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The South Pole, Volume 1

R >> Roald Amundsen >> The South Pole, Volume 1




The position of the "forerunner" is not a very enviable one either. Of
course he escapes all bother with dogs, but it is confoundedly tedious
to walk there alone, staring at nothing. His only diversion is a
shout from the leading sledge: "A little to the right," "A little
to the left." It is not so much these simple words that divert him
as the tone in which they are called. Now and then the cry comes
in a way that makes him feel he is acquitting himself well. But
sometimes it sends a cold shiver down his back; the speaker might
just as well have added the word "Duffer!" -- there is no mistaking
his tone. It is no easy matter to go straight on a surface without
landmarks. Imagine an immense plain that you have to cross in thick
fog; it is dead calm, and the snow lies evenly, without drifts. What
would you do? An Eskimo can manage it, but none of us. We should turn
to the right or to the left, and give the leading dog-driver with the
standard compass endless trouble. It is strange how this affects the
mind. Although the man with the compass knows quite well that the man
in front cannot do any better, and although he knows that he could not
do better himself, he nevertheless gets irritated in time and works
himself into the belief that the unsuspecting, perfectly innocent
leader only takes these turns to annoy him; and so, as I have said,
the words "A little to the left" imply the unspoken addition --
perfectly understood on both sides -- "Duffer!" I have personal
experience of both duties. With the dog-driver time passes far more
quickly. He has his dogs to look after, and has to see that all are
working and none shirking. Many other points about a team claim his
attention, and he must always keep an eye on the sledge itself. If
he does not do this, some slight unevenness may throw the runners in
the air before he knows where he is. And to right a capsized sledge,
weighing about eight hundredweight, is no fun. So, instead of running
this risk, he gives his whole attention to what is before him.

From the starting-place the Barrier rises very slightly, until at a
cross-ridge it passes into the perfect level. Here on the ridge we
halt once more. Our comrades have disappeared and gone to their work,
but in the distance the Fram lies, framed in shining, blue-white
ice. We are but human; uncertainty always limits our prospect. Shall
we meet again? And if so, under what conditions? Much lay between
that moment and the next time we should see her. The mighty ocean
on one side, and the unknown region of ice on the other; so many
things might happen. Her flag floats out, waves us a last adieu,
and disappears. We are on our way to the South.

This first inland trip on the Barrier was undeniably exciting. The
ground was absolutely unknown, and our outfit untried. What kind
of country should we have to deal with? Would it continue in this
boundless plain without hindrance of any kind? Or would Nature present
insurmountable difficulties? Were we right in supposing that dogs were
the best means of transport in these regions, or should we have done
better to take reindeer, ponies, motor-cars, aeroplanes, or anything
else? We went forward at a rattling pace; the going was perfect. The
dogs' feet trod on a thin layer of loose snow, just enough to give
them a secure hold.

The weather conditions were not quite what we should have wished
in an unknown country. It is true that it was calm and mild, and
altogether pleasant for travelling, but the light was not good. A
grey haze, the most unpleasant kind of light after fog, lay upon the
landscape, making the Barrier and the sky merge into one. There was
no horizon to be seen. This grey haze, presumably a younger sister
of fog, is extremely disagreeable. One can never be certain of one's
surroundings. There are no shadows; everything looks the same. In a
light like this it is a bad thing to be the forerunner; he does not
see the inequalities of the ground until too late -- until he is right
on them. This often ends in a fall, or in desperate efforts to keep
on his feet. It is better for the drivers, they can steady themselves
with a hand on the sledge. But they also have to be on the lookout for
inequalities, and see that the sledges do not capsize. This light is
also very trying to the eyes, and one often hears of snow-blindness
after such a day. The cause of this is not only that one strains one's
eyes continually; it is also brought about by carelessness. One is
very apt to push one's snow-goggles up on to one's forehead, especially
if they are fitted with dark glasses. However, we always came through
it very well; only a few of us had a little touch of this unpleasant
complaint. Curiously enough, snow-blindness has something in common
with seasickness. If you ask a man whether he is seasick, in nine
cases out of ten he will answer: "No, not at all -- only a little
queer in the stomach." It is the same, in a slightly different way,
with snow-blindness. If a man comes into the tent in the evening with
an inflamed eye and you ask him whether he is snow-blind, you may
be sure he will be almost offended. "Snow-blind? Is it likely? No,
not at all, only a little queer about the eye."

