The South Pole, Volumes 1 and 2 by Roald Amundsen

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After a while pipes came out, and the scent of "plug" soon struggled
with the fresh air for supremacy. Over the tobacco the work for
the day was discussed. "Well, I'll have enough to do supplying that
woodswallower over the holiday," said Hassel. I gave a chuckle. If
Hassel had known of the way the paraffin was used that morning,
he would have added something about the "oil-drinker," I expect. It
was now half-past eight, and Stubberud and Bjaaland got up. From the
number of different garments they took out and put on, I guessed they
were going out. Without saying anything, they trudged out. Meanwhile
the others continued their morning smoke, and some even began to
read, but by about nine they were all on the move. They put on their
skin clothing and made ready to go out. By this time Bjaaland and
Stubberud had returned from a walk, as I understood from such remarks
as "Beastly cold," "Sharp snow by the depot," and the like. Prestrud
was the only one who did not get ready to go out; he went to an open
space underneath the farthest bunk, where there was a box. He raised
the lid of this, and three chronometers appeared; at the same moment
three of the men produced their watches, and a comparison was made
and entered in a book. After each watch had been compared, its owner
went outside, taking his watch with him. I took the opportunity of
slipping out with the last man -- Prestrud and his chronometers were
too serious for me; I wanted to see what the others were about.

There was plenty of life outside; dogs' howls in every key came
from the tents. Some of those who had left the house before us were
out of sight, so they had probably gone to their respective tents,
and presently one could see by the lights that they were in the act
of letting their dogs loose. How well the lighted-up tents looked
against the dark, star-strewn sky! Though it could no longer be
called dark: the little flush of dawn had spread and overpowered
the glow of the aurora australis, which had greatly decreased since
I last saw it; evidently it was near its end. Now the four-footed
band began to swarm out, darting like rockets from the tents. Here
were all colours-grey, black, red, brown, white, and a mixture of
all of them. What surprised me was that they were all so small; but
otherwise they looked splendid. Plump and round, well kept and groomed,
bursting with life. They instantly collected into little groups of
from two to five, and it was easy to see that these groups consisted
of intimate friends -- they absolutely petted each other. In each
of these clusters there was one in particular who was made much of;
all the others came round him, licked him, fawned upon him, and gave
him every sign of deference.

They all run about without a sign of unfriendliness. Their chief
interest seems to be centred in two large black mounds that are visible
in the foreground of the camp; what they are I am unable to make out --
there is not light enough for that -- but I am probably not far wrong
in guessing that they are seals. They are rather hard eating, anyhow,
for I can hear them crunching under the dogs' teeth. Here there is an
occasional disturbance of the peace; they do not seem to agree so well
over their food, but there is never a regular battle. A watchman is
present, armed with a stick, and when he shows himself and makes his
voice heard, they soon separate. They appear to be well disciplined.

What appealed to me most was the youngsters and the youngest of
all. The young ones, to judge from their appearance, were about ten
months old. They were perfect in every way; one could see they had been
well cared for from their birth. Their coats were surprisingly thick --
much more so than those of the older dogs. They were remarkably plucky,
and would not give in to anyone.

And there are the smallest of all -- like little balls of wool; they
roll themselves in the snow and have great fun. I am astonished that
they can stand the cold as they do; I should never have thought that
such young animals could live through the winter. Afterwards I was
told that they not only bore the cold well, but were far more hardy
than the older ones. While the grown-up dogs were glad to go into their
tents in the evening, the little ones refused to do so; they preferred
to sleep outside. And they did so for a great part of the winter.

Now all the men have finished unchaining their dogs, and, with
their lanterns in their hands, they move in various directions and
disappear -- apparently into the Barrier surface. There will be many
interesting things to see here in the course of the day -- I can
understand that. What on earth became of all these people? There we
have Amundsen; he is left alone, and appears to be in charge of the
dogs. I go up to him and make myself known.

"Ah, I'm glad you came," he says; "now I can introduce you to some
of our celebrities. To begin with, here is the trio -- Fix, Lasse,
and Snuppesen. They always behave like this when I am out -- could
not think of leaving me in peace for an instant. Fix, that big grey
one that looks like a wolf, has many a snap on his conscience. His
first exploit was on Flekkero, near Christiansand, where all the
dogs were kept for a month after they arrived from Greenland; there
he gave Lindstrom a nasty bite when his back was turned. What do you
think of a bite of a mouth like that?"

