Their progress slowed on the fifth and sixth, and the euphoria began to give way to some realization of the danger. Wegener attempted to get some barometric and thermometric recordings and start his meteorological protocols, but he found his recording instruments knocked off their calibration by the constant vibrations of the deck. “Perhaps I can also improve things by removing the bundles of dried codfish sitting on top of the thermometer-hut—then it can ventilate better.”48 Unbeknownst to himself, he had become a comic figure to the crew. The fun centered on his hat—an indescribably ugly garrison cap in an improbable shade of green, with a border of green astrakhan wool. As he came up the gangway three or four times a day to check his instruments, the hat appeared first and always gave a start to Knud Christiansen (1876–1916), one of the seamen. Christiansen assured everyone that the hat was actually “the devil responsible for all the bad weather we’ve had on the voyage.” Achton Friis (1871–1939), one of the expedition’s artists and later the author of the most famous book about this Greenland adventure, noted that it was hard to believe that the young, smiling face that emerged onto the deck beneath that hat was in charge of 100 steel canisters filled with hydrogen—“enough explosive power to send fifty ships like ours to the bottom of the sea in a few seconds.”49
The humor went both ways, however. Wegener had succeeded in setting up a hygrometer (to measure relative humidity) and a recording barometer in his cabin, and he noted indulgently in his journal that “the hygrometer is read off on each watch with large satisfaction by the sailors. In the ship’s log a column for humidity is provided, and they are as proud as Spaniards that we can now fill out this column. Also the barograph is eagerly used. I owe partially my position among the sailors to it. It is consulted daily about five times, and my cabin, where it hangs, is thus a sort of inner sanctum.”50
On the morning of 7 August the smooth sailing and the accompanying carnival atmosphere of photography, shooting seals, and sightseeing came to an abrupt halt as the ship was beset and pressured severely in the ice. “Today,” Wegener noted, “just before noon we were trapped between two gigantic floes pressing in on us. It looked as though we would end up wintering here.”51 The ice released them in the late afternoon, and they managed to find a lead of open water, but the incident prompted Mylius-Erichsen to schedule an “abandon-ship” drill for the next day. It was a standing order that sleeping bags, guns and ammunition, extra tools, clothing, and cooking gear be always at the ready in case the ship had to be abandoned. Kept near the three ship’s boats were boxes of provisions and water casks ready to load at a moment’s notice—though none of this had ever been put to the test.52
On the morning of 8 August, in the middle of the forenoon watch, Knud Christiansen went to the wheelhouse and (on Trolle’s signal) began to hand-crank the ship’s siren to announce the boat drill. The eerie wail gave the maneuver a surprising sense of urgency, and the crew rushed to their stations, tossing their sleeping bags and gear into the boats and loading the boxes of provisions. The boats were lowered, and after rowing around in the ship’s wake for a few minutes, the men made for some nearby ice floes, where they pulled up onto the ice and unloaded the boxes and gear. The three groups waved and shouted to each other across the open water and then began to load up to row back to the ship.
The leader of the third boat party, which held Achton Friis and Peter Freuchen, decided to open one of the provision crates before rowing back to the ship—just to see what sort of food they were supposed to subsist on. The box contained 80 pounds (36 kilograms) of mixed pickles—nothing else. Of the six boxes of “emergency rations” on board the boat, three were nothing but mixed pickles—320 pounds (145 kilograms) in all. The men grinned at each other, relieved that they need not survive on mixed pickles and that dinner waited in the ship, swinging at anchor 100 meters (328 feet) distant.
