Ice Ship: The Epic Voyages of the Polar Adventurer Fram

by Charles W. Johnson

  This, then, was another kind of gyre, a tragic swirl of circumstances and history from which neither De Long nor Toll escaped. The Fram, on September 24, 1893, almost exactly halfway in time between the deaths of those two men, was now at the edge of the ice, poised to plunge in.

  4 ›INTO THE ICE

  September 25, 1893. At 78.5° north latitude, with nighttime temperatures falling well below freezing and the sea slush rapidly solidifying into ice around them, Fridtjof Nansen, without mincing words in Farthest North, summed up the situation: “It really looked as if we were now frozen in for good, and I did not expect to get the Fram out of the ice till we were on the other side of the Pole, nearing the Atlantic Ocean.” They hastened to get the Fram ready for the fast-approaching winter.

  First, and worst, was shifting coal from the hold to the bunkers not only for later use but also to achieve the best possible trim for when the ice finally locked them in position—it would not be good to be living indefinitely at a permanent list. It was hard, dirty work, with the fine coal dust drifting and seeping into every crack and crevice, into lungs and eyes. “An unpleasant contrast—everything on board, men and dogs included, black and filthy, and everything around white and bright in beautiful sunshine.”

  They then unshipped the rudder to safety on deck but left the screw where it was for the time being, to act as reinforcement for the below-water structures at the stern. As it would not be used while the ship was icebound, the engine was broken down, its components cleaned, oiled, and stored away. Heat from then on would come from the stoves in the galley and saloon, and light from the dynamo-powered electric lights or, failing that, oil lamps. The energy for the dynamo could be generated by a below-deck mechanical “horse-mill” (treadmill) that the men would walk upon (thereby getting some exercise as well) or by the tall windmill that was now put up on the foredeck. The windmill was laborious to assemble and had to be turned manually to face the wind; when it blew hard, someone had to climb up to “reef” the four cloth vanes. However, it proved its worth for quite awhile, until it broke down for good the next winter. With the windmill in place, the image was unusual for a polar ship, as if an oddly constructed, out-of-place Dutch windmill had been plunked down in this alien, barren icescape. The horse-mill was never used, probably for the same reasons that so many home treadmills today sit quietly in basements, gathering dust: it was too boring and isolating, and there was always something else to do.

  FIGURE 24

  Into the ice. The decks are tented over with tarpaulins, to keep the ice and snow off and provide shelter for the dogs. The prominent windmill generated electricity for lights until it wore out in the cold. Photograph by Fridtjof Nansen.

  Even with the engine disassembled, the somewhat-grumpy and feisty chief engineer Anton Amundsen “looked after that engine as if it had been his own child,” Nansen noted in Farthest North. “[Not] a day passed, winter or summer, all these three years, that he did not go down and caress it, and do something or other for it.”

  Various shops were set up around the ship, to tend to every need: a carpenter’s shop in the main hold, a machine shop squeezed into the tight space of the engine room, a blacksmith shop temporarily on deck (later moved to the ice), a tinsmith shop in the chart room, and in the saloon a cobbler’s shop and a makeshift sail loft, of sorts. Then, on a regular schedule, everyone got to their appointed or adopted trades: refurbishing or replacing damaged or worn parts and structures; soldering and welding metal implements; making new winter clothes for the men or harnesses for the dogs; splicing lines and steel rope; stitching sails; retooling watches and other instruments; building sledges and kayaks for future contingencies; and on and on. It was a lively place, and “keeping busy” was the watchword, for there was so much to do in preparation for the months to come, and as all seasoned seamen know, idleness on ships at sea (or in the ice) was the devil and would always lead to trouble.

  For several days in late September and early October, the Fram stayed in the nether zone between the Arctic fall and winter, alternately frozen in and then released into newly appearing openings. During the floating stages, the ship was hauled forward (warped) by anchors and cables leading to floes, to be in a better position when final lockup occurred. At one point the ice parted into a huge lead north, and Nansen, feeling it a golden moment for heading where they wanted to go, ordered the engine reassembled, the rudder shipped, and the boilers made ready for firing, for a run in open water. The moment never came; that very night the ice came back with a vengeance, closed the lead, and shook the ship with its violent sideways pressure.

  When the Fram was first frozen in, in late September, and began to drift, it was not always in the direction, or with the speed, Nansen had hoped for, indeed counted on. In fact, sometimes the ship went exactly the wrong way, south, or wandered about aimlessly for days and weeks on end, raising considerable anxiety on board over the possibility of being caught in a gyre or carried off into the polar equivalent of outer space. The crew took a keen but nervous interest in Sigurd Scott-Hansen’s periodic calculations of their position from the sextant fixes, since “the state of feeling on board very much depended on these results.”7 Nansen himself wrestled with quandaries and uncertainties, at times in self-flagellation about what he had done (“Why did you take this voyage?”), at other times in philosophical resignation to whatever the fates might bring (“And if we perish, what will it matter in the endless cycle of eternity?”). All the while, however, he remained the scientist, puzzling over reasons for the whimsical ocean currents or describing how ice forms and works within the pack; he was still the poet, trying to find words for the admiration and awe he felt about the surreal Arctic realm they had entered.

