The Last Viking

by Stephen Bown

  Amundsen loved the dogs: “There can hardly be an animal that is capable of expressing its feelings to the same extent as the dog,” he mused.

  Joy, sorrow, gratitude, scruples of conscience, are all reflected as plainly as could be desired in his behavior, and above all in his eyes. . . . [T]ake a look at a dog’s eyes, study them attentively. How often do we see something “human” in their expression, the same variations we meet with in human eyes. This, at all events, is something that strikingly resembles “soul.” We will leave the question open for those who are interested in its solution, and will only mention another point, which seems to show that a dog is something more than a mere machine of flesh and blood.

  In a scheme that more than any other earned for Amundsen the honorific “the Napoleon of the Poles,” he and Leon timed the public announcement of the change in destination with a precision more common in a military operation. While the Fram was at sea, Leon had boarded a steamer and cruised south to Funchal on Madeira. He was waiting there when the Fram arrived on September 6, 1910, having made arrangements for taking on provisions such as fruit, vegetables, fresh water and any items that had been missed earlier. Most of the crew spent several days relaxing in the sun, but Amundsen dismissed one man for his seeming inability to get along with the others.

  Amundsen selected his crew carefully and knew from instinct and experience that one sour or unmotivated man could poison the voyage’s atmosphere and endanger the entire expedition. He had been in no hurry to make his selections; after his success in navigating the Northwest Passage, men had been approaching him for years before the Fram sailed. He did not have to seek them out. His discussion with a New York Times reporter on October 27, 1908, is revealing: “I never read the references a man brings to me, when he applies for a position with us in an exploring trip. I can generally tell, after observing him closely and talking to him a while, if he will be equal to the strain, and I have never been mistaken. It is important to get the right sort of men, for one weak man will disorganize the rest. The main thing is always to keep busy, to keep the men at work all the time, and to keep at work yourself.” Two of Amundsen’s companions from the Gjøa expedition had joined the South Pole expedition: Helmer Hanssen and the cook, Adolf Lindstrøm.

  Amundsen was reasonably confident that the men he selected were sufficiently adventurous to be willing to challenge the South Pole, and he had already secured the support of most of the leaders, but he couldn’t know for sure. In the afternoon on September 9, 1910, mere hours before the ship sailed, ostensibly on a route around South America to San Francisco, Amundsen called a meeting of the entire company. He and Leon and Nilsen stood shoulder to shoulder in front of a large chart that prominently displayed Antarctica. Amundsen spoke directly and firmly to the gathered men: “It is my intention to sail southwards, land a party on the Southern continent and try to reach the South Pole.” The men—most of them, at any rate—just stood there with their mouths agape.

  Hanssen, recalling the scene years later, wrote that “he said that he had deceived us and also the Norwegian nation. But that could not be helped. He suggested that we should all be released from our contracts . . . and be given free passage home. Anyone on board who didn’t want to go south was at liberty to leave the ship right away and go back to Norway with Amundsen’s brother.” It was a reasonable offer, and Amundsen spoke to each man personally to determine his true opinion.

  The crew’s assent was vigorous and unanimous, and the pressure was off. “Before I had finished,” Amundsen related in The South Pole, “they were all bright with smiles. I was now sure of the answer I should get when I finally asked each man whether he was willing to go on.”

  One of the men, on hearing that they would be racing the British to the Pole, exclaimed: “Hurrah, that means we’ll get there first!” For Amundsen it was “difficult to express the joy I felt at seeing how promptly my comrades placed themselves at my service on this momentous occasion.” Why not exchange one pole for another? Both were equally cold and dreary, but the southern one offered a greater chance for glory and fame. The men were up for a race. Although it has been suggested that Amundsen’s tactic placed unacceptable pressure on his crew to accept the new terms, when one considers his philosophy of leadership it becomes clear that he really did want any dissenters to leave at the outset rather than cause trouble later.

