The South Pole, Volumes 1 and 2 by Roald Amundsen

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On our way southward we had taken a good deal of seal meat and had
divided it among the depots we built on the Barrier in such a way that
we were now able to eat fresh meat every day. This had not been done
without an object; if we should be visited with scurvy, this fresh meat
would be invaluable. As we were -- sound and healthy as we had never
been before -- the seal-beef was a pleasant distraction in our menu,
nothing more. The temperature had risen greatly since we came down
on to the Barrier, and kept steady at about + 14deg. F. We were so warm
in our sleeping-bags that we had to turn them with the hair out. That
was better; we breathed more freely and felt happier. "Just like going
into an ice-cellar," somebody remarked. The same feeling as when on
a really warm summer day one comes out of the hot sun into cool shade.

January 9. -- "Same beastly weather; snow, snow, snow, nothing but
snow. Is there no end to it? Thick too, so that we have not been able
to see ten yards ahead. Temperature + 17.6deg. F. Thawing everywhere
on the sledges. Everything getting wet. Have not found a single
beacon in this blind man's weather. The snow was very deep to begin
with and the going exceedingly heavy, but in spite of this the dogs
managed their sledges very well." That evening the weather improved,
fortunately, and became comparatively clear by the time we resumed our
journey at 10 p.m. Not long after we sighted one of our beacons. It
lay to the west, about 200 yards away. We were thus not far out of
our course; we turned aside and went up to it, as it was interesting
to see whether our reckoning was in order. The beacon was somewhat
damaged by sunshine and storms, but we found the paper left in it,
which told us that this beacon was erected on November 14, in 84deg. 26'
S. It also told us what course to steer by compass to reach the next
beacon, which lay five kilometres from this one.

As we were leaving this old friend and setting our course as it
advised, to our unspeakable astonishment two great birds -- skua gulls
-- suddenly came flying straight towards us. They circled round us
once or twice and then settled on the beacon. Can anyone who reads
these lines form an idea of the effect this had upon us? It is hardly
likely. They brought us a message from the living world into this realm
of death -- a message of all that was dear to us. I think the same
thoughts filled us all. They did not allow themselves a long rest,
these first messengers from another world; they sat still a while,
no doubt wondering who we were, then rose aloft and flew on to the
south. Mysterious creatures! they were now exactly half-way between
Framheim and the Pole, and yet they were going farther inland. Were
they going over to the other side?

Our march ended this time at one of our beacons, in 84deg. 15'. It
felt so good and safe to lie beside one of these; it always gave
us a sure starting-point for the following stage. We were up at
4 a.m. and left the place a few hours later, with the result that
the day's march brought us thirty-four miles nearer Framheim. With
our present arrangement, we had these long-day marches every other
day. Our dogs need no better testimonial than this -- one day
seventeen miles, the next day thirty-four, and fresh all the way
home. The two birds, agreeably as their first appearance had affected
me, led my thoughts after a while in another direction, which was
anything but agreeable. It occurred to me that these two might only
be representatives of a larger collection of these voracious birds,
and that the remainder might now be occupied in consuming all the fresh
meat we had so laboriously transported with us and spread all over the
plain in our depots. It is incredible what a flock of these birds of
prey can get rid of; it would not matter if the meat were frozen as
hard as iron, they would have managed it, even if it had been a good
deal harder than iron. Of the seals' carcasses we had lying in 80deg.,
I saw in my thoughts nothing but the bones. Of the various dogs we
had killed on our way south and laid on the tops of beacons I did not
see even so much as that. Well, it was possible that my thoughts had
begun to assume too dark a hue; perhaps the reality would be brighter.

