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The South Pole, Volumes 1 and 2

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




Monday, December 4. -- The gale kept on at full force all night,
and increased rather than moderated as the day advanced. As usual,
the storm was accompanied by a very marked rise of temperature. At the
noon observation to-day the reading was + 26.6° F. This is the highest
temperature we have had so far on this trip, and a good deal higher
than we care about. When the mercury comes so near freezing-point as
this, the floor of the tent is always damp.

To-day, for once in a way, we have falling snow, and enough of it. It
is snowing incessantly -- big, hard flakes, almost like hail. When the
cooker was filled to provide water for dinner, the half-melted mass
looked like sago. The heavy flakes of snow make a noise against the
tent that reminds one of the safety-valve of a large boiler blowing
off: Inside the tent it is difficult to hear oneself speak; when we
have anything to say to each other we have to shout.

These days of involuntary idleness on a sledge journey may safely be
reckoned among the experiences it is difficult to go through without
a good deal of mental suffering. I say nothing of the purely physical
discomfort of having to pass the day in a sleeping-bag. That may be
endured; in any case, so long as the bag is fairly dry. It is a far
worse matter to reconcile oneself to the loss of the many solid hours
that might otherwise have been put to a useful purpose, and to the
irritating consciousness that every bit of food that is consumed is
so much wasted of the limited store. At this spot of all others we
should have been so glad to spend the time in exploring round about,
or still more in going farther. But if we are to go on, we must be
certain of having a chance of getting seals at a reasonable distance
from here. With our remaining supply of dogs' food we cannot go on
for more than three days.

What we have left will be just enough for the return journey, even if
we should not find the depot of seals' flesh left on the way. There
remained the resource of killing dogs, if it was a question of getting
as far to the east as possible, but for many reasons I shrank from
availing myself of that expedient. We could form no idea of what would
happen to the southern party's animals. The probability was that they
would have none left on their return. Supposing their return were
delayed so long as to involve spending another winter on the Barrier,
the transport of supplies from the ship could hardly be carried out
in the necessary time with the ten untrained puppies that were left
with Lindström. We had picked out the useful ones, and I thought that,
should the necessity arise, they could be used with greater advantage
for this work than we should derive from slaughtering them here, and
thereby somewhat prolonging the distance covered; the more so as, to
judge from all appearance, there was a poor prospect of our finding
anything of interest within a reasonable time.

Tuesday, December 5. -- It looks as if our patience is to be given
a really hard trial this time. Outside the same state of things
continues, and the barometer is going down. A mass of snow has fallen
in the last twenty-four hours. The drift on the windward side of the
tent is constantly growing; if it keeps on a little longer it will
be as high as the top of the tent. The sledges are completely snowed
under, and so are the dogs; we had to haul them out one by one in the
middle of the day. Most of them are now loose, as there is nothing
exposed to the attacks of their teeth. It is now blowing a regular
gale; the direction of the wind is about true east. Occasionally
squalls of hurricane-like violence occur. Fortunately the big
snow-drift keeps us comfortable, and we are under the lee of a hill,
otherwise it would look badly for our tent. Hitherto it has held well,
but it is beginning to be rather damp inside. The temperature remains
very high (+ 27.2° F. at noon to-day), and the mass of snow pressing
against the tent causes the formation of rime.

In order to while away the time to some extent under depressing
circumstances like these, I put into my diary on leaving Framheim a
few loose leaves of a Russian grammar; Johansen solaced himself with
a serial cut out of the Aftenpost; as far as I remember, the title of
it was "The Red Rose and the White." Unfortunately the story of the
Two Roses was very soon finished; but Johansen had a good remedy for
that: he simply began it over again. My reading had the advantage of
being incomparably stiffer. Russian verbs are uncommonly difficult
of digestion, and not to be swallowed in a hurry. For lack of mental
nutriment, Stubberud with great resignation consoled himself with
a pipe, but his enjoyment must have been somewhat diminished by
the thought that his stock of tobacco was shrinking at an alarming
rate. Every time he filled his pipe, I could see him cast longing looks
in the direction of my pouch, which was still comparatively full. I
could not help promising a fraternal sharing in case he should run
short; and after that our friend puffed on with an easy mind.

Although I look at it at least every half-hour, the barometer will
not go up. At 8 p.m. it was down to 27.30. If this means anything,
it can only be that we shall have the pleasure of being imprisoned
here another day. Some poor consolation is to be had in the thought of
how lucky we were to reach the tent at the last moment the day before
yesterday. A storm as lasting as this one would in all probability
have been too much for us if we had not got in.