  As soon as the Fram cleared Funchal and set a course south, Leon boarded a steamer back to Norway with a collection of the men’s final letters and other communications that would soon be made public. Amundsen wrote in his journal that “my brother has taken it upon himself to convey the news as to where we are headed. I do not envy him the task.” News of the Fram’s startling change of course would be hand-delivered to the palace and to Nansen on October 1, a day before the news would be made public with a statement to the newspapers. Amundsen wanted to explain himself candidly and more personally both to his king and to his friend and mentor, so that they wouldn’t first discover his deception in the morning newspapers.

  In a sincere and heartfelt letter to Nansen, who Amundsen had kept completely in the dark about his change of plans despite their close working relationship, he wrote:

  There have been many times I have almost confided this secret to you, but then turned away, afraid that you would stop me. I have often wished that Scott could have known my decision, so that it did not look like I tried to get ahead of him without his knowledge. But I have been afraid that any public announcement would stop me. . . . Once more I beg you. Do not judge me too harshly. I am no hypocrite, but rather was forced by distress to make this decision. And so, I ask you to forgive me for what I have done. May my future work make amends for it.

  He further explained, “I understood that it would be impossible for me to obtain the necessary funds for my enterprise,” and gave the example of the Norwegian parliament cancelling his funding in the spring.

  Amundsen emphasized to Nansen that the race to the South Pole would merely be an additional objective for the Fram, not the entire expedition, and he promised to continue with the scientific voyage in the Arctic once he had attained the pole. The money that would come from victory at the South Pole, he maintained, was the only way to pay for the valuable scientific voyage to the North Pole. The public announcement, which would be reprinted in countless newspapers around the world, read: “You can count on hearing from us again in February-March 1912. . . . We will then continue to San Francisco, where the last preparations for the drift across the Polar Basin will be made.”

  The next day, October 2, the papers announced the sensational news: Amundsen and the Fram had changed course and now were heading south “to battle for the South Pole.” Amundsen downplayed his competition with Scott and the British expedition. “It is my intention not to get in the way of the English. They, of course, have priority. We will have to make do with what they discard.” Of course he had already made his detailed plans for the attack on the pole, and he knew exactly where he intended to set up base in Antarctica. Oddly, the news was not picked up in any detail by the British press. On October 3, Leon released the final letters to the men’s families. They detailed the men’s new roles and their thoughts on the expedition, including the observation of at least one that Amundsen was astonished that Nansen hadn’t guessed his true intentions when he observed the pack of nearly one hundred baying dogs being loaded aboard the Fram, and that the details of the scheme hadn’t been leaked. Leon also posted the now-famous telegram to Scott: “Captain Scott Terra Nova Christ Church Beg inform you Fram Proceeding Antarctic. Amundsen.”

  Amundsen had elected not to take the recently developed wireless communication technology aboard the Fram. When Leon departed Madeira, taking the mail bag with him, it was the last time the men on board the Fram would be in communication with the outside world for the duration of the South Pole expedition. Amundsen had explained his decision during his presentation to the Royal Geographic Society the previous year. He
claimed to reject the wireless not because of its weight or expense or doubts about its functionality, but because of its potential effects on his leadership. He had spent a great deal of time weighing the arguments in favour and against, and had concluded that wireless communication might only add to the crew’s feelings of anxiety and helplessness while offering no solution to the problems it generated. “Imagine that we have spent two years in the drifting pack, and still have three more years to spend—imagine that we suddenly get a dispatch stating that some of our dears are seriously ill or dying, or whatever it may be. What would then be the result?”

  Of course, in the circumstances in which Amundsen now found himself, being incommunicado had the additional benefit of ensuring that no one could call him back to Norway.

  Dogs and Skis

  If one is tired and slack, it may easily happen that one puts off for tomorrow what ought to be done today; especially when it is bitter and cold . . . and that plays a not unimportant role on a long journey.