Weather and going began by degrees to right themselves; it looked as if
things would improve in proportion to our distance from land. Finally,
both became perfect; the sun shone from a cloudless sky, and the
sledges ran on the fine, even surface with all the ease and speed
that could be desired. Bjaaland, who had occupied the position of
forerunner all the way from the Pole, performed his duties admirably;
but the old saying that nobody is perfect applied even to him. None
of us -- no matter who it may be -- can keep in a straight line, when
he has no marks to follow. All the more difficult is this when, as so
often happened with us, one has to go blindly. Most of us, I suppose,
would swerve now to one side, now to the other, and possibly end,
after all this groping, by keeping pretty well to the line. Not so
with Bjaaland; he was a right-hand man. I can see him now; Hanssen
has given him the direction by compass, and Bjaaland turns round,
points his ski in the line indicated and sets of with decision. His
movements clearly show that he has made up his mind, cost what it
may, to keep in the right direction. He sends his ski firmly along,
so that the snow spurts from them, and looks straight before him. But
the result is the same; if Hanssen had let Bjaaland go on without any
correction, in the course of an hour or so the latter would probably
have described a beautiful circle and brought himself back to the spot
from which he had started. Perhaps. after all, this was not a fault to
complain of, since we always knew with absolute certainty that, when
we had got out of the line of beacons, we were to the right of it and
had to search for the beacons to the west. This conclusion proved very
useful to us more than once, and we gradually became so familiar with
Bjaaland's right-handed tendencies that we actually counted on them.

On January 13, according to our reckoning, we ought to reach the depot
in 83deg. S. This was the last of our depots that was not marked at right
angles to the route, and therefore the last critical point. The day
was not altogether suited for finding the needle in the haystack. It
was calm with a thick fog, so thick that we could only see a few yards
in front of us. We did not see a single beacon on the whole march. At
4 p.m. we had completed the distance, according to the sledge-meters,
and reckoned that we ought to be in 83deg. S., by the depot; but there
was nothing to be seen. We decided, therefore, to set our tent and
wait till it cleared. While we were at work with this, there was a
rift in the thick mass of fog, and there, not many yards away -- to
the west, of course -- lay our depot. We quickly took the tent down
again, packed it on the sledge, and drove up to our food mound, which
proved to be quite in order. There was no sign of the birds having
paid it a visit. But what was that? Fresh, well-marked dog-tracks
in the newly-fallen snow. We soon saw that they must be the tracks
of the runaways that we had lost here on the way south. Judging by
appearances, they must have lain under the lee of the depot for
a considerable time; two deep hollows in the snow told us that
plainly. And evidently they must have had enough food, but where
on earth had they got it from? The depot was absolutely untouched,
in spite of the fact that the lumps of pemmican lay exposed to the
light of day and were very easy to get at; besides which, the snow on
the depot was not so hard as to prevent the dogs pulling it down and
eating up all the food. Meanwhile the dogs had left the place again,
as shown by the fresh trail, which pointed to the north. We examined
the tracks very closely, and agreed that they were not more than
two days old. They went northward, and we followed them from time to
time on our next stage. At the beacon in 82deg. 45', where we halted,
we saw them still going to the north. In 82deg. 24' the trail began to
be much confused, and ended by pointing due west. That was the last
we saw of the tracks; but we had not done with these dogs, or rather
with their deeds. We stopped at the beacon in 82deg. 20'. Else, who
had been laid on the top of it, had fallen down and lay by the side;
the sun had thawed away the lower part of the beacon. So the roving
dogs had not been here; so much was certain, for otherwise we should
not have found Else as we did. We camped at the end of that stage by
the beacon in 82deg. 15', and shared out Else's body. Although she had
been lying in the strong sunshine, the flesh was quite good, when we
had scraped away a little mouldiness. It smelt rather old, perhaps,
but our dogs were not fastidious when it was a question of meat.

On January 16 we arrived at the depot in 82deg. S. We could see
from a long way off that the order in which we had left it no
longer prevailed. When we came up to it, we saw at once what had
happened. The innumerable dog-tracks that had trampled the snow quite
hard round the depot declared plainly enough that the runaways had
spent a good deal of time here. Several of the cases belonging to
the depot had fallen down, presumably from the same cause as Else,
and the rascals had succeeded in breaking into one of them. Of the
biscuits and pemmican which it had contained, nothing, of course,
was left; but that made no difference to us now, as we had food in
abundance. The two dogs' carcasses that we had placed on the top of
the depot -- Uranus and Jaala -- were gone, not even the teeth were to
be seen. Yet they had left the teeth of Lucy, whom they had eaten in
82deg. 3'. Jaala's eight puppies were still lying on the top of a case;
curiously enough, they had not fallen down. In addition to all the
rest, the beasts had devoured some ski-bindings and things of that
sort. It was no loss to us, as it happened; but who could tell which
way these creatures had gone? If they had succeeded in finding the
depot in 80deg. S., they would probably by this time have finished our
supply of seal meat there. Of course it would be regrettable if this
had happened, although it would entail no danger either to ourselves
or our animals. If we got as far as 80deg., we should come through all
right. For the time being, we had to console ourselves with the fact
that we could see no continuation of the trail northward.