Wednesday, December 6. -- the third day of idleness has at last crept
away after its predecessors. We have done with it. It has not brought
any marked variation. The weather has been just as violent, until
now -- 8 p.m. -- the wind shows a slight tendency to moderate. It
is, surely, time it did; three days and nights should be enough for
it. The heavy snowfall continues. Big, wet flakes come dancing down
through the opening in the drift in which the peak of the tent still
manages to show itself. In the course of three days we have had more
snowfall here than we had at Framheim in ten whole months. It will
be interesting to compare our meteorological log with Lindström's;
probably he has had his share of the storm, and in that case it will
have given him some exercise in snow-shovelling.

The moisture is beginning to be rather troublesome now; most of our
wardrobe is wet through, and the sleeping-bags will soon meet with
the same fate. The snow-drift outside is now so high that it shuts
out most of the daylight; we are in twilight. To-morrow we shall be
obliged to dig out the tent, whatever the weather is like, otherwise
we shall be buried entirely, and run the additional risk of having
the tent split by the weight of snow. I am afraid it will be a day's
work to dig out the tent and the two sledges; we have only one little
shovel to do it with.

A slight rise of both barometer and thermometer tells us that at last
we are on the eve of the change we have been longing for. Stubberud is
certain of fair weather to-morrow, he says. I am by no means so sure,
and offer to bet pretty heavily that there will be no change. Two
inches of Norwegian plug tobacco is the stake, and with a heartfelt
desire that Jörgen may win I await the morrow.

Thursday, December 7. -- Early this morning I owned to having lost my
bet, as the weather, so far as I could tell, was no longer of the same
tempestuous character; but Stubberud thought the contrary. "It seems
to me just as bad," said he. He was right enough, as a matter of fact,
but this did not prevent my persuading him to accept payment. Meanwhile
we were obliged to make an attempt to dig out the tent, regardless
of the weather; the situation was no longer endurable. We waited all
the forenoon in the hope of an improvement; but as none came, we set
to work at twelve o'clock. Our implements showed some originality and
diversity: a little spade, a biscuit-tin, and a cooker. The drift did
its best to undo our work as fast as we dug, but we managed to hold
our own against it. Digging out the tent-pegs gave most trouble. After
six hours' hard work we got the tent set up a few yards to windward of
its first position; the place where it had stood was now a well about
seven feet deep. Unfortunately there was no chance of immortalizing
this scene of excavation. It would have been amusing enough to have it
on the plate; but drifting snow is a serious obstacle to an amateur
photographer -- besides which, my camera was on Stubberud's sledge,
buried at least four feet down.

In the course of our digging we had had the misfortune to make two or
three serious rents in the thin canvas of the tent, and the drift was
not long in finding a way through these when the tent was up again. To
conclude my day's work I had, therefore, a longish tailor's job,
while the other two men were digging out a good feed for the dogs,
who had been on half-rations for the last two days. That night we went
rather short of sleep. Vulcan, the oldest dog in Johansen's team,
was chiefly to blame for this. In his old age Vulcan was afflicted
with a bad digestion, for even Eskimo dogs may be liable to this
infirmity, hardy as they generally are. The protracted blizzard had
given the old fellow a relapse, and he proclaimed this distressing
fact by incessant howling. This kind of music was not calculated to
lull us to sleep, and it was three or four in the morning before we
could snatch a nap. During a pause I was just dropping off, when the
sun showed faintly through the tent. This unwonted sight at once
banished all further thoughts of sleep; the Primus was lighted,
a cup of chocolate swallowed, and out we went. Stubberud and
Johansen set to work at the hard task of digging out the sledges;
they had to go down four feet to get hold of them. I dragged our
wet clothes, sleeping-bags, and so forth out of the tent, and hung
them all up to dry. In the course of the morning observations were
taken for determining the geographical longitude and latitude, as
well as a few photographs, which will give some idea of what our
camp looked like after the blizzard. Having made good the damage
and put everything fairly in order, we hurried away to our peaks,
to secure some photographs while the light was favourable. This time
we were able to achieve our object. "Scott's Nunataks," as they were
afterwards named -- after Captain Scott, who first saw them -- were
now for the first time recorded by the camera. Before we left the
summit the Norwegian flag was planted there, a snow beacon erected,
and a report of our visit deposited in it. The weather would not
keep clear; before we were back at the camp there was a thick fog,
and once more we had to thank the tracks of our ski for showing us the
way. During the time we had been involuntarily detained at this spot,
our store of provisions had decreased alarmingly; there was only a bare
week's supply left, and in less than a week we should hardly be able
to make home; probably it would take more than a week, but in that
case we had the depot at our Bay of Seals to fall back upon. In the
immediate neighbourhood of our present position we could not reckon
on being able to replenish our supply in the continued unfavourable
state of the weather. We therefore made up our minds on the morning of
December 9 to break off the journey and turn our faces homeward. For
three days more we had to struggle with high wind and thick snow,
but as things now were, we had no choice but to keep going, and by
the evening of the 11th we had dragged ourselves fifty geographical
miles to the west. The weather cleared during the night, and at last,
on December 12, we had a day of real sunshine. All our discomforts
were forgotten; everything went easily again. In the course of nine
hours we covered twenty-six geographical miles that day, without any
great strain on either dogs or men.