Fix is now tame, and without a growl allows his master to take hold of
his upper and under jaws and open his mouth -- ye gods, what teeth! I
inwardly rejoice that I was not in Lindstrom's trousers that day.

"If you notice," he continues, with a smile, "you will see that
Lindstrom still sits down cautiously. I myself have a mark on my left
calf, and a good many more of us have the same. There are several of
us who still treat him with respect. And here we have Lassesen --
that's his pet name; he was christened Lasse -- almost pure black,
as you see. I believe he was the wildest of the lot when they came
on board. I had him fastened up on the bridge with my other dogs,
beside Fix -- those two were friends from their Greenland days. But
I can tell you that when I had to pass Lasse, I always judged the
distance first. As a rule, he just stood looking down at the deck
-- exactly like a mad bull. If I tried to make overtures, he didn't
move -- stood quite still; but I could see how he drew back his upper
lip and showed a row of teeth, with which I had no desire to become
acquainted. A fortnight passed in this way. Then at last the upper
lip sank and the head was raised a little, as though he wanted to see
who it was that brought him food and water every day. But the way from
that to friendship was long and tortuous. In the time that followed,
I used to scratch him on the back with a stick; at first he jumped
round, seized the stick, and crushed it between his teeth. I thought
myself lucky that it was not my hand. I came a little nearer to him
every day, until one day I risked my hand. He gave me an ugly look,
but did nothing; and then came the beginning of our friendship. Day
by day we became better friends, and now you can see what footing we
are on. The third is Snuppesen, a dark red lady; she is their sworn
friend, and never leaves them. She is the quickest and most active
of our dogs. You can see that she is fond of me; she is generally on
her hind legs, and makes every effort to get at my face. I have tried
to get her out of the way of that, but in vain; she will have her own
way. I have no other animals for the moment that are worth showing --
unless you would care to hear a song. If so, there is Uranus, who is a
professional singer. We'll take the trio with us, and you shall hear."

We made for two black-and-white dogs that were lying by themselves
on the snow a little way off, while the three jumped and danced about
us. As we approached the other two, and they caught sight of the trio,
they both jumped up as though at a word of command, and I guessed that
we had found the singer. Lord save us, what an awful voice! I could
see that the concert was for Lasse's benefit, and Uranus kept it up as
long as we stood in his vicinity. But then my attention was suddenly
aroused by the appearance of another trio, which made an extraordinary
favourable impression. I turned to my companion for information.

"Yes," he continued, "those are three of Hanssen's team; probably some
of our best animals. The big black-and-white one is called Zanko -- he
appears to be rather old; the two others, which look like sausages with
matches underneath, are Ring and Mylius. As you see, they are not very
big, rather on the small side, but they are undoubtedly among our best
workers. From their looks we have concluded that they are brothers --
they are as like as two drops of water. Now we will go straight through
the mass and see whether we come across any more celebrities. There we
have Karenius, Sauen, Schwartz, and Lucy; they belong to Stubberud, and
are a power in the camp. Bjaaland's tent is close by; his favourites
are lying there -- Kvaen, Lap, Pan, Gorki, and Jaala. They are small,
all of them, but fine dogs. There, in the south-east corner, stands
Hassel's tent, but we shall not see any of his dogs here now. They
are all lying outside the entrance to the oil-store, where he is
generally to be found. The next tent is Wisting's. We must take a
turn round there and see if we can find his lot. There they are --
those four playing there. The big, reddish-brown one on the right is
the Colonel, our handsomest animal. His three companions are Suggen,
Arne, and Brun. I must tell you a little story about the Colonel when
he was on Flekkero. He was perfectly wild then, and he broke loose
and jumped into the sea. He wasn't discovered till he was half-way
between Flekkero and the mainland, where he was probably going in
search of a joint of mutton. Wisting and Lindstrom, who were then
in charge of the dogs, put off in a boat, and finally succeeded in
overtaking him, but they had a hard tussle before they managed to get
him on board. Afterwards Wisting had a swimming-race with the Colonel,
but I don't remember what was the result. We can expect a great deal
of these dogs. There's Johansen's tent over in the corner; there is
not much to be said about his dogs. The most remarkable of them is
Camilla. She is an excellent mother, and brings up her children very
well; she usually has a whole army of them, too.

"Now I expect you have seen dogs enough, so, if you have no objection,
I will show you underground Framheim and what goes on there. I
may just as well add that we are proud of this work, and you will
probably find that we have a right to be. We'll begin with Hassel,
as his department is nearest."

