The South Pole, Volumes 1 and 2 by Roald Amundsen

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Meanwhile we have come up past Nelson and Ronniken, and are just
climbing the first ridge. Not far away a big tent rises before us,
and in front of it we see two long, dark lines. It is our main depot
that we are coming to, and you can see that we keep our things in good
order, case upon case, as if they had been placed in position by an
expert builder. And they all point the same way; all the numbers face
the north. "What made you choose that particular direction?" is the
natural question. "Had you any special object?" "Oh yes, we had. If
you will look towards the east, you will notice that on the horizon
the sky has a rather lighter, brighter colour there than in any other
part. That is the day as we see it now. At present we cannot see to
do anything by its light. It would have been impossible to see that
these cases were lying with their numbers to the north if it had not
been for the brilliant aurora australis. But that light colour will
rise and grow stronger. At nine o'clock it will be in the north-east,
and we shall be able to trace it ten degrees above the horizon. You
would not then think it gave so much light as it really does, but you
would be able without an effort to read the numbers. What is more, you
would be able to read the makers' names which are marked on several
of the cases, and when the flush of daylight has moved to the north,
you will be able to see them even more clearly. No doubt these figures
and letters are big -- about 2 inches high and 14 inches broad --
but it shows, nevertheless, that we have daylight here at the darkest
time of the year, so there is not the absolute darkness that people
think. The tent that stands behind there contains dried fish; we have a
great deal of that commodity, and our dogs can never suffer hunger. But
now we must hurry on, if we are to see how the day begins at Framheim.

"What we are passing now is the mark-flag. We have five of them
standing between the camp and the depot; they are useful on dark days,
when the east wind is blowing and the snow falling. And there on the
slope of the hill you see Framheim. At present it looks like a dark
shadow on the snow, although it is not far away. The sharp peaks you
see pointing to the sky are all our dog tents. The but itself you
cannot see; it is completely snowed under and hidden in the Barrier.

"But I see you are getting warm with walking. We will go a little more
slowly, so that you won't perspire too much. It is not more than -51deg.,
so you have every reason to be warm walking. With that temperature
and calm weather like to-day one soon feels warm if one moves about
a little .... The flat place we have now come down into is a sort
of basin; if you bend down and look round the horizon, you will
be able with an effort to follow the ridges and hummocks the whole
way round. Our house lies on the slope we are now approaching. We
chose that particular spot, as we thought it would offer the best
protection, and it turned out that we were right. The wind we have had
has nearly always come from the east, when there was any strength in
it, and against such winds the slope provides an excellent shelter. If
we had placed our house over there where the depot stands, we should
have felt the weather much more severely. But now you must be careful
when we come near to the house, so that the dogs don't hear us. We
have now about a hundred and twenty of them, and if they once start
making a noise, then good-bye to the peaceful Polar morning. Now we
are there, and in such daylight as there is, you can see the immediate
surroundings. You can't see the house, you say. No; I can quite believe
it. That chimney sticking out of the snow is all there is left above
the Barrier. This trap-door we are coming to you might take for a loose
piece of boarding thrown out on the snow, but that is not the case:
it is the way down into our home. You must stoop a bit when you go
down into the Barrier. Everything is on a reduced scale here in the
Polar regions; we can't afford to be extravagant. Now you have four
steps down; take care, they are rather high. Luckily we have come
in time to see the day started. I see the passage-lamp is not yet
lighted, so Lindstrom has not turned out. Take hold of the tail of
my anorak and follow me. This is a passage in the snow that we are
in, leading to the pent-house. Oh! I'm so sorry; you must forgive
me! Did you hurt yourself? I quite forgot to tell you to look out
for the threshold of the pent-house door. It is not the first time
someone has fallen over it. That's a trap we have all fallen into;
but now we know it, and it doesn't catch us any more.

"If you will wait a second I'll strike a match, and then we shall
see our way. Here we are in the kitchen. Now make yourself invisible
and follow me all day, and you will see what our life is like. As you
know, it is St. John's Eve, so we shall only work during the forenoon;
but you will be able to see how we spend a holiday evening. When you
send your account home, you must promise me not to paint it in too
strong colours. Good-bye for the present."