We permitted ourselves a little feast here in 82deg.. The "chocolate
pudding" that Wisting served as dessert is still fresh in my memory;
we all agreed that it came nearer perfection than anything it had
hitherto fallen to our lot to taste. I may disclose the receipt:
biscuit-crumbs, dried milk and chocolate are put into a kettle of
boiling water. What happens afterwards, I don't know; for further
information apply to Wisting. Between 82deg. and 81deg. we came into our
old marks of the second depot journey; on that trip we had marked
this distance with splinters of packing-case at every geographical
mile. That was in March, 1911, and now we were following these
splinters in the second half of January, 1912. Apparently they stood
exactly as they had been put in. This marking stopped in 81deg. 33' S.,
with two pieces of case on a snow pedestal. The pedestal was still
intact and good.

I shall let my diary describe what we saw on January 18: "Unusually
fine weather to-day. Light south-south-west breeze, which in the
course of our march cleared the whole sky. In 81deg. 20' we came abreast
of our old big pressure ridges. We now saw far more of them than ever
before. They extended as far as the eye could see, running north-east
to south-west, in ridges and peaks. Great was our surprise when, a
short time after, we made out high, bare land in the same direction,
and not long after that two lofty, white summits to the south-east,
probably in about 82deg. S. It could be seen by the look of the sky
that the land extended from north-east to south-west. This must be
the same land that we saw lose itself in the horizon in about 84deg.S.,
when we stood at a height of about 4,000 feet and looked out over
the Barrier, during our ascent. We now have sufficient indications to
enable us without hesitation to draw this land as continuous -- Carmen
Land. The surface against the land is violently disturbed -- crevasses
and pressure ridges, waves and valleys, in all directions. We shall
no doubt feel the effect of it to-morrow." Although what we have seen
apparently justifies us in concluding that Carmen Land extends from
86deg. S. to this position -- about 81deg. 30' S. -- and possibly farther
to the north-east, I have not ventured to lay it down thus on the
map. I have contented myself with giving the name of Carmen Land to
the land between 86deg. and 84deg., and have called the rest "Appearance
of Land." It will be a profitable task for an explorer to investigate
this district more closely.

As we had expected, on our next stage we were made to feel the effect
of the disturbances. Three times we had now gone over this stretch of
the Barrier without having really clear weather. This time we had it,
and were able to see what it actually looked like. The irregularities
began in 81deg. 12' S., and did not extend very far from north to
south-possibly about five kilometres (three and a quarter miles). How
far they extended from east to west it is difficult to say, but at any
rate as far as the eye could reach. Immense pieces of the surface had
fallen away and opened up the most horrible yawning gulfs, big enough
to swallow many caravans of the size of ours. From these open holes,
ugly wide cracks ran out in all directions; besides which, mounds and
haycocks were everywhere to be seen. Perhaps the most remarkable thing
of all was that we had passed over here unharmed. We went across as
light-footedly as possible, and at top speed. Hanssen went halfway
into a crevasse, but luckily got out of it again without difficulty.

The depot in 81deg. S. was in perfect order; no dog-tracks to be
seen there. Our hopes that the depot in 80deg. S. would be intact rose
considerably. In 80deg. 45' S. lay the first dog we had killed -- Bone. He
was particularly fat, and was immensely appreciated. The dogs no
longer cared very much for pemmican. On January 21 we passed our last
beacon, which stood in 80deg. 23' S. Glad as we were to leave it behind,
I cannot deny that it was with a certain feeling of melancholy that
we saw it vanish. We had grown so fond of our beacons, and whenever
we met them we greeted them as old friends. Many and great were the
services these silent watchers did us on our long and lonely way.