We did seventeen miles[5] that day without exertion. We had two tents,
and slept two in a tent. These tents were made for three men, but were
too small for four. Cooking was only done in one, both for the sake
of economy, so that we might leave more at the depot, and because it
was unnecessary, as the weather was still quite mild.

On this first trip, as on all the depot journeys, our morning
arrangements took far too long. We began to get ready at four, but
were not on the road till nearly eight. I was always trying some means
of remedying this, but without success. It will naturally be asked,
What could be the cause of this? and I will answer candidly -- it was
dawdling and nothing else. On these depot journeys it did not matter so
much, but on the main journey we had to banish dawdling relentlessly.

Next day we did the allotted seventeen miles in six hours, and pitched
our camp early in the afternoon. The dogs were rather tired, as it
had been uphill work all day. To-day, from a distance of twenty-eight
miles, we could look down into the Bay of Whales; this shows that we
had ascended considerably. We estimated our camp that evening to be 500
feet above the sea. We were astonished at this rise, but ought not to
have been so really, since we had already estimated this ridge at 500
feet when we first saw it from the end of the bay. But however it may
be, most of us have a strong propensity for setting up theories and
inventing something new. What others have seen does not interest us,
and on this occasion we took the opportunity -- I say we, because I
was one of them -- of propounding a new theory -- that of an evenly
advancing ice-slope from the Antarctic plateau. We saw ourselves in
our mind's eye ascending gradually to the top, and thus avoiding a
steep and laborious climb among the mountains.

The day had been very warm, +12.2° F., and I had been obliged to
throw off everything except the most necessary underclothes. My
costume may be guessed from the name I gave to the ascent --
Singlet Hill. There was a thick fog when we turned out next morning,
exceedingly unpleasant. Here every inch was over virgin ground, and we
had to do it blindly. That day we had a feeling of going downhill. At
one o'clock land was reported right ahead. From the gesticulations
of those in front I made out that it must be uncommonly big. I saw
absolutely nothing, but that was not very surprising. My sight is
not specially good, and the land did not exist.

The fog lifted, and the surface looked a little broken. The
imaginary land lasted till the next day, when we found out that it
had only been a descending bank of fog. That day we put on the pace,
and did twenty-five miles instead of our usual seventeen. We were
very lightly clad. There could be no question of skins; they were
laid aside at once. Very light wind-clothing was all we wore over
our underclothes. On this journey most of us slept barelegged in
the sleeping-bags. Next day we were surprised by brilliantly clear
weather and a dead calm. For the first time we had a good view. Towards
the south the Barrier seemed to continue, smooth and even, without
ascending. Towards the east, on the other hand, there was a marked
rise -- presumably towards King Edward VII. Land, we thought then. In
the course of the afternoon we passed the first fissure we had met
with. It had apparently been filled up long ago. Our distance that
day was twenty-three miles.

On these depot journeys we were always very glad of our Thermos
flasks. In the middle of the day we made a halt, and took a cup of
scalding hot chocolate, and it was very pleasant to be able to get one
without any trouble in the middle of the snow plateau. On the final
southern journey we did not take Thermos flasks. We had no lunch then.

On February 14, after a march of eleven and a half miles, we reached
80° S. Unfortunately we did not succeed in getting any astronomical
observation on this trip, as the theodolite we had brought with us
went wrong, but later observations on several occasions gave 79°
59' S. Not so bad in fog. We had marked out the route up to this
point with bamboo poles and flags at every 15 kilometres. Now, as
we had not fixed the position by astronomical observation, we found
that the flags would not be sufficient, and we had to look for some
other means of marking the spot. A few empty cases were broken up and
gave a certain number of marks, but not nearly enough. Then our eyes
fell upon a bundle of dried fish lying on one of the sledges, and our
marking pegs were found. I should like to know whether any road has
been marked out with dried fish before; I doubt it. Immediately on
our arrival in lat. 80° -- at eleven in the morning -- we began to
erect the depot. It was made quite solid, and was 12 feet high. The
going here in 80° was quite different from what we had had all the
rest of the way. Deep, loose snow every-where gave us the impression
that it must have fallen in perfectly still weather. Generally when
we passed by here -- but not always -- we found this loose snow.

