The South Pole, Volumes 1 and 2 by Roald Amundsen

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Among the items of news that we had just received from the outer
world was the message that the Australian Antarctic Expedition under
Dr. Douglas Mawson would be glad to take over some of our dogs,
if we had any to spare. The base of this expedition was Hobart,
and as far as that went, this suited us very well. It chanced that
we were able to do our esteemed colleague this small service. On
leaving the Barrier we could show a pack of thirty-nine dogs, many
of which had grown up during our year's stay there; about half had
survived the whole trip from Norway, and eleven had been at the South
Pole. It had been our intention only to keep a suitable number as the
progenitors of a new pack for the approaching voyage in the Arctic
Ocean, but Dr. Mawson's request caused us to take all the thirty-nine
on board. Of these dogs, if nothing unforeseen happened, we should be
able to make over twenty-one to him. When the last load was brought
down, there was nothing to do but to pull the dogs over the side,
and then we were ready. It was quite curious to see how several of
the old veterans seemed at home again on the Fram's deck. Wisting's
brave dog, the old Colonel, with his two adjutants, Suggen and Arne,
at once took possession of the places where they had stood for so
many a long day on the voyage south -- on the starboard side of the
mainmast; the two twins, Mylius and Ring, Helmer Hanssen's special
favourites, began their games away in the corner of the fore-deck
to port, as though nothing had happened. To look at those two merry
rascals no one would have thought they had trotted at the head of
the whole caravan both to and from the Pole. One solitary dog could
be seen stalking about, lonely and reserved, in a continual uneasy
search. This was the boss of Bjaaland's team. He was unaffected by
any advances; no one could take the place of his fallen comrade and
friend, Frithjof, who had long ago found a grave in the stomachs of
his companions many hundreds of miles across the Barrier.

No sooner was the last dog helped on board, and the two ice-anchors
released, than the engine-room telegraph rang, and the engine was at
once set going to keep us from any closer contact with the ice-foot
in the Bay of Whales. Our farewell to this snug harbour took almost
the form of a leap from one world to another; the fog hung over us
as thick as gruel, concealing all the surrounding outlines behind its
clammy curtain, as we stood out. After a lapse of three or four hours,
it lifted quite suddenly, but astern of us the bank of fog still stood
like a wall; behind it the panorama, which we knew would have looked
wonderful in clear weather, and which we should so gladly have let
our eyes rest upon as long as we could, was entirely concealed.

The same course we had steered when coming in a year before could
safely be taken in the opposite direction now we were going out. The
outlines of the bay had remained absolutely unchanged during the year
that had elapsed. Even the most projecting point of the wall on the
west side of the bay, Cape Man's Head, stood serenely in its old place,
and it looked as if it was in no particular hurry to remove itself. It
will probably stay where it is for many a long day yet, for if any
movement of the ice mass is taking place at the inner end of the bay,
it is in any case very slight. Only in one respect did the condition of
things differ somewhat this year from the preceding. Whereas in 1911
the greater part of the bay was free of sea-ice as early as January
14, in 1912 there was no opening until about fourteen days later. The
ice-sheet had stubbornly held on until the fresh north-easterly
breeze, that appeared on the very day the southern party returned,
had rapidly provided a channel of open water. The breaking up of the
ice could not possibly have taken place at a more convenient moment;
the breeze in question saved us a great deal, both of time and trouble,
as the way to the place where the Fram lay before the ice broke up
was about five times as long as the distance we now had to go. This
difference of fourteen days in the time of the disappearance of the
ice in two summers showed us how lucky we had been to choose that
particular year -- 1911 -- for our landing here. The work which we
carried out in three weeks in 1911, thanks to the early breaking up
of the ice, would certainly have taken us double the time in 1912,
and would have caused us far more difficulty and trouble.

