Amundsen points emphatically. ‘We need to get in there.’
‘Not tonight we won’t,’ laughs Captain Nilsen. ‘Just look at those chunks of sea ice knocking about the entrance. We’d be scuppered in an instant.’
Amundsen stalks off. To have finally arrived here and to not be able to proceed is beyond frustrating. He slams his cabin door. He wants to land, damn it! It takes a moment to calm down. Think it through, he tells himself. What value lies in easy victory?
1886 – HARDANGERVIDDA, NORWAY
Nothing grows at such altitude. At almost 2000 metres, the plateau is as empty as it is exposed; winds gust unhindered across its frozen back. Nobody dares to live there. Roald Amundsen thinks it sounds marvellous. Staring at the map he has spread across his bed, the twenty-two-year-old daydreams his challenge into being.
‘Could there be anything more satisfying than being the first to cross Hardangervidda in winter?’
His brother’s mind is on young women, not adventure.
‘It’s barely 100 kilometres wide, Leon. A two-day hike, at most. And there’s a hut halfway.’
‘Well …’ Leon says.
‘Skis on our feet, a reindeer sleeping bag strapped to our backs.’
Roald is very good at convincing people to do things he wants them to do. Leon’s ‘well’ is a feeble defence, more akin to a yes than a no. And so against the advice of the locals and with little more than some chocolate, a map and a compass, the Amundsen brothers set out to conquer Hardangervidda.
When daylight fades and the wind grows more insistent and shrill, the halfway hut offers the prospect of sweet relief. But the door is nailed shut and the chimney has been boarded up to keep the snow out. In desperation Roald breaks in while Leon struggles to free up the flue. The fire they manage to light in the frozen hearth eases the pain in frozen fingers but there is nothing to eat. It is snowing heavily the next day and a second night passes. It seems much longer on empty bellies. Roald finds a sack of flour. Leon makes an unappealing slurry and heats it on the fire. He calls it porridge.
The snow continues unabated, but spurred on by their hunger, the brothers decide to press further westward, bedding down for the night in the open under big wet snowflakes that soak their clothes, destroy their map and bury their provisions.
Heavier and heavier the snowstorm swirls around the brothers on the fourth day. Without a map they stumble on: hungry, in frozen clothes, and utterly at odds with their surroundings. It’s a small mercy that they’ve been able to drink from streams and slake their thirst. How much further? Neither can be sure. With heavy hearts they decide to turn back.
A cutting wind picks up as evening approaches. Warm wet snow has hampered their progress all day. The sodden sleeping bags are as heavy as a load of stones upon their backs. They cannot go on in the dark so seek some temporary relief behind a knoll.
‘I’m digging in,’ says Roald, his hands already scooping out a trench in the snow.
Lying in his hole, Roald is pleased to be out of the wind. He is cold, so desperately cold, and his body feels hollowed out from within, but sleep comes like a dark hood slipping quietly over his eyes.
By midnight he is buried alive, encased in ice so thick he cannot move a muscle to break free. Roald screams and screams but Leon does not come. Fearing for his supply of oxygen, he falls silent. What has happened? Clearly the wet snow has filled his trench and the temperature has dropped to well below freezing. Will Leon find him? Is Leon trapped also? The thought is too awful. How foolish they were to set off on such an escapade with no equipment; how naïve and stupid not to have even a tent! To suffocate in his prime with no achievements to his name – is this the price he must pay?
The bashing from above is frantic. Pounding and yelling in vain, Leon finally resorts to using a ski pole. He hacks at his brother’s icy sarcophagus over several hours. He prays it is not too late. He does not want to be left alone. Not on Hardangervidda.
Roald sucks air into his lungs and frees his cramping limbs. He coughs and cries out and hugs his rescuer. Drinking in the night sky, the stars, his brother’s face, he makes himself a promise to learn. Never again will he plan on the best possible outcome. It is the worst of scenarios that he needs to befriend.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Nilsen predicted they would arrive in Antarctica on 15 January. They’re a day early. If the sea ice hadn’t cleared out from the Bay of Whales so swiftly, he might have hit his mark. But the captain is not a man to boast.
