Amundsen's Way

by Joanna Grochowicz

  ‘And it’s strong enough? My provisions are pretty heavy.’ Johansen narrows his eyes. ‘I’ve got 300 kilos on every sledge. Then there’s 75 kilos of equipment on top of that.’

  ‘Should be okay.’ Bjaaland steps back and admires his handiwork. ‘Wish I could say as much for my hand plane. The way I’m sharpening the blade every few hours, I’m afraid it’s not going to survive this little holiday in Antarctica.’

  ‘I’m freezing,’ says Johansen suddenly. ‘All the standing in one place. At least your work’s more physical – keeps your blood pumping.’

  ‘Oscar’s set up a Primus in his sewing nook.’

  ‘Not a bad idea, I might do the same.’

  ‘Good luck squeezing the paraffin out of Sverre. He sits on his fuel supplies like a goose guarding its eggs.’

  They laugh about that. If only Sverre knew how profligate Lindstrøm had become with his use of paraffin in the kitchen, spraying it around to get the morning fires roaring. He already calls the cook ‘the woodswallower’, such is his insatiable appetite for firewood.

  ‘Seen the chief?’ asks Johansen.

  ‘Working on the new whips with Sverre.’

  The whips. They need strengthening, that’s for sure – the depot-laying journeys were proof of that. It’s the handles that snap in situations of overuse. Generally speaking, the crack of the whip combined with the mild sting of the popper nipping at the dogs is enough to keep them motivated. But every so often a troublemaker is intent on spoiling the show. Picking fights on the go is the usual offence. For obvious reasons these individuals must be dealt with swiftly. The team is called to a halt and the rebel is brought to heel with a few blows of the whip handle. If the agitator has inspired an all-out revolt then the blows rain down with vigour on them all. The dogs get the message and the handles pay the price.

  Poor devils. The dogs have a grim existence over winter, though they are seemingly content to wander in the cold and dark during the day. A few have discovered that they can steal into the new underground toilet and feast on whatever’s left by the men. It’s a disgusting habit that nonetheless keeps the area clean and free of smells. A few have gone further afield in search of delights. With no wildlife to harass at this time of year, a few of the more intrepid dogs head inland to investigate the unfulfilling emptiness of the barrier. Most return after a day or two. Thankfully Madeiro finally has. Some do not.

  Most absences are picked up at feeding time. Nobody gets fed until all the dogs are safely tied up for the night in their allotted tent. There’s howling and fighting aplenty, but finally each man has his fifteen or so dogs under control and dishes out the chunks of meat and blubber or dried fish, depending on the day. Few of them like the fish and they are harder to wrangle into line on alternate nights. The more intelligent among them have worked out the drill and have come to recognise what’s being served by its means of delivery.

  Forever the prankster, Helmer has turned the tables on his team, and taken to serving fish from the meat box. The double-crossed dogs take their frustration out on the meat tent the next day. Surrounded by a six-foot-high snow wall and encircled by buried lengths of barbed wire, it’s quite safe. There’s little a dog can do other than lift its leg in protest.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Amundsen wakes with a start. The noise. There it is again. A distant vibration. His feet tingle with unease. He strains to hear it. Yes, the unmistakable rumble of motors, the sound travelling on the wind in and out of earshot. Captain Scott’s on the move. It’s the only explanation. But at night? Here? Amundsen flings his feet over the side of his bunk. He must collect his thoughts. The noise erupts anew. This time from the bunk opposite. Despite the relief he feels at discovering the true source of the rumble, Amundsen flings a book in Helmer’s direction. The snoring ceases.

  Sleep does not return. How can it when such thoughts rouse worry in his mind? The motor sledges, the motor sledges, the motor sledges – round and round his anxiety spirals. Scott will win for sure with such technology on his side. Skis and dogs – how can we ever compete?

  ‘My improved plan is this,’ Amundsen announces at breakfast. ‘We shall leave here by the middle of September.’

  There are pancakes on the plates but no one’s eating them.

  ‘But that’s a whole six weeks ahead of schedule,’ says Johansen darkly.

  ‘Well, it will be lighter at least,’ says Helmer in a conciliatory tone.

