to your wife," he grinned, disguising the pride he felt at having maneuvered the Soviet radio to contrive a quick conversation with his own wife in sunny Phoenix. I was speechless as he handed me the receiver. In a few moments I heard the telephone ringing. After an interval, my wife's voice.

"It's me, darling," I said rapturously.

There was a pause. "Do you realize what time it is? It's three o'clock in the morning!"

"I'm calling from the South Pole!"

"Oh. Well, hello."

That was all the air time we had. I turned to see, standing by, my Russian buddy Vostov. He somehow communicated that he had a special gift for me. At lunch he had pleaded with me to give him U.S. bills of whatever denomination. I fished out and gave him everything I had, which amounted to $15. His elation was all-consuming.

Now, outside the radio room, he was bent on reciprocity. He thrust a ten-pound cardboard packet into my arms. "It's for you!"

The interpreter explained, "Vostov says this is a block of ice he pulled up this morning. It was formed 25,000 years ago and has been frozen ever since."

I carried the block on my lap on the 90-minute flight back from the Russian outpost. Reaching McMurdo, I got from the naval sickbay twelve urine-specimen bottles, and poured into them the melted remains of my precious ice, most of which had drizzled away in transit. When I reached home with my bottle collection, I made up labels recounting the contents' history, and sent each of my South Pole companions a souvenir bottle, properly labeled. Ten years later, when I was visiting Goldwater at his house, he dug up the keepsake and showed it to me. About half of the 25,000-year-old water had evaporated.

Returning to Christchurch, Goldwater was bound for home, I for Hawaii, as had been scheduled before the South Pole came into sight. There I would join up with fellow journalists who had been selected to accompany President Richard Nixon on his celebrated opening to China. It was rather a sad parting, back at Christchurch. Barry and I swore we would never, ever travel again to Antarctica, except in company with each other.

This essay is adapted from Flying High: Remembering Barry Goldwater, forthcoming from Perseus Publishing.