At our midday rest we found ourselves abreast of the bay, where, on
the outward journey, we had laid down our depot of seals' flesh. I
had intended to turn aside to the depot and replenish our supply of
meat as a precaution, but Johansen suggested leaving out this detour
and going straight on. We might thereby run the risk of having to
go on short rations; but Johansen thought it a greater risk to cross
the treacherous ground about the bay, and, after some deliberation,
I saw he was right. It was better to go on while we were about it.

From this time on we met with no difficulty, and rapidly drew near
to our destination in regular daily marches of twenty geographical
miles. After men and dogs had received their daily ration on the
evening of the 15th, our sledge cases were practically empty; but,
according to our last position, we should not have more than twenty
geographical miles more to Framheim.

Saturday, December 16. -- We broke camp at the usual time, in overcast
but perfectly clear weather, and began what was to be our last day's
march on this trip. A dark water-sky hung over the Barrier on the
west and north-west, showing that there was open sea off the mouth of
the Bay of Whales. We went on till 10.30, our course being true west,
when we made out far to the north-west an ice-cape that was taken to
be the extreme point on the western side of the bay. Immediately after
we were on the edge of the Barrier, the direction of which was here
south-west and north-east. We altered our course and followed the edge
at a proper distance until we saw a familiar iceberg that had broken
off to the north of Framheim, but had been stopped by the sea-ice from
drifting out. With this excellent mark in view the rest of the way
was plain sailing. The sledge-meter showed 19.5 geographical miles,
when in the afternoon we came in sight of our winter home. Quiet and
peaceful it lay there, if possible more deeply covered in snow than
when we had left it. At first we could see no sign of life, but soon
the glasses discovered a lonely wanderer on his way from the house
to the "meteorological institute." So Lindström was still alive and
performing his duties.

When we left, our friend had expressed his satisfaction at "getting
us out of the way"; but I have a suspicion that he was quite as
pleased to see us back again. I am not quite certain, though, that
he did see us for the moment, as he was about as snow-blind as a
man can be. Lindström was the last person we should have suspected
of that malady. On our asking him how it came about, he seemed at
first unwilling to give any explanation; but by degrees it came out
that the misfortune had happened a couple of days before, when he
had gone out after seals. His team, composed of nothing but puppies,
had run away and pulled up at a big hummock out by the western cape,
ten miles from the station. But Lindström, who is a determined man,
would not give up before he had caught the runaways; and this was
too much for his eyes, as he had no goggles with him. "When I got
home I couldn't see what the time was," he said; "but it must have
been somewhere about six in the morning." When we had made him put
on plenty of red eye-ointment and supplied him with a proper pair of
goggles, he was soon cured.

Framheim had had the same protracted storms with heavy snowfall. On
several mornings the master of the house had had to dig his way out
through the snow-wall outside the door; but during the last three
fine days he had managed to clear a passage, not only to the door,
but to the window as well. Daylight came down into the room through
a well nine feet deep. This had been a tremendous piece of work;
but, as already hinted, nothing can stop Lindström when he makes up
his mind. His stock of seals' flesh was down to a minimum; the little
there was vanished on the appearance of our ravenous dogs. We ourselves
were in no such straits; sweets were the only things in special demand.