  ‘It’s before the sun returns though.’ Johansen shakes his head at such absurdity. ‘Nansen and I set off too early. In the Arctic. We were pounded by the cold. We had to turn back. It was impossible to carry on.’

  Amundsen ignores Johansen’s concerns. ‘Eight men, seven sledges, eighty-four dogs. We’ll stop at our depot at 80 degrees for a couple of days, feed the dogs up – as much meat as they can handle – then carry on to 81 degrees where we’ll rest the dogs, feed them up again. We’ll build ourselves some igloos and dry out our gear while we wait for the sun.’

  They wonder if winter has got the better of the chief. He seems a trifle unhinged. Nobody dares say a word.

  Amundsen continues. ‘I also think it advisable that we undertake a practice journey, to give our gear a thorough going over.’

  ‘Haven’t we already done that, with the depot-laying?’ asks Prestrud, a little uneasily.

  ‘We’ll head east into King Edward VII Land, somewhere we haven’t been yet. New terrain, new challenges. It’ll be good training.’

  Sverre coughs. ‘The dogs won’t like it. It’s still too cold for them, I think.’

  ‘We’ve only finished three sledges.’ Bjaaland looks at Stubberud for support but the carpenter merely stares into his coffee.

  Oscar feels a shiver run down his spine. It’s been well below minus 40 degrees Celsius. Surely the temperature will need to be much higher before heading south.

  ‘How about we put it to the vote?’ Amundsen’s gaze challenges the table. This is a good test of loyalty, he thinks.

  ‘I’m abstaining,’ says Lindstrøm, leaning back in his chair with his palms raised. ‘Not my department.’

  ‘Come on, lads!’ Amundsen slaps the table. He’s angry now. ‘Give me a show of hands.’

  No hands.

  Johansen speaks. ‘I think it’s nuts.’ He didn’t need to say it. And judging by Amundsen’s steely expression, he shouldn’t have. But it’s out now, on the table – a flicker of dissent.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  For the second time in a month the leader asks his men to vote on a trial run. Nobody will agree to his unnecessary training journey to the east. That is not to say the men have lost faith in the rational mind of their leader. Mostly they put it down to jitters. It’s clear that Amundsen is done with waiting. Unpleasant as the atmosphere around the table turns once they fail to approve Amundsen’s proposal for a second time, they all acknowledge his reasoning is sound. This is a race after all. The overhaul of their equipment is largely finished, their sledges are packed. Clothing, skis, tents are in pristine condition and the dogs are fat and frustrated with pent-up energy. But it’s still only August and the skies are still dark. Amundsen’s impatience is not contagious. For the men, suicide is not so appealing.

  Prestrud’s occupying the table as usual. Oscar happily shares the light. There are only a couple of books he hasn’t read from the library that Lindstrøm keeps in the loft above the kitchen. He’s consumed more than seventy over the last few months. He may need to start from the beginning and re-read the various volumes if he is to keep himself amused. He already knows he won’t be taking away any holiday reading to the pole. Each man has a paltry 10-kilo allowance and that’s accounted for with extra socks, snow goggles, spare underwear and mittens, reindeer kamiks, a face mask for blizzards and a pocket mirror to check for signs of frostbite.

  Prestrud looks up from his workings and shakes his head. ‘August twenty-fourth.’

  Oscar looks up. ‘What did you say?’

&nb
sp; ‘Our new start date – August twenty-fourth. It’s so soon.’

  ‘You’re the one who told him.’ Oscar gives a sneer. ‘Said that’s the day the sun reappears over the horizon.’

  ‘Well, I could hardly keep it from him.’ Prestrud sits up defensively. ‘The information’s all here written down – see!’ Thrusting the Nautical Almanac across the table, Prestrud inadvertently knocks over the oil lamp.

  Oscar leaps from his seat as the oil spreads towards him then ignites. Neither man knows quite what to do. The almanac is ablaze and there’s nothing nearby to smother the flames. The commotion brings Lindstrøm from the kitchen.

  Prestrud flaps hopelessly at the almanac, seriously considering using his body to save the precious volume. Lindstrøm throws a damp towel which lands with a heroic flop right on target.