‘Luck’s on our side,’ Prestrud grins.
‘Some call it luck, Lieutenant,’ replies Amundsen drily. ‘I call it good planning.’
A few light clouds can do little against the brilliant sunshine that bounces off the calm waters of the bay. Now with a perfect landing spot offering itself up, as if on command, it does appear as though providence is smiling on the Norwegians. The Barrier surface beyond the ice foot jutting into the water is irregular but the humps and hollows and rising pressure ridges give comfort.
‘See how the ice is being thrust up like that, Prestrud?’ Amundsen says. ‘There’s got to be land underneath.’ Amundsen has had a few lingering doubts as to whether it is prudent to make their base on an ever-moving ice shelf. Still, in the interests of safety they’ll head inland a good few kilometres. Amundsen doesn’t like the thought of their hut bobbing about on a slab of ice in the middle of the Ross Sea.
Prestrud, Helmer and Johansen set out with Amundsen on skis to check out some possible building sites. The sensation of gliding is odd after their long months at sea. Seals watch the small procession with interest as the men head across the sea ice towards the Barrier edge. There’s enough fresh meat here for more than a year. The animals ignore this new threat encroaching on their colony. Ignorance is bliss. Many of them will not live out the day.
Half an hour of easy skiing gets them to the Barrier edge. But where the once-feared cliff of ice rises from the sea ice, the men find a build-up of windblown snow has created a natural ramp. Amundsen takes the gentle slope with long gliding strides. The others follow. Nothing could be easier.
Prestrud cannot help but say again, ‘Extraordinary luck.’
This time Amundsen must agree. Their entry onto the Antarctic continent is utterly devoid of drama. Perhaps it is a taste of things to come.
Amundsen’s looking for the perfect location for their hut. He’ll know it when he sees it. The men breathe heavily, unaccustomed to such legwork after months of limited physical activity. Nobody will admit to feeling tired and nobody is cold but the ski boots are terribly uncomfortable. Too small, too stiff and with soles that are definitely too thick, the boots rub ankles and heels raw. Oscar has already spent hours unpicking the loathsome boots and trying to modify them. But it’s not enough. They need more adapting. Prestrud winces with every movement of his skis. If victory is going to hurt this much, he might just swap places with Lieutenant Gjertsen after all.
Meanwhile back at the Fram, the seal hunt is on. The seals are at a distinct disadvantage, being scared neither of the approaching men nor of the sound of gunfire. Three seals are dispatched. A fourth figures his end is nigh and makes a break for the water, lolloping over the surface of the deep snow and sweeping up a powdery trail in his wake. Sverre takes after the frightened creature only to sink in the drift up to his thighs. He twists and heaves, breathless and unfit.
‘Come back, you rotten beggar.’
The seal has no intention of doing what he asks. Sverre looks imploringly at the men watching from the Fram as though they might be able to offer some advice or even sympathy to the hunter.
‘Don’t let that seal get the better of you,’ goads Stubberud. ‘Show him who’s boss.’
Everybody laughs. The fat Weddell seals are inquisitive to the point of foolishness and come looking for trouble. Taking pot shots from the deck isn’t particularly sporting. Oscar launches breadballs at the seals to wake them up, irritating those on board who hope to score a bullseye.
‘Hey! I almost had him,’ complains Lieutenant Gjertsen, lowering his rifle and glowering at Oscar.
‘I’m giving the poor blighter a chance.’
‘A chance to be riddled with holes before I can kill him. You’re a menace to man and beast.’
Captain Nilsen walks the deck and contemplates the work ahead of them. There’s a lot of gear to unload and haul inland. Nilsen surveys the dogs – slumbering, mostly. They’ll have to abandon their lazy habits. Hardship awaits. For his own pup too, now that he’s big enough to join the fray.
Nilsen drops to one knee and takes the dog’s head in both hands. ‘You’ll do me proud, won’t you, Madeiro?’
The dog licks Nilsen’s face.
