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The South Pole, Volumes 1 and 2

R >> Roald Amundsen >> The South Pole, Volumes 1 and 2




Now it is already half-past eight, it must be nearly bed-time. The
feast has lasted long enough, with food, drink, and music. Then they
all get on their feet, and there is a cry of "Bow and arrows." Now,
I say to myself, as I withdraw into the corner where the clothes
are hanging -- now the alcohol is beginning to take effect. It is
evident that something extraordinarily interesting is going to take
place, as they are all so active. One of them goes behind the door
and fetches out a little cork target, and another brings out of his
bunk a box of darts. So it is dart-throwing -- the children must be
amused. The target is hung up on the door of the kitchen leading
to the pent-house, and the man who is to throw first takes up his
position at the end of the table at a distance of three yards. And
now the shooting competition begins, amid laughter and noise. There
are marksmen of all kinds, good, bad, and indifferent. Here comes
the champion -- one can see that by the determined way in which he
raises the dart and sends it flying; his will, no doubt, be the top
score. That is Stubberud; of the five darts he throws, two are in the
bull's-eye and three close to it. The next is Johansen; he is not bad,
either, but does not equal the other's score. Then comes Bjaaland; I
wonder whether he is as smart at this game as he is on ski? He places
himself at the end of the table, like the others, but takes a giant's
stride forward. He is a leery one, this; now he is not more than a
yard and a half from the target. He throws well; the darts describe
a great round arch. This is what is known as throwing "with a high
trajectory," and it is received with great applause. The trajectory
turns out to be too high, and all his darts land in the wall above
the door. Hassel throws with "calculation." What he calculates it
is not easy to understand. Not on hitting the target, apparently;
but if his calculations have to do with the kitchen-door, then they
are more successful. Whether Amundsen "calculates" or not makes very
little difference; his are all misses in any case. Wisting's form is
the same. Prestrud is about half-way between the good shots and the
bad. Hanssen throws like a professional, slinging his dart with great
force. He evidently thinks he is hunting walrus. All the scores are
carefully entered in a book, and prizes will be given later on.

Meanwhile Lindström is playing patience; his day's work is now
done. But, besides his cards, he is much interested in what is going
on round the target, and puts in a good word here and there. Then he
gets up with a determined look; he has one more duty to perform. This
consists of changing the light from the big lamp under the ceiling
to two small lamps, and the reason for the change is that the heat
of the big lamp would be too strongly felt in the upper bunks. This
operation is a gentle hint that the time has come for certain people to
turn in. The room looks dark now that the great sun under the ceiling
is extinguished; the two lamps that are now alight are good enough,
but one seems, nevertheless, to have made a retrograde step towards
the days of pine-wood torches.

By degrees, then, the vikings began to retire to rest. My description
of the day's life at Framheim would be incomplete if I did not include
this scene in it. Lindström's chief pride, I had been told, was that
he was always the first man in bed; he would willingly sacrifice
a great deal to hold this record. As a rule, he had no difficulty
in fulfilling his desire, as nobody tried to be before him; but
this evening it was otherwise. Stubberud was far advanced with his
undressing when Lindström came in, and, seeing a chance at last of
being "first in bed," at once challenged the cook. Lindström, who did
not quite grasp the situation, accepted the challenge, and then the
race began, and was followed by the others with great excitement. Now
Stubberud is ready, and is just going to jump into his bunk, which
is over Lindström's, when he suddenly feels himself clutched by the
leg and held back. Lindström hangs on to the leg with all his force,
crying out, in the most pitiable voice: "Wait a bit, old man, till
I'm undressed too!" It reminded me rather of the man who was going to
fight, and called out: "Wait till I get a hold of you!" But the other
was not to be persuaded; he was determined to win. Then Lindström let
go, tore off his braces -- he had no time for more -- and dived head
first into his bunk. Stubberud tried to protest; this was not fair,
he was not undressed, and so on.

"That doesn't matter," replied the fat man; "I was first, all the
same."

