Amundsen's Way

by Joanna Grochowicz

  Lindstrøm sits bolt upright. His head slams into the empty bunk above. A howl explodes in the dark. Amundsen turns sleepily to assess the level of injury.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘The travellers are coming home.’

  Amundsen closes his eyes. ‘You’re having a dream, Fatty. Go back to sleep.’

  ‘They’ll be here today at noon.’

  Amundsen grunts.

  Lindstrøm rubs the top of his bald head. There’s a small amount of blood where his scalp has been scraped. He won’t get back to sleep now. Instead he drops to the floor. Flicking on the lamp in the kitchen, he sees his lucky ladle has fallen from its hook on the wall. Lindstrøm cradles the utensil, his hand checking its rounded hemisphere for dents. Finding no damage, he places it back on the hook, his smile like that of a mother doting on a favourite child. Thank you, he mouths.

  Signs and portents – they’re as much part of Lindstrøm’s charm as his cooking. Everyone takes his folk wisdom with a pinch of salt, but nobody dares challenge the cook on his predictions. More often than not, they prove correct.

  The hut is pitch black but it’s not the middle of the night – it’s six-thirty. It won’t get much brighter anyway. The days are so dull now that they must keep the lamps burning inside all day if they’re to see what they’re doing. Lindstrøm stacks logs in the stove, sloshes over a liberal dose of paraffin then touches a match to the wood. It flares extravagantly, illuminating the darkened kitchen in its fierce light. The fire roars in the chimney. He peers under the tea towel covering the bowl of pancake batter he mixed up the night before and readies his equipment. Lindstrøm’s workspace has an odd appearance – half laboratory, half kitchen. Two mercury barometers, four aneroids for measuring air pressure, a barograph, thermograph and one thermometer occupy the corner furthest from the stove. Lindstrøm would eye the whole enterprise suspiciously if it hadn’t been he himself who had set up the meteorological instruments. There’s a corresponding meteorological station on the hill with all the outside equipment housed in a tidy whitewashed instrument box that Lindstrøm has constructed this week, complete with a handsome weathervane to show wind direction. He’s very proud of it.

  With the kettle heating on the stove the cook begins to grind the coffee. Round and round with the handle for ten minutes he works, his ruddy cheeks shaking with the effort. ‘This coffee mill is not worth throwing to the pigs,’ he mutters in frustration. ‘Might as well chew the beans!’

  It’s only the two of them but the morning routine proceeds as if it were a full house. At twenty to eight Lindstrøm opens the door from the kitchen, unleashing the intense heat that has become almost unbearable in the enclosed space. It sweeps into the tight living quarters, which are kept purposefully cold for sleeping. Having lit the lamps he readies the table, making as much noise as possible: clanging the enamel plates and dropping spoons into coffee mugs from such a height it’d wake the dead. There’s movement behind the dark red curtain drawn across Amundsen’s bunk. If the others were home, there’d be swearing by now. Satisfied that his table-setting performance has had the appropriate effect, Lindstrøm returns to his frying pan, where he’ll turn out pancakes with machine-like efficiency until the bowl is empty and the plates are stacked. There’ll be much organising to do when the others return and a whole lot more cooking. The men’s appetites will be insatiable, like greedy ogres in a fairytale. Noon, Lindstrøm nods with conviction.

  ‘Morning Fatty,’ says Amundsen, yawning. ‘How’s the weather?’

  ‘Easterly breeze. Fog,’ he says evenly despite not having set foot outside.

  ‘Temperature?’

  Lindstrøm screws up his face. ‘Minus sixteen.’

  ‘That’s your guess?’ Amundsen reaches for his notebook and writes it down.

  It’s a relatively new game, getting the men to guess the temperature each morning. It’s an educated guess he’s after, not a bold-faced fabrication like Lindstrøm’s. At the end of the month the man closest to the actual mean temperature is awarded a cigar, a book, a very nice gold watch. Everyone’s keen for the prize but the game serves another purpose. Every man is finely calibrating his senses, learning to read the environmental conditions and trust in his own judgement, which is a skill more highly prized than a cigar when one’s equipment fails far from home.

