The South Pole, Volumes 1 and 2 by Roald Amundsen

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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.

Next morning, November 29, brought considerably clearer weather,
and allowed us a very good survey of our position. We could now see
that the two mountain ranges uniting in 86deg. S. were continued in a
mighty chain running to the south-east, with summits from 10,000 to
15,000 feet. Mount Thorvald Nilsen was the most southerly we could
see from this point. Mounts Hanssen, Wisting, Bjaaland, and Hassel
formed, as we had thought the day before, a group by themselves,
and lay separated from the main range.

The drivers had a warm morning's work. They had to drive with great
circumspection and patience to grapple with the kind of ground we
had before us; a slight mistake might be enough to send both sledge
and dogs with lightning rapidity into the next world. It took,
nevertheless, a remarkably short time to cover the distance we had
explored on the previous evening; before we knew it, we were at
Hell's Gate.

Bjaaland took an excellent photograph here, which gives a very good
idea of the difficulties this part of the journey presented. In the
foreground, below the high snow-ridge that forms one side of a very
wide but partly filled-up crevasse, the marks of ski can be seen in the
snow. This was the photographer, who, in passing over this snow-bridge,
struck his ski into it to try the strength of the support. Close to
the tracks can be seen an open piece of the crevasse; it is a pale
blue at the top, but ends in the deepest black -- in a bottomless
abyss. The photographer got over the bridge and back with a whole skin,
but there could be no question of risking sledges and dogs on it, and
it can be seen in the photograph that the sledges have been turned
right round to try another way. The two small black figures in the
distance, on the right, are Hassel and I, who are reconnoitring ahead.

It was no very great distance that we put behind us that day-nine
and a quarter miles in a straight line. But, taking into account all
the turns and circuits we had been compelled to make, it was not so
short after all. We set our tent on a good, solid foundation, and were
well pleased with the day's work. The altitude was 8,960 feet above
the sea. The sun was now in the west, and shining directly upon the
huge mountain masses. It was a fairy landscape in blue and white, red
and black, a play of colours that defies description. Clear as it now
appeared to be, one could understand that the weather was not all that
could be wished, for the south-eastern end of Mount Thorvald Nilsen
lost itself in a dark, impenetrable cloud, which led one to suspect
a continuation in that direction, though one could not be certain.

Mount Nilsen -- ah! anything more beautiful, taking it altogether,
I have never seen. Peaks of the most varied forms rose high into the
air, partly covered with driving clouds. Some were sharp, but most
were long and rounded. Here and there one saw bright, shining glaciers
plunging wildly down the steep sides, and merging into the underlying
ground in fearful confusion. But the most remarkable of them all was
Mount Helmer Hanssen; its top was as round as the bottom of a bowl,
and covered by an extraordinary ice-sheet, which was so broken up and
disturbed that the blocks of ice bristled in every direction like the
quills of a porcupine. It glittered and burned in the sunlight -- a
glorious spectacle. There could only be one such mountain in the world,
and as a landmark it was priceless. We knew that we could not mistake
that, however the surroundings might appear on the return journey,
when possibly the conditions of lighting might be altogether different.

After camping, two of us went out to explore farther. The prospect from
the tent was not encouraging, but we might possibly find things better
than we expected. We were lucky to find the going so fine as it was
on the glacier; we had left our crampons behind at the Butcher's Shop,
and if we had found smooth ice, instead of a good, firm snow surface,
such as we now had, it would have caused us much trouble. Up --
still up, among monsters of crevasses, some of them hundreds of feet
wide and possibly thousands of feet deep. Our prospects of advancing
were certainly not bright; as far as we could see in the line of our
route one immense ridge towered above another, concealing on their
farther sides huge, wide chasms, which all had to be avoided. We went
forward -- steadily forward -- though the way round was both long and
troublesome. We had no rope on this time, as the irregularities were
so plain that it would have been difficult to go into them. It turned
out, however, at several points, that the rope would not have been
out of place. We were just going to cross over one of the numerous
ridges -- the surface here looked perfectly whole -- when a great
piece broke right under the back half of Hanssen's ski. We could
not deny ourselves the pleasure of glancing down into the hole. The
sight was not an inviting one, and we agreed to avoid this place when
we came on with our dogs and sledges. Every day we had occasion to
bless our ski. We often used to ask each other where we should now
have been without these excellent appliances. The usual answer was:
Most probably at the bottom of some crevasse. When we first read
the different accounts of the aspect and nature of the Barrier, it
was clear to all of us, who were born and bred with ski on our feet,
that these must be regarded as indispensable. This view was confirmed
and strengthened every day, and I am not giving too much credit to our
excellent ski when I say that they not only played a very important
part, but possibly the most important of all, on our journey to the
South Pole. Many a time we traversed stretches of surface so cleft
and disturbed that it would have been an impossibility to get over
them on foot. I need scarcely insist on the advantages of ski in deep,
loose snow.

After advancing for two hours, we decided to return. From the raised
ridge on which we were then standing, the surface ahead of us looked
more promising than ever; but we had so often been deceived on the
glacier that we had now become definitely sceptical. How often,
for instance, had we thought that beyond this or that undulation
our trials would be at an end, and that the way to the south would
lie open and free; only to reach the place and find that the ground
behind the ridge was, if possible, worse than what we had already been
struggling with. But this time we seemed somehow to feel victory in
the air. The formations appeared to promise it, and yet -- had we been
so often deceived by these formations that we now refused to offer
them a thought? Was it possibly instinct that told us this? I do not
know, but certain it is that Hanssen and I agreed, as we stood there
discussing our prospects, that behind the farthest ridge we saw, we
should conquer the glacier. We had a feverish desire to go and have
a look at it; but the way round the many crevasses was long, and --
I may as well admit it -- we were beginning to get tired. The return,
downhill as it was, did not take long, and soon we were able to tell
our comrades that the prospects for the morrow were very promising.