A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P R S T U V W X Z

The South Pole, Volume 2

R >> Roald Amundsen >> The South Pole, Volume 2




That day -- December 20 -- Per -- good, faithful, conscientious Per --
broke down utterly and had to be taken on the sledge the last part
of the way. On arrival at the camping-ground he had his reward. A
little blow of the back of the axe was enough for him; without making
a sound the worn-out animal collapsed. In him Wisting lost one of
his best dogs. He was a curious animal -- always went about quietly
and peaceably, and never took part in the others' battles; from his
looks and behaviour one would have judged him, quite mistakenly, to
be a queer sort of beast who was good for nothing. But when he was
in harness he showed what he could do. Without needing any shouts or
cuts of the whip, he put himself into it from morning to night, and was
priceless as a draught dog. But, like others of the same character, he
could not keep it going any longer; he collapsed, was killed and eaten.

Christmas Eve was rapidly approaching. For us it could not be
particularly festive, but we should have to try to make as much of it
as circumstances would permit. We ought, therefore, to reach our depot
that evening, so as to keep Christmas with a dish of porridge. The
night before Christmas Eve we slaughtered Svartflekken. There was no
mourning on this occasion Svartflekken was one of Hassel's dogs, and
had always been a reprobate. I find the following in my diary, written
the same evening: "Slaughtered Svartflekken this evening. He would
not do any more, although there was not much wrong with his looks. Bad
character. If a man, he would have ended in penal servitude." He was
comparatively fat, and was consumed with evident satisfaction.

Christmas Eve came; the weather was rather changeable -- now overcast,
now clear -- when we set out at 8 p.m. the night before. We had not far
to go before reaching our depot. At 12 midnight we arrived there in the
most glorious weather, calm and warm. Now we had the whole of Christmas
Eve before us, and could enjoy it at our ease. Our depot was at once
taken down and divided between the two sledges. All crumbs of biscuit
were carefully collected by Wisting, the cook for the day, and put into
a bag. This was taken into the tent and vigorously beaten and kneaded;
the result was pulverized biscuit. With this product and a sausage of
dried milk, Wisting succeeded in making a capital dish of Christmas
porridge. I doubt whether anyone at home enjoyed his Christmas dinner
so much as we did that morning in the tent. One of Bjaaland's cigars
to follow brought a festival spirit over the whole camp.

Another thing we had to rejoice about that day was that we had again
reached the summit of the plateau, and after two or three more days'
march would begin to go downhill, finally reaching the Barrier and our
old haunts. Our daily march had hitherto been interrupted by one or
two halts; we stopped to rest both the dogs and ourselves. On Christmas
Eve we instituted a new order of things, and did the whole distance --
fifteen geographical miles -- without a stop. We liked this arrangement
best, after all, and it seemed as if the dogs did the same. As a rule
it was hard to begin the march again after the rest; one got rather
stiff lazy, too, perhaps -- and had to become supple again.

On the 26th we passed 88° S., going well. The surface appeared to have
been exposed to powerful sunshine since we left it, as it had become
quite polished. Going over these polished levels was like crossing
smooth ice, but with the important difference that here the dogs had
a good foothold. This time we sighted high land even in 88°, and it
had great surprises in store for us. It was clear that this was the
same mighty range running to the south-east as we had seen before,
but this time it stretched considerably farther to the south. The
weather was radiantly clear, and we could see by the land that the
range of vision was very great. Summit after summit the range extended
to the south-east, until it gradually disappeared; but to judge from
the atmosphere, it was continued beyond our range of vision in the
same direction. That this chain traverses the Antarctic continent I
therefore consider beyond a doubt. Here we had a very good example
of how deceptive the atmosphere is in these regions. On a day that
appeared perfectly clear we had lost sight of the mountains in 87°,
and now we saw them as far as the eye could reach in 88°. That we
were astonished is a mild expression. We looked and looked, entirely
unable to recognize our position; little did we guess that the huge
mountain-mass that stood up so high and clear on the horizon was Mount
Thorvald Nilsen. How utterly different it had looked in the misty air
when we said good-bye to it. It is amusing to read my diary of this
time and see how persistently we took the bearings of land every day,
and thought it was new. We did not recognize that vast mountain until
Mount Helmer Hanssen began to stick up out of the plain.

