The Netsilik dog is skinny. Amundsen has seen how it roves about the camp, whining, wolfing down human excrement in the absence of any other sustenance. It growls as Amundsen approaches his master’s igloo. He is loyal even when there is no food.
Amundsen has brought bread, Lindstrøm’s friendship offering to their Netsilik companions, who are constantly offering gifts, wildlife specimens he will take back for the museum in Norway. Lindstrøm’s collection has grown to include Arctic birds, foxes, rabbits, even ticks and lice picked off human bodies. The work keeps him busy and he is always stuffing and mounting some beast on the big chart table aboard the ship.
The bread comes straight from the oven and is wrapped in a cloth. The Netsilik children are first to gather around the curiosity. ‘Fatty made it for you,’ says Amundsen, miming Lindstrøm’s girth and puffing out his cheeks.
Magito, one of the Netsilik women, touches the loaf. The skin of her hand is dark with an accumulation of dried blood from cutting up seal meat, but her fingers are spotlessly clean, the result of much licking. She has a beautiful smile.
Steam rises when Amundsen cuts the first slice. The children finger the white interior, laughing at the strange texture, soft like the underbelly fur of a reindeer. Amundsen tears a corner off and chews it slowly, making appreciative noises and challenging the onlookers to do the same. Magito is quick to follow. Her piece is large and misshapen; it disappears into her mouth. Her eyes grow large. She scuttles outside where sounds of retching and anguished cries can be heard. Nobody moves until she returns. Cross words spill from her mouth. Their meaning is clear: you tried to poison me!
Amundsen protests. Again he slips a knob of bread into his mouth and chews. The children, the women chatter and point and Magito repeats her angry outburst, this time gripping her stomach in a melodramatic fashion. Amundsen decides it’s best to retreat.
‘Are you surprised, Fatty? No such thing as bread in the Arctic Circle,’ Amundsen dismisses Lindstrøm’s hurt feelings. ‘Only one thing will keep you warm in minus twenty and that’s seal meat and blubber.’
A boy they call Dalonakto has come aboard the Gjøa. The Netsilik often do. Making a show of his bravery, Dalonakto bites into the offending loaf and stares with defiance at Helmer.
When the thaw comes and it is time to move on, it is this boy who refuses to leave the boat, even though he must. There is no room, not enough food. Still Dalonakto insists he will join the Norwegians on their navigation of the Northwest Passage.
Helmer’s had enough. He points to Dalonakto then to Lindstrøm’s stuffed Arctic specimens. ‘You, next!’ he says pointedly. The boy does not linger.
‘A bit of a cruel joke,’ Lindstrøm says as they farewell their Netsilik hosts.
Helmer grunts. ‘Even if we had managed to chase him off the boat, he would have followed in a sea kayak until we had no choice but take him with us.’
‘Don’t you see?’ says Amundsen sagely. ‘With all we’ve learnt from these folk, we are taking him with us. We’re taking all of them with us. Not in body but definitely in spirit.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Norwegians know nothing of what lies ahead of them and what natural obstacles could hamper their progress. All of it is virgin territory, uncharted. One thing is for sure, however: the surface of the eastern barrier is proving ideal for the dogs. Amundsen thinks back to all he has read about Antarctic conditions. Shackleton and Scott have both written about how unsuited dogs are to travel here. How wrong they were! Amundsen can’t help feeling he has been misled by their descriptions of the treacherous, demanding conditions. If anything could be improved, it’s the sledges – they’re way heavier and more rigid than they need to be.
Their third day out from Framheim is marked by thick fog and a distinct impression that they are proceeding downhill. When the fog finally lifts, towards midday, the men find themselves staring at a towering landmass rising from the line of the southern horizon. Out in front, Prestrud points to the horizon in alarm. The harder he works his skis to get a closer look, the further away the land seems to get. The effect is maddening.
