Amundsen's Way

by Joanna Grochowicz

  ‘Helmer and I will handle that side of things,’ says Amundsen. ‘I’ll give you lot another job.’

  Amundsen explains how Oscar, Bjaaland and Sverre will need to ski off in different directions, two at right angles and one continuing their old course across the plain. They’ll need to cover a distance of 20 kilometres to be sure that the pole lies within the confines of the large square they will be marking out with flags made from dark fabric, attached to spare sledge runners along with a small bag containing a note giving the position of the Norwegian camp.

  ‘So you’re really saying we’re not there yet?’ Bjaaland sounds deflated.

  ‘We need to be triple sure of hitting the spot.’ The explorer’s face takes on a serious cast. ‘May I remind you of the fiasco when both Peary and Cook claimed to be first at the North Pole?’

  Ceding victory to the British over a technicality would be a tragic end to their Antarctic journey. They sit in silence, each contemplating how it would feel to have their victory reduced in the public mind to deception and lies.

  ‘Why wait for morning then? The sun is shining,’ says Oscar with enthusiasm he’s unsure his colleagues will share. ‘We can call supper breakfast, and set out immediately. Put the matter to rest once and for all.’

  ‘Polheim’ is the name they give to their newly established camp 10 kilometres on from their original position. Three days of observations are complete. They stand at the South Pole. Bjaaland takes the photo of the silent ceremony, the Norwegian flag set atop their spare tent, which they will leave here to mark their conquest. Inside are a few sundry items, along with a brief note:

  Dear Captain Scott

  As you probably are the first to reach this area after us, I will ask you kindly to forward this letter to King Haakon VII. If you can use any of the articles left in the tent please do not hesitate to do so. With kind regards I wish you a safe return. Yours truly,

  Roald Amundsen

  It seems a fair request. Despite their success, there’s no guarantee they will get home alive.

  Now that their official duties are complete, Helmer must attend to a rather more unpleasant task. There can be little doubt that Helge is spent. Helmer leans over to examine the dog, once such a powerhouse and now hunched up on the snow and refusing all food.

  ‘Helge, my friend,’ he says, patting his flank.

  Nothing escapes in response save the weakest flutter of breath. Helmer grimaces and brings Helge’s life to an end with a swift blow to the skull. There is no justice in feeding a loyal and hardworking dog to the pack, and Helmer feels vile as he divvies up the remains. Within a few hours, there is no proof that Helge made it all the way to the South Pole, beyond a few teeth and the shaggy tip of his tail left on the snow.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  The Norwegians set a terrific pace with the sun on their faces and, finally, the dreaded southerly wind at their backs. Bjaaland is happy to leave his sledge and act as forerunner, retracing their old tracks at lightning speed. The others follow as best they can – Helmer and Oscar with two teams of eight dogs, Sverre and Amundsen struggling a little to keep up with the fevered advance into blinding sunlight. Snow goggles offer negligible protection against the glare. Their eyes water and ache.

  ‘Give me some bad weather!’ roars Sverre at the sun, shielding his eyes.

  They all agree a day of haze or gloom would be pure bliss. After suffering for a couple of days they opt to travel at night, when the midnight sun is comfortably overhead, casting the briefest of shadows before them as they continue their route north.

  The cairns that they erected on the plateau were well worth the minor effort of building them. At only a metre high, they are nonetheless highly visible on the clean-sheet flatness, showing up like miniature beacons emitting a reflective glow. The men still scan the horizon for signs of Scott – as much out of habit as a sort of devilish curiosity – but there is no indication that they will have to share the Antarctic plateau with the members of the British expedition.

  Amundsen cannot still his whirring mind, which is drifting dangerously close to paranoia when it comes to Scott. ‘He can only be a matter of days from reaching the pole,’ he mutters more to himself than to anyone in particular. Despite the favourable conditions, the chief ’s mood is at its most sombre. For him it’s not over. In fact, the real race has just begun.

  ‘It’s our story and we must be the ones to tell it. If Scott gets back first, he can cast our victory in whatever light he wishes. It’ll be Cook and Peary all over again.’ He runs a hand over his ravaged face. ‘The newspapers love nothing more than a scandal.’