  The morning passes without much to differentiate it from all the other mornings the two men have shared since the others left. Breakfast is an unhurried affair with equal measures of conversation, reminiscences and companionable silence. Afterwards Amundsen unties the dogs and takes his customary morning stroll down onto the sea ice accompanied by any animals eager for a change of scene. There are fewer seals about. Soon there will be none at all to harangue. The dogs will have to find other pursuits. Icy seal carcasses may be tasty to gnaw on, but they don’t put up enough of a fight for a dog keen on entertainment.

  Amundsen barely registers the dogs and their antics. Thoughts occupy him. They steer him ever south, to Johansen and the others. They were due back on Saturday. It’s now Tuesday. Will placing Johansen in charge change things? Group dynamic is vitally important. Especially ahead of the long winter confinement. Nine men all packed like sardines in the Framheim hut. Frustrations, petty annoyances, simmering conflict all have the potential to turn into something much larger, more destructive. And then there is Johansen, always ready to assert his position, hijack the conversation, trading endlessly on his friendship with Nansen as if it conferred special rights. In appointing Johansen leader of the last depot journey, Amundsen had hoped to defuse the tension. Has he instead set himself up for a power struggle?

  Lindstrøm was wrong. The day is cold. Almost minus 30 degrees and it’s blowing hard from the south. Days are shorter, the wind just a little sharper. Amundsen cuts short his walk and, wrestling the wind all the way, returns home to continue the repairs he started the previous day on his sleeping bag. Lindstrøm calls to him from the tent where the puppies have been housed.

  ‘Any sign of Madeiro?’ Amundsen asks.

  ‘No. Must have fallen into a crevasse or tangled with the wrong bull seal. I don’t want to tell Nilsen.’

  There’s a dog lying dead amid the gambolling youngsters. ‘Our poor Angel of Death,’ says Amundsen. The puppy had been christened thus aboard the Fram, so often had the poor wizened creature collapsed under its own weight. Against all odds, it had stayed alive and had even flourished. Until now.

  ‘Look at him.’ Lindstrøm gestures at another of the pups born on the Fram, the one christened ‘Southern Cross’. His dark coat is a wretched sight – the fur is all but gone from his back. ‘Probably got into a fight.’

  Amundsen shakes his head. ‘Looks like disease. Let’s get him out of here before he infects the rest.’

  It’s a sorry business, dealing a death blow to a creature so new to the world. A mere skin disorder, no doubt, but one that could decimate their chances of setting off for the pole should enough of the dogs become infected. One thing a sledge dog in Antarctica needs is its thick winter coat.

  When Amundsen returns from burying the two dead dogs, Lindstrøm is poised by the door to the hut with a look of mild satisfaction. According to their well-established routine, he should be in the kitchen preparing lunch. It is noon, after all.

  ‘Look, Chief,’ he says, pointing to dark specks peppering the horizon. ‘I was right. They’re home and not a moment too soon.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Amundsen is wary of winter. Not the snow and ice, the all-pervading cold and hurtling winds – he can plan for those. It’s the darkness he’s afraid of. Unremitting, oppressive, the Antarctic winter saps mental strength. Steady, regular work, that’s what each man needs – a purpose. Not useless work that will bore a man to tears or create feelings of resentment.

  Bjaaland has been set the task of reworking the sledges. They need to be light, to be flexible, to be fast. He’s already worked them over once but greater improvements are
possible. Stubberud seems convinced he can reduce the weight of the sledging cases too, the boxes that carry their supplies. It should be possible to lose 3 kilos at least. Laborious as it is to shave off layer after layer of wood with a handheld planer, Stubberud knows it’s all for a worthwhile cause. In the end he opts to use an axe to slice into the sides.

  Once the boxes have been pared back sufficiently, Johansen will pack them even tighter with sledging provisions ready for their spring departure to the pole. His job’s going to be even more tedious. Pemmican, milk powder, biscuits, chocolate – everything must be weighed, measured, counted. Twice or even three times. Patience and accuracy is needed when counting out thousands of biscuits. There will be no room for mistakes when the chief cracks open the biscuit tin out on the Great Ice Barrier.