When the depot was finished and had been photographed, we threw
ourselves on the sledges and began the homeward journey. It was
quite a treat to sit and be drawn along, a thing that otherwise
never happened. Prestrud sat with me. Hanssen drove first, but as
he now had the old track to follow, he wanted no one in front. On
the last sledge we had the marking pegs. Prestrud kept an eye on the
sledge-meter, and sang out at every half-kilometre, while at the same
time I stuck a dried fish into the snow. This method of marking the
route proved a brilliant one. Not only did the dried fish show us the
right way on several occasions, but they also came in very useful on
the next journey, when we returned with starving dogs. That day we
covered forty-three miles. We did not get to bed till one o'clock at
night, but this did not prevent our being up again at four and off
at half-past seven. At half-past nine in the evening we drove into
Framheim, after covering sixty-two miles that day. Our reason for
driving that distance was not to set up any record for the Barrier,
but to get home, if possible, before the Fram sailed, and thus have an
opportunity of once more shaking hands with our comrades and wishing
them a good voyage. But as we came over the edge of the Barrier we
saw that, in spite of all our pains, we had come too late. The Fram
was not there. It gave us a strange and melancholy feeling, not easy
to understand. But the next moment common sense returned, and our
joy at her having got away from the Barrier undamaged after the long
stay was soon uppermost. We heard that she had left the bay at noon
the same day -- just as we were spurting our hardest to reach her.

This depot journey was quite sufficient to tell us what the future
had in store. After this we were justified in seeing it in a rosy
light. We now had experience of the three important factors --
the lie of the ground, the going, and the means of traction --
and the result was that nothing could be better. Everything was in
the most perfect order. I had always had a high opinion of the dog
as a draught animal, but after this last performance my admiration
for these splendid animals rose to the pitch of enthusiasm. Let us
look at what my dogs accomplished on this occasion: On February 14
they went eleven miles southward with a load of 770 pounds, and on
the same day thirty-two miles northward -- only four of them, the
"Three Musketeers" and Lassesen, as Fix and Snuppesen refused to do any
work. The weight they started with from 80°S. was that of the sledge,
165 pounds; Prestrud, 176 pounds; and myself, 182 pounds. Add to this
154 pounds for sleeping-bags, ski, and dried fish, and we have a total
weight of 677 pounds, or about 170 pounds per dog. The last day they
did sixty-two miles. I think the dogs showed on this occasion that
they were well suited for sledging on the Barrier.

In addition to this brilliant result, we arrived at several other
conclusions. In the first place, the question of the long time spent in
our morning preparations thrust itself on our notice: this could not
be allowed to occur on the main journey. At least two hours might be
saved, I had no doubt of that -- but how? I should have to take time to
think it over. What required most alteration was our heavy outfit. The
sledges were constructed with a view to the most difficult conditions
of ground. The surface here was of the easiest kind, and consequently
permitted the use of the lightest outfit. We ought to be able to reduce
the weight of the sledges by at least half -- possibly more. Our big
canvas ski-boots were found to need thorough alteration. They were too
small and too stiff, and had to be made larger and softer. Foot-gear
had such an important bearing on the success of the whole expedition
that we had to do all that could be done to get it right.

The four who had stayed at home had accomplished a fine piece of
work. Framheim was hardly recognizable with the big new addition on
its western wall. This pent-house was of the same width as the hut --
13 feet -- and measured about 10 feet the other way. Windows had been
put in -- two of them -- and it looked quite bright and pleasant when
one came in; but this was not to last for long. Our architects had
also dug a passage, 5 feet wide, round the whole hut, and this was now
covered over, simply by prolonging the sloping roof down to the snow
to form a roof over this passage. On the side facing east a plank was
fixed across the gable at the required height, and from this boards
were brought down to the snow. The lower part of this new extension
of the roof was well strengthened, as the weight of snow that would
probably accumulate upon it in the course of the winter would be very
great. This passage was connected with the pent-house by a side-door
in the northern wall. The passage was constructed to serve as a place
for storing tinned foods and fresh meat, besides which its eastern end
afforded an excellent place to get snow for melting. Here Lindström
could be sure of getting as much clean snow as he wanted, which was
an impossibility outside the house. We had 120 dogs running about,
and they were not particular as to the purpose for which we might want
the snow. But here in this snow wall Lindström had no need to fear the
dogs. Another great advantage was that he would not have to go out in
bad weather, darkness, and cold, every time he wanted a piece of ice.