  Once before he lost the upper hand. The memory is still a painful one.

  OCTOBER 1905 – HERSCHEL ISLAND, YUKON

  The greatest achievement of his life and Amundsen is frozen in. He has no money and no way to communicate his conquest of the Northwest Passage to the world. Captain Mogg of the whaling ship Bonanza, held fast by the sea ice on Herschel Island, also wants out. He has money and a proposition.

  The telegraph office in Eagle, Alaska, lies 800 kilometres away over mountains and through the heavy snows of early winter. Inuit travellers Jimmy and Kappa will guide the two men.

  ‘I’m in charge,’ says Mogg, peeling off dirty dollar notes and shoving them under Jimmy’s nose. The captain is a lazy, corpulent man, scarcely capable of walking the length of his ship without wheezing. Their one dog sledge will be his command post – he has paid for it, after all. He will dictate when to stop and when to go, where to camp and when to eat the foul and inadequate baked beans he so foolishly insists on for every meal.

  Amundsen runs beside the sledge like a dray horse; it’s a wonder Captain Mogg has not fixed him with harness. His mind swims at the hateful situation, at the powerlessness of his position, at the thought of all those cans of pemmican the captain refused that would deliver the kind of energy his body craves.

  The Times of London will pay handsomely for the exclusive story of his Northwest Passage victory. He can settle his debts, pay his men their wages, and escape this crushing financial burden. Through weeks of exhaustion, of deepening snows, of staring at the rubbery-faced Captain Mogg belching by the fireside, of holding his tongue, Amundsen fixes on his goal.

  With considerable relief he sends the telegram to Nansen, who is happy to settle the substantial charges associated with transmitting it. Such stupendous news from the wilds of Alaska. A certain Major Glassford of the US Signals Corps thinks so too. He sees fit to share the message with the local press before it is received in Norway. Turns out The Times won’t pay a penny for Amundsen’s account. It is old news, in fact, having already appeared in every American newspaper from San Francisco to New York.

  It’s an excruciatingly long 800 kilometres back to Herschel Island to tell his men, even if he no longer has to suffer the odious Captain Mogg. How the telegram was intercepted, and who can be accused of indiscretion, is largely irrelevant. Only one thing is certain: Roald Amundsen has learnt one of life’s most valuable lessons – trust no one.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Christmas comes and goes, celebrated with little more than a box of cigars that Bjaaland has hidden in his sleeping bag for months. There’s a certain indulgence in allowing thoughts of home and loved ones to invade their tent, but sentimentality does not last long when there are worn-out dogs to sacrifice to the greater good. All three were excellent dogs; all three are consumed in a trice.

  The remaining dogs have put on weight. In an unrelenting game of cat and mouse, Bjaaland employs all his skill as a cross-country skier to outrun Helmer’s leading sledge. The dogs nip the heels of the champion. Helmer hoots with approval. Oscar has rigged up a sail on his sledge to support the boisterous efforts of his team, which includes powerful pullers Camilla and Madeiro, but he has no hope of taking the lead.

  ‘The dogs are going so well, we could do much more than 15 kilometres a day!’ complains Bjaaland after a day of sunshine and flat surface
. ‘We could double our distances.’

  Amundsen won’t concede. He’s adamant that sixteen hours’ rest at this altitude will preserve their energy for the ordeal that lies at the ghastly frayed edge of the Antarctic plateau. Negotiating the Devil’s Glacier, this time from the opposite direction, is a distressing prospect.

  ‘My tooth is killing me,’ says Oscar, rubbing his swollen cheek.

  There’ll be no sympathy from the chief. His neck and shoulders ache under an enormous phantom pressure. The Transantarctic Mountains loom on the horizon and nothing about their surroundings looks familiar.

  ‘My tooth is killing me,’ complains Oscar again.

  Nobody engages.

  ‘Where’s the mountain with the crown?’ asks Helmer.

  Nobody can make it out. Is it possible that the giant has disappeared? Illusory light, a change in perspective, an unfamiliar angle all add to the confusion. But where are they? All trace of their old tracks has disappeared and not since 88 degrees have they set eyes on a cairn.