On December 28 we left the summit of the plateau, and began the
descent. Although the incline was not perceptible to the naked eye,
its effect could easily be seen in the dogs. Wisting now used a sail on
his sledge, and was thus able to keep up with Hanssen. If anyone had
seen the procession that came marching over the plateau at that time,
he would hardly have thought we had been out for seventy days at a
stretch, for we came at a swinging pace. We always had the wind at
our backs, with sunshine and warmth the whole time. There was never
a thought of using the whip now; the dogs were bursting with health,
and tugged at their harness to get away. It was a hard time for our
worthy forerunner; he often had to spurt as much as he could to keep
clear of Hanssen's dogs. Wisting in full sail, with his dogs howling
for joy, came close behind. Hassel had his work cut out to follow,
and, indeed, I had the same. The surface was absolutely polished,
and for long stretches at a time we could push ourselves along with
our sticks. The dogs were completely changed since we had left the
Pole; strange as it may sound, it is nevertheless true that they
were putting on flesh day by day, and getting quite fat. I believe
it must have been feeding them on fresh meat and pemmican together
that did this. We were again able to increase our ration of pemmican
from December 28; the daily ration was 1 pound (450 grams) per man,
and we could not manage more -- at least, I think not.

On December 29 we went downhill more and more, and it was indeed
tough work being a ski-runner. The drivers stood so jauntily by the
side of their sledges, letting themselves be carried over the plain
at a phenomenal pace. The surface consisted of sastrugi, alternating
with smooth stretches like ice. Heaven help me, how we ski-runners
had to struggle to keep up! It was all very well for Bjaaland; he
had flown faster on even worse ground. But for Hassel and me it was
different. I saw Hassel put out, now an arm; now a leg, and make the
most desperate efforts to keep on his feet. Fortunately I could not
see myself; if I had been able to, I am sure I should have been in
fits of laughter. Early that day Mount Helmer Hanssen appeared. The
ground now went in great undulations -- a thing we had not noticed
in the mist when we were going south. So high were these undulations
that they suddenly hid the view from us. The first we saw of Mount
Hanssen was from the top of one of these big waves; it then looked
like the top of a pressure hummock that was just sticking up above
the surface. At first we did not understand at all what it was; it
was not till the next day that we really grasped it, when the pointed
blocks of ice covering the top of the mountain came into view. As I
have said, it was only then that we made sure of being on the right
course; all the rest of the land that we saw was so entirely strange
to us. We recognized absolutely nothing.

On the 30th we passed 87° S., and were thus rapidly nearing the Devil's
Ballroom and Glacier. The next day was brilliantly fine-temperature
-2.2° F. -- with a good breeze right aft. To our great joy, we got
sight of the land around the Butcher's Shop. It was still a long way
off, of course, but was miraged up in the warm, sunny air. We were
extraordinarily lucky on our homeward trip; we escaped the Devil's
Ballroom altogether.

On January 1 we ought, according to our reckoning, to reach the Devil's
Glacier, and this held good. We could see it at a great distance;
huge hummocks and ice-waves towered into the sky. But what astonished
us was that between these disturbances and on the far side of them,
we seemed to see an even, unbroken plain, entirely unaffected by the
broken surface. Mounts Hassel, Wisting, and Bjaaland, lay as we had
left them; they were easy to recognize when we came a little nearer
to them. Now Mount Helmer Hanssen again towered high into the air;
it flashed and sparkled like diamonds as it lay bathed in the rays of
the morning sun. We assumed that we had come nearer to this range than
when we were going south, and that this was the reason of our finding
the ground so changed. When we were going south, it certainly looked
impassable between us and the mountains; but who could tell? Perhaps
in the middle of all the broken ground that we then saw there was a
good even stretch, and that we had now been lucky enough to stumble
upon it. But it was once more the atmosphere that deceived us, as we
found out on the following day, for instead of being nearer the range
we had come farther out from it, and this was the reason of our only
getting a little strip of this undesirable glacier.