Amundsen chuckles to himself. It may look every bit as solid as a mountain but the simple fact is that the dark mass is nothing but a bank of fog, slowly retreating. Prestrud doesn’t believe it for a minute when Amundsen enlightens him. He’s convinced himself that he’s heading for dark foothills, skiing there alone, leading everyone onward. Nobody pushes the point. The next morning when they rise at 4 a.m., the day offers calm, clear conditions.
‘Where did my foothills go?’ Prestrud gasps amid much hilarity.
It’s a surprise to all of them that even in temperatures well below zero, the reindeer sledging outfits are too warm to bother with. Proceeding in underclothes with a wind layer is more than enough to keep the men comfortable during the day, given the exercise they’re getting. The dogs pull and the men ski beside them – everybody is working well and the daily distances are covered easily in the six hours of travel they have set themselves. Not far now and they’ll have reached their target of 80 degrees south. There is still no sign of any crevasses. Prestrud would be first to encounter any such hazard but with skis over two metres long, it’s unlikely he’d fall in or fall far. The dog teams are far more likely to be the first casualties with their dainty paws and compact bodies.
On the fourth day Amundsen comes to the conclusion that their theodolite is not working as it should, making it impossible to position the supply depot in a way that is astronomically accurate. Getting the depot coordinates right is critical if they are to find it again in a vast emptiness the size of France. A combination of regular readings from the compass and the distance meter will have to do. Amundsen has been marking the route with bamboo flagpoles every 15 kilometres, which should be sufficient in conditions of good visibility, but when thick fog settles or the wind whips up the loose snow to the height of a man, it will be another story. They may have to come up with some other system.
It’s 11 a.m. on 14 February when Amundsen calls a halt. Minus 19 degrees and still. The dogs pant in confusion, their breath showing up as an aura of white. They don’t seem to understand that this is as far as they will travel. For now.
‘Eighty degrees south?’ asks Helmer.
Amundsen takes off his dark glasses and peers closely at the reading on the sledge-meter to make triple sure. He nods. ‘By my reckoning.’
Signalling his relief, Prestrud sends a plume of hot breath skyward.
The men take to their task with great enthusiasm, unfastening the ropes on the sledges and calling out the contents of the crates as they stack them neatly around a central flagpole so Amundsen can note everything down. There are twelve cases of dog pemmican weighing almost half a tonne, 30 kilos of seal steaks and 50 kilos of blubber that the dogs seem particularly interested in. Johansen’s whip dissuades them. Two boxes of sledging biscuits, twenty packets of chocolate and a box of margarine top off the 12-foot structure. More will be added when the men return to establish further depots at 82 and 83 degrees south, but for now the hard part is over. With the sledges largely empty, the men face a rather leisurely return to Framheim – this time as passengers.
Helmer breaks up a few empty packing cases to use as markers on their way back.
‘Is that all we have?’ asks Johansen. ‘That’s not nearly enough.’
‘What else do we have?’ says Helmer, exasperated at how well Johansen can point out a problem without offering a solution. ‘Shall I cut up your skis?’
‘You can cut up my ski boots, they’re bloody killing me,’ Johansen grumbles.
‘Take mine too,’ says Prestrud. ‘They’re so damn stiff. My heels are one big blister.’
‘Use these.’ Amundsen points to the bundle of dried fish on one of the sledges. ‘Even if we can’t see the route, the dogs will sniff it out.’
‘We’ve got plenty.’ Helmer pauses while he makes a rough calculation. ‘Enough for every 250 metres or so.’
In the end it’s Amundsen’s job to stick a dried fish into the snow every time Prestrud gives the signal. With their old tracks to follow home, Prestrud is no longer needed to blaze a trail out front. Sitting on the back of the last sledge with one eye on the slow turn of the sledge-meter, he contemplates the empty landscape. Pride swells in his chest. It wasn’t so bad to act as frontrunner. In fact, to be the first man to venture into the new land was an honour. Now as they return northward, Prestrud has the luxury of being the last man to take it all in. The view south looks somewhat different than when he set out towards it. What was virgin snow is now a jumble of sledge tracks and paw prints, punctuated by the neat parallel lines of their skis. Even more startling is the human structure they’ve left behind. It’s the only thing visible for miles and the first of their lifelines into the Antarctic interior.