  ‘Are we lost?’ asks Sverre, in a low voice that only the chief will hear.

  Amundsen snaps, ‘Of course we’re not lost. We’re heading north, aren’t we? That’s all we need to know.’

  Sverre’s reply is less discreet than his original question. ‘But we’ll overshoot our depot. We need those supplies.’

  It’s a reasonable observation, one worthy of discussion. But instead Amundsen heaves himself forward, his poles digging into the snow forcefully. He wants rid of Sverre and his troublesome comments.

  Referring to his notebook in the tent later on, he’s surprised the bearings he took are in such a muddle – probably noted down in haste, under stress – they were facing a crisis on the way up, after all. They may face another on the way down.

  ‘My tooth,’ says Oscar, staring into his little handheld mirror. ‘I can’t go on like this. It’s too painful.’

  ‘You’re the one who did the dental training, Oscar.’

  ‘You expect me to yank my own rotten tooth out?’

  ‘It can’t be very painful then, or you’d just do it,’ Helmer goads.

  Amundsen looks up from his notebook. ‘Where are the forceps?’

  There’s no mucking about as the chief heats his instrument in the Primus flame. Oscar, kneeling in his sleeping bag, tips his head back. ‘Make sure it’s the right one,’ he quips in last-minute warning.

  They’re not so much forceps as pliers, capable of exerting huge force on whatever object is grasped in their vice-like jaws. Amundsen considers his task. If he cannot pull the rotten tooth, he will crush it to pieces. Oscar can pick the shards from his gum at leisure.

  Oscar groans as the pliers lock around the throbbing tooth. Amundsen’s lips form a point as he exerts greater and greater pressure. Oscar does his best to mask the blinding pain but everyone hears the high-pitched creak as soft flesh and bone yield to the pliers’ extreme force. Amundsen snarls with determination as his knuckles turn white and both hands quiver with exertion, frustration and rage. ‘Got you!’ he shouts. The tooth is a yellow nub set in pink and grey pulp.

  Oscar cradles his jaw. ‘You enjoyed that,’ he says in an accusatory tone.

  ‘Any other customers?’ Amundsen asks, holding up his hard-won prize.

  The others turn away, disgusted.

  ‘At least your bad breath will improve,’ says Bjaaland, disappearing into his sleeping bag.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Helmer can’t help himself. The fingernail of his index finger tentatively explores the outer edges of his scab, tests it with gentle pressure until tenderness sets his finger roving over his chin in search of something he can flick off. The discussion in the tent continues.

  ‘I wouldn’t complain if I were you,’ says Oscar mildly. ‘We’ve managed to bypass that awful Devil’s Ballroom and the Devil’s Glacier – we’ve done in one day what took three days.’

  ‘But we still don’t know where we are.’ Sverre’s face is stern. ‘And that depot on the edge of the Devil’s Glacier, we have no idea where to find it.’

  Bjaaland pipes up. ‘We’ve come too far west. The depot has got to be east of us.’

  Amundsen corrects him. ‘Our course has tended too far east. The depot lies to our west.’

  Bjaaland gives a sullen shrug but chooses not to contradict their leader. Time will tell. Ultimately, does it matter who’s right? The weather looks far from promising and the chances of finding the depot are becoming increasingly slim. Rations are sufficient to get them back down to the barrier but the dogs won’t last three days. No dogs, no pulling power. Each man’s thoughts turn to the man-hauling harnesses they all carry in reserve.

  ‘Shall we carry on to the Butcher’s Shop?’ Helmer asks the next morning. ‘We could spend days looking for this depot and never find a damn thing.’

  Amundsen squints towards the mountains. They’re sure to recognise some landmark before long. But if they don’t? What then? ‘Okay,’ he says resignedly.

  Tending ever northward, they remain committed to their course while feeling ever more unconnected to their surroundings. Heads swivel this way and that, trying to make sense of the peaks and formations that flank their undulating route. It’s only when they turn to face south that they figure they must actually be quite close to their original tracks. Nobody could forget that view over the Devil’s Glacier that had so intimidated them on their way south.

  ‘See! We came too far to the west,’ Bjaaland says with sudden confidence.