The scene was followed with great amusement and shouts of
encouragement, and ended in a storm of applause when Lindström
disappeared into his bunk with his clothes on. But that was not the
end of the business, for his leap into the bunk was followed by a
fearful crash, to which no one paid any attention in the excitement
of the moment, himself least of all. But now the consequences
appeared. The shelf along the side of his bunk, on which he kept a
large assortment of things, had fallen down, and filled the bunk with
rifles, ammunition, gramophone-discs, tool-boxes, sweetmeat-boxes,
pipes, tins of tobacco, ash-trays, boxes of matches, etc., and there
was no room left for the man himself. He had to get out again, and
his defeat was doubly hard. With shame he acknowledged Stubberud as
the victor; "but," he added, "you shan't be first another time." One
by one the others turned in; books were produced -- here and there a
pipe as well -- and in this way the last hour was passed. At eleven
o'clock precisely the lamps were put out, and the day was at an end.

Soon after, my host goes to the door, and I follow him out. I had
told him I had to leave again this evening, and he is going to see me
off. "I'll take you as far as the depot," he says; "the rest of the way
you can manage by yourself." The weather has improved considerably,
but it is dark -- horribly dark. "So that we may find the way more
easily," he says, "I'll take my trio. If they don't see the way,
they'll smell it out." Having let loose the three dogs, who evidently
wonder what the meaning of it may be, he puts a lantern on a stack of
timber -- to show him the way back, I suppose -- and we go off. The
dogs are evidently accustomed to go this way, for they set off at
once in the direction of the depot.

"Yes," says my companion, "it's not to be wondered at that they know
the way. They have gone it every day -- once at least, often two or
three times -- since we came here. There are three of us who always
take our daily walk in this direction -- Bjaaland, Stubberud, and I. As
you saw this morning, those two went out at half-past eight. They did
that so as to be back to work at nine. We have so much to do that we
can't afford to lose any time. So they take their walk to the depot
and back; at nine I generally do the same. The others began the winter
with the same good resolution; they were all so enthusiastic for a
morning walk. But the enthusiasm didn't last long, and now we three
are the only enthusiasts left. But, short as the way is -- about
650 yards -- we should not venture to go without those marks that
you saw, and without our dogs. I have often hung out a lantern, too;
but when it is as cold as this evening, the paraffin freezes and the
light goes out. Losing one's way here might be a very serious matter,
and I don't want to run the risk of it.

" Here we have the first mark-post; we were lucky to come straight upon
it. The dogs are on ahead, making for the depot. Another reason for
being very careful on the way to the depot is that there is a big hole,
20 feet deep, just by a hummock on that slope where, you remember, the
last flag stands. If one missed one's way and fell into it, one might
get hurt." We passed close to the second mark. "The next two marks are
more difficult to hit off -- they are so low; and I often wait and
call the dogs to me to find the way -- as I am going to do now, for
instance. It is impossible to see anything unless you come right on it,
so we must wait and let the dogs help us. I know exactly the number
of paces between each mark, and when I have gone that number, I stop
and first examine the ground close by. If that is no good, I whistle
for the dogs, who come at once. Now you'll see" -- a long whistle --
"it won't be long before they are here. I can hear them already." He
was right; the dogs came running out of the darkness straight towards
us. "To let them see that we want to find the way to the depot,
we must begin to walk on." We did so. As soon as the dogs saw this,
they went forward again, but this time at a pace that allowed us to
keep up with them at a trot, and soon after we were at the last mark.

"As you see, my lantern over at the camp is just going out, so I
hope you will excuse my accompanying you farther. You know your way,
anyhow."

With these words we parted, and my host went back, followed by the
faithful trio, whilst I ...



CHAPTER IX

The End of the Winter

After Midwinter Day the time began to pass even more quickly than
before. The darkest period was over, and the sun was daily drawing
nearer. In the middle of the darkest time, Hassel came in one morning
and announced that Else had eight puppies. Six of these were ladies,
so their fate was sealed at once; they were killed and given to their
elder relations, who appreciated them highly. It could hardly be seen
that they chewed them at all; they went down practically whole. There
could be no doubt of their approval, as the next day the other two
had also disappeared.