The Fram’s gone by the time the depot party arrives back. The news makes for a subdued homecoming. They’d covered a distance of over 60 kilometres on the last day to be sure of seeing the ship and her crew off.
Amundsen takes a stroll out on the lonely edge of the Bay of Whales. A few dogs trail behind him, evidently bored to be home after the excitement of the depot journey. They give a start whenever Helmer discharges his shotgun. He’s down by the water’s edge hunting skua gulls. The seabirds have become a favourite dish, roasted and served with a dollop of Lindstrøm’s cloudberry conserve. Helmer joins Amundsen at the spot of churned-up and dirty snow where the Fram was moored. It’s a melancholy sight, a reminder of their isolation and the need to rely on each other.
‘Did you see our little boat?’ Helmer’s question catches Amundsen temporarily off-guard. ‘The lifeboat Captain Nilsen has left us.’
Amundsen nods. The top of its mast is just visible from the hut.
‘Funny that Nilsen was so worried our camp might float out to sea.’ Helmer stamps his feet. ‘Feels quite solid underfoot to me.’
‘Maybe Nilsen is worried about not making it back here. Sailing around the Horn to Buenos Aires. Facing off gales and mountainous seas with only nine crewmen.’
‘Makes what we’re planning look rather pleasant,’ Helmer says with conviction.
Amundsen mutters something inaudible. He stares out at the dense heave of the Ross Sea. ‘I do hope he can raise some funds in Buenos Aires.’
Helmer seeks to make eye contact. ‘To hire some fresh hands, you mean?’
Amundsen offers a false laugh. ‘No, so he can re-provision the ship and come back for us. Nilsen has nothing left in his coffers.’
Helmer smiles at the joke. ‘Nothing?’
‘I mean — nothing.’ Amundsen’s eyes widen. ‘Not a penny. No money for repairs, no money for fuel, for food or drink or tobacco or even postage stamps. He certainly doesn’t have any money to pay the crew.’
‘Sounds familiar,’ huffs Helmer, referring to the dire financial fortunes of their Northwest Passage expedition, when they’d had to set sail under the cover of darkness to escape their Norwegian creditors. It had all worked out in the end though.
‘You’re right, Helmer!’ Amundsen laughs heartily. ‘It’s nothing we haven’t seen already!’
CHAPTER TWENTY
Barely a day passes and the men are already thrown into preparations for the second depot journey. Amundsen paces back and forth, consumed by the question of weight. He knows significant reductions are possible and devotes all his energy to imagining the ways this can be achieved. If they can pack provisions more efficiently, that will reduce the burden on the dogs. With lighter loads the sledges themselves could be downsized. The heavy rigid sledges they’ve brought from Norway are simply not necessary. What they need are light, flexible sledges like the ones used by the Netsilik. Stubberud could easily strip them back. In pondering the question of weight, it has occurred to the chief that another way to lessen their load is to leave men behind. Fewer men require fewer provisions. But the question of which men to take and which men to leave is a tricky one. Helmer is his right-hand man. Sverre is highly experienced with dogs. Bjaaland’s the champion on skis, and fast. Prestrud and Oscar are green but diligent workers. Stubberud’s handyman skills could be lifesaving on the trail. And Johansen has survival knowledge the others lack. Thank goodness Fatty is not built for sledging. That’s one man he can leave out. Perhaps by the end of winter, he’ll have a firmer view.
‘I really, really hate these boots,’ Prestrud says, slicing away the canvas from the sole with a heavy pair of scissors. On his face is a look of pure glee. ‘I feel like a surgeon.’
‘I prefer executioner,’ chuckles Helmer. He’s removed the entire top of his boot and dangles its collapsed form over the table in ghoulish delight. ‘It looks quite harmless now, doesn’t it? No longer capable of inflicting pain and sorrow on the poor unsuspecting foot.’