We had our camp that evening in the middle of a big, filled-up
crevasse. We were a trifle anxious as to what kind of surface we
should find farther on; that these few hummocks and old crevasses
were all the glacier had to offer us this time, was more than we
dared to hope. But the 2nd came, and brought -- thank God! -- no
disappointment. With incredible luck we had slipped past all those
ugly and dangerous places, and now, before we knew where we were,
we found ourselves safe and sound on the plain below the glacier. The
weather was not first-rate when we started at seven in the evening. It
was fairly thick, and we could only just distinguish the top of Mount
Bjaaland. This was bad, as we were now in the neighbourhood of our
depot, and would have liked clear weather to find out where it lay;
but instead of clearing, as we hoped, it grew thicker and thicker,
and when we had gone about six and three-quarter miles, it was so bad
that we thought it best to stop and wait for a while. We had all the
time been going on the erroneous assumption that we had come too far to
the east-that is, too near the mountains -- and under the circumstances
-- in the short gleams that had come from time to time -- we had not
been able to recognize the ground below the glacier. According to
our idea, we were on the east of the depot. The bearings, which had
been taken in thick air, and were now to guide us in this heavy mist,
gave no result whatever. There was no depot to be seen.

We had just swallowed the grateful warm pemmican when the sun suddenly
showed itself. I don't think the camp was ever broken and the sledges
packed in such a short time. From the moment we jumped out of our
bags till the sledges were ready, it only took us fifteen minutes,
which is incredibly quick. "What on earth is that shining over there
through the fog?" The question came from one of the lads. The mist
had divided, and was rolling away on both sides; in the western bank
something big and white peeped through -- along ridge running north
and south. Hurrah! it's Helland Hansen. Can't possibly be anything
else. Our only landmark on the west. We all shouted with joy on meeting
this old acquaintance. But in the direction of the depot the fog hung
thick. We held a brief consultation, and agreed to let it go, to steer
for the Butcher's and put on the pace. We had food enough, anyhow. No
sooner said than done, and we started off. It rapidly cleared, and
then, on our way towards Helland Hansen, we found out that we had
come, not too far to the east, but too far to the west. But to turn
round and begin to search for our depot was not to our liking. Below
Mount Helland Hansen we came up on a fairly high ridge. We had now
gone our fixed distance, and so halted.

Behind us, in the brightest, clearest weather, lay the glacier, as we
had seen it for the first time on our way to the south: break after
break, crevasse after crevasse. But in among all this nastiness there
ran a white, unbroken line, the very path we had stood and looked at a
few weeks back. And directly below that white stripe we knew, as sure
as anything could be, that our depot lay. We stood there expressing our
annoyance rather forcibly at the depot having escaped us so easily,
and talking of how jolly it would have been to have picked up all
our depots from the plain we had strewed them over. Dead tired as I
felt that evening, I had not the least desire to go back the fifteen
miles that separated us from it. "If anybody would like to make the
trip, he shall have many thanks." They all wanted to make it -- all
as one man. There was no lack of volunteers in that company. I chose
Hanssen and Bjaaland. They took nearly everything off the sledge,
and went away with it empty.

It was then five in the morning. At three in the afternoon they
came back to the tent, Bjaaland running in front, Hanssen driving
the sedge. That was a notable feat, both for men and dogs. Hanssen,
Bjaaland, and that team had covered about fifty miles that day,
at an average rate of three to three and a half miles an hour. They
had found the depot without much search. Their greatest difficulty
had been in the undulating surface; for long stretches at a time
they were in the hollows between the waves, which shut in their view
entirely. Ridge succeeded ridge, endlessly. We had taken care that
everything was ready for their return -- above all great quantities
of water. Water, water was the first thing, and generally the last,
that was in request. When their thirst was a little quenched,
great interest was shown in the pemmican. While these two were
being well looked after, the depot they had brought in was divided
between the two sledges, and in a short time all was ready for our
departure. Meanwhile, the weather had been getting finer and finer,
and before us lay the mountains, sharp and clear. We thought we
recognized Fridtjof Nansen and Don Pedro Christophersen, and took
good bearings of them in case the fog should return. With most of us
the ideas of day and night began to get rather mixed. "Six o'clock,"
someone would answer, when asked the time. "Yes, in the morning,"
remarks the other. "No; what are you talking about?" answers the
first one again; "it's evening, of course." The date was hopeless;
it was a good thing if we remembered the year. Only when writing in
our diaries and observation books did we come across such things as
dates; while at work we had not the remotest idea of them.