We now went in the direction of the house, passed its western end,
and soon arrived at an erection that looked like a derrick. Underneath
it was a large trap-door. Where the three legs of the derrick met,
there was made fast a small block, and through the block ran a rope,
made fast at one end to the trap-door. A weight hung at the other end,
some feet above the surface of the snow.

"Now we are at Hassel's," said my companion. It was a good thing he
could not see me, for I must have looked rather foolish. At Hassel's? I
said to myself. What in the world does the man mean? We were standing
on the bare Barrier.

"Do you hear that noise? That's Hassel sawing wood."

Now he bent down and raised the heavy trap-door easily with the help
of the weight. Broad steps of snow led down, deep down, into the
Barrier. We left the trap-door open, so as to have the benefit of
the little daylight there was. My host went first; I followed. After
descending four or five steps, we came to a doorway which was covered
with a woollen curtain. We pushed this aside. The sound that had
first reached me as a low rumbling now became sharper, and I could
plainly hear that it was caused by sawing. We went in. The room we
entered was long and narrow, cut out of the Barrier. On a solid shelf
of snow there lay barrel after barrel arranged in exemplary order;
if they were all full of paraffin, I began to understand Lindstrom's
extravagance in lighting his fire in the morning: here was paraffin
enough for several years. In the middle of the room a lantern was
hanging, an ordinary one with wire netting round the glass. In a
dark room it certainly would not have given much light, but in these
white surroundings it shone like the sun. A Primus lamp was burning on
the floor. The thermometer, which hung a little way from the Primus,
showed -5deg. F., so Hassel could hardly complain of the heat, but he
had to saw, so it did not matter. We approached Hassel. He looked
as if he had plenty to do, and was sawing away so that the sawdust
was flying. "'Morning." -- "'Morning." The sawdust flew faster and
faster. "You seem to be busy to-day." -- "Oh yes!" -- the saw was now
working with dangerous rapidity -- "if I'm to get finished for the
holiday, I must hurry up." -- How's the coal-supply getting on?" That
took effect. The saw stopped instantly, was raised, and put down by the
wall. I waited for the next step in suppressed excitement; something
hitherto undreamt of must be going to happen. Hassel looked round --
one can never be careful enough -- approached my host, and whispered,
with every sign of caution "I did him out of twenty-five kilos last
week." I breathed again; I had expected something much worse than
that. With a smile of satisfaction Hassel resumed his interrupted work,
and I believe nothing in the world would have stopped him again. The
last I saw as we returned through the doorway was Hassel surrounded
by a halo of sawdust.

We were back on the Barrier surface; a touch of the finger, and
the trap-door swung over and fell noiselessly into its place. I
could see that Hassel was capable of other things besides sawing
birchwood. Outside lay his team, guarding all his movements -- Mikkel,
Raeven, Masmas, and Else. They all looked well. Now we were going to
see the others.

We went over to the entrance of the hut and raised the trap-door;
a dazzling light met my eyes. In the wall of the steps leading down
from the surface a recess had been cut to hold a wooden case lined with
bright tin; this contained a little lamp which produced this powerful
light. But it was the surroundings that made it so bright -- ice and
snow everywhere. Now I could look about me for the first time; it had
been dark when I came in the morning. There was the snow-tunnel leading
to the pent-house; I could see that by the threshold that grinned
at me. But there, in the opposite direction, what was there? I could
see that the passage was continued, but where did it lead? Standing
in the bright light, it looked quite dark in the tunnel.

"Now we will go and see Bjaaland first." With these words my companion
bent down, and set off through the dark passage. "Look there, in the
snow-wall -- just under our feet -- can you see the light?" By degrees
my eyes had accustomed themselves to the darkness of the tunnel, and
I could see a greenish light shining through the snow-wall where he
pointed. And now another noise fell on my ears -- a monotonous sound --
coming from below.