We stayed at home one day. After bringing up two loads of seals'
flesh, filling our empty provision cases, carrying out a number of
small repairs, and checking our watches, we were again on the road
on Monday the 18th. We were not very loth to leave the house; indoor
existence had become rather uncomfortable on account of constant
dripping from the ceiling. In the course of the winter a quantity
of ice had formed in the loft. As the kitchen fire was always going
after our return, the temperature became high enough to melt the ice,
and the water streamed down. Lindström was annoyed and undertook
to put a stop to it. He disappeared into the loft, and sent down a
hail of ice, bottle-straw, broken cases, and other treasures through
the trap-door. We fled before the storm and drove away. This time
we had to carry out our instructions as to the exploration of the
long eastern arm of the Bay of Whales. During the autumn several
Sunday excursions had been made along this remarkable formation;
but although some of these ski-runs had extended as far as twelve
miles in one direction, there was no sign of the hummocks coming to
an end. These great disturbances of the ice-mass must have a cause,
and the only conceivable one was that the subjacent land had brought
about this disruption of the surface. For immediately to the south
there was undoubtedly land, as there the surface rose somewhat rapidly
to a height of 1,000 feet; but it was covered with snow. There was
a possibility that the rock might project among the evidences of
heavy pressure at the foot of this slope; and with this possibility
in view we made a five days' trip, following the great fissure, or
"bay," as we generally called it, right up to its head, twenty-three
geographical miles to the east of our winter-quarters.

Although we came across no bare rock, and in that respect the journey
was a disappointment, it was nevertheless very interesting to observe
the effects of the mighty forces that had here been at work, the
disruption of the solid ice-sheath by the still more solid rock.

The day before Christmas Eve we were back at Framheim. Lindström had
made good use of his time in our absence. The ice had disappeared
from the loft, and therewith the rain from the ceiling. New linoleum
had been laid down over half the floor, and marks of the paint-brush
were visible on the ceiling. These efforts had possibly been made
with an eye to the approaching festival, but in other respects we
abstained from any attempt at keeping Christmas. It did not agree
with the time of year; constant blazing sunshine all through the
twenty-four hours could not be reconciled with a northerner's idea of
Christmas. And for that reason we had kept the festival six months
before. Christmas Eve fell on a Sunday, and it passed just like any
ordinary Sunday. Perhaps the only difference was that we used a razor
that day instead of the usual beard-clipper. On Christmas Day we took
a holiday, and Lindström prepared a banquet of skua gulls. Despise
this dish as one may, it tasted undeniably of -- bird.

The numerous snow-houses were now in a sad way. Under the weight
of the constantly increasing mass, the roofs of most of the rooms
were pressed so far in that there was just enough space to crawl
on hands and knees. In the Crystal Palace and the Clothing Store
we kept all our skin clothing, besides a good deal of outfit, which
it was intended to take on board the Fram when she and the southern
party arrived. If the sinking continued, it would be a long business
digging these things out again, and in order to have everything ready
we made up our minds to devote a few days to this work at once. We
hauled the snow up from these two rooms through a well twelve feet
deep by means of tackles. It was a long job, but when we had finished
this part of the labyrinth was as good as ever. We had no time to
deal with the vapour-bath or the carpenter's shop just then. There
still remained the survey of the south-western corner of the Bay
of Whales and its surroundings. On an eight days' sledge journey,
starting at the New Year, we ranged about this district, where we
were surprised to find the solid Barrier divided into small islands,
separated by comparatively broad sounds. These isolated masses of ice
could not possibly be afloat, although the depth in one or two places,
where we had a chance of making soundings, proved to be as much as
200 fathoms. The only rational explanation we could think of was
that there must be a group of low-lying islands here, or in any case
shoals. These "ice islands," if one may call them so, had a height
of 90 feet and sloped evenly down to the water on the greater part
of their circumference. One of the sounds, that penetrated into the
Barrier a short distance inside the western cape of the bay, continued
southward and gradually narrowed to a mere fissure. We followed this
until it lost itself, thirty geographical miles within the Barrier.

The last day of this trip -- Thursday, January 11 -- will always be
fixed in our memory; it was destined to bring us experiences of the
kind that are never forgotten. Our start in the morning was made at
exactly the same time and in exactly the same way as so many times
before. We felt pretty certain of reaching Framheim in the course of
the day, but that prospect was for the moment of minor importance. In
the existing state of the weather our tent offered us as comfortable
quarters as our snowed-up winter home. What made us look forward to
our return with some excitement was the possibility of seeing the
Fram again, and this thought was no doubt in the minds of all of us
that January morning, though we did not say much about it.

