The South Pole, Volume 2 by Roald Amundsen

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Men's pemmican, 59 1/2 pounds (350 grams, or 12.34 ounces per man
per day).

Chocolate, 12 3/4 pounds (40 grams, or 1.4 ounces per man per day).

Milk-powder, 13 1/4 pounds (60 grams, or 2.1 ounces per man per day).

The other two sledges had approximately the same supplies, and thus
permitted us on leaving this place to extend our march over a period
of sixty days with full rations. Our eighteen surviving dogs were
divided into three teams, six in each. According to our calculation,
we ought to be able to reach the Pole from here with these eighteen,
and to leave it again with sixteen. Hassel, who was to leave his
sledge at this point, thus concluded his provision account, and the
divided provisions were entered in the books of the three others.

All this, then, was done that day on paper. It remained to make the
actual transfer of provisions later, when the weather permitted. To
go out and do it that afternoon was not advisable. Next day, November
23, the wind had gone round to the north-east, with comparatively
manageable weather, so at seven in the morning we began to repack
the sledges. This was not an altogether pleasant task; although the
weather was what I have called "comparatively manageable," it was
very far from being suitable for packing provisions. The chocolate,
which by this time consisted chiefly of very small pieces, had to
be taken out, counted, and then divided among the three sledges. The
same with the biscuits; every single biscuit had to be taken out and
counted, and as we had some thousands of them to deal with, it will
readily be understood what it was to stand there in about -4deg. F. and
a gale of wind, most of the time with bare hands, fumbling over this
troublesome occupation. The wind increased while we were at work,
and when at last we had finished, the snow was so thick that we could
scarcely see the tent.

Our original intention of starting again as soon as the sledges
were ready was abandoned. We did not lose very much by this; on the
contrary, we gained on the whole. The dogs -- the most important
factor of all -- had a thorough rest, and were well fed. They had
undergone a remarkable change since our arrival at the Butcher's Shop;
they now wandered about, fat, sleek, and contented, and their former
voracity had completely disappeared. As regards ourselves, a day or
two longer made no difference; our most important article of diet,
the pemmican, was practically left untouched, as for the time being
dog had completely taken its place. There was thus no great sign
of depression to be noticed when we came back into the tent after
finishing our work, and had to while away the time. As I went in,
I could descry Wisting a little way off kneeling on the ground,
and engaged in the manufacture of cutlets. The dogs stood in a ring
round him, and looked on with interest. The north-east wind whistled
and howled, the air was thick with driving snow, and Wisting was not
to be envied. But he managed his work well, and we got our dinner as
usual. During the evening the wind moderated a little, and went more to
the east; we went to sleep with the best hopes for the following day.

Saturday, November 25, came; it was a grand day in many respects. I had
already seen proofs on several occasions of the kind of men my comrades
were, but their conduct that day was such that I shall never forget
it, to whatever age I may live. In the course of the night the wind
had gone back to the north, and increased to a gale. It was blowing
and snowing so that when we came out in the morning we could not
see the sledges; they were half snowed under. The dogs had all crept
together, and protected themselves as well as they could against the
blizzard. The temperature was not so very low (-16.6deg. F.), but low
enough to be disagreeably felt in a storm. We had all taken a turn
outside to look at the weather, and were sitting on our sleeping-bags
discussing the poor prospect. "It's the devil's own weather here at
the Butcher's," said one; "it looks to me as if it would never get any
better. This is the fifth day, and it's blowing worse than ever." We
all agreed. "There's nothing so bad as lying weather-bound like this,"
continued another; "it takes more out of you than going from morning to
night." Personally, I was of the same opinion. One day may be pleasant
enough, but two, three, four, and, as it now seemed, five days -- no,
it was awful. "Shall we try it?" No sooner was the proposal submitted
than it was accepted unanimously and with acclamation. When I think
of my four friends of the southern journey, it is the memory of that
morning that comes first to my mind. All the qualities that I most
admire in a man were clearly shown at that juncture: courage and
dauntlessness, without boasting or big words. Amid joking and chaff,
everything was packed, and then -- out into the blizzard.