Br-r-r-r-r-r! There's the alarm-clock. I wait and wait and wait. At
home I am always accustomed to hear that noise followed by the passage
of a pair of bare feet across the floor, and a yawn or so. Here --
not a sound. When Amundsen left me he forgot to say where I could best
put myself. I tried to follow him into the room, but the atmosphere
there -- no thanks! I could easily guess that nine men were sleeping
in a room 19 feet by 13 feet; it did not require anyone to tell me
that. Still not a sound. I suppose they only keep that alarm-clock
to make themselves imagine they are turning out. Wait a minute,
though. "Lindtrom! Lindtrom!" He went by the name of Lindtrom, not
Lindstrom. "Now, by Jove! you've got to get up! The clock's made row
enough." That's Wisting; I know his voice -- I know him at home. He
was always an early bird. A frightful crash! That's Lindstrom slipping
out of his bunk. But if he was late in turning out, it did not take
him long to get into his clothes. One! two! three! and there he
stood in the doorway, with a little lamp in his hand. It was now six
o'clock. He looked well; round and fat, as when I saw him last. He is
in dark blue clothes, with a knitted helmet over his head. I should
like to know why; it is certainly not cold in here. For that matter,
I have often felt it colder in kitchens at home in the winter, so that
cannot be the reason. Oh, I have it! He is bald, and doesn't like to
show it. That is often the way with bald men; they hate anyone seeing
it. The first thing he does is to lay the fire. The range is under the
window, and takes up half the 6 feet by 13 feet kitchen. His method of
laying a fire is the first thing that attracts my attention. At home
we generally begin by splitting sticks and laying the wood in very
carefully. But Lindstrom just shoves the wood in anyhow, all over
the place. Well, if he can make that barn, he's clever. I am still
wondering how he will manage it, when he suddenly stoops down and picks
up a can. Without the slightest hesitation, as though it were the most
natural thing in the world, he pours paraffin over the wood. Not one
or two drops -- oh no; he throws on enough to make sure. A match --
and then I understood how Lindstrom got it to light. It was smartly
done, I must say -- but Hassel ought to have seen it! Amundsen had
told me something of their arrangements on the way up, and I knew
Hassel was responsible for coal, wood, and oil.

The water-pot had been filled the evening before, and he had only to
push it to one side to make room for the kettle, and this did not take
long to boil with the heat he had set going. The fire burned up so that
it roared in the chimney -- this fellow is not short of fuel. Strange,
what a hurry he is in to get that coffee ready! I thought breakfast was
at eight, and it is now not more than a quarter past six. He grinds the
coffee till his cheeks shake to and fro -- incessantly. If the quality
is in proportion to the quantity, it must be good enough. "Devil take
it" -- Lindstrom's morning greeting -- "this coffee-mill is not worth
throwing to the pigs! Might just as well chew the beans. It wouldn't
take so long." And he is right; after a quarter of an hour's hard
work he has only ground just enough. Now it is half-past six. On with
the coffee! Ah, what a perfume! I would give something to know where
Amundsen got it from. Meanwhile the cook has taken out his pipe,
and is smoking away gaily on an empty stomach; it does not seem to
do him any harm. Hullo! There's the coffee boiling over.