There’s a hum of approval around the table. Everybody is caught up in their own form of disassembling and re-stitching of ski boots. It’s become the evening’s entertainment after supper. Oscar has proven particularly adept at shaving away layers of the sole to make it more pliable while still retaining enough stiffness to attach correctly to the ski bindings. Impressed at the younger man’s handiwork, Amundsen has handed over his boots and simply requested that Oscar ‘make them better’. There appears to be no right or wrong way of improving them. Each man has been given the responsibility of correcting the limitations of his own kit. Already hats have been redesigned and while all sorts of strange inventions have emerged from the process, nobody laughs at the creations taking shape. Johansen has sacrificed his most prized Icelandic wool sweater. What was once a sleeve is now peculiar headgear, a hood of sorts with eye sockets that makes him look part criminal, part sideshow spectacle.
‘You may laugh now,’ he says wearily to the men assembled at the table. ‘But when I’ve got a nose and you have nothing but a frostbitten stub on your faces, it might just be me sniggering at you.’
Seven sledges set out on the morning of 22 February. Eight men head away on skis. Prestrud is once again the frontrunner but this time the lieutenant wears boots that no longer pinch his feet when worn with four pairs of socks and an insulating layer of dried sennegrass. The commotion that is inevitable when forty-two impatient dogs set off at a gallop can still be heard when the teams disappear over the ridge and onto the Great Ice Barrier. But the continent swallows the sound soon enough into its vast empty belly.
Lindstrøm yawns, knocks the snow off his reindeer kamiks and steps back into the warmth of the Framheim hut. It could be a month before they return. Lindstrøm conjures up an image of what his daily life will look like. More organising. The entry into the hut is now enclosed and the men have dug out a 1.5-metre-wide passageway around the perimeter. Quite a bit of snow has accumulated over the first weeks and by extending the roof of the hut over the passageway all the way down to the ground, the men have created an ample storage space for all Lindstrøm’s provisions, with shelves cut into the snow to store fresh meat, and a quarry of sorts where the cook can excavate as much clean snow as he needs for his kitchen. Clean snow has become a precious resource with so many dogs on the loose. Yellow snow, brown snow – there’s certainly plenty of that to go around.
‘Sweet solitude,’ Lindstrøm sighs, returning to the chaos left in the wake of the men’s departure. Of course he’s not completely alone and this time will be far from relaxing – seventy dogs that require his attention will make sure of that.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Only a week has passed but their old tracks have disappeared. Nevertheless, Prestrud manages to spot the first flag at the 10-kilometre mark. Shortly after he comes across the first of the dried-fish markers. His gaze latches to the dark shape in his otherwise monotonous field of vision. He grabs and throws the fish to one side for Helmer to stash on the sledge before any of the dogs can snap it up – it’ll be needed to feed them later that afternoon.
The snow is deep and porridge-like. ‘Corn snow’, according to Amu
ndsen. It’s heavy, sweaty work to break through it hour after hour, with the granular texture offering a gluey resistance to their skis and sledge runners. Helmer shouts at Prestrud to alter his course this way or that. The lieutenant’s mood darkens. By the third day Prestrud is spoiling for a fight. Not only must he cut a trail for everyone but at the end of the day he’s expected to cook too. Throughout the day his rage builds, his ill humour stoked by a crippling gale from the south-east that buffets his body and savages his face with a barrage of tiny ice particles. The dried fish have disappeared from view, obscured by the wind that churns the surface into a white slurry and turns everything to a blur. The shouting from behind grows in intensity.
‘Left, I said!’
This time there are four tents, with cooking taking place in two. Stubberud has dinner well underway in his tent before Prestrud can even make a start on his preparations. He is freezing cold but has nothing to cook and nowhere to cook it. He shelters in the lee of one of the other tents while he waits for Johansen to arrive with the stove and their tent. His muttering is almost comical.
‘Don’t be a martyr. Come in,’ yells Stubberud through the canvas.
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