As they rowed back to the ship, Achton Friis noticed that it was uncannily quiet, and he realized that he could not hear the dogs quarreling and barking, nor could he see any dogs aboard. How odd, he thought. He saw the first boat pull up to the ship and two men jump over the rail. The silence was suddenly splintered by a howling and wailing from the ship that went on for several minutes. What on earth was happening? As Friis hauled himself over the rail, everything became clear, as dogs were spilling madly from the doorway to the mess room, driven by yelling men with dog whips. Whoever had gone last over the side in the boat drill had, in the confusion and rush, neglected to latch the door to the mess, and all 120 of the dogs had gone below. Inside, the ship was a madhouse. The dogs had swarmed into the galley and the larder. They had tipped over the cooking pots on the stove, holding 20 pounds (9 kilograms) of meat and gallons of cooking water, and had eaten it all. They had somehow turned the petcocks on the water pipes over the stove and doused the cook fires and then had broken into the larder and eaten 20 pounds of butter, all the bread, and a large variety of staples, including a sack of flour, another of salt, and a crate of sterno fuel. They had chewed and torn all the leather they could lay their teeth to. They had overturned a large tureen of fruit soup and then run through it and the flour. As they rampaged through the ship, wherever they ran—on desks and tables, on the crew’s bedding, in the machine shop, in the engine room, in the hold and the bilge, even on the keyboard of the piano in the main salon—they had left their floured, syrup-soaked footprints.53
Mylius-Erichsen was beside himself with rage at the carelessness. Wegener did not mention it in his journal, nor Friis in his, but many years later, when most of the principals were long dead, Freuchen told the story:
This was the occasion of Mylius-Erichsen’s first fit of hysterical fury. We were to experience many of them later, but this was the first demonstration. He screamed and shouted, stamped on the deck and nearly wept in his fury. “I am in command here, I am the owner of the ship and everything in it! Whoever left that door open will get a punishment he will not forget! I’ll put him in chains!” he shrieked. Afterwards we could laugh at it but at the time the impression was rather grim. With this lack of balance this man was to be our leader for the next three years, the head of an undertaking which was far beyond his powers. He had no experience in organizing such a group of people and he lacked the authority to make the men respect his orders. We all grew very fond of this man who was more of a poet than an explorer, but we first had to get used to the fact that what he said today did not hold true tomorrow.54
Mylius-Erichsen was neither mad nor mentally unstable but merely overwhelmed by what he had undertaken. He was only thirty-three, and he had never commanded anything larger than a dogsled. He had traveled to Greenland only once before, in a four-man party that included Jørgen Brønlund, the artist Harald Moltke, and Knud Rasmussen, the greatest Greenland traveler of all; Mylius-Erichsen had been the least experienced of the four. Now he was in charge of a ship and twenty-seven men, many of whom also had greater experience than he. Authority was parted out between himself, Captain Trolle, and Ring (the ice pilot); Lt. Koch, who had already been on four scientific expeditions, overshadowed his reputation as an explorer.
If Mylius-Erichsen was anxious, he was still capable of decisive action. When the ship broke through the pack into an open shore lead on 13 August, he had the ship turned north and fought for every mile of “northing” in the open coastal water. On the fourteenth they steamed past Cape Bismarck just above 76° north, the northernmost point reached by the German Expedition of 1869–1870. “I was asleep, unfortunately, when we passed Cape Bismarck,” wrote Wegener that night, “and thus I did not see the memorable point where the German expedition abandoned its efforts [to reach a “farthest north”]. It is so strange that we steam along here effortlessly in open coastal water, where the Germans, with almost inconceivable effort, pulled their sledges over the ice.”55 Though this cape held a small bay that seemed an ideal winter harbor, they steamed north of it for another day and night, finally stopped by impenetrable pack ice on 15 August at latitude 77°30′
north. They had reached farther north in Greenland than any expedition with plans to overwinter, even though the coast at this latitude had been visited by other expeditions and by innumerable sealers and whalers in the past 300 years.
This was as far north as they could sail. They unloaded a quantity of stores onto the land as a depot against the dogsled journeys north the following spring. Mylius-Erichsen detailed Koch to take the motor launch and a whaleboat in tow and set stores as far north as he could—the boats being able to navigate in narrow shore leads where the Danmark would have gone aground. Every kilogram not landed by boat would have to be hauled by dogsled with great effort. The Danmark immediately turned south and by the next day steamed—with Wegener at the helm—back to the winter harbor at Cape Bismarck, christened that day “Danmarkshavn.”