While the coffee was boiling and Lindstrom smoked, I was still
wondering why he was in such a hurry to get the coffee ready. You
ass! I thought; can't you see? Of course, he is going to give himself
a drink of fresh, hot coffee before the others are up; that's clear
enough. When the coffee was ready, I sat down on a camp-stool that
stood in a corner, and watched him. But I must say he surprised me
again. He pushed the coffee-kettle away from the fire and took down
a cup from the wall; then went to a jug that stood on the bench and
poured out -- would you believe it? -- a cup of cold tea! If he goes on
in this way, we shall have surprises enough before evening, I thought
to myself. Then he began to be deeply interested in an enamelled iron
bowl, which stood on a shelf above the range. The heat, which was
now intense (I looked at the thermograph which hung from the ceiling;
it registered 84deg.F.), did not seem to be sufficient for its mysterious
contents. It was also wrapped up in towels and cloths, and gave me the
impression of having caught a severe cold. The glances he threw into it
from time to time were anxious; he looked at the clock, and seemed to
have something on his mind. Then suddenly I saw his face brighten; he
gave a long, not very melodious whistle, bent down, seized a dust-pan,
and hurried out into the pent-house. Now I was really excited. What was
coming next? He came back at once with a happy smile all over his face,
and the dust-pan full of -- coal! If I had been curious before, I was
now anxious. I withdrew as far as possible from the range, sat down on
the floor itself, and fixed my eyes on the thermograph. As I thought,
the pen began to move upward with rapid steps. This was too bad. I made
up my mind to pay a visit to the Meteorological Institute as soon as
I got home, and tell them what I had seen with my own eyes. But now
the heat seemed intolerable down on the floor, where I was sitting;
what must it be like -- heavens above, the man was sitting on the
stove! He must have gone out of his mind. I was just going to give
a cry of terror, when the door opened, and in came Amundsen from
the room. I gave a deep sigh. Now it would be all right the time
was ten minutes past seven. "'Morning, Fatty!" -- "'Morning." --
"What's it like outside?" -- "Easterly breeze and thick when I was
out; but that's a good while ago." This fairly took my breath away He
stood there with the coolest air in the world and talked about the
weather, and I could take my oath he had not been outside the door
that morning. "How's it getting on to-day -- is it coming?" Amundsen
looks with interest at the mysterious bowl. Lindstrom takes another
peep under the cloth. "Yes, it's coming at last; but I've had to give
it a lot to-day." -- " Yes, it feels like it," answers the other,
and goes out. My interest is now divided between "it " in the bowl
and Amundsen's return, with the meteorological discussion that will
ensue. It is not long before he reappears; evidently the temperature
outside is not inviting. "Let's hear again, my friend " -- he seats
himself on the camp-stool beside which I am sitting on the floor --
"what kind of weather did you say it was?" I prick up my ears;
there is going to be fun. "It was an easterly breeze and thick as
a wall, when I was out at six o'clock." -- "Hm! then it has cleared
remarkably quickly. It's a dead calm now, and quite clear." -- "Ah,
that's just what I should have thought! I could see it was falling
light, and it was getting brighter in the east." He got out of that
well. Meanwhile it was again the turn of the bowl. It was taken down
from the shelf over the range and put on the bench; the various cloths
were removed one by one until it was left perfectly bare. I could
not resist any longer; I had to get up and look. And indeed it was
worth looking at. The bowl was filled to the brim with golden-yellow
dough, full of air-bubbles, and showing every sign that he had got
it to rise. Now I began to respect Lindstrom; he was a devil of a
fellow. No confectioner in our native latitudes could have shown a
finer dough. It was now 7.25; everything seems to go by the clock here.

Lindstrom threw a last tender glance at his bowl, picked up a little
bottle of spirit, and went into the next room. I saw my chance of
following him in. There was not going to be any fun out there with
Amundsen, who was sitting on the camp-stool half asleep. In the other
room it was pitch-dark, and an atmosphere -- no, ten atmospheres at
least! I stood still in the doorway and breathed heavily. Lindstrom
stumbled forward in the darkness, felt for and found the matches. He
struck one, and lighted a spirit-holder that hung beneath a hanging
lamp. There was not much to be seen by the light of the spirit flame;
one could still only guess. Hear too, perhaps. They were sound
sleepers, those boys. One grunted here and another there; they were
snoring in every corner. The spirit might have been burning for a
couple of minutes, when Lindstrom had to set to work in a hurry. He was
off just as the flame went out, leaving the room in black darkness. I
heard the spirit bottle and the nearest stool upset, and what followed
I don't know, as I was unfamiliar with the surroundings -- but there
was a good deal of it. I heard a click -- had no idea what it was
-- and then the same movement back again to the lamp. Of course,
he now fell over the stool he had upset before. Meanwhile there was
a hissing sound, and a stifling smell of paraffin. I was thinking of
making my escape through the door, when suddenly, just as I suppose
it happened on the first day of Creation, in an instant there was
light. But it was a light that defies description; it dazzled and
hurt the eyes, it was so bright. It was perfectly white and extremely
agreeable -- when one was not looking at it. Evidently it was one of
the 200-candle Lux lamps. My admiration for Lindstrom had now risen
to enthusiasm. What would I not have given to be able to make myself
visible, embrace him, and tell him what I thought of him! But that
could not be; I should not then be able to see life at Framheim as it
really was. So I stood still. Lindstrom first tried to put straight
what he had upset in his struggle with the lamp. The spirit had, of
course, run out of the bottle when it fell, and was now flowing all
over the table. This did not seem to make the slightest impression
on him; a little scoop with his hand, and it all landed on Johansen's
clothes, which were lying close by. This fellow seemed to be as well
off for spirit as for paraffin. Then he vanished into the kitchen, but
reappeared immediately with plates, cups, knives and forks. Lindstrom's
laying of the breakfast-table was the finest clattering performance
I have ever heard. If he wanted to put a spoon into a cup, he did not
do it in the ordinary way; no, he put down the cup, lifted the spoon
high in the air, and then dropped it into the cup. The noise he made
in this way was infernal. Now I began to see why Amundsen had got
up so early; he wanted to escape this process of laying the table,
I expect. But this gave me at once an insight into the good-humour of
the gentlemen in bed: if this had happened anywhere else, Lindstrom
would have had a boot at his head. But here -- they must have been
the most peaceable men in the world.