  As the sun dropped below the horizon on October 26, not to reappear for nearly four months, they remained in a state of flux and suspense, both physical and mental. Their drift in a generally favorable northwest direction had been cancelled by a countering one to the southeast, so that they were essentially back where they began a month after first encountering the pack. As the ice built in the deepening cold and shifted with the currents, it boomed like cannons, rumbled like continuous thunder, and snapped like great cracking whips. Pressure ridges, the great, long slabs of ice being thrust against and upon each other, sometimes pressed against the ship, heaved it up, and shook it so violently that startled men came rushing up to deck, as people during earthquakes run from buildings seeking safety outside. There were unnerving sounds and sensations, especially upon entering a perpetual night and especially to those who had never experienced them. At other times, however, the ship floated quietly in a pool of water between the blocks, as the ice had not yet configured itself into a virtually solid, impenetrable mass. It was still early in the game; they were only at the edge of the vast unknown.

  FIGURE 25

  Igloo kennels for the dogs, to be their winter home. A man, possibly Lars Pettersen, is working at the forge, also out on the ice for safety reasons. Photograph by Fridtjof Nansen.

  Despite worries over where they were headed, bouts of homesickness and melancholy, the onset of monotony, and the plunge over the precipice into winter, life went on aboard the Fram. The men stayed engaged in their work, inside or out, whether tending to the daily necessities or preparing for future eventualities. Bernhard Nordahl was on deck with the windmill, keeping the recalcitrant gears and wheels moving in the cold, or below tinkering with the finicky dynamo, so that the cherished electric lights would stay on. Nansen was out on the ice continuing dog-driving practice, often in exasperation and anger at the dogs’ wildness, or at his own ineptitude. Adolf Juell was trying his best at cooking three meals a day, not always successfully or up to expectations. Lars Pettersen was at the forge, first on the foredeck and later moved to the ice, fixing broken fittings or hammering out new nails, bolts, knife blades, and anything metal that was needed. Ivar Mogstad was inside taking care of clocks, watches, and the scientific instruments. And Otto Sverdrup was in th
e saloon repairing torn sails, splicing lines, or stitching up leather harnesses for the dogs.

  FIGURE 26

  Scientist at work. Nansen taking water samples and temperatures, July 12, 1894. Nansen invented the “Nansen bottle,” a cylinder that could be opened and closed remotely and at certain depths, thereby retrieving the sample from that depth.

  Some had special assignments to gather scientific data, performed either as their sole duties or in addition to their primary ones. Nansen laid great importance on this work, of course, as it was to him the primary purpose of the expedition. Scott-Hansen was the full-time principal overseer of various tasks, assisted by Hjalmar Johansen and, later, Nordahl. They recorded meteorological conditions (air temperature, humidity, wind speed and direction, barometric pressure, weather conditions, etc.) at least every four hours, quite often every two, around the clock. Every other day or so, if the clouds gave way, they took celestial bearings by sextant and watch to fix their position. Within a tent on the ice (later a more protective “igloo”) they made periodic recordings of the magnetic field as they drifted. They helped Nansen in measuring the salinity and temperature of the water, the thickness of the ice, and the direction and speed of currents.

  FIGURE 27

  Stuck fast in the ice. Hjalmar Johansen is in the foreground. March 24, 1894. Photograph by Fridtjof Nansen.

  Other investigations involved periodic dredges to sample what was living in and at the bottom of the sea, and soundings to determine how deep it was. Since the depth was so great, ten thousand feet or more, it sometimes took the entire crew, and several days, to pay out, take in, and splice on additional length of line. That the Arctic Sea was deep instead of shallow, as even Nansen had believed before he left, was one of the great surprises, and one of the more important discoveries, of the expedition.

  Henrik Blessing, too, conducted routine “scientific” research of his own each month, weighing the men and assessing levels of hemoglobin in their blood, as a way of tracking their well-being over time. With illnesses and accidents rare, Blessing was not exactly gainfully employed as a doctor, so he added “veterinarian” to his medical responsibilities and helped Nansen (and later took over from him) in the study of the aurora borealis, the northern lights that so often shimmered, pulsed, and waved over them in such otherworldly, often spectacular, and sometimes stupefying ways.

  ››› The days, if you could call them such, those long, sunless twilights progressively darkening with descending winter, were full with this constant, often numbingly cold, repetitive work and were interrupted only by “night” and sleep, meals, Sunday rest, emergencies or special events (such as hunting), and observance of Norwegian holidays, which were usually marked by longing and yearning, as well as celebration. Meals, as might be expected, were welcome, much-anticipated events. They were the social parts of the day as well, when all the men gathered (except those on watch) at the big table in the saloon, partook of food and drink together, warmed themselves by the stove, were cheered by the glow of electric lights, conversed, and retired to the galley for a postprandial smoke (the galley was the only place smoking was permitted, except on special occasions), accompanied by what is normal at such times: small talk, jokes, stories, agreements, and disagreements.