‘We’ll see each other again. When all this is over, you’ll have been to the pole and back,’ Nilsen says brightly. But he knows there’s little chance of any of the dogs returning alive.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The sun fills the southern sky with exaggerated brilliance that steadfastly refuses to give way to night. Just as well. The unloading of building materials is in full swing and constant daylight is a godsend. Packing cases pile up on the sea ice beside the ship. Some of the prefabricated sections of the hut are already lashed to a sledge, ready to haul up to the building site 4 kilometres inland. Everyone agrees Amundsen should have the honour of taking the first sledge load. He harnesses his team of eight dogs while the men gather to witness what is to be a symbolic start to their polar quest. This first load weighs a conservative 300 kilograms – but the dogs don’t seem to remember what comes next. Even the Three Musketeers sit quietly on the ice, blinking in the bright sunlight.
Amundsen cracks his whip above their heads. Startled into action, the dogs leap to their feet and dash away from the ship. With a triumphant wave to the admiring crew, Amundsen is off. But it doesn’t last. The dogs slow to a trot, then stop. Once more they lie down on the ice. There’s stifled laughter aboard the Fram. Amundsen cracks his whip again and urges them onward with his most commanding voice. This time the dogs launch themselves at each other in a violent explosion of fur and claws and fangs and tangled leather traces.
‘Keep it up!’ somebody shouts before ducking for cover behind the ship’s railing.
Despite feeling foolish for expecting a grand departure, Amundsen can see the humour in the mayhem. It takes four men to bring the situation under control and get the sledge moving again in the right direction. Amundsen’s whip does the rest of the work. Hateful as it is, violence is the only encouragement the dogs will recognise in their stop-go-stop-go progress. Howling and protesting, mightily offended by this new harsh treatment, they disappear up the track, with Amundsen and his oscillating whip looking every bit like a conductor leading his orchestra through a challenging piece of music.
Amundsen scrutinises the team. That they’re out of shape is to be expected, but it’s more than that. They seem confused. The dogs run, slow down, feel the whip, run again. It’s a rhythm of sorts, but not one he wants. With this kind of mucking about it’ll take a whole year to get to the pole and another to return. Suddenly, it occurs to him – it’s the harnesses.
Back at the ship, he discusses the problem. If they’re to resolve it quickly, he’ll need help.
‘What’s the difference?’ asks Oscar. He has no experience with sledging and he’s eager to learn anything he can, given he’ll soon be responsible for his own team and his own whip, which he can’t ever imagine using.
‘Alaskan style has an eight-dog team harnessed to the sledge two by two. It’s definitely more balanced, a more efficient way of travelling,’ says Amundsen. ‘The Greenland style is to have the dogs fanning out from the sledge, running side by side. Unfortunately we have Greenland dogs in Alaskan harnesses.’
Oscar doesn’t fully understand. ‘Do we need to retrain the dogs?’
Amundsen scoffs. ‘No time for that. We’ll just have to adapt the harnesses that we’ve got.’ He looks at Sverre. ‘What do you think?’
The dog expert shrugs. ‘Splice the ropes, alter the tackle. It’s definitely possible.’
Amundsen looks at all the equipment piling up around them. ‘Well, let’s make a start. The sea ice won’t hold us forever.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Stubberud throws open the tent flap and swears loudly into the gale. The wind has been tearing at the canvas all night like a bearer of urgent news. With a heavy heart, the carpenter slides the reindeer hood over his head and lumbers out onto the snow.
‘It’s like we never even dug the holes!’ he rages to Bjaaland.
‘Bloody wind,’ Bjaaland mutters. He kicks around in the snowdrifts that have accumulated over the spot where they left their shovels and pickaxes the night before. His back aches just looking at the hateful tools. A full day of physical exertion followed by a night of fitful sleep. As unpleasant as the sea journey was, Bjaaland wishes he was back in his cabin aboard the Fram.
Stubberud grunts, grabs a shovel. It took all day for the two of them to dig foundations a little more than a metre deep. The first half-hour of digging was easy enough, but then they hit ice as hard as granite. Pickaxes replaced shovels. It now appears that all their effort was for nothing.
The site Amundsen has chosen for the hut is on a gentle slope in a wider basin. The hut will have an east–west orientation, with the entrance facing away from the prevailing winds. Even with the slight shelter offered by the incline, the hut needs to be anchored deep. The wind is sure to be even more of a menace during winter.