On the same day we reached our big depot in 80deg. S., and now we
considered that we were back. We could see at once that others had
been at the depot since we had left it, and we found a message from
Lieutenant Prestrud, the leader of the eastern party, saying that he,
with Stubberud and Johansen, had passed here on November 12, with two
sledges, sixteen dogs, and supplies for thirty days. Everything thus
appeared to be in the best of order. Immediately on arriving at the
depot we let the dogs loose, and they made a dash for the heap of
seal's flesh, which had been attacked neither by birds nor dogs in
our absence. It was not so much for the sake of eating that our dogs
made their way to the meat mound, as for the sake of fighting. Now
they really had something to fight about. They went round the seals'
carcasses a few times, looked askance at the food and at each other,
and then flung themselves into the wildest scrimmage. When this had
been duly brought to a conclusion, they went away and lay round their
sledges. The depot in 80deg. S. is still large, well supplied and well
marked, so it is not impossible that it may be found useful later.

The journey from 80deg. S. to Framheim has been so often described that
there is nothing new to say about it. On January 25, at 4 a.m., we
reached our good little house again, with two sledges and eleven dogs;
men and animals all hale and hearty. We stood and waited for each other
outside the door in the early morning; our appearance must be made all
together. It was so still and quiet -- they must be all asleep. We came
in. Stubberud started up in his bunk and glared at us; no doubt he took
us for ghosts. One after another they woke up -- not grasping what was
happening. Then there was a hearty welcome home on all sides "Where's
the Fram?" was of course our first question Our joy was great when we
heard all was well. "And what about the Pole? Have you been there?" --
"Yes, of course; otherwise you would hardly have seen us again." Then
the coffee kettle was put on, and the perfume of "hot cakes" rose as
in old days. We agreed that it was good outside, but still better at
home. Ninety-nine days the trip had taken. Distance about 1,860 miles.

The Franz had come in to the Barrier on January 8, after a three
months' voyage from Buenos Aires; all were well on board. Meanwhile,
bad weather had forced her to put out again. On the following day the
lookout man reported that the Fram was approaching There was life in
the camp; on with furs and out with the dogs. They should see that our
dogs were not worn out yet. We heard the engine panting and grunting,
saw the crow's-nest appear over the edge of the Barrier, and at last
she glided in, sure and steady. It was with a joyful heart I went
on board and greeted all these gallant men, who had brought the
Franz to her destination through so many fatigues and perils, and
had accomplished so much excellent work on the way. They all looked
pleased and happy, but nobody asked about the Pole. At last it slipped
out of Gjertsen: "Have you been there?" Joy is a poor name for the
feeling that beamed in my comrades' faces; it was something more.

I shut myself up in the chart-house with Captain Nilsen, who gave
me my mail and all the news. Three names stood high above the rest,
when I was able to understand all that had happened -- the names of
the three who gave me their support when it was most needed. I shall
always remember them in respectful gratitude --

H. M. The King, Professor Fridtjof Nansen, Don Pedro Christophersen.

CHAPTER XIV

Northward

After two days of bustle in getting on board the things we were
to take with us, we managed to be ready for sea on the afternoon of
January 30. There could scarcely have been anything at that moment that
rejoiced us more than just that fact, that we were able at so early a
date to set our course northward and thus take the first step on the
way to that world which, as we knew, would soon begin to expect news
from us, or of us. And yet, I wonder whether there was not a little
feeling of melancholy in the midst of all our joy? It can hardly be
doubted that such was really the case, although to many this may seem
a flat contradiction. But it is not altogether so easy to part from
a place that has been one's home for any length of time, even though
this home lie in the 79th degree of latitude, more or less buried in
snow and ice. We human beings are far too dependent on habit to be
able to tear ourselves abruptly from the surroundings with which we
have been obliged to be familiar for many months. That outsiders would
perhaps pray all the powers of goodness to preserve them from such
surroundings, does not counteract the full validity of this rule. To
an overwhelming majority of our fellow-men Framheim will certainly
appear as one of those spots on our planet where they would least of
all wish to find themselves -- a God-forsaken, out-of-the-way hole
that could offer nothing but the very climax of desolation, discomfort,
and boredom. To us nine, who stood on the gangway ready to leave this
place, things appeared somewhat differently. That strong little house,
that now lay entirely hidden beneath the snow behind Mount Nelson, had
for a whole year been our home, and a thoroughly good and comfortable
home it was, where after so many a hard day's work we had found all
the rest and quiet we wanted. Through the whole Antarctic winter --
and it is a winter -- those four walls had protected us so well that
many a poor wretch in milder latitudes would have envied us with all
his heart, if he could have seen us. In conditions so hard that every
form of life flies headlong from them, we had lived on at Framheim
undisturbed and untroubled, and lived, be it said, not as animals,
but as civilized human beings, who had always within their reach most
of the good things that are found in a well-ordered home. Darkness
and cold reigned outside, and the blizzards no doubt did their best
to blot out most traces of our activity, but these enemies never came
within the door of our excellent dwelling; there we shared quarters
with light and warmth and comfort. What wonder was it that this spot
exercised a strong attraction upon each of us at the moment when we
were to turn our backs upon it for good? Outside the great world
beckoned to us, that is true; and it might have much to offer us
that we had had to forego for a long time; but in what awaited us
there was certainly a great deal that we would gladly have put off
for as long as possible. When everyday life came with its cares and
worries, it might well happen that we should look back with regret
to our peaceful and untroubled existence at Framheim.