  Murmurs of grudging acceptance echo round. But they soon see that angling further east will not get them where they need to be. In fact, they’ve overshot the Butcher’s Shop by some distance.

  ‘We should turn back,’ says Amundsen, pursing his lips in annoyance.

  Helmer is quick to volunteer. He knows time is running out. Bjaaland also raises a hand.

  Amundsen looks unsure. ‘I don’t like to get separated.’

  ‘Relax,’ Helmer says. ‘It can’t be more than a kilometre or two.’

  Amundsen has misgivings. He watches the two men strike out and curses the temptation and trickery of this place, how one moment it can appear magical and miraculous and next distorted and malign, enticing prey into its mouth only to snap it shut. It will be pure torture staying put and waiting this out.

  Helmer and Bjaaland travel for some time. Wave over icy wave they battle, Helmer with his dogs hauling an empty sledge, which bucks and kicks in the absence of any ballast, and Bjaaland doing his best to follow on skis. Eight kilometres becomes eleven, then fifteen as the fog closes in and the men struggle through increasingly deep snowdrifts where nothing is as it appears.

  ‘We should have brought sleeping bags at least,’ Helmer says, scowling. ‘If the weather packs it in, we’ll be in trouble.’

  Back at camp, Oscar and Sverre have turned in. Amundsen will not rest until he sees his two men return. Eight hours they’ve been gone – it should have taken them two or three at most. Pacing back and forth, scanning the muddle of pressure ridges to the east through his binoculars, Amundsen feels dread at the deteriorating weather. How could he have let them cast out alone without any shelter? No provisions, nothing to drink? How could he have done otherwise? With their spare tent left at the pole, they only have one. And as for food, hopefully they’ll eat something once they locate the Butcher’s Shop. Another hour inches by, and another. Amundsen considers their options. In all likelihood they’ll need to kill off the remaining dogs and manhaul back to Framheim.

  Ten hours have passed when, out of the fog, dark shapes appear. Clutched by sudden euphoria, Amundsen sweeps into the tent and sets to work preparing food and drink for the returning men.

  Oscar’s head emerges from the sleeping bag. ‘Are they back already?’

  ‘Back already? They’ve been gone ten hours!’ scolds Amundsen as he fiddles with the Primus.

  Sverre’s voice is muffled by the reindeer fur. ‘Did they find the depot?’

/>   ‘Looks like it. Neither of them were riding on the sledge, so it must be quite heavily loaded.’

  The pot is soon bubbling away. There is a disturbance outside – dog sounds mostly, but also the laboured breathing of men.

  ‘We’re back!’ Bjaaland sticks his head in the tent. He pushes his hood back. ‘Sixty-seven kilometres.’

  ‘What?’ Amundsen is incredulous.

  Both Oscar and Sverre are now sitting up in their bags. ‘You’re joking,’ says Sverre.

  ‘No,’ says Bjaaland with pride. ‘Sixty-seven kilometres in ten hours. I just need to help Helmer with the dogs.’

  Amundsen gets to his feet. ‘No, Bjaaland. You come in. I’ll get Helmer. Leave the dogs to me.’ The first thing Amundsen sees on leaving the tent is the forlorn sight of dog carcasses piled high on the sledge. ‘Get inside, Helmer, and fill your tank.’ He slaps the man on the back.

  For once, Helmer has no cocky reply. He’s hungry and tired, with a raging thirst that he’s desperate to satisfy.

  We’re safe, Amundsen thinks as he unbuckles the dogs from their traces. But we came so close to disaster. He shakes his head. Gratitude is a funny emotion, one that he does not often have cause to experience in its full flush. But he feels it now.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Spirits are high. Fog, snowfall, gales and thick cloud have all tried to waylay progress, but with little effect on morale. Amundsen has twice increased their rations over the past weeks. And there’s plenty more food in the depots up ahead. They gorge themselves at every meal, clear in the knowledge that any man eating double rations is helping to reduce the weight of the sledges. It’s an odd turn of events; there’s never been any excess to offer. Satisfied to the point where his guts ache, Bjaaland has to rub his belly in order to sleep. It seems like they have entered a new golden era where they will put on weight rather than lose it.