We now had to turn our attention in the first place, before the cold
weather set in, to the arrangement of our dog tents. We could not leave
them standing as they were on the snow; if we did so, we should soon
find that dogs' teeth are just as sharp as knives; besides which, they
would be draughty and cold for the animals. To counteract this, the
floor of each tent was sunk 6 feet below the surface of the Barrier. A
great part of this excavation had to be done with axes, as we soon came
to the bare ice. One of these dog tents, when finished, had quite an
important appearance, when one stood at the bottom and looked up. It
measured 18 feet from the floor to the peak of the tent, and the
diameter of the floor was 15 feet. Then twelve posts were driven into
the ice of the floor at equal intervals round the wall of the tent,
and the dogs were tethered to them. From the very first day the dogs
took a liking to their quarters, and they were right, as they were well
off there. I do not remember once seeing frost-rime on the coats of
my dogs down in the tent. They enjoyed every advantage there -- air,
without draughts, light, and sufficient room. Round the tent-pole we
left a pillar of snow standing in the middle of the tent to the height
of a man. It took us two days to put our eight dog tents in order.

Before the Fram sailed one of the whale-boats had been put ashore on
the Barrier. One never knew; if we found ourselves in want of a boat,
it would be bad to have none, and if we did not have to use it, there
was no great harm done. It was brought up on two sledges drawn by
twelve dogs, and was taken some distance into the Barrier. The mast
stood high in the air, and showed us its position clearly.

Besides all their other work, the four men had found time for shooting
seals while we were away, and large quantities of meat were now
stowed everywhere. We had to lose no time in getting ready the tent
in which we stored our chief supply of seal meat. It would not have
lasted long if we had left it unprotected on the ground. To keep off
the dogs, we built a wall 7 feet high of large blocks of snow. The
dogs themselves saw to its covering with ice, and for the time being
all possibility of their reaching the meat was removed.

We did not let the floor grow old under our feet; it was time to be
off again to the south with more food. Our departure was fixed for
February 22, and before that time we had a great deal to do. All the
provisions had first to be brought from the main depot and prepared
for the journey. Then we had to open the cases of pemmican, take
out the boxes in which it was soldered, four rations in each, cut
these open, and put the four rations back in the case without the
tin lining. By doing this we saved so much weight, and at the same
time avoided the trouble of having this work to do later on in the
cold. The tin packing was used for the passage through the tropics,
where I was afraid the pemmican might possibly melt and run into
the hold of the ship. This opening and repacking took a long time,
but we got through it. We used the pent-house as a packing-shed.

Another thing that took up a good deal of our time was our personal
outfit. The question of boots was gone into thoroughly. Most of us were
in favour of the big outer boots, but in a revised edition. There
were a few -- but extremely few -- who declared for nothing but
soft foot-gear. In this case it did not make so much difference,
since they all knew that the big boots would have to be brought on
the final journey on account of possible work on glaciers. Those,
therefore, who wanted to wear soft foot-gear, and hang their boots
on the sledge, might do so if they liked. I did not want to force
anyone to wear boots he did not care for; it might lead to too much
unpleasantness and responsibility. Everyone, therefore, might do as he
pleased. Personally I was in favour of boots with stiff soles, so long
as the uppers could be made soft and sufficiently large to give room
for as many stockings as one wished to wear. It was a good thing the
boot-maker could not look in upon us at Framheim just then -- and many
times afterwards, for that matter. The knife was mercilessly applied
to all his beautiful work, and all the canvas, plus a quantity of the
superfluous leather, was cut away. As I had no great knowledge of the
shoemaker's craft, I gladly accepted Wisting's offer to operate on
mine. The boots were unrecognizable when I got them back from him. As
regards shape, they were perhaps just as smart before the alteration,
but as that is a very unimportant matter in comparison with ease
and comfort, I considered them improved by many degrees. The thick
canvas was torn off and replaced by thin weather-proof fabric. Big
wedges were inserted in the toes, and allowed room for several more
pairs of stockings. Besides this, one of the many soles was removed,
thus increasing the available space. It appeared to me that now I had
foot-gear that combined all the qualities I demanded -- stiff soles,
on which Huitfeldt-Höyer Ellefsen ski-bindings could be used, and
otherwise soft, so that the foot was not pinched anywhere. In spite
of all these alterations, my boots were once more in the hands of the
operator before the main journey, but then they were made perfect. The
boots of all the others underwent the same transformation, and every
day our outfit became more complete. A number of minor alterations
in our wardrobe were also carried out. One man was an enthusiast
for blinkers on his cap; another did not care for them. One put on
a nose-protector; another took his off; and if there was a question
of which was right, each was prepared to defend his idea to the
last. These were all alterations of minor importance, but being due to
individual judgment, they helped to raise the spirits and increase
self-confidence. Patents for braces also became the fashion. I
invented one myself, and was very proud of it for a time -- indeed,
I had the satisfaction of seeing it adopted by one of my rivals. But
that rarely happened; each of us wanted to make his own inventions,
and to be as original as possible. Any contrivance that resembled
something already in use was no good. But we found, like the farmer,
that the old way often turned out to be the best.