  With barely concealed horror, Prestrud peels back the fabric to assess the damage. Lindstrøm tut-tuts his way over to the scene of destruction.

  ‘Is it okay?’ Oscar asks, feeling partially responsible for baiting the navigator.

  Prestrud releases a deep breath. ‘It’s burnt right up to our day of departure – if you can believe that.’

  Lindstrøm whistles and wanders back into the kitchen. It’s a sign alright, he thinks to himself, just not a particularly good one.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  ‘I can’t understand why the English have such disdain for skis and dogs. And they pour scorn on fur clothing. We’ll show them. We’ll demonstrate the full extent of the knowledge and understanding that has propelled the Norwegians to the forefront of polar exploration!’

  Amundsen is not a boastful man. This is more a war cry, a limbering up before the dash south. ‘It’s so interesting, in his account of reaching furthest south, Shackleton pronounces that fur is unnecessary and that a wool and a windproof layer are sufficient. But then he complains of the cold!’

  ‘Well, aren’t we lucky then?’ adds Helmer, his sarcasm clear. ‘If it weren’t for Shackleton’s stupidity, he’d have made it to the pole and I’d be back in Norway cuddling my wife.’

  ‘And where would you rather be?’ Sverre asks.

  There’s a pause as Helmer pretends to consider the question deeply. ‘Here, of course!’

  The men roar with laughter.

  Amundsen quietens the room. ‘I’m not saying Shackleton and his companions lacked courage and strength. I just can’t share his view that the Great Ice Barrier is such a mysterious place. It’s obviously a glacier. Massive to be sure, but a glacier nonetheless.’

  August has been a frenzy of last-minute activity. The major adjustments to equipment and packing are now finished and attention has turned to myriad smaller tasks – making scales for weighing provisions, producing lighter tent poles, redesigning ski bindings. Oscar has fashioned large windproof layers to fit over reindeer trousers and Helmer has made leather snow goggles. Sverre has re-soldered all the lids of the tins of paraffin to prevent any evaporation – the evil vapours in his fuel storage are proof that significant leakage has already taken place. Once again each man has stripped back his individual snow boots, intent on perfecting the fit while he still has the luxury of a table, chair and warmth enough to wield a needle and thread. In an unpopular move, Amundsen has decreed that each man will sew a sledging harness for himself.

  ‘You can’t be serious,’ Bjaaland scoffs with incredulity.

  But Amundsen is serious. Should the unthinkable happen and all the dogs perish, the men will provide pulling power.

  The day before departure passes quickly. Using a makeshift crane, the men winch seven fully laden sledges out from the underground workshop and into the light of day. The dogs are harnessed to the heavy loads and sent up onto the barrier with the chief leading the way on skis. The trip takes two hours. On arrival at the designated ‘starting point’, the dogs are released and sent home, and yet a few choose to remain by the sledges, showing a degree of loyalty that puts the men to shame, knowing as they do that few dogs will survive. Spirits are high that night. There’s a certain luxury in having started the polar journey and returning home to Fatty for dinner.

  According to Prestrud’s astronomical tables the sun is due to reappear the next day, but it is still fearfully cold. Sverre recounts how his breath turned to ice in mid-air and rustled as it fell to the ground. Everyone saw how Amundsen’s nostrils froze that morning. The solid ice cubes completely restricted his flow of air. The coughing and clearing and shaking of his head would have been comical if not for the chief ’s foul mood. He is beyond frustrated. To depart in such conditions is unwise. Their grand departure will be postponed for another five days.

  ‘Praise the Lord for small mercies,’ breathes Bjaaland.

  ‘I’m going to make a sandwich for the sun,’ says Lindstrøm.

  ‘A sandwich?’ snorts Stubberud. ‘What does the sun need with a sandwich?’

  ‘Leave him be. I’ve learnt never to question Fatty and his mysterious ways.’ Amundsen folds his arms across his chest.

  The following day the dogs end up eating Lindstrøm’s offering. The sun has returned after its long winter absence, but fails to cast any of its rays from behind an ominous fortress of cloud on the horizon.