"Look out for the steps!" Yes, he could be sure of that; I had come
one cropper that day, and it was enough. We once more descended into
the Barrier by broad, solid snow-steps covered with boards. Suddenly
a door was opened -- a sliding-door in the snow-wall -- and I stood
in Bjaaland's and Stubberud's premises. The place might be about 6
feet high, 15 feet long, and 7 feet wide. On the floor lay masses of
shavings, which made it warm and cosy. At one end stood a Primus lamp
with a large tin case over it, from which steam was issuing. "How
is it going?" -- "All right. We're just bending the runners. I've
made a rough estimate of the weight, and find I can bring it down
to 48 pounds." This seemed to me almost incredible. Amundsen had
told me on the way up this morning of the heavy sledges they had
-- 165 pounds each. And now Bjaaland was going to bring them down
to 48 pounds, less than a third of their original weight. In the
snow-walls of the room were fixed hooks and shelves, where the tools
were kept. Bjaaland's carpenter's bench was massive enough -- cut
out in the snow and covered with boards. Along the opposite wall was
another planing-bench, equally massive, but somewhat shorter than the
first. This was evidently Stubberud's place. He was not here to-day,
but I could see that he was engaged in planing down the sledge cases
and making them lighter. One of them was finished; I leaned forward
and looked at it. On the top, where a little round aluminium lid
was let in, was written: "Original weight, 9 kilos; reduced weight,
6 kilos." I could understand what this saving of weight meant to men
who were going on such a journey as these had before them. One lamp
provided all the illumination, but it gave an excellent light. We
left Bjaaland. I felt sure that the sledging outfit was in the best
of hands.

We then made our way into the pent-house, and here we met Stubberud. He
was engaged in cleaning up and putting things straight for the
holiday. All the steam that came out of the kitchen, when the door
was opened, had condensed on the roof and walls in the form of rime
several inches thick, and Stubberud was now clearing this off with a
long broom. Everything was going to be shipshape for Midwinter Eve;
I could see that. We went in. Dinner was on, humming and boiling. The
kitchen floor was scrubbed clean, and the linoleum with which it was
covered shone gaily. It was the same in the living-room; everything
was cleaned. The linoleum on the floor and the American cloth on the
table were equally bright. The air was pure -- absolutely pure. All
the bunks were made tidy, and the stools put in their places. There
was no one here.

"You have only seen a fraction of our underground palaces, but I
thought we would take a turn in the loft first and see what it is
like. Follow me." We went out into the kitchen, and then up some steps
fastened in the wall, and through the trap-door to the loft. With the
help of a little electric lamp, we were able to look about us. The
first thing that met my eyes was the library. There stood the Framheim
library, and it made the same good impression as everything else --
books numbered from 1 to 80 in three shelves. The catalogue lay by the
side of them, and I cast my eye over it. Here were books to suit all
tastes; "Librarian, Adolf Henrik Lindstrom," I read at the end. So
he was librarian, too-truly a many-sided man. Long rows of cases
stood here, full of whortleberry jam, cranberries, syrup, cream,
sugar, and pickles. In one corner I saw every sign of a dark-room;
a curtain was hung up to keep the light off, and there was an array
of developing-dishes, measuring-glasses, etc. This loft was made good
use of. We had now seen everything, and descended again to continue
our inspection.

Just as we reached the pent-house, Lindstrom came in with a big bucket
of ice; I understood that it was to be used in the manufacture of
water. My companion had armed himself with a large and powerful
lantern, and I saw that we were going to begin our underground
travels. In the north wall of the pent-house there was a door, and
through this we went, entering a passage built against the house, and
dark as the grave. The lantern had lost its power of illumination;
it burned with a dull, dead light, which did not seem to penetrate
beyond the glass. I stretched my hands in front of me. My host stopped
and gave me a lecture on the wonderful order and tidiness they had
succeeded in establishing among them. I was a willing listener, for
I had already seen enough to be able to certify the truth of what he
told me without hesitation. But in the place we were now in, I had
to take his word for it, for it was all as black as bilge-water. We
had just started to move on again, and I felt so secure, after
all he had told me about the orderly way things were kept, that I
let go my guide's anorak, which I had been holding. But that was
foolish of me. Smack! I went down at full length. I had trodden
on something round -- something that brought me down. As I fell,
I caught hold of something -- also round -- and I lay convulsively
clutching it. I wanted to convince myself of what it was that lay
about on the floor of such a tidy house. The glimmer of the lantern,
though not particularly strong, was enough to show me what I held
in my arms -- a Dutch cheese! I put it back in the same place --
for the sake of tidiness -- sat up, and looked down at my feet. What
was it I had stumbled over? A Dutch cheese -- if it wasn't another
of the same family! I began to form my own opinion of the tidiness
now, but said nothing. But I should like to know why he didn't fall
over the cheeses, as he was walking in front. Oh, I answered myself,
I guess he knew what sort of order the place was in.