After two hours' march we caught sight of West Cape, at the entrance
to the bay, in our line of route, and a little later we saw a black
strip of sea far out on the horizon. As usual, a number of bergs
of all sizes were floating on this strip, in every variety of shade
from white to dark grey, as the light fell on them. One particular
lump appeared to us so dark that it could hardly be made of ice;
but we had been taken in too many times to make any remark about it.

As the dogs now had a mark to go by, Johansen was driving in front
without my help; I went by the side of Stubberud's sledge. The man at
my side kept staring out to sea, without uttering a word. On my asking
him what in the world he was looking at, he replied "I could almost
swear it was a ship, but of course it's only a wretched iceberg." We
were just agreed upon this, when suddenly Johansen stopped short and
began a hurried search for his long glass. "Are you going to look at
the Fram?" I asked ironically. "Yes, I am," he said; and while he
turned the telescope upon the doubtful object far out in Ross Sea,
we two stood waiting for a few endless seconds. "It's the Fram sure
enough, as large as life!" was the welcome announcement that broke our
suspense. I glanced at Stubberud and saw his face expanding into its
most amiable smile. Though I had not much doubt of the correctness
of Johansen's statement, I borrowed his glass, and a fraction of a
second was enough to convince me. That ship was easily recognized;
she was our own old Fram safely back again.

We had still fourteen long miles to Framheim and an obstinate
wind right in our faces, but that part of the way was covered in a
remarkably short time. On arriving at home at two in the afternoon
we had some expectation of finding a crowd of people in front of the
house; but there was not a living soul to be seen. Even Lindström
remained concealed, though as a rule he was always about when anyone
arrived. Thinking that perhaps our friend had had a relapse of
snow-blindness, I went in to announce our return. Lindström was
standing before his range in the best of health when I entered
the kitchen. "The Fram's come!" he shouted, before I had shut the
door. "Tell me something I don't know," said I, "and be so kind as to
give me a cup of water with a little syrup in it if you can." I thought
somehow that the cook had a sly grin on his face when he brought
what I asked for, but with the thirst I had after the stiff march,
I gave a great part of my attention to the drink. I had consumed
the best part of a quart, when Lindström went off to his bunk and
asked if I could guess what he had hidden there. There was no time to
guess anything before the blankets were thrown on to the floor, and
after them bounded a bearded ruffian clad in a jersey and a pair of
overalls of indeterminable age and colour. "Hullo!" said the ruffian,
and the voice was that of Lieutenant Gjertsen. Lindström was shaking
with laughter while I stood open-mouthed before this apparition;
I had been given a good surprise. We agreed to treat Johansen and
Stubberud in the same way, and as soon as they were heard outside,
Gjertsen hid himself again among the blankets. But Stubberud had smelt
a rat in some way or other. "There are more than two in this room,"
he said, as soon as he came in. It was no surprise to him to find a
man from the Fram in Lindström's bunk.

When we heard that the visitor had been under our roof for a whole day,
we assumed that in the course of that time he had heard all about our
own concerns from Lindström. We were therefore not inclined to talk
about ourselves; we wanted news from without, and Gjertsen was more
than ready to give us them. The Fram had arrived two days before,
all well. After lying at the ice edge for a day and a night, keeping
a constant lookout for the "natives," Gjertsen had grown so curious
to know how things were at Framheim that he had asked Captain Nilsen
for "shore leave." The careful skipper had hesitated a while before
giving permission; it was a long way up to the house, and the sea-ice
was scored with lanes, some of them fairly wide. Finally Gjertsen had
his way, and he left the ship, taking a signal flag with him. He found
it rather difficult to recognize his surroundings, to begin with; one
ice cape was very like another, and ugly ideas of calvings suggested
themselves, until at last he caught sight of Cape Man's Head, and then
he knew that the foundations of Framheim had not given way. Cheered by
this knowledge, he made his way towards Mount Nelson, but on arriving
at the top of this ridge, from which there was a view over Framheim,
the eager explorer felt his heart sink. Where our new house had
made such a brave show a year before on the surface of the Barrier,
there was now no house at all to be seen. All that met the eyes of the
visitor was a sombre pile of ruins. But his anxiety quickly vanished
when a man emerged from the confusion. The man was Lindström, and the
supposed ruin was the most ingenious of all winter-quarters. Lindström
was ignorant of the Fram's arrival, and the face he showed on seeing
Gjertsen must have been worth some money to look at.

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