  The days drag by. Each day colder than the last. Minus 52, minus 53 degrees. The men are restless, increasingly worried about their chances of withstanding the penetrating cold of early spring. Resentment surfaces. Must we really do this? Is he serious about setting off? Voices never rise above whispers, but Amundsen’s not fooled; their unease is palpable. Emotion has no place in his decision-making. Logic must prevail. When the chief again revises their date of departure, it is the prevailing winter temperatures he cites rather than any dire misgivings the men themselves have raised.

  Seven o’clock on the morning of 4 September is their scheduled departure, but once the day arrives, so does a savage howling wind that sends so much drift into the air that the men cannot see their hands in front of their faces. Amundsen expresses his rage in a silence so profound that not even Lindstrøm attempts carefree banter. Three days pass. The atmosphere in the hut is tomblike.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, let’s just go!’ shouts Helmer, thumping the table in exasperation.

  And the next day they do, whether they want to or not.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Amundsen issues a cloud of expletives. Almost immediately ice crystals gather on his hood, the long tips of fur becoming more like spiked winter foliage with every breath. There is nothing remotely pleasant about their journey. For the first time in years, Amundsen is cold. Not even his pride can keep him warm. The cold feels like a personal insult, a hateful jeering slight against his character, against his leadership. In this realm of deficits, where a slow subtraction of feeling is the norm, reindeer clothing can no longer offer protection. Even the milky speck in the sky that was once the sun cannot hold its own and shrinks into the gloom. Steeling himself, Amundsen drives onward.

  Again he swears and shouts, ‘Go home!’

  The puppies are oblivious to the abuse hurled in their direction. Playful and eager, these three pups from Camilla’s second litter do not understand the serious intent of this outing. Entertainment is their sole motivation. Nothing breaks their stride, not the cold, nor the wind, nor the fact that food is not forthcoming. Mile after mile they continue their lighthearted gambolling beside their mother’s sledge. Helmer serves up a sharp lick of his whip but still the puppies refuse to go home. The other dogs are unsettled, resentful of the youngsters’ larking while they chafe in their traces. One team sees a chance to lunge at the annoying threesome but instead of teaching them a lesson, the attackers end up embroiled in warfare with another team. Sverre’s teeth chatter as he attempts to untangle the traces, with Helmer and Johansen yanking on the dogs. It’s an hour of fumbling with frozen hands. Despite stamping their feet and slapping their sides with increasing violence, the other men get desperately cold standing for so long in one place.

&
nbsp; The chief is a man obsessed by one goal to the exclusion of all others. Nothing must stand in his way. Amundsen loads his gun and shoots all three pups.

  Through days of horror the men stay the course, even as their clothing becomes rigid with ice and the sledges grow a fur-like layer of rime frost from waves of dogs’ breath. The cold saps strength and adventurousness and any sense of shared purpose. Each man is an island of suffering that not even a night’s rest can relieve. Sleep has become an unattainable luxury. It’s as if the body, unable to trust itself to wake up, will not allow the kind of deep slumber the men so need. Even the gin Amundsen has packed for their moment of celebration at the pole has given up the ghost.

  ‘The flask’s cracked,’ he says, incredulous.

  ‘The aquavit’s still okay. Well, frozen solid, but the bottle’s still intact,’ says Helmer.

  The men thaw the bottle slowly, turning it round and round in the precious warmth radiating from the Primus. Under normal circumstances no one would be permitted to take a drink, but it’s minus 56 degrees and the men are desperate for even the superficial heat of strong spirits. Johansen, who has so far made a point of abstaining, sucks the alcohol greedily into his frigid system without much effect. Outside, the dogs whimper.

  ‘I am colder than I have ever been in my entire life,’ says Bjaaland through gritted teeth. He remains completely still in his sleeping bag for fear of letting in more chill.

  Finally it is so cold that the liquid in the compasses freezes.

  ‘Let’s call it quits.’ Amundsen’s jaw clenches as if in distaste. ‘There’s no point risking men and dogs.’

  Relief crackles among the party. It’s been four days. They still must get to the 80 degrees depot to dump their supplies, but the thought of home provides them with the keenest motivation and they cover the distance in a day and a half.