Greenland Autumn
Their winter harbor and home for the next two years was a snug bight facing south-southeast, protected from drift ice and ice pressure by Cape Bismarck (6 kilometers [4 miles] to the east) and from the prevailing northwest winds by low, undulating hills. To the west lay a vast region of lakes and fjords—all unexplored—and beyond that, 60 kilometers (37 miles) distant, the margins of the Inland Ice, last remnant in the Northern Hemisphere of the great ice sheets of the Pleistocene glaciation. The landscape was gray and somber gneissic rock, enlivened to the north and east of the harbor by extensive carpets of Cassiope—that lovely, intensely green shrub with its nodding white and pink flowers. Beyond that was a swampy bog with a scant but welcome growth of sedges and reeds. The site for the shore station was a low, sloping flatland of rock and gravel, flanked by two rushing streams providing abundant freshwater, promptly christened the “West River” and the “East River.” In all, it was a lucky spot—an ice-free shore, abundant vegetation uncommon in this latitude, and evidence of game animals; this last feature was crucial as they planned to live as much as possible “off the land.” This might be an ideal from the standpoint of the men, but it was vital with regard to the dogs; there was no other way to feed them.56
Northeast Greenland. The area investigated by the Danmark Expedition is outlined by a dashed line. Danmarkshavn is at the tip of Kap Bismarck. From G(eorg). Amdrup, “Report on the Danmark Expedition to the North-East Coast of Greenland 1906–1908,” Meddelelser om Grønland 41, no. 1 (1913).
Wegener was satisfied with his new home and anxious to get settled: “The area for scientific work is ample, and seems good to me. The rock is crystalline, undulating and severely and even grotesquely scoured—no problem with the electrical and magnetic measurements. With the width of the flat land and the low slope of the mountains, I can make kite ascents … now the scientists can stop being sailors and begin their scientific work.”57 This was true, but not, perhaps, as he had imagined. Before going north with the motor launch the day before, Koch had stunned Wegener by putting him in charge of the reconnaissance of the winter harbor and of preparations for the geodetic triangulation and survey of the coast, including the crucial point of anchoring the observation network. Wegener tried to put a brave face on it: “It is probably good to connect the pleasant and the useful. A tour of the surroundings is important for my own work as well.”58
Danmarkshavn. Note that most of the structures on land were dedicated to Wegener’s science: the thermometer hut, electrical and magnetic observatories, precipitation gauge, and storage for the kites (Drage) and the kite winch. From Amdrup (1913).
With the ship anchored and the dogs unloaded, Wegener was glad that work on the station’s scientific buildings could begin, but to his surprise (and dismay), this did not happen. Mylius-Erichsen immediately left by boat with all the field scientists, the ship’s carpenter, and some seamen to investigate the islands and inlets of Dove Bay to the west, leaving only the ship’s real crew—captain, pilot, mates, cook, engineers, and two deckhands—along with Wegener, Friis, and the Greenlander Hendrik Olsen, the latter to see to the dogs. Friis and Wegener were to be free to pursue their “own special investigations,” but what that could mean for Wegener wasn’t clear: all his equipment remained in crates on shore, and he had as yet no place to hang it or use it.59
Wegener seems not to have realized that Koch, with the orders to “make a reconnaissance,” had offered him a generous opportunity to go exploring, too. He might have ranged widely around the area, climbed and even named some mountains, taken off in a boat, and in any of these ways have had a share in the general exhilaration of exploring an unknown region in the glory of a High Arctic summer, but he would have none of it. He was obsessed with his aerological work and could think of nothing but that. Friis, on the contrary, immediately got the picture of what was (not) happening at Danmarkshavn and, after a day or two, took off after Mylius-Erichsen.
Wegener stayed doggedly on. After six days of helping with the unloading of the ship, he found his winch, his kites, and his balloons. The last of these were badly stuck together, and he agonized over peeling them apart, fearful he would tear and ruin them. He managed on 25 August to inflate one, but he found this process painful: sand and pebbles had glued themselves to the sticky balloon surface as he unrolled it on the ground, and, on inflation, these were shot at him with some force. He tried to clear an area free of sand and pebbles (to avoid punctures and being hit by rocks again), but every time he got an area completely clear, the dogs would invariably come dashing through and everything would again be covered in rock and sand—the dogs had left the ship and had wasted no time establishing their dominion on land.