  “OUR LONG VOYAGE was entered upon as though it were a dance,” Amundsen wrote in The South Pole. “Here was not a trace of the more or less melancholy feeling that usually accompanies any parting. The men joked and laughed, while witticisms, both good and bad, were bandied about on the subject of our original situation. . . . [W]e had the satisfaction of seeing every sail filled with the fresh and cooling north-east trade.” The Fram’s route to distant Antarctica followed the time-honoured route of sailing ships: south and west from Madeira across the Atlantic to the coast of Brazil, following the trade winds, and then re-crossing the Atlantic to the waters south of Africa.

  As the Fram approached the uninhabited outcropping of South Trinidad Island (now Trindade) off the coast of Brazil, Amundsen corrected the expedition’s chronometers by comparing the known longitude of the island against Greenwich time before pressing on south and east through the vast expanse of ocean, around the Cape of Good Hope and toward the terrifying waters of the Roaring Forties, the powerful winds of the Southern Hemisphere south of 40 degrees. Ever south the Fram pressed, into “the foggy fifties, and the icy sixties.” A photo of the Fram from this time shows its sails spread and tarps covering everything, tied down, as two men in waterproof coats and hats grapple with the wheel. Meanwhile, dogs lounge in every protected corner they can find. Monstrous waves threaten to swamp the ship; it would be at sea for several months before reaching the Bay of Whales.

  The Fram was not a sleek or swift sailer, but a rounded, tough vessel that would resist being crushed by grinding pack ice. This made sailing rougher, as the tubby ship wallowed and rolled in the troughs and bucked among the waves. Through rough storms and waves, it slowly but steadily worked its way ever southward into colder and more unforgiving waters. When they were not on duty sailing the ship or tending to the dogs—feeding, cleaning and exercising them, or playing with the pups—the crew were busy sewing and altering their tents and garments to prepare for even rougher weather. The dogs caused “trouble and inconvenience” and “our patience was severely tested many a time,” Amundsen noted, but “I am certainly right in saying that these months of sea voyage would have seemed far more monotonous and tedious if we had been without our passengers.” The crew also occupied themselves with other pastimes during the tedious voyage. Several of the men offered musical performances on their violins, mandolins and other instruments; the ship’s captain, Nilsen, gave refresher courses in English; and the men read Amundsen’s library of works on polar exploration.

  When the Fram approached the Ross Sea, off the coast of Antarctica, the ice had just broken up, forming a ring around the southern continent. Amundsen chose this location to break through the ring of pack ice based upon his reading of other explorers’ journals. The writings suggested that the pack was at its weakest at this time of year and that in this particular spot it would the thinnest. “We have now found the sea free of ice further south than anyone else,” Amundsen wrote in his diary. “But—we will meet it in the end.” The expedition’s ice pilot, Andreas Beck, a quiet, burly man with a mighty moustache and a facility with the violin, was experienced in getting ships through pack ice, knowing how it shifted with tides and wind. His work in the Arctic waters north of Norway gave him knowledge and experience that would be useful in Antarctica.

  The Fram cruised through the Ross Sea without encountering significant ice congestion en route to the Bay of Whales. There was, however, still enough to allow several of the men to go out onto the ice to hunt seals, giving Lindstrøm the chance to show off his culinary flair: the crew feasted on seal steak and seal stew, which were “favourably received.” The dogs too had a feast. They gorged themselves on the blubber and scraps, “til their legs would no longer carry them. . . . As to ourselves it may doubtless be taken for granted that we observed some degree of moderation, but dinner was polished off very quickly.” They were very aware that fresh meat would always be available, while the quality of their rations was likely to decline in the coming year in Antarctica.