It was practically impossible to keep one's eyes open; the fine
drift-snow penetrated everywhere, and at times one had a feeling of
being blind. The tent was not only drifted up, but covered with ice,
and in taking it down we had to handle it with care. so as not to break
it in pieces. The dogs were not much inclined to start, and it took
time to get them into their harness, but at last we were ready. One
more glance over the camping-ground to see that nothing we ought to
have with us had been forgotten. The fourteen dogs' carcasses that
were left were piled up in a heap, and Hassel's sledge was set up
against it as a mark. The spare sets of dog-harness, some Alpine ropes,
and all our crampons for ice-work, which we now thought would not be
required, were left behind. The last thing to be done was planting a
broken ski upright by the side of the depot. It was Wisting who did
this, thinking, presumably, that an extra mark would do no harm. That
it was a happy thought the future will show.

And then we were off: It was a hard pull to begin with, both for
men and beasts, as the high sastrugi continued towards the south,
and made it extremely difficult to advance. Those who had sledges
to drive had to be very attentive, and support them so that they did
not capsize on the big waves, and we who had no sledges found great
difficulty in keeping our feet, as we had nothing to lean against. We
went on like this, slowly enough, but the main thing was that we
made progress. The ground at first gave one the impression of rising,
though not much. The going was extremely heavy; it was like dragging
oneself through sand. Meanwhile the sastrugi grew smaller and smaller,
and finally they disappeared altogether, and the surface became
quite flat. The going also improved by degrees, for what reason it
is difficult to say, as the storm continued unabated, and the drift
-- now combined with falling snow -- was thicker than ever. It was
all the driver could do to see his own dogs. The surface, which had
become perfectly level, had the appearance at times of sinking; in
any case, one would have thought so from the pace of the sledges. Now
and again the dogs would set off suddenly at a gallop. The wind aft,
no doubt, helped the pace somewhat, but it alone could not account
for the change.

I did not like this tendency of the ground to fall away. In my opinion,
we ought to have done with anything of that sort after reaching the
height at which we were; a slight slope upward, possibly, but down --
no, that did not agree with my reckoning. So far the incline had not
been so great as to cause uneasiness, but if it seriously began to go
downhill, we should have to stop and camp. To run down at full gallop,
blindly and in complete ignorance of the ground, would be madness. We
might risk falling into some chasm before we had time to pull up.

Hanssen, as usual, was driving first. Strictly speaking, I should now
have been going in advance, but the uneven surface at the start and the
rapid pace afterwards had made it impossible to walk as fast the dogs
could pull. I was therefore following by the side of Wisting's sledge,
and chatting with him. Suddenly I saw Hanssen's dogs shoot ahead,
and downhill they went at the wildest pace, Wisting after them. I
shouted to Hanssen to stop, and he succeeded in doing so by twisting
his sledge. The others, who were following, stopped when they came up
to him. We were in the middle of a fairly steep descent; what there
might be below was not easy to decide, nor would we try to find out
in that weather. Was it possible that we were on our way down through
the mountains again? It seemed more probable that we lay on one of the
numerous ridges; but we could be sure of nothing before the weather
cleared. We trampled down a place for the tent in the loose snow,
and soon got it up. It was not a long day's march that we had done --
eleven and three-quarter miles -- but we had put an end to our stay at
the Butcher's Shop, and that was a great thing. The boiling-point test
that evening showed that we were 10,300 feet above the sea, and that
we had thus gone down 620 feet from the Butcher's. We turned in and
went to sleep. As soon as it brightened, we should have to be ready to
jump out and look at the weather; one has to seize every opportunity
in these regions. If one neglects to do so, it may mean a long wait
and much may be lost. We therefore all slept with one eye open,
and we knew well that nothing could happen without our noticing it.

At three in the morning the sun cut through the clouds and we
through the tent-door. To take in the situation was more than the
work of a moment. The sun showed as yet like a pat of butter, and
had not succeeded in dispersing the thick mists; the wind had dropped
somewhat, but was still fairly strong. This is, after all, the worst
part of one's job -- turning out of one's good, warm sleeping-bag,
and standing outside for some time in thin clothes, watching the
weather. We knew by experience that a gleam like this, a clearing
in the weather, might come suddenly, and then one had to be on the
spot. The gleam came; it did not last long, but long enough. We lay
on the side of a ridge that fell away pretty steeply. The descent on
the south was too abrupt, but on the south-east it was better and more
gradual, and ended in a wide, level tract. We could see no crevasses
or unpleasantness of any kind. It was not very far that we could
see, though; only our nearest surroundings. Of the mountains we saw
nothing, neither Fridtjof Nansen nor Don Pedro Christophersen. Well
content with our morning's work, we turned in again and slept till
6 a.m., when we began our morning preparations. The weather, which
had somewhat improved during the night, had now broken loose again,
and the north-easter was doing all it could. However, it would take
more than storm and snow to stop us now, since we had discovered the
nature of our immediate surroundings; if we once got down to the plain,
we knew that we could always feel our way on.