Splendid weather it was when we turned out on the morning of January
3. We had now agreed to go as it suited us, and take no notice of day
or night; for some time past we had all been sick of the long hours
of rest, and wanted to break them up at any price. As I have said,
the weather could not have been finer brilliantly clear and a dead
calm. The temperature of -2.2° F. felt altogether like summer in
this bright, still air. Before we began our march all unnecessary
clothes were taken off and put on the sledges. It almost looked as
if everything would be considered superfluous, and the costume in
which we finally started would no doubt have been regarded as somewhat
unseemly in our latitudes. We smiled and congratulated ourselves that
at present no ladies had reached the Antarctic regions, or they might
have objected to our extremely comfortable and serviceable costume. The
high land now stood out still more sharply. It was very interesting
to see in these conditions the country we had gone through on,
the southward trip in the thickest blizzard. We had then been going
along the foot of this immense mountain chain without a suspicion
of how near we were to it, or how colossal it was. The ground was
fortunately quite undisturbed in this part. I say fortunately, as
Heaven knows what would have happened to us if we had been obliged
to cross a crevassed surface in such weather as we then had. Perhaps
we should have managed it -- perhaps not.

The journey before us was a stiff one, as the Butcher's lay 2,680
feet higher than the place where we were. We had been expecting to
stumble upon one of our beacons before long, but this did not happen
until we had gone twelve and a half miles. Then one of them suddenly
came in sight, and was greeted with joy. We knew well enough that we
were on the right track, but an old acquaintance like this was very
welcome all the same. The sun had evidently been at work up here while
we were in the south, as some of the beacons were quite bent over,
and great icicles told us clearly enough how powerful the sunshine
had been. After a march of about twenty-five miles we halted at the
beacon we had built right under the hill, where we had been forced
to stop by thick weather on November 25.

January 4 was one of the days to which we looked forward with anxiety,
as we were then due at our depot at the Butcher's, and had to find
it. This depot, which consisted of the finest, fresh dogs' flesh, was
of immense importance to us. Not only had our animals got into the way
of preferring this food to pemmican, but, what was of still greater
importance, it had an extremely good effect on the dogs' state of
health. No doubt our pemmican was good enough -- indeed, it could not
have been better -- but a variation of diet is a great consideration,
and seems, according to my experience, to mean even more to the dogs
than to the men on a long journey like this. On former occasions I have
seen dogs refuse pemmican, presumably because they were tired of it,
having no variety; the result was that the dogs grew thin and weak,
although we had food enough. The pemmican I am referring to on that
occasion was made for human use, so that their distaste cannot have
been due to the quality.

It was 1.15 a.m. when we set out. We had not had a long sleep, but it
was very important to avail ourselves of this fine, clear weather while
it lasted; we knew by experience that up here in the neighbourhood of
the Butcher's the weather was not to be depended upon. From the outward
journey we knew that the distance from the beacon where our camp was
to the depot at the Butcher's was thirteen and a half miles. We had
not put up more than two beacons on this stretch, but the ground was
of such a nature that we thought we could not go wrong. That it was
not so easy to find the way, in spite of the beacons, we were soon to
discover. In the fine, clear weather, and with Hanssen's sharp eyes,
we picked up both our beacons. Meanwhile we were astonished at the
appearance of the mountains. As I have already mentioned, we thought
the weather was perfectly clear when we reached the Butcher's for
the first time, on November 20. I then took a bearing from the tent
of the way we had come up on to the plateau between the mountains,
and carefully recorded it. After passing our last beacon, when we
were beginning to approach the Butcher's -- as we reckoned -- we were
greatly surprised at the aspect of our surroundings. Last time --
on November 20 -- we had seen mountains on the west and north, but
a long way off: Now the whole of that part of the horizon seemed
to be filled with colossal mountain masses, which were right over
us. What in the world was the meaning of this? Was it witchcraft? I
am sure I began to think so for a moment. I would readily have taken
my most solemn oath that I had never seen that landscape before in my
life. We had now gone the full distance, and according to the beacons
we had passed, we ought to be on the spot. This was very strange; in
the direction in which I had taken the bearing of our ascent, we now
only saw the side of a perfectly unknown mountain, sticking up from
the plain. There could be absolutely no way down in that precipitous
wall. Only on the north-west did the ground give the impression of
allowing a descent; there a natural depression seemed to be formed,
running down towards the Barrier, which we could see far, far away.