The thick fog that, as I have said, lay over the Bay of Whales when we
left it, prevented us also from seeing what our friends the Japanese
were doing. The Kainan Maru had put to sea in company with the Fram
during the gale of January 27, and since that time we had seen nothing
of them. Those members of the expedition who had been left behind in
a tent on the edge of the Barrier to the north of Framheim had also
been very retiring of late. On the day we left the place, one of our
own party had an interview with two of the foreigners. Prestrud had
gone to fetch the flag that had been set up on Cape Man's Head as a
signal to the Fram that all had returned. By the side of the flag a
tent had been put up, which was intended as a shelter for a lookout
man, in case the Fram had been delayed. When Prestrud came up, he was
no doubt rather surprised to find himself face to face with two sons
of Nippon, who were engaged in inspecting our tent and its contents,
which, however, only consisted of a sleeping-bag and a Primus. The
Japanese had opened the conversation with enthusiastic phrases about
"nice day" and "plenty ice"; when our man had expressed his absolute
agreement on these indisputable facts, he tried to get information
on matters of more special interest. The two strangers told him that
for the moment they were the only inhabitants of the tent out on
the edge of the Barrier. Two of their companions had gone on a tour
into the Barrier to make meteorological observations, and were to be
away about a week. The Kainan Maru had gone on another cruise in the
direction of King Edward Land. As far as they knew, it was intended
that the ship should be back before February 10, and that all the
members of the expedition should then go on board and sail to the
north. Prestrud had invited his two new acquaintances to visit us at
Framheim, the sooner the better; they delayed their coming too long,
however, for us to be able to wait for them. If they have since been
at Framheim, they will at any rate be able to bear witness that we
did our best to make things comfortable for any successors.

When the fog lifted, we found ourselves surrounded by open sea,
practically free from ice, on all sides. A blue-black sea, with a
heavy, dark sky above it, is not usually reckoned among the sights
that delight the eye. To our organs of vision it was a real relief to
come into surroundings where dark colours predominated. For months
we had been staring at a dazzling sea of white, where artificial
means had constantly to be employed to protect the eyes against the
excessive flood of light. As a rule, it was even necessary to limit
the exposure of the pupils to a minimum, and to draw the eyelids
together. Now we could once more look on the world with open eyes,
literally "without winking "; even such a commonplace thing as this
is an experience in one's life. Ross Sea showed itself again on its
most favourable side. A cat's paw of south-westerly wind enabled us
to use the sails, so that after a lapse of two days we were already
about two hundred miles from the Barrier. Modest as this distance
may be in itself, when seen on the chart it looked quite imposing in
our eyes. It must be remembered that, with the means of transport we
had employed on land, it cost us many a hard day's march to cover a
distance of two hundred geographical miles.

Nilsen had marked on the chart the limits of the belt of drift-ice
during the three passages the Fram had already made. The supposition
that an available opening is always to be found in the neighbourhood
of the 150th meridian appears to be confirmed. The slight changes in
the position of the channel were only caused, according to Nilsen's
experiences, by variations in the direction of the wind. He had found
that it always answered his purpose to turn and try to windward, if the
pack showed signs of being close. This mode of procedure naturally had
the effect of making the course somewhat crooked, but to make up for
this it had always resulted in his finding open water. On this trip
we reached the edge of the pack-ice belt three days after leaving the
Barrier. The position of the belt proved to be very nearly the same
as on previous passages. After we had held our course for some hours,
however, the ice became so thick that it looked badly for our further
progress. Now was the time to try Nilsen's method: the wind, which,
by the way, was quite light, came about due west, and accordingly
the helm was put to starboard and the bow turned to the west. For a
good while we even steered true south, but it proved that this fairly
long turn had not been made in vain; after we had worked our way to
windward for a few hours, we found openings in numbers. If we had held
our course as we began, it is not at all impossible that we should have
been delayed for a long time, with a free passage a few miles away.

After having accomplished this first long turn, we escaped having to
make any more in future. The ice continued slack, and on February
6 the rapidly increasing swell told us that we had done with the
Antarctic drift-ice for good. I doubt if we saw a single seal during
our passage through the ice-belt this time; and if we had seen any,
we should scarcely have allowed the time for shooting them. There
was plenty of good food both for men and dogs this time, without our
having recourse to seal-beef. For the dogs we had brought all our
remaining store of the excellent dogs' pemmican, and that was not
a little. Besides this, we had a good lot of dried fish. They had
fish and pemmican on alternate days. On this diet the animals kept
in such splendid condition that, when on arrival at Hobart they had
shed most of their rough winter coats, they looked as if they had
been in clover for a year.