However, this feeling of melancholy was hardly so strong that we
could not all get over it comparatively quickly. Judging by the
faces, at any rate, one would have thought that joy was the most
predominant mood. And why not? It was no use dwelling on the past,
however attractive it might seem just then, and as to the future, we
had every right to expect the best of it. Who cared to think of coming
troubles? No one. Therefore the Fram was dressed with flags from stem
to stern, and therefore faces beamed at each other as we said good-bye
to our home on the Barrier. We could leave it with the consciousness
that the object of our year's stay had been attained, and, after all,
this consciousness was of considerably more weight than the thought
that we had been so happy there. One thing that in the course of our
two years' association on this expedition contributed enormously to
making time pass easily and keeping each of us in full vigour was
the entire absence of what I may call "dead periods." As soon as one
problem was solved, another instantly appeared. No sooner was one goal
reached, than the next one beckoned from afar. In this way we always
had our hands full, and when that is the case, as everyone knows,
time flies quickly. One often hears it asked, How is it possible to
make the time pass on such a trip? My good friends, I would answer,
if anything caused us worry, it was the thought of how we should
find time enough for all we had to do. Perhaps to many this assertion
will bear the stamp of improbability; it is, nevertheless, absolutely
true. Those who have read this narrative through will, in any case,
have received the impression that unemployment was an evil that was
utterly unknown in our little community.

At the stage where we now found ourselves, with the main object of
our enterprise achieved, there might have been reason to expect
a certain degree of relaxation of interest. This, however, was
not the case. The fact was that what we had done would have no
real value until it was brought to the knowledge of mankind, and
this communication had to be made with as little loss of time as
possible. If anyone was interested in being first in the market it was
certainly ourselves. The probability was, no doubt, that we were out
in good time; but, in spite of all, it was only a probability. On the
other hand, it was absolutely certain that we had a voyage of 2,400
nautical miles to Hobart, which had been selected as our first port
of call; and it was almost equally certain that this voyage would be
both slow and troublesome. A year before our trip through Ross Sea had
turned out almost like a pleasure cruise, but that was in the middle of
summer. Now we were in February, and autumn was at hand. As regards the
belt of drift-ice, Captain Nilsen thought that would cause us no delay
in future. He had discovered a patent and infallible way of getting
through! This sounded like a rather bold assertion, but, as will be
seen later, he was as good as his word. Our worst troubles would be
up in the westerlies, where we should this time be exposed to the
unpleasant possibility of having to beat. The difference in longitude
between the Bay of Whales and Hobart is nearly fifty degrees. If we
could have sailed off this difference in longitude in the latitudes
where we then were, and where a degree of longitude is only about
thirteen nautical miles, it would all have been done in a twinkling;
but the mighty mountain ranges of North Victoria Land were a decisive
obstacle. We should first have to follow a northerly course until we
had rounded the Antarctic Continent's northern outpost, Cape Adare,
and the Balleny Islands to the north of it. Not till then would the
way be open for us to work to the west; but then we should be in a
region where in all probability the wind would be dead against us,
and as to tacking with the Fram -- no, thank you! Every single man on
board knew enough of the conditions to be well aware of what awaited
us, and it is equally certain that the thoughts of all were centred
upon how we might conquer our coming difficulties in the best and
quickest way. It was the one great, common object that still bound,
and would continue to bind, us all together in our joint efforts.