At the eastern end of the house the passage was brilliantly lighted
up by the window that looked out on this side; I could now see
more clearly where I was. Opposite the window, in the part of the
Barrier that here formed the other wall of the passage, a great hole
had been dug; nothing was to be seen in it but black darkness. My
companion knew his way, so I could rely upon him, but I should have
hesitated to go in there alone. The hole extended into the Barrier,
and finally formed a fairly large room with a vaulted roof. A spade
and an axe on the floor were all I saw. What in the world was this
hall used for? "You see, all the ice and snow from here has gone to
our water-supply." So this was Lindstrom's quarry, from which he
had hewn out ice and snow all these months for cooking, drinking,
and washing. In one of the walls, close to the floor, there was a
little hole just big enough for a man to crawl through.

"Now you must make yourself small and follow me; we are going to visit
Hanssen and Wisting." And my companion disappeared like a snake into
the hole. I threw myself down, quick as lightning, and followed. I
would not have cared to be left alone there in pitch-darkness. I
managed to get hold of one of his calves, and did not let go until
I saw light on the other side. The passage we crept through was
equally narrow all the way, and forced one to crawl on hands and
knees; fortunately, it was not long. It ended in a fairly large,
square room. A low table stood in the middle of the floor, and on
it Helmer Hanssen was engaged in lashing sledges. The room gave
one the impression of being badly lighted, though it had a lamp and
candles. On a closer examination, I found that this was due to the
number of dark objects the place contained. Against one of the walls
there was clothing -- immense piles of skin -- clothing. Over this
were spread blankets to protect it from the rime that was formed on
the roof and fell down. Against the opposite wall was a stack of
sledges, and at the end, opposite the door, were piles of woollen
underclothing. Any outfitter in Christiania might have envied this
stock; here one saw Iceland jackets, sweaters, underclothes of immense
thickness and dimensions, stockings, mits, etc. In the corner formed
by this wall and the one where the sledges stood was the little hole
by which we had entered. Beyond the sledges, in the same wall, there
was a door with a curtain in front of it, and from within it came a
strange humming. I was much interested to know what this might be,
but had to hear first what these two had to say.

"What do you think of the lashings now, Hanssen?"

"Oh, they'll hold right enough; at any rate, they'll be better than
they were before. Look here, how they've pointed the ends!"

I leaned forward to see what was wrong with the sledge-lashings, and,
I must say, what I saw surprised me. Is such a thing possible? The
pointing of a lashing is a thing a sailor is very careful about. He
knows that if the end is badly pointed, it does not matter how well the
lashing is put on; therefore it is an invariable rule that lashings
must be pointed as carefully as possible. When I looked at this one,
what do you think I saw? Why, the end of the lashing was nailed down
with a little tack, such as one would use to fasten labels. "That
would be a nice thing to take to the Pole!" This final observation
of Hanssen's was doubtless the mildest expression of what he thought
of the work. I saw how the new lashings were being put on, and I was
quite ready to agree with Hanssen that they would do the work. It was,
by the way, no easy job, this lashing at -15deg.F., as the thermometer
showed, but Hanssen did not seem to mind it.

I had heard that Wisting also took part in this work, but he was
not to be seen. Where could he be? My eyes involuntarily sought the
curtain, behind which the humming sound was audible. I was now ready
to burst with curiosity. At last the lashing question appears to be
thrashed out, and my companion shows signs of moving on. He leaves
his lantern and goes up to the curtain. "Wisting!" -- "Yes!" The
answer seems to come from a far distance. The humming ceases, and the
curtain is thrust aside. Then I am confronted by the sight that has
impressed me most of all on this eventful day. There sits Wisting, in
the middle of the Barrier, working a sewing-machine. The temperature
outside is now -60deg.F. This seems to me to require some explanation;
I slink through the opening to get a closer view. Then -- ugh! I am
met by a regular tropical blast. I glance at the thermometer; it shows
+50deg. F. But how can this be? Here he is, sewing in an ice-cellar at
+50deg.. I was told in my school-days that ice melts at about +32deg.. If
the same law is still in operation, he ought to be sitting in a
shower-bath. I go right in; the sewing-room is not large, about 6 feet
each way. Besides the sewing-machine -- a modern treadle-machine --
the room contains a number of instruments, compasses, and so forth,
besides the large tent he is now working on. But what interests me
most is the way in which he circumvents the shower-bath. I see it now;
it is very cleverly contrived. He has covered the roof and walls with
tin and canvas, so arranged that all the melting ice goes the same
way, and runs into a wash-tub that stands below. In this manner he
collects washing water, which is such a precious commodity in these
regions -- wily man! I afterwards hear that nearly all the outfit
for the Polar journey is being made in this little ice-cabin. Well,
with men like these I don't think Amundsen will deserve any credit
for reaching the Pole. He ought to be thrashed if he doesn't.