For the nine of us who had just joined the ship, our comrades on board
had brought all the way from Buenos Aires several fat pigs, that were
now living in luxury in their pen on the after-deck; in addition to
these, three fine sheep's carcasses hung in the workroom. It need
scarcely be said that we were fully capable of appreciating these
unexpected luxuries. Seal-beef, no doubt, had done excellent service,
but this did not prevent roast mutton and pork being a welcome change,
especially as they came as a complete surprise. I hardly think one
of us had counted on the possibility of getting fresh meat before we
were back again in civilization.

On her arrival at the Bay of Whales there were eleven men on board
the Fram, all included. Instead of Kutschin and Nodtvedt, who had gone
home from Buenos Aires while the ship was there in the autumn of 1911,
three new men were engaged -- namely, Halvorsen, Olsen and Steller;
the two first-named were from Bergen; Steller was a German, who had
lived for several years in Norway, and talked Norwegian like a native.

All three were remarkably efficient and friendly men; it was a pleasure
to have any dealings with them. I venture to think that they, too,
found themselves at home in our company; they were really only engaged
until the Fram called at the first port, but they stayed on board all
the way to Buenos Aires, and will certainly go with us farther still.

When the shore party came on board, Lieutenant Prestrud took up his
old position as first officer; the others began duty at once. All
told, we were now twenty men on board, and after the Fram had sailed
for a year rather short-handed, she could now be said to have a
full crew again. On this voyage we had no special work outside the
usual sea routine, and so long as the weather was fair, we had thus
a comparatively quiet life on board. But the hours of watch on deck
passed quickly enough, I expect; there was material in plenty for many
a long chat now. If we, who came from land, showed a high degree of
curiosity about what had been going on in the world, the sea-party
were at least as eager to have full information of every detail of
our year-long stay on the Barrier. One must almost have experienced
something similar oneself to be able to form an idea of the hail
of questions that is showered upon one on such an occasion. What we
land-lubbers had to relate has been given in outline in the preceding
chapters. Of the news we heard from outside, perhaps nothing interested
us so much as the story of how the change in the plan of the expedition
had been received at home and abroad.

It must have been at least a week before there was any noticeable ebb
in the flood of questions and answers. That week went by quickly;
perhaps more quickly than we really cared for, since it proved
that the Fram was not really able to keep pace with time. The
weather remained quite well behaved, but not exactly in the way we
wished. We had reckoned that the south-easterly and easterly winds,
so frequent around Framheim, would also show themselves out in
Ross Sea, but they entirely forgot to do so. We had little wind,
and when there was any, it was, as a rule, a slant from the north,
always enough to delay our honest old ship. It was impossible to take
any observations for the first eight days, the sky was continuously
overcast. If one occasionally asked the skipper about her position,
he usually replied that the only thing that could be said for certain
was that we were in Ross Sea. On February 7, however, according to a
fairly good noon observation, we were well to the north of Cape Adare,
and therefore beyond the limits of the Antarctic Continent. On the
way northward we passed Cape Adare at a distance hardly greater than
could have been covered with a good day's sailing; but our desire
of making this detour had to give way to the chief consideration --
northward, northward as quickly as possible.

There is usually plenty of wind in the neighbourhood of bold
promontories, and Cape Adare is no exception in this respect; it is
well known as a centre of bad weather. Nor did we slip by without
getting a taste of this; but it could not have been more welcome,
as it happened that the wind was going the same way as ourselves. Two
days of fresh south-east wind took us comparatively quickly past the
Balleny Islands, and on February 9 we could congratulate ourselves on
being well out of the south frigid zone. It was with joy that we had
crossed the Antarctic Circle over a year ago, going south; perhaps
we rejoiced no less at crossing it this time in the opposite direction.