The weather conditions we encountered down here surprised us
greatly. In every quarter of the Antarctic regions of which we had
any information, the conditions had always proved very unsettled. On
the Belgica, in the drift-ice to the west of Graham Land, we always
had rough, unpleasant weather. Nordenskjöld's stay in the regions to
the east of the same land gave the same report -- storm after storm
the whole time. And from the various English expeditions that have
visited McMurdo Sound we hear of continual violent winds. Indeed,
we know now that while we were living on the Barrier in the most
splendid weather -- calms or light breezes -- Scott at his station
some four hundred miles to the west of us was troubled by frequent
storms, which greatly hindered his work.

I had expected the temperature to remain high, as throughout the winter
we could very clearly see the dark sky over the sea. Whenever the state
of the air was favourable, the dark, heavy water-sky was visible in a
marked degree, leaving no doubt that a large extent of Ross Sea was
open the whole year round. Nevertheless, the temperature went very
low, and without doubt the mean temperature shown by our observations
for the year is the lowest that has ever been recorded. Our lowest
temperature, on August 13, 1911, was -74.2°F. For five months of the
year we were able to record temperatures below -58°F. The temperature
rose with every wind, except the south-west; with that it more usually
went down.

We observed the aurora australis many times, but only a few of its
appearances were specially powerful. They were of all possible forms,
though the form of ribbon-like bands seemed to be commonest. Most of
the auroræ were multicoloured -- red and green.

My hypothesis of the solidity of the Barrier -- that is, of its resting
upon underlying land -- seems to be confirmed at all points by our
observations during our twelve months' stay on it. In the course of
the winter and spring the pack-ice is forced up against the Barrier
into pressure-ridges of as much as 40 feet in height. This took place
only about a mile and a quarter from our hut, without our noticing
its effect in the slightest degree. In my opinion, if this Barrier had
been afloat, the effect of the violent shock which took place at its
edge would not merely have been noticeable, but would have shaken our
house. While building the house, Stubberud and Bjaaland heard a loud
noise a long way off, but could feel nothing. During our whole stay
we never heard a sound or felt a movement on this spot. Another very
good proof seems to be afforded by the large theodolite that Prestrud
used. It would take next to nothing to disturb its level -- a slight
change of temperature might be enough. So delicate an instrument
would have soon shown an inclination if the Barrier had been afloat.

The day we entered the bay for the first time, a small piece of its
western cape broke away. During the spring the drift-ice pressed in
an insignificant part of one of the many points on the outer edge of
the Barrier. With these exceptions, we left the Barrier as we found
it, entirely unaltered. The soundings, which showed a rapid rise
in the bottom as the Fram changed her position southward along the
Barrier, are also a clear sign that land is close at hand. Finally,
the formations of the Barrier appear to be the best proof. It could not
rise to 1,100 feet -- which we measured as the rise from Framheim to
a point about thirty-one miles to the south -- without subjacent land.

Work now proceeded on the sledging outfit with feverish haste. We had
for a long time been aware that we should have to do our utmost and
make the best use of our time if we were to have the general outfit
for our common use ready by the middle of August. For preparing our
personal outfit we had to use our leisure time. By the first half
of August we could begin to see the end of our labour. Bjaaland had
now finished the four sledges. It was a masterly piece of work that
he had carried out in the course of the winter; they were extremely
lightly constructed, but very strong. They were of the same length as
the original sledges -- about 12 feet -- and were not shod. We should
have a couple of the old Fram sledges with us, and these were shod
with strong steel plates, so that they could be used if the surface
and going rendered it necessary. The average weight of the new sledges
was 53 pounds. We had thus saved as much as 110 pounds per sledge.

When Bjaaland had finished them, they were taken into the "Clothing
Store." The way in which Hanssen and Wisting lashed the various parts
together was a guarantee of their soundness; in fact, the only way in
which one can expect work to be properly and carefully carried out is
to have it done by the very men who are to use the things. They know
what is at stake. They do it so that they may reach their destination;
more than that, they do it so that they may come back again. Every
piece of binding is first carefully examined and tested; then it
is put on, cautiously and accurately. Every turn is hauled taut,
taking care that it is in its right place. And, finally, the lashing
is pointed in such a way that one would do best to use a knife or an
axe if it has to be undone again; there is no danger of jerking it
out with the fingers. A sledge journey of the kind we had before us
is a serious undertaking, and the work has to be done seriously.