After putting ample brakes on the sledge-runners, we started off
downhill in a south-easterly direction. The slight idea of the position
that we had been able to get in the morning proved correct. The
descent was easy and smooth, and we reached the plain without any
adventure. We could now once more set our faces to the south, and in
thick driving snow we continued our way into the unknown, with good
assistance from the howling north-easterly gale. We now recommenced the
erection of beacons, which had not been necessary during the ascent. In
the course of the forenoon we again passed over a little ridge, the
last of them that we encountered. The surface was now fine enough,
smooth as a floor and without a sign of sastrugi. If our progress was
nevertheless slow and difficult, this was due to the wretched going,
which was real torture to all of us. A sledge journey through the
Sahara could not have offered a worse surface to move over. Now the
forerunners came into their own, and from here to the Pole Hassel. and
I took it in turns to occupy the position.

The weather improved in the course of the day, and when we camped in
the afternoon it looked quite smiling. The sun came through and gave
a delightful warmth after the last few bitter days. It was not yet
clear, so that we could see nothing of our surroundings. The distance
according to our three sledge-meters was eighteen and a half miles;
taking the bad going into consideration, we had reason to be well
satisfied with it. Our altitude came out at 9,475 feet above the sea,
or a drop of 825 feet in the course of the day. This surprised me
greatly. What did it mean? Instead of rising gradually, we were going
slowly down. Something extraordinary must await us farther on, but,
what? According to dead reckoning our latitude that evening was 86deg. S.

November 27 did not bring us the desired weather; the night was filled
with sharp gusts from the north; the morning came with a slack wind,
but accompanied by mist and snowfall. This was abominable; here
we were, advancing over absolutely virgin ground, and able to see
nothing. The surface remained about the same -- possibly rather more
undulating. That it had been blowing here at some time, and violently
too, was shown by the under-surface, which was composed of sastrugi
as hard as iron. Luckily for us, the snowfall of the last few days
had filled these up, so as to present a level surface. It was heavy
going, though better than on the previous day.

As we were advancing, still blindly, and fretting at the
persistently thick weather, one of us suddenly called out: "Hullo,
look there!" A wild, dark summit rose high out of the mass of fog to
the east-south-east. It was not far away -- on the contrary, it seemed
threateningly near and right over us. We stopped and looked at the
imposing sight, but Nature did not expose her objects of interest for
long. The fog rolled over again, thick, heavy and dark, and blotted out
the view. We knew now that we had to be prepared for surprises. After
we had gone about ten miles the fog again lifted for a moment, and
we saw quite near -- a mile or so away -- two long, narrow mountain
ridges to the west of us, running north and south, and completely
covered with snow. These -- Helland Hansen's Mountains -- were the
only ones we saw on our right hand during the march on the plateau;
they were between 9,000 and 10,000 feet high, and would probably serve
as excellent landmarks on the return journey. There was no connection
to be traced between these mountains and those lying to the east of
them; they gave us the impression of being entirely isolated summits,
as we could not make out any lofty ridge running east and west. We
continued our course in the constant expectation of finding some
surprise or other in our line of route. The air ahead of us was as
black as pitch, as though it concealed something. It could not be a
storm, or it would have been already upon us. But we went on and on,
and nothing came. Our day's march was eighteen and a half miles.