Meanwhile I had had time to look around me. Close to the door where I
was standing a pipe came down to the floor. It struck me at once that
this was a ventilating-pipe. I bent down and put my hand over the
opening; there was not so much as a hint of air to be felt. So this
was the cause of the bad atmosphere. The next things that caught my
eye were the bunks -- nine of them: three on the right hand and six
on the left. Most of the sleepers -- if they could be regarded as such
while the table was being laid -- slept in bags -- sleeping-bags. They
must have been warm enough. The rest of the space was taken up by
a long table, with small stools on two sides of it. Order appeared
to reign; most of the clothes were hung up. Of course, a few lay on
the floor, but then Lindstrom had been running about in the dark,
and perhaps he had pulled them down. On the table, by the window,
stood a gramophone and some tobacco-boxes and ash-trays. The furniture
was not plentiful, nor was it in the style of Louis Quinze or Louis
Seize, but it was sufficient. On the wall with the window hung a few
paintings, and on the other portraits of the King, Queen, and Crown
Prince Olav, apparently cut out of an illustrated paper, and pasted
on blue cardboard. In the corner nearest the door on the right,
where there was no bunk, the space seem to be occupied by clothes,
some hanging on the wall, some on lines stretched across. So that was
the drying-place, modest in its simplicity. Under the table were some
varnished boxes -- Heaven knows what they were for!

Now there seemed to be life in one of the bunks. It was Wisting,
who was getting tired of the noise that still continued. Lindstrom
took his time, rattling the spoons, smiling maliciously to himself,
and looking up at the bunks. He did not make all this racket for
nothing. Wisting, then, was the first to respond, and apparently the
only one; at any rate, there was not a sign of movement in any of the
others. "Good-morning, Fatty!" "Thought you were going to stop there
till dinner." This is Lindstrom's greeting. "Look after yourself, old
'un. If I hadn't got you out, you'd have been asleep still." That was
paying him in his own coin: Wisting was evidently not to be trifled
with. However, they smiled and nodded to each other in a way that
showed that there was no harm meant. At last Lindstrom had got rid
of the last cup, and brought down the curtain on that act with the
dropping of the final spoon. I thought now that he would go back to his
work in the kitchen; but it looked as if he had something else to do
first. He straightened himself, thrust his chin in the air and put his
head back -- reminding me very forcibly of a young cockerel preparing
to crow -- and roared with the full force of his lungs: "Turn out,
boys, and look sharp!" Now he had finished his morning duty there. The
sleeping-bags seemed suddenly to awake to life, and such remarks as,
"That's a devil of a fellow!" or "Shut up, you old chatterbox!" showed
that the inhabitants of Framheim were now awake. Beaming with joy,
the cause of the trouble disappeared into the kitchen.

And now, one after the other they stick their heads out, followed by
the rest of them. That must be Helmer Hanssen, who was on the Gjoa;
he looks as if he could handle a rope. Ah, and there we have Olav
Olavson Bjaaland! I could have cried aloud for joy -- my old friend
from Holmenkollen. The great long-distance runner, you remember. And
he managed the jump, too -- 50 metres, I think -- standing. If Amundsen
has a few like him, he will get to the Pole all right. And there comes
Stubberud, the man the Aftenpost said was so clever at double-entry
book-keeping. As I see him now, he does not give me the impression
of being a book-keeper -- but one can't tell. And here come Hassel,
Johansen, and Prestrud; now they are all up, and will soon begin the
day's work.