He was also discovering what it was to be on his own. He had no assistants and no assistance. He begged some help to wind the wire on the winch and had some dream in mind to start a full aerological and meteorological program on 1 September, but he soon saw the folly of these plans in the face of the general inertia and his own sense of strain. “After Sunday we have only five days [until September]. Shall we succeed in getting everything built in this space of time? It seems impossible that I can be in the house on the first, when no one has made the first move toward building it. No one here has the slightest interest in it but me, and all work proceeds at a dreadfully slow pace.”60
Everything was different than he had supposed. The coast was low and uninteresting, not Alpine, glaciered, and majestic; in fact, there was not a glacier in sight—in Greenland! He was anxious to begin his observations but needed help to set up the instrumentation, and none was to be had; everyone was away, exploring in the west. Finally, on the morning of 1 September, he managed to test his winch and get a kite in the air, though he only let out 800 meters (2,625 feet) of wire before the wind died. This seems to have improved his mood, as now he had at least one observation: “about 20 minutes after the kite landed the wind came from the opposite side! Obviously the core of a small low pressure center, recognizable only by clouds, barometer and thermometer, and not by precipitation, had passed over us.”61
Wegener was floundering. He had not made the reconnaissance tours Koch had requested of him, and when Koch returned from the north with the motor launch, he immediately swept up Wegener and headed off east and south to Cape Bismarck and Koldeway Island to build some observation points for the geodetic network. Wegener (finally) wanted to explore a bit, but now it was too late; Koch moved very fast and single-mindedly: “This forced-march touring with Koch is interesting, and one learns how to make the best use of every moment, but it is impossible to combine any second purpose with one of his trips. If I want to photograph these beautiful vistas I will have to come back here alone.”62
Koch kept him close after their return to Danmarkshavn, and Wegener did his best to keep up with him—much as he had tried to keep up with the “bigger boys” in the exercise hall in the orphanage many years before. He was in awe of Koch: “He is wonderfully suited for this work. He is strong as an ox, with a body of iron, and this incomparable energy, which I so admire. The projects are always well planned. When he is trying to accomplish something he is ruthless in pursing it, and this I
admire as well. I know I can learn a lot from him, even living with him is by itself useful since his enormous energy is contagious, and buoys me along in each new task.”63
There were plenty of tasks, as all the prefabricated instrument huts had to be assembled, their foundations dug, and their guy-wires strung and anchored. It had already begun to snow—the first measurable flurries came on 4 September—and yet Wegener did not have a full meteorological station established: “yesterday was the first snow, but who knows when the instruments will be ready to use.”64
With Koch’s help, he began soon after to make progress in his work, and began to think of Koch as a coworker as well as a mentor. He helped Koch make the observations necessary to establish the cardinal points of the compass and the true north, and then Koch helped him set up the anemometer. He helped Koch set up his astronomical observatory and cement the transit instrument’s granite pillar (brought from Denmark) to a secure foundation; in return, Koch assisted him with his second kite flight, on 11 September. Wegener continued to be amazed at the pace of the expedition and how different it was from what he had read of such things and from what he had imagined an expedition to be. “I am learning so much here,’’ he wrote. He continued,
I am particularly impressed by the extraordinary mobility of this expedition, which is in sharpest contrast with the German South Pole Expedition, where everyone stayed with the ship. Mylius-Erichsen has already been roaming to the west of us in the fjord for almost a month, and Koch is constantly away with the motorboat if this is not needed for other work, and people are continuously going back and forth to Mylius-Erichsen, hiking overland, in short, the expedition has an astonishing radius of action, and we have not even begun to use our main conveyances—skis and sleds. It is important to remember that these small enterprises are extraordinarily facilitated in this region because of the continuous good weather, and by the fjords being completely ice-free all summer. In South Polar Regions it would be much more difficult. I hope, in any case, to learn here enough self-sufficiency that someday I may play on a German expedition the same role that Koch plays here.65
Alfred Wegener Page 21