I see that my diary for November 28 does not begin very promisingly:
"Fog, fog -- and again fog. Also fine falling snow, which makes the
going impossible. Poor beasts, they have toiled hard to get the sledges
forward to-day." But the day did not turn out so badly after all,
as we worked our way out of this uncertainty and found out what was
behind the pitch-dark clouds. During the forenoon the sun came through
and thrust aside the fog for a while; and there, to the south-east,
not many miles away, lay an immense mountain mass. From this mass,
right across our course, ran a great, ancient glacier; the sun shone
down upon it and showed us a surface full of huge irregularities. On
the side nearest to the mountain these disturbances were such that a
hasty glance was enough to show us the impossibility of advancing that
way. But right in our line of route -- straight on to the glacier --
it looked, as far as we could see, as though we could get along. The
fog came and went, and we had to take advantage of the clear intervals
to get our bearings. It would, no doubt, have been better if we could
have halted, set up our tent, and waited for decently clear weather,
so that we might survey the ground at our ease and choose the best
way. Going forward without an idea of what the ground was like,
was not very pleasant. But how long should we have to wait for clear
weather? That question was unanswerable; possibly a week, or even a
fortnight, and we had no time for that. Better go straight on, then,
and take what might come.

What we could see of the glacier appeared to be pretty steep; but
it was only between the south and south-east, under the new land,
that the fog now and again lifted sufficiently to enable us to see
anything. From the south round to the west the fog lay as thick as
gruel. We could see that the big crevasses lost themselves in it,
and the question of what the glacier looked like on the west had
to be put aside for the moment. It was to the south we had to go,
and there it was possible to go forward a little way. We continued
our march until the ground began to show signs of the glacier in the
form of small crevasses, and then we halted. It was our intention to
lighten our sledges before tackling the glacier; from the little we
could see of it, it was plain enough that we should have stiff work. It
was therefore important to have as little as possible on the sledges.

We set to work at once to build the depot; the snow here was excellent
for this purpose -- as hard as glass. In a short time an immense
erection of adamantine blocks of snow rose into the air, containing
provisions for five men for six days and for eighteen dogs for five
days. A number of small articles were also left behind.

While we were thus occupied, the fog had been coming and going; some
of the intervals had been quite clear, and had given me a good view of
the nearest part of the range. It appeared to be quite isolated, and
to consist of four mountains; one of these -- Mount Helmer Hanssen --
lay separated from the rest. The other three -- Mounts Oscar Wisting,
Sverre Hassel, and Olav Bjaaland -- lay closer together. Behind this
group the air had been heavy and black the whole time, showing that
more land must be concealed there. Suddenly, in one of the brightest
intervals, there came a rift in this curtain, and the summits of
a colossal mountain mass appeared. Our first impression was that
this mountain -- Mount Thorvald Nilsen -- must be something over
20,000 feet high; it positively took our breath away, so formidable
did it appear. But it was only a glimpse that we had, and then the
fog enclosed it once more. We had succeeded in taking a few meagre
bearings of the different summits of the nearest group; they were not
very grand, but better ones were not to be obtained. For that matter,
the site of the depot was so well marked by its position under the
foot of the glacier that we agreed it would be impossible to miss it.

Having finished the edifice, which rose at least 6 feet into the air,
we put one of our black provision cases on the top of it, so as to be
able to see it still more easily on the way back. An observation we had
contrived to take while the work was in progress gave us our latitude
as 86deg. 21' S. This did not agree very well with the latitude of our
dead reckoning -- 86deg. 23' S. Meanwhile the fog had again enveloped
everything, and a fine, light snow was falling. We had taken a
bearing of the line of glacier that was most free of crevasses,
and so we moved on again. It was some time before we felt our way
up to the glacier. The crevasses at its foot were not large, but we
had no sooner entered upon the ascent than the fun began. There was
something uncanny about this perfectly blind advance among crevasses
and chasms on all sides. We examined the compass from time to time,
and went forward cautiously.

Hassel and I went in front on a rope; but that, after all, was not much
of a help to our drivers. We naturally glided lightly on our ski over
places where the dogs would easily fall through. This lowest part of
the glacier was not entirely free from danger, as the crevasses were
often rendered quite invisible by a thin overlying layer of snow. In
clear weather it is not so bad to have to cross such a surface,
as the effect of light and shade is usually to show up the edges of
these insidious pitfalls, but on a day like this, when everything
looked alike, one's advance is doubtful. We kept it going, however,
by using the utmost caution. Wisting came near to sounding the depth
of one of these dangerous crevasses with sledge, dogs and all, as
the bridge he was about to cross gave way. Thanks to his presence
of mind and a lightning-like movement -- some would call it luck --
he managed to save himself. In this way we worked up about 200 feet,
but then we came upon such a labyrinth of yawning chasms and open
abysses that we could not move. There was nothing to be done but to
find the least disturbed spot, and set the tent there.