"Stubberud!" It is Lindstrom putting his head in at the door. "If
you want any hot cakes, you must get some air down." Stubberud merely
smiles; he looks as if he felt sure of getting them, all the same. What
was it he talked about? Hot cakes? They must be connected with the
beautiful dough and the delicate, seductive smell of cooking that is
now penetrating through the crack of the door. Stubberud is going,
and I must go with him. Yes, as I thought -- there stands Lindstrom
in all his glory before the range, brandishing the weapon with which
he turns the cakes; and in a pan lie three brownish-yellow buckwheat
cakes quivering with the heat of the fire. Heavens, how hungry it
made me! I take up my old position, so as not to be in anyone's
way, and watch Lindstrom. He's the man -- he produces hot cakes with
astonishing dexterity; it almost reminds one of a juggler throwing up
balls, so rapid and regular is the process. The way he manipulates
the cake-slice shows a fabulous proficiency. With the skimmer in
one hand he dumps fresh dough into the pan, and with the cake-slice
in the other he removes those that are done, all at the same time;
it seems almost more than human!

There comes Wisting, salutes, and holds out a little tin mug. Flattered
by the honour, the cook fills his mug with boiling water, and he
disappears into the pent-house. But this interruption puts Lindstrom
off his jugglery with the hot cakes-one of them rolls down on to the
floor. This fellow is extraordinarily phlegmatic; I can't make out
whether he missed that cake or not. I believe the sigh that escaped
him at the same instant meant something like: "Well, we must leave
some for the dogs."

And now they all come in single file with their little mugs, and get
each a drop of boiling water. I get up, interested in this proceeding,
and slip out with one of them into the pent-house and so on to the
Barrier. You will hardly believe me, when I tell you what I saw -- all
the Polar explorers standing in a row, brushing their teeth! What do
you say to that? So they are not such absolute pigs, after all. There
was a scent of Stomatol everywhere.

Here comes Amundsen. He has evidently been out taking the
meteorological observations, as he holds the anemometer in one hand. I
follow him through the passage, and, when no one is looking, take the
opportunity of slapping him on the shoulder and saying "A grand lot
of boys." He only smiled; but a smile may often say more than many
words. I understood what it meant; he had known that a long while
and a good deal more.

It was now eight o'clock. The door from the kitchen to the room was
left wide open, and the warmth streamed in and mixed with the fresh
air that Stubberud had now forced to come down the right way. Now
it was pleasanter inside -- fresh, warm air everywhere. Then came
a very interesting scene. As the tooth-brushing gentlemen returned,
they had to guess the temperature, one by one. This gave occasion for
much joking and fun, and, amid laughter and chat, the first meal of the
day was taken. In after-dinner speeches, amid toasts and enthusiasm,
our Polar explorers are often compared with our forefathers, the bold
vikings. This comparison never occurred to me for a moment when I saw
this assemblage of ordinary, everyday men-brushing their teeth. But
now that they were busy with the dishes, I was bound to acknowledge
its aptitude; for our forefathers the vikings could not possibly have
attacked their food with greater energy than these nine men did.

One pile of "hot-chek" after another disappeared as if they had been
made of air -- and I, in my simplicity, had imagined that one of them
was a man's ration! Spread with butter and surmounted with jam, these
cakes slipped down with fabulous rapidity. With a smile I thought
of the conjurer, holding an egg in his hand one minute and making
it disappear the next. If it is a cook's best reward to see his food
appreciated, then, indeed, Lindstrom had good wages. The cakes were
washed down with big bowls of strong, aromatic coffee. One could
soon trace the effect, and conversation became general. The first
great subject was a novel, which was obviously very popular, and was
called "The Rome Express." It appeared to me, from what was said --
I have unfortunately never read this celebrated work -- that a murder
had been committed in this train, and a lively discussion arose as
to who had committed it. I believe the general verdict was one of
suicide. I have always supposed that subjects of conversation must
be very difficult to find on expeditions like these, where the same
people mix day after day for years; but there was certainly no sign
of any such difficulty here. No sooner had the express vanished in
the distance than in steamed -- the language question. And it came
at full steam, too. It was clear that there were adherents of both
camps present. For fear of hurting the feelings of either party, I
shall abstain from setting down what I heard: but I may say as much
as this -- that the party of reform ended by declaring the maal[6] to
be the only proper speech of Norway, while their opponents maintained
the same of their language.