By the evening of February 21 we were again ready to start. The sledges
-- seven in number -- stood ready packed, and were quite imposing
in appearance. Tempted by the favourable outcome of our former trip,
we put too much on our sledges this time -- on some of them, in any
case. Mine was overloaded. I had to suffer for it afterwards -- or,
rather, my noble animals did.

On February 22, at 8.30 a.m., the caravan moved off -- eight men, seven
sledges, and forty-two dogs -- and the most toilsome part of our whole
expedition began. As usual, we began well from Framheim. Lindström,
who was to stay at home alone and look after things, did not stand
and wave farewells to us. Beaming with joy, he made for the hut as
soon as the last sledge was in motion. He was visibly relieved. But
I knew very well that before long he would begin to take little turns
outside to watch the ridge. Would they soon be coming?

There was a light breeze from the south, dead against us, and the sky
was overcast. Newly fallen snow made the going heavy, and the dogs had
hard work with their loads. Our former tracks were no longer visible,
but we were lucky enough to find the first flag, which stood eleven
miles inland. From there we followed the dried fish, which stood out
sharply against the white snow and were very easy to see. We pitched
our camp at six o'clock in the evening, having come a distance
of seventeen miles. Our camp was quite imposing -- four tents for
three men apiece, with two in each. In two of them the housekeeping
arrangements were carried on. The weather had improved during the
afternoon, and by evening we had the most brilliantly clear sky.

Next day the going was even heavier, and the dogs were severely
tried. W e did no more than twelve and a half miles after eight hours'
march. The temperature remained reasonable, +5° F. We had lost our
dried fish, and for the last few hours were going only by compass.

February 24 began badly -- a strong wind from the south-east, with
thick driving snow. We could see nothing, and had to steer our
course by compass. It was bitter going against the wind, although
the temperature was no worse than -0.4° F. We went all day without
seeing any mark. The snow stopped falling about noon, and at three
o'clock it cleared. As we were looking about for a place to pitch
the tents, we caught sight of one of our flags. When we reached it,
we found it was flag No. 5 -- all our bamboos were numbered, so we
knew the exact position of the flag. No. 5 was forty-four and a half
miles from Framheim. This agreed well with the distance recorded --
forty-four miles.

The next day was calm and clear, and the temperature began to
descend, -13° F. But in spite of this lower temperature the air
felt considerably milder, as it was quite still. We followed marks
and fish the whole way, and at the end of our day's journey we had
covered eighteen miles -- a good distance for heavy going.

We then had a couple of days of bitter cold with fog, so that we did
not see much of our surroundings. We followed the fish and the marks
most of the way. We had already begun to find the fish useful as
extra food; the dogs took it greedily. The forerunner had to take up
each fish and throw it on one side; then one of the drivers went out,
took it up, and put it on his sledge. If the dogs had come upon the
fish standing in the snow we should soon have had fierce fights. Even
now, before we reached the depot in 80° S., the dogs began to show
signs of exhaustion, probably as a result of the cold weather (-16.6°
F.) and the hard work. They were stiff in the legs in the morning
and difficult to set going.

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