It was no warm and comfortable workshop that they had for doing
this. The Clothing Store was always the coldest place, probably because
there was always a draught through it. There was a door out on to
the Barrier, and an open passage leading to the house. Fresh air was
constantly passing through, though not in any very great quantity;
but it does not take much to make itself felt when the air is at
a temperature of about -75°F., and when one is working with bare
fingers. There were always some degrees of frost here. In order to
keep the lashings pliable while they were being put on, they used
a Primus lamp on a stone close to where they were working. I often
admired their patience when I stood watching them; I have seen them
more than once working barehanded by the hour together in a temperature
of about -22°F. This may pass for a short time; but through the coldest
and darkest part of the winter, working day after day, as they did,
it is pretty severe, and a great trial of patience. Nor were their
feet very well off either; it makes hardly any difference what one
puts on them if one has to stay still. Here, as elsewhere in the cold,
it was found that boots with wooden soles were the best for sedentary
work; but for some reason or other the occupants of the Clothing
Store would not give their adherence to the wooden-sole principle,
and continued to work all through the winter in their reindeer-skin
and sealskin boots. They preferred stamping their feet to acknowledging
the incontestable superiority of wooden soles in such conditions.

As the sledges were finished, they were numbered from one to seven,
and stored in the clothing department. The three old sledges we should
have to use were made for the Fram's second expedition. They were
extremely strong, and, of course, heavier than the new ones. They were
all carefully overhauled; all the bindings and lashings were examined,
and replaced wherever necessary. The steel shoes were taken off one,
but retained on the other two, in case we should meet with conditions
where they would be required.

In addition to this work of lashing, these two had plenty of other
occupation. Whenever Wisting was not taken up by the work on the
sledges, one could hear the hum of his sewing-machine. He had
a thousand different things to do in his sewing-room, and was in
there nearly every day till late in the evening. It was only when the
target and darts came out at half-past eight that he showed himself,
and if it had not been that he had undertaken the position of marker
at these competitions, we should hardly have seen him even then. His
first important piece of work was making four three-man tents into
two. It was not easy to manage these rather large tents in the little
hole that went by the name of the sewing-room; of course, he used
the table in the Clothing Store for cutting out, but, all the same,
it is a mystery how he contrived to get hold of the right seams when
he sat in his hole. I was prepared to see the most curious-looking
tents when once they were brought out and set up in daylight; one
might imagine that the floor of one would be sewed on to the side of
another. But nothing of the sort happened. When the tents were brought
out for the first time and set up, they proved to be perfect. One
would have thought they had been made in a big sail-loft instead of
in a snow-drift. Neat-fingered fellows like this are priceless on
such an expedition as ours.

On the second Fram expedition they used double tents, and as, of
course, nothing is so good and serviceable as the thing one has not
got, the praises of double tents were now sung in every key. Well,
I naturally had to admit that a house with double walls is warmer
than one with single walls, but, at the same time, one must not lose
sight of the fact that the double-walled house is also twice as heavy;
and when one has to consider the weight of a pocket-handkerchief,
it will be understood that the question of the real advantages of
the double-walled house had to be thoroughly considered before taking
the step of committing oneself to it. I had thought that with double
walls one would possibly avoid some of the rime that is generally so
troublesome in the tents, and often becomes a serious matter. If,
then, the double walls would in any way prevent or improve this
condition of things, I could see the advantage of having them; for
the increased weight caused by the daily deposit of rime would in a
short time be equal to, if not greater than, the additional weight
of the double tent. These double tents are made so that the outer
tent is fast and the inner loose. In the course of our discussion,
it appeared that the deposit of rime occurred just as quickly on a
double tent as on a single one, and thus the utility of the double
tent appeared to me to be rather doubtful. If the object was merely
to have it a few degrees warmer in the tent, I thought it best to
sacrifice this comfort to the weight we should thereby save. Moreover,
we were so plentifully supplied with warm sleeping things that we
should not have to suffer any hardship.