After five minutes Bjaaland stops shovelling. ‘This is hopeless. The holes are filling up quicker than we can empty them out.’
Breathless, Stubberud simply nods. They need a windbreak, some planks or a makeshift wall for the snow to gather behind.
‘Even a sledge tipped on its side would do the trick.’ Stubberud squints into the distance. ‘I wish those lads would hurry up. I’m not walking all the way down to the ship for one.’
The other members of the land party have established a dog camp roughly halfway between the building site and the Fram, where everything can be stored safely away from the water’s edge and the dogs that are not working can be chained at a safe distance from precious supplies and each other. The view from the dog camp is impressive, taking in the entire Bay of Whales. The Fram appears like a toy from this slightly higher vantage point. The 2-kilometre track leading down to the water’s edge is marked out with wildly flapping blue flags, an odd sight in the uninhabited desolation of Antarctica. But there’s precious little time to stop and admire the view. Many of the loads must continue on to the building site where their base will slowly take shape. Even with the dogs doing most of the pulling, it’s physically draining work for the men, travelling into a fierce headwind. Combined with the wind chill, the cold is at times severe. Any work takes twice as long with cumbersome reindeer mitts. While loading and unloading the sledges can be accomplished, any strapping and unstrapping of loads requires lighter gloves or sometimes painfully bare hands.
The three most experienced dog drivers, Sverre, Helmer and Johansen, are hoarse with constant shouting. The whip takes up the cause. Harnessed in the more familiar Greenland style, the dogs still don’t always do what’s required. They’re having too much fun. Having gorged themselves on seal meat the night before then fallen into a deep contented sleep, the dogs have excess energy to burn and leap about at the prospect of running and fighting. Once hitched to the sledge they blast off in multiple directions, narrowly avoiding supplies and stacks of building materials. Sometimes the only way drivers can avoid harm is by overturning the sledge. The scene is one of chaos.
Oscar knows it’s only a matter of time before he’ll be called on. But for now, he’ll do anything to avoid sledging duties. He’s seen enough. Only that morning Amundsen was travelling at tremendous speed towards the Fram when his dogs caught sight of some seals. The wide arc of the whip was a bad sign; the wild zigzagging course of the sledge a clear in
dication that the chief had lost control. Mere seconds before plunging headlong into the sea, Amundsen managed to capsize the sledge, the deep, loose snow bringing the madness swiftly to a close. Oscar can’t help worrying: if that can happen to the chief, what awful calamities are in store for a rookie like him?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
‘How many is that now?’ Sverre rolls the four seal carcasses off the sledge while the dogs tug and jerk at their chains in anticipation of the still-warm meat being dished out.
‘Probably a hundred or so,’ says Helmer. ‘The chief wants at least two hundred to see us through the winter. We’ve got plenty of penguin. We can probably stop the slaughter of those poor devils.’
‘What does penguin taste like anyway?’ Sverre asks as he cuts into the seal’s belly, releases the innards, and tosses them to the waiting pack of dogs.
Helmer frowns. ‘Dunno. Never tasted it. Must be like duck or goose. There’s a fair bit of meat on a penguin. And fat.’
The snow has turned a deep red around the carcasses. Sverre screws up his mouth as he pries open the ribs. ‘It doesn’t matter how many times you do it. This job is still disgusting,’ he grumbles.
Helmer shakes his head. ‘I could tell you about disgusting.’
‘You don’t think I’m a good judge of disgusting? I’m up to my elbows in blood and guts. How about we swap places. I’ll stand with my arms crossed and you come and butcher these carcasses.’
Helmer stares into the distance. ‘How’s this? A Netsilik woman scooping up congealed seal’s blood and slurping it from her hands like it’s a bowl of cream – that’s disgusting. Or children fighting over the fermented fish from the seal’s stomach – that’s disgusting. How about …’
‘Helmer, you’re not the only one with incredible tales from the Arctic. Remember, I’ve travelled around Greenland with Sverdrup for three years eating nothing but seal.’
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