  Oscar will spend the best part of winter in front of his sewing machine, making repairs and adjustments to clothing, equipment and footwear, and enlarging the remaining tents. They all agree that the white tent fabric can be improved upon by using the only dye they have to hand – India ink. The darker shade of blue will be more restful to the eyes, easier to spot against their white surroundings and should absorb the feeble warmth of the sun more readily. Another issue they’re keen to rectify is the incessant build-up of ice on the outside of the tents, which adds significant weight to the sledges. A fly sheet’s the answer. Oscar is set to make a couple from the red curtains he’s snaffled from each man’s bunk.

  ‘Less privacy, perhaps,’ says Oscar resignedly. It scarcely matters. Whatever inhibitions they once harboured have been well and truly lost in such close quarters.

  Prestrud has more than enough astronomical calculations to keep him busy all winter. Nobody would want his job, poor blighter. In time he’ll teach them all the fundamentals of navigation, if only for safety’s sake, but for now the men are happy to leave the lieutenant to pore over those deadly columns of figures in the lamplight day after day.

  And where does shovelling snow fit into Amundsen’s new order, in which every man needs a worthwhile occupation? Shovelling snow in this place is a bit like sweeping back the tide – pointless. Left to accumulate around the hut, the snow is like a slowly rising dough covering first the windows, then the walls and finally the roof. The front door is well below the new ground level. In fact their new entrance is a trapdoor in the snow opening to some rough-hewn stairs that descend to the front porch. The chimney cap with its drifting smoke is the only outward sign of human habitation. And that is how it should be – the hut is as snug as a burrow, protected from extreme weather and insulated from the deep freeze of Antarctica’s coldest, darkest months.

  The only issue remains the fuel. Ready access to fuel is vital for survival. Cooking, melting snow for water and heating the hut all require coal, wood or oil, which for safety’s sake have been stored in a fuel cache a short distance from the hut. The oil drums now lie under a metre or more of snow, which hardens by the day as the rolling procession of storms dump yet more snow on top. Clearing this snow is indeed useful work. To neglect this shovelling would mean giving in to dehydration, hypothermia and starvation. Just because it’s life-saving doesn’t mean it’s any less energy-sapping, and unfortunately Sverre must shoulder his responsibility as fuel master. He stands in the half-light with his shovel, contemplating the enormity of his task.

  ‘Where’s Sverre?’ asks Oscar as the men sit down at lunchtime.

  ‘Didn’t you go out to fetch him?’ Amundsen asks Stubberud.

  The carpenter blinks. ‘He wasn’t out there. I thought he might have gone to relieve himself. And I’m not one for harassing a man with pressing business.’

  The others laugh at the mere thought of privacy.

  ‘It’s snowing hard. Better nip out and check,’ Amundsen nods at Stubberud, who eases himself up from the table with exaggerated reluctance. Fur clothing, balaclava, reindeer mitts, socks and fur kamiks – a right fuss – as if there was any such thing as ‘nipping out’ to check.

  He’s gone ten minutes or more. The others are eating, chatting, half-expecting two white figures to reappear at the door. ‘Two of them missing now,’ says Lindstrøm between bites.

  Pushing his plate away, Bjaaland stands. ‘I’ll go.’ The others shift their seats closer to the table, allowing him to squeeze past and grab his hat and outdoor clothes from his allotted pegs at the end of the bunks. A wall of cold air enters the hut as he bustles outside to investigate. Unsurprisingly, he too fails to return.

  Helmer doesn’t wait for his coffee. He’s away out the door as soon as lunch is over, trading the peaceful digestion of his midday meal for the intensifying mystery of what is now three missing men. It doesn’t take long for the others to take the bait. Amundsen and Prestrud kit up and head out, as do Oscar and Johansen. Lindstrøm is the last to emerge, reluctant to leave the warmth of the hut but not wanting to be the only man missing out on any unfolding drama.

  Bracing themselves against the wind, the group gathers in the dizzying whirl of snow; some crouch, some bend double. Stubberud is moving about on his hands and knees. Sverre’s there too, but only his head is visible. He’s been far too busy to stop for lunch. The grotto he’s carved out for himself allows easy access to the barrels of petroleum with the benefit of being out of the howling wind.

  ‘We better arch the entrance. You don’t want a cave-in,’ says Stubberud.