But another question cropped up as a result of this discussion --
the question of what was the most useful colour for a tent. We were
soon agreed that a dark-coloured tent was best, for several reasons:
In the first place, as a relief to the eyes. We knew well enough what a
comfort it would be to come into a dark tent after travelling all day
on the glistening Barrier surface. In the next place, the dark colour
would make the tent a good deal warmer when the sun was up -- another
important consideration. One may easily prove this by walking in dark
clothes in a hot sun, and afterwards changing to white ones. And,
finally, a dark tent would be far easier to see on the white surface
than a light one. When all these questions had been discussed, and
the superiority of a dark tent admitted, we were doubly keen on it,
since all our tents happened to be light, not to say white, and the
possibility of getting dark ones was not very apparent. It is true
that we had a few yards of darkish " gabardine," or light windproof
material, which would have been extremely suitable for this purpose,
but every yard of it had long ago been destined for some other use,
so that did not get us out of the difficulty. "But," said somebody --
and he had a very cunning air as he uttered that "but" -- "but haven't
we got ink and ink-powder that we can dye our tents dark with?" Yes,
of course! We all smiled indulgently; the thing was so plain that
it was almost silly to mention it, but all the same -- the man was
forgiven his silliness, and dye-works were established. Wisting
accepted the position of dyer, in addition to his other duties, and
succeeded so well that before very long we had two dark blue tents
instead of the white ones.

These looked very well, no doubt, freshly dyed as they were,
but the question was, What would they look like after a couple of
months' use? The general opinion was that they would probably, to a
great extent, have reverted to their original colour -- or lack of
colour. Some better patent had to be invented. As we were sitting
over our coffee after dinner one day, someone suddenly suggested:
"But look here -- suppose we took our bunk -- curtains and made an
outer tent of them?" This time the smile that passed over the company,
as they put down their cups, was almost compassionate. Nothing was
said, but the silence meant something like: "Poor chap! -- as if we
hadn't all thought of that long ago!" The proposal was adopted without
discussion, and Wisting had another long job, in addition to all the
rest. Our bunk-curtains were dark red, and made of very light material;
they were sewed together, curtain to curtain, and finally the whole
was made into an outer tent. The curtains only sufficed for one tent,
but, remembering that half a loaf is better than no bread, we had to be
satisfied with this. The red tent, which was set up a few days after,
met with unqualified approval; it would be visible some miles away
in the snow. Another important advantage was that it would protect
and preserve the main tent. Inside, the effect of the combination of
red and blue was to give an agreeably dark shade. Another question
was how to protect the tent from a hundred loose dogs, who were no
better behaved than others of their kind. If the tent became stiff
and brittle, it might be spoilt in a very short time. And the demands
we made on our tents were considerable; we expected them to last at
least 120 days. I therefore got Wisting to make two tent-protectors,
or guards. These guards consisted simply of a piece of gabardine
long enough to stretch all round the tent, and to act as a fence in
preventing the dogs from coming in direct contact with the tents. The
guards were made with loops, so that they could be stretched upon
ski-poles. They looked very fine when they were finished, but they
never came to be used; for, as soon as we began the journey, we
found a material that was even more suitable and always to be had --
snow. Idiots! -- of course, we all knew that, only we wouldn't say
so. Well, that was one against us. However, the guards came in well as
reserve material on the trip, and many were the uses they were put to.

In the next place, Wisting had to make wind-clothing for every
man. That we had brought out proved to be too small, but the things
he made were big enough. There was easily room for two more in
my trousers; but they have to be so. In these regions one soon
finds out that everything that is roomy is warm and comfortable,
while everything that is tight -- foot-gear, of course, excepted --
is warm and uncomfortable. One quickly gets into a perspiration,
and spoils the clothes. Besides the breeches and anorak of light
wind-cloth, he made stockings of the same material. I assumed that
these stockings -- worn among the other stockings we had on -- would
have an insulating effect. Opinions were greatly divided on this point;
but I must confess -- in common with my four companions on the Polar
journey -- that I would never make a serious trip without them. They
fulfilled all our expectations. The rime was deposited on them freely,
and was easily brushed off. If they got wet, it was easy to dry them
in almost all weathers; I know of no material that dries so quickly
as this windproof stuff. Another thing was that they protected the
other stockings against tears, and made them last much longer than
would otherwise have been the case.

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