As soon as this was done Hanssen and I set out to explore. We were
roped, and therefore safe enough. It required some study to find a
way out of the trap we had run ourselves into. Towards the group of
mountains last described -- which now lay to the east of us -- it had
cleared sufficiently to give us a fairly good view of the appearance of
the glacier in that direction. What we had before seen at a distance,
was now confirmed. The part extending to the mountains was so ground
up and broken that there was positively not a spot where one could
set one's foot. It looked as if a battle had been fought here, and
the ammunition had been great blocks of ice. They lay pell-mell,
one on the top of another, in all directions, and evoked a picture of
violent confusion. Thank God we were not here while this was going on,
I thought to myself, as I stood looking out over this battlefield;
it must have been a spectacle like doomsday, and not on a small scale
either. To advance in that direction, then, was hopeless, but that
was no great matter, since our way was to the south. On the south we
could see nothing; the fog lay thick and heavy there. All we could
do was to try to make our way on, and we therefore crept southward.

On leaving our tent we had first to cross a comparatively narrow
snow-bridge, and then go along a ridge or saddle, raised by pressure,
with wide open crevasses on both sides. This ridge led us on to
an icewave about 25 feet high -- a formation which was due to the
pressure having ceased before the wave had been forced to break and
form hummocks. We saw well enough that this would be a difficult place
to pass with sledges and dogs, but in default of anything better it
would have to be done. From the top of this wave-formation we could see
down on the other side, which had hitherto been hidden from us. The
fog prevented our seeing far, but the immediate surroundings were
enough to convince us that with caution we could beat up farther. From
the height on which we stood, every precaution would be required to
avoid going down on the other side; for there the wave ended in an
open crevasse, specially adapted to receive any drivers, sledges or
dogs that might make a slip.

This trip that Hanssen and I took to the south was made entirely at
random, as we saw absolutely nothing; our object was to make tracks for
the following day's journey. The language we used about the glacier
as we went was not altogether complimentary; we had endless tacking
and turning to get on. To go one yard forward, I am sure we had to
go at least ten to one side. Can anyone be surprised that we called
it the Devil's Glacier? At any rate, our companions acknowledged the
justness of the name with ringing acclamations when we told them of it.

At Hell's Gate Hanssen and I halted. This was a very remarkable
formation; the glacier had here formed a long ridge about 20 feet
high; then, in the middle of this ridge, a fissure had opened,
making a gateway about 6 feet wide. This formation -- like every --
thing else on the glacier-was obviously very old, and for the most
part filled with snow. From this point the glacier, as far as our
view extended to the south, looked better and better; we therefore
turned round and followed our tracks in the comforting conviction
that we should manage to get on.

Our companions were no less pleased with the news we brought of our
prospects. Our altitude that evening was 8,650 feet above the sea --
that is to say, at the foot of the glacier we had reached an altitude
of 8,450 feet, or a drop from the Butcher's of 2,570 feet. We now knew
very well that we should have this ascent to make again, perhaps even
more; and this idea did not arouse any particular enthusiasm. In my
diary I see that I conclude the day with the following words "What
will the next surprise be, I wonder?"

It was, in fact, an extraordinary journey that we were undertaking,
through new regions, new mountains, glaciers, and so on, without being
able to see. That we were prepared for surprises was perhaps quite
natural. What I liked least about this feeling one's way forward in
the dark was that it would be difficult -- very difficult indeed --
to recognize the ground again on the way back. But with this glacier
lying straight across our line of route, and with the numerous beacons
we had erected, we reassured ourselves on this score. It would take
a good deal to make us miss them on the return. The point for us,
of course, was to find our descent on to the Barrier again -- a
mistake there might be serious enough. And it will appear later in
this narrative that my fear of our not being able to recognize the
way was not entirely groundless. The beacons we had put up came to
our aid, and for our final success we owe a deep debt of gratitude
to our prudence and thoughtfulness in adopting this expedient.

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