We halted and discussed the situation. "Hullo!" Hanssen suddenly
exclaimed, "somebody has been here before." -- "Yes," broke in Wisting;
"I'm hanged if that isn't my broken ski that I stuck up by the
depot." So it was Wisting's broken ski that brought us out of this
unpleasant situation. It was a good thing he put it there -- very
thoughtful, in any case. I now examined the place with the glasses,
and by the side of a snow mound, which proved to be our depot, but
might easily have escaped our notice, we could see the ski sticking
up out of the snow. We cheerfully set our course for the spot, but
did not reach it until we had gone three miles.

There was rejoicing in our little band when we arrived and saw that
what we had considered the most important point of our homeward
journey had been reached. It was not so much for the sake of the food
it contained that we considered it so necessary to find this spot,
as for discovering the way down to the Barrier again. And now that
we stood there, we recognized this necessity more than ever. For
although we now knew, from our bearings, exactly where the descent
lay, we could see nothing of it at all. The plateau there seemed to go
right up to the mountain, without any opening towards the lower ground
beyond; and yet the compass told us that such an opening must exist,
and would take us down. The mountain, on which we had thus walked all
day on the outward journey, without knowing anything of it, was Mount
Fridtjof Nansen. Yes, the difference in the light made a surprising
alteration in the appearance of things.

The first thing we did on reaching the depot was to take out the
dogs' carcasses that lay there and cut them into big lumps, that
were divided among the dogs. They looked rather surprised; they
had not been accustomed to such rations. We threw three carcasses
on to the sledges, so as to have a little extra food for them on
the way down. The Butcher's was not a very friendly spot this time,
either. True, it was not the same awful weather as on our first visit,
but it was blowing a fresh breeze with a temperature of -9.4° F.,
which, after the heat of the last few days, seemed to go to one's
marrow, and did not invite us to stay longer than was absolutely
necessary. Therefore, as soon as we had finished feeding the dogs
and putting our sledges in order, we set out.

Although the ground had not given us the impression of sloping, we
soon found out that it did so when we got under way. It was not only
downhill, but the pace became so great that we had to stop and put
brakes under the sledges. As we advanced, the apparently unbroken
wall opened more and more, and showed us at last our old familiar
ascent. There lay Mount Ole Engelstad, snowclad and cold, as we saw
it the first time. As we rounded it we came on to the severe, steep
slope, where, on the way south, I had so much admired the work done
by my companions and the dogs that day. But now I had an even better
opportunity of seeing how steep this ascent really had been. Many
were the brakes we had to put on before we could reduce the speed
to a moderate pace, but even so we came down rapidly, and soon the
first part of the descent lay behind us. So as not to be exposed to
possible gusts from the plain, we went round Mount Engelstad and
camped under the lee of it, well content with the day's work. The
snow lay here as on our first visit, deep and loose, and it was
difficult to find anything like a good place for the tent. We could
soon feel that we had descended a couple of thousand feet and come
down among the mountains. It was still, absolutely still, and the
sun broiled us as on a day of high summer at home. I thought, too,
that I could notice a difference in my breathing; it seemed to work
much more easily and pleasantly -- perhaps it was only imagination.

At one o'clock on the following morning we were out again. The sight
that met our eyes that morning, when we came out of the tent, was one
of those that will always live in our memories. The tent stood in the
narrow gap between Fridtjof Nansen and Ole Engelstad. The sun, which
now stood in the south, was completely hidden by the latter mountain,
and our camp was thus in the deepest shadow; but right against us
on the other side the Nansen mountain raised its splendid ice-clad
summit high towards heaven, gleaming and sparkling in the rays of
the midnight sun. The shining white passed gradually, very gradually,
into pale blue, then deeper and deeper blue, until the shadow swallowed
it up. But down below, right on the Heiberg Glacier, its ice-covered
side was exposed -- dark and solemn the mountain mass stood out. Mount
Engelstad lay in shadow, but on its summit rested a beautiful light
little cirrus cloud, red with an edge of gold. Down over its side
the blocks of ice lay scattered pell-mell. And farther down on the
east rose Don Pedro Christophersen, partly in shadow, partly gleaming
in the sun -- a marvellously beautiful sight. And all was so still;
one almost feared to disturb the incomparable splendour of the scene.

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