  They’ve all got suggestions. ‘Extend a tunnel this way and you’ll be linked to the house.’

  ‘A bit further and the wood and coal tent will be accessible. You could tunnel up from below.’

  ‘Imagine if we could dig a tunnel from the house to the toilet. Handy when you’re in a hurry.’

  ‘Indoor plumbing!’

  ‘Well, almost.’

  They all laugh at the novelty of it. Amundsen’s thinking of all the other possibilities presented by this new approach to working with nature rather than against her. An underground carpenter’s workshop. A sewing room for Oscar where he can spread out his tents. Helmer will need somewhere to load the sledges under cover so the hide lashings don’t freeze.

  ‘I could pack the provisions properly without snow blowing through everything,’ says Johansen.

  It appears they’ve inadvertently created another wintertime pursuit to keep themselves busy for a month or more.

  Lindstrøm harrumphs. He’ll leave them to their alfresco brainstorming session. Just got home and they’ll be leaving again now, he thinks miserably. He can see tunnelling fever has taken hold.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Johansen’s fingers burn. He rubs his hands vigorously and blows warmth between his palms. The action doesn’t relieve the pain. Reluctantly he slips his hands into the pockets of his reindeer-skin trousers and wonders what task he can attend to while he waits for feeling to return to his icy digits. The little lamp on the table throws his shadow against the sparkling white walls of the cave. It lends far more light than its feeble flame would suggest, thanks to the wonderful reflective qualities of ice. If only it would lend a little warmth. It’s got to be minus 20 at least, thinks Johansen, stamping his feet.

  The 1321 cans of pemmican are round. Packing the pemmican into Stubberud’s newly engineered crates creates a lot of empty space. He’s pleased with his idea of packing little bags of milk powder 300 grams apiece between the rounds of pemmican, long white sausages tied with string to fill the voids. Fantastic idea, Amundsen conceded. It’s just a pity Johansen’s fantastic idea requires so much bare-fingered handling in the sharp cold of his ‘Crystal Palace’.

  His work space is stacked to the ceiling with sledging provisions to pack. Now he just needs to find space for 100 kilos of chocolate. Everything must be entered into the provision booklets that each man will carry on the polar journey. A main book will be looked after by the two tent leaders, marking off everything that is consumed to ensure an accurate assessment of all remaining supplies.

  It’s taken them a month, but their enthusiastic
tunnelling efforts have resulted in an ingenious underground complex of interconnected workspaces. Even a sauna and toilet have been carved into the winter-hardened snow. Every morning the men get up, go outside for a minute or two to assess the temperature, eat breakfast and then head off to work, each occupied by a range of activities that will ultimately contribute to the success of their springtime push south. There’s still so much to do before the official departure date – 1 November – and everybody enjoys reuniting at mealtimes and recounting their day’s achievements under a cloud of tobacco smoke. They are working as one, united in a single purpose.

  Hunched over and with his hands enjoying the warmth of the furry pockets, Johansen goes over again and again the amount of food he needs to pack. Making modifications wherever he can, Johansen knows the provisions must fit in twenty-eight crates, four per sledge. Not a millimetre of space can be wasted. Amundsen’s calculations are precise – he’s spent months working out how many calories each man will consume and what combination of foods will serve them best, right down to the 25 kilos of fresh meat that each dog carries under its shaggy winter coat. Pemmican packs a punch in terms of the energy it provides but it also weighs a tonne. Biscuits are lightweight but also light on nutritional value. They certainly don’t offer the same warming effect as a pemmican stew. As always, it’s a trade-off.

  Johansen whistles as he slips down the narrow tunnel and into Bjaaland’s woodworking realm. It’s not a good idea to surprise a man at work with sharp tools. ‘Permission to enter, champ,’ he says by way of greeting.

  Bjaaland looks up from the sledge runner he’s planing down to a smooth surface. He smiles.

  Johansen nods at the piles of wood shavings on the floor. ‘We’re all fixated on the same thing, I see. Weight.’

  Bjaaland gives a knowing grunt. ‘It’s taken us this long to finish one sledge. We took it apart, shaved every single piece of it back to the minimum and lashed it together again. Our 74-kilo monster now weighs only 21 kilos. Not bad, eh?’