  The Fram, equipped with a custom-installed diesel engine, had an additional short-term power supply unusual for a sailing ship, and it was here, in the congestion of the ice that the benefits of the new engine were apparent. Rather than depend on the wind, as the earliest explorers had done, or on inefficient power from a steam boiler, the Fram was able to nimbly manoeuvre through the chunks of ice and worm its way through channels to the open water beyond. On January 14, 1911, about four months after departing Madeira, the ship had squeezed through the morass of ice and entered the Bay of Whales—within one day of the date Amundsen and Nilsen had calculated, and with only three days of battling through the pack ice. The ship had sailed approximately 25,000 kilometres from Norway, and nearly 22,000 kilometres since Madeira without touching land.

  The men stared from the deck, their breath visible in the cold, and beheld the frightening spectacle. “At 2.30 p.m. we came in sight of the Great Ice Barrier,” Amundsen wrote.

  Slowly it rose up out of the sea until we were face to face with it in all its imposing majesty. It is difficult with the help of the pen to give any idea of the impression this mighty wall of ice makes on the observer who is confronted with it for the first time. It is altogether a thing which can hardly be described; but one can understand very well that this wall of 100 feet in height was regarded for a generation as an insuperable obstacle to further southward progress. . . . We knew that the theory of the Barrier’s impregnability had long ago been overthrown; there was an opening to the unknown realm beyond it. This opening—the Bay of Whales—ought to lie, according to the descriptions before us, about a hundred miles to the east of the position in which we were. Our course was altered to true east, and during a cruise of twenty-four hours along the Barrier we had every opportunity of marvelling at this gigantic work of Nature. It was not without a certain feeling of suspense that we looked forward to our arrival at the harbour we were seeking. What state should we find it in? Would it prove impossible to land at all conveniently?

  Other members of the crew were equally impressed. Olav Bjaaland, a professional skier from Telemark, Norway, wrote in his diary: “At long last, the ice barrier hove into sight today. It is a strange feeling that grips one as the sight now reveals itself. The sea is still as a pool, and before one stands this Great Wall of China and glitters. Far off, it is like a photograph that has just been developed on the plate.”

  In his diary, without the need to write for an audience, Amundsen was a little more pragmatic: “There it lay, this infamous 200 ft. high snow wall—wall of ice one cannot call it—and gleamed at us. I had expected it to impress me more than it does, but the excellent reproductions in Shackleton’s book meant that I had got used to it and looked on it as an old acquaintance. So here we are.” On a certain level Amundsen may have been in awe, but he was also already planning his next move, evaluating the terrain and assessing the danger. He scanned the bay looking for the perfect spot to approach the ice. Soon he spied a spot wher
e the wall “sloped very gently down to the sea ice [giving] us the best ground for sledging.” The Fram sailed right up to the sloping wall and was tethered to the ice. Speckled grey seals lay on the ice, and curious penguins drew near to observe the proceedings, while a chill wind blew silently over the deck of the ship. Disembarking would be a simple process, because the ice came only halfway up the hull. Several men scrambled overboard onto the ice and climbed up the slope until they were high above the water, where they had a commanding view of the desolate bay and its jagged features made entirely of snow and ice. Inspecting the ice, Amundsen noted that it was old and buckled, with “steep hills and crests, with intervening dales, filled with huge hummocks and pressure ridges” that showed no sign of movement since “far beyond the days of father Ross.” The stability of the ice was a welcome confirmation of Amundsen’s ideas about the suitability of the Bay of Whales as a base. In a small valley about 3 kilometres from the ship, the crew chose a spot for their winter quarters, where they would be “sheltered against all winds,” and set to work in the south polar summer.

  Now the Fram had to be unloaded. Off the ship came materials for the construction of a permanent base: a hut, equipment, food and sundry supplies to enable nine men to live there for up to two years, as well as all the supplies for the dogs. Photographs of the off-loading reveal the extent of the quantity of goods, showing mountains of boxes and tarp-covered sledges. Fortunately, it was easy to load supplies directly from the ship onto the ice and then onto the sledges, which were hauled up the incline to the top of the ice ridge by dogsleds and men on skis. Hauling the supplies inland gave the men critical dog-driving experience.