In the bustle of getting away from our winter-quarters there had been
no time for any celebration of the fortunate reunion of the land
and sea parties. As this occasion for festivity had been let slip,
we had to look out for another, and we agreed that the day of our
passage from the frigid to the temperate zone afforded a very good
excuse. The pre-arranged part of the programme was extremely simple:
an extra cup of coffee, duly accompanied by punch and cigars, and
some music on the gramophone. Our worthy gramophone could not offer
anything that had the interest of novelty to us nine who had wintered
at Framheim: we knew the whole repertoire pretty well by heart; but
the well-known melodies awakened memories of many a pleasant Saturday
evening around the toddy table in our cosy winter home down at the
head of the Bay of Whales -- memories which we need not be ashamed
of recalling. On board the Fram gramophone music had not been heard
since Christmas Eve, 1910, and the members of the sea party were glad
enough to encore more than one number.

Outside the limits of the programme we were treated to an extra number
by a singer, who imitated the gramophone in utilizing a big megaphone,
to make up for the deficiencies of his voice -- according to his
own statement. He hid behind the curtain of Captain Nilsen's cabin,
and through the megaphone came a ditty intended to describe life on
the Barrier from its humorous side. It was completely successful,
and we again had a laugh that did us good. Performances of this kind,
of course, only have a value to those who have taken part in or are
acquainted with the events to which they refer. In case any outsider
may be interested in seeing what our entertainment was like, a few
of the verses are given here.

It must be remarked that the author composed his production in the
supposition that we should be able to meet by Christmas, and he
therefore proposed that for the moment we should imagine ourselves
to be celebrating that festival. We made no difficulty about acceding
to his request:

Well, here we are assembled to jollity once more,
Some from off the ocean and the rest from off the shore.
A year has passed since last we met and all are safe and sound,
Then let us banish all our cares and join our hands all round.
Christmas, happy Christmas! let us pass the flowing bowl,
Fill your glasses all, and let's make "Sails" a wee bit full.
For all I'll say is this -- that it's in his country's cause;
If he staggers just a little, it is in his country's cause.

Now you sailor boys shall hear about the time we have gone through:
The winter -- well, it wasn't long, we had so much to do.
There was digging snow, and sleeping -- you can bet we're good at
that -- And eating, too -- no wonder that we're all a little fat.
We had hot cakes for our breakfast and "hermetik" each day,
Mutton pies, ragouts and curries, for that is Lindstrom's way.
But all I'll say is this -- that 'twas in our country's cause,
If we stuffed ourselves with dainties, it was in our country's cause.

September came and off we went -- that trip was pretty tough;
Our compasses all went on strike, they thought it cold enough.
The brandy in the Captain's flask froze to a lump of ice;
We all agreed, both men and dogs, such weather wasn't nice.
So back we went to Framheim to thaw our heels and toes;
It could not be quite healthy when our feet and fingers froze.
But all I say is this -- that 'twas in our country's cause,
And we did not mind a frost-bite when 'twas in our country's cause.

The sun came up and warmed us then a little day by day;
Five men went out again and toiled along the southern way.
This time they conquered snow and ice, and all the world may hear
That Norway's flag flies at the Pole. Now, boys, a ringing cheer
For him who led them forward through the mountains and the plain,
Up to the goal they aimed at, and safely back again.
But all I'll say is this -- that 'twas in his country's cause;
If he went through and won the Pole, 'twas in his country's cause.

It could soon be noticed, in one way and another, that we had reached
latitudes where existence took a very different aspect from what
we had been accustomed to south of the 66th parallel. One welcome
change was the rise in temperature; the mercury now climbed well above
freezing-point, and those individuals on board who were still more or
less clad in skins, shed the last remnants of their Polar garb for a
lighter and more convenient costume. Those who waited longest before
making the change were the ones who belonged to the shore party. The
numerous people who imagine that a long stay in the Polar regions
makes a man less susceptible of cold than other mortals are completely
mistaken. The direct opposite is more likely to be the case. A man
who stays some time in a place where the everyday temperature is
down in the fifties below zero, or more than that, will not trouble
himself greatly about the cold, so long as he has good and serviceable
skin clothing. Let the same man, rigged out in civilized clothes,
be suddenly put down in the streets of Christiania on a winter day,
with thirty or thirty-five degrees of frost, and the poor fellow's
teeth will chatter till they fall out of his mouth. The fact is, that
on a Polar trip one defends oneself effectively against the cold; when
one comes back, and has to go about with the protection afforded by
an overcoat, a stiff collar, and a hard hat -- well, then one feels it.

A less welcome consequence of the difference in latitude was the
darkening of the nights. It may be admitted that continual daylight
would be unpleasant in the long run ashore, but aboard ship an
everlasting day would certainly be preferred, if such a thing could be
had. Even if we might now consider that we had done with the principal
mass of Antarctic ice, we still had to reckon with its disagreeable
outposts -- the icebergs. It has already been remarked that a practised
look-out man can see the blink of one of the larger bergs a long way
off in the dark, but when it is a question of one of the smaller masses
of ice, of which only an inconsiderable part rises above the surface,
there is no such brightness, and therefore no warning. A little lump
like this is just as dangerous as a big berg; you run the same risks in
a possible collision of knocking a hole in the bows or carrying away
the rigging. In these transitional regions, where the temperature of
the water is always very low, the thermometer is a very doubtful guide.

The waters in which we were sailing are not yet so well known as to
exclude the possibility of meeting with land. Captain Colbeck, who
commanded one of the relief ships sent south during Scott's first
expedition, came quite unexpectedly upon a little island to the
east of Cape Adare; this island was afterwards named after Captain
Scott. When Captain Colbeck made his discovery, he was about on the
course that has usually been taken by ships whose destination was
within the limits of Ross Sea. There is still a possibility that in
going out of one's course, voluntarily or involuntarily, one may find
more groups of islands in that part.

On the current charts of the South Pacific there are marked several
archipelagoes and islands, the position of which is not a little
doubtful. One of these -- Emerald Island -- is charted as lying almost
directly in the course we had to follow to reach Hobart. Captain Davis,
who took Shackleton's ship, the Nimrod, home to England in 1909,
sailed, however, right over the point where Emerald Island should
be found according to the chart without seeing anything of it. If it
exists at all, it is, at any rate, incorrectly charted. In order to
avoid its vicinity, and still more in order to get as far as possible
to the west before we came into the westerly belt proper, we pressed
on as much as we could for one hard week, or perhaps nearer two; but
a continual north-west wind seemed for a long time to leave us only
two disagreeable possibilities, either of drifting to the eastward, or
of finding ourselves down in the drift-ice to the north of Wilkes Land.

Those weeks were a very severe trial of patience to the many on
board who were burning with eagerness to get ashore with our news,
and perhaps to hear some in return. When the first three weeks of
February were past, we were not much more than half-way; with anything
like favourable conditions we ought to have arrived by that time. The
optimists always consoled us by saying that sooner or later there
would be a change for the better, and at last it came. A good spell
of favourable wind took us at a bound well to the windward both of
the doubtful Emerald Island and of the authentic Macquarie group to
the north of it. It may be mentioned in passing, that at the time we
went by, the most southerly wireless telegraphy station in the world
was located on one of the Macquarie Islands. The installation belonged
to Dr. Mawson's Antarctic expedition. Dr. Mawson also took with him
apparatus for installing a station on the Antarctic Continent itself,
but, so far as is known, no connection was accomplished the first year.

During this fortunate run we had come so far to the west that our
course to Hobart was rapidly approaching true north. On the other hand,
we should have liked to be able to take advantage of the prevailing
winds, -- the westerlies. These vary little from one year to another,
and we found them much the same as we had been accustomed to before:
frequent, stiff breezes from the north-west, which generally held for
about twelve hours, and then veered to west or south-west. So long
as the north-wester was blowing, there was nothing to do but to lie
to with shortened sail; when the change of wind came, we made a few
hours' progress in the right direction. In this way we crept step by
step northward to our destination. It was slow enough, no doubt; but
every day the line of our course on the chart grew a little longer,
and towards the end of February the distance between us and the
southern point of Tasmania had shrunk to very modest dimensions.

With the constant heavy westerly swell, the Fram, light as she now
was, surpassed herself in rolling, and that is indeed saying a great
deal. This rolling brought us a little damage to the rigging, the
gaff of the mainsail breaking; however, that affair did not stop us
long. The broken spar was quickly replaced by a spare gaff.