  FIGURE 28

  Not the Last Supper! In a group portrait with Rembrandt-like qualities, men sit around the dinner table in the saloon. The men ate well, sometimes too well, and gained weight. In front, with backs to camera: Pettersen (left) and Amundsen. Back, from left: Nordahl, Mogstad, Hendriksen, Juell, Bentsen. Photograph by Fridtjof Nansen.

  One day was like another. Breakfast, at eight, was a typically robust Norwegian one of “hard bread (both rye and wheat), cheese [four types] . . . corned beef or corned mutton, luncheon ham or Chicago tinned tongue or bacon, cod-caviar, anchovy roe; also oatmeal biscuits or English ship-biscuits—with orange marmalade or Frame Food jelly [an extract of wheat bran, a health food diet of the time, supposedly good for building one’s ‘frame’]. Three times a week we had fresh-baked bread as well, and often cake of some kind . . . beverages [were] coffee and chocolate.” Dinner was at one in the afternoon, and “generally consisted of three courses—soup, meat, and dessert; or soup, fish, and meat; or fish, meat, and dessert; or sometimes only fish and meat. With meat we always had potatoes and either green vegetables or macaroni.”8 The favored drink was bock beer, which had been amply donated by their generous patron, Ringnes Brewing Company. Supper, at six, offered the same as breakfast but with tea for the drink. Special occasions, say a holiday or a birthday of one of the crew, called for fancy several-course dinners, with a printed menu and accompanied by music of their own making.

  ››› On polar expeditions, food was always one of the biggest concerns, if not the biggest. Poor provisioning of it was the fatal flaw in many an enterprise, leading to malnutrition, starvation, and death. Scurvy was especially dreaded. It was a formerly rare disease that became common when ships started to take long sea voyages for trade. Between 1500 and 1800, it killed more than two million sailors and incapacitated millions more for various lengths of time. Other than outright famine, writes authority Kenneth Carpenter in his book History of Scurvy and Vitamin C on its history, “scurvy is probably the nutritional deficiency disease that caused the most suffering in recorded history.”

  It was known also as purpura nautica, with the first word indicating its lurid outward sign (spots or splotches of deep purple on the body, and of the gums) and the second signifying who got it most often, sailors. As the disease progresses, the limbs swell grotesquely and become unbearably painful, the purple darkens to black, the gums grow mushy, teeth fall out, open sores ooze pus, the breath turns rank, and diarrhea comes. The body decomposes while it is still alive. Most cruelly, the mind, though fogged, is still aware of what is going on. Once past a certain stage, death is inevitable, and a mercy.

  Many factors were thought to be the causes: bad air in the ship or from the ocean, bad food or lack of food at all, dearth of fresh vegetables, bad water, and so forth. Even though it was known early on that fresh citrus, or its juice, could prevent scurvy, the reason—lack of vitamin C—was not discovered until 1927.

  Unlike many early explorers, the Inuit did not get scurvy, though their diets were virtually lacking in fruit and vegetables (except berries and some leafy plants in summer, or the entrails content of herbivores such as caribou, musk ox, or hare). It would be a wise and astute explorer, such as Nansen, to adopt their ways of eating. For the fresh, often-raw meat and blubber of animals they killed contained the vitamin C scant or absent in canned and packaged foods brought from home.

  For this first Fram expedition, and those to come, food was never an issue. There was plenty of it stashed away in the hold, thanks to Nansen’s meticulous planning and preparation, for all men and dogs over a full five years, and it was nutritionally balanced, with a wide variety of meats, vegetables, fruits, and starches, many of them canned so they would be available throughout the trip. As much as possible, they ate fresh meat—or at least thawed from frozen stores—of animals shot on land or sea: seals, walruses, polar bears, caribou, foxes, and even birds of various kinds. Scurvy never once showed itself. (The dogs, ever hungry and on the lookout for wild game, also relished a change from their usual diet of dried fish and hard biscuits.)

  › AN INUIT PICNIC ON THE ICE

  My wife and I were on a boat with an Inuit family coming back to Pangnirtung, Baffin Island, from their fishing camp on an island in Cumberland Sound, when the father, driving, saw a ringed seal stick its head out of the water. He stopped the boat just for a moment while his father took aim and shot, drove over to secure it before it sank, and then headed to an ice pan. The whole family jumped to the pan and dragged the seal up on it. Within minutes the animal was flayed open and the blubber and dark meat were stripped away, the first few pieces going almost ceremoniously into the mouths of grandfather, father, and eldest son, and the rest piled to the sid
e.

  The eldest son then pulled the spinal cord from the vertebral column and downed it like a big strand of spaghetti. The father cut the intestines into sections that the younger kids chewed on like candy as they ran around the pan. In different places on the laid-out and still fat-covered hide were placed the brains and squeezed-out contents of the stomach and intestines, which were then mixed into the underlying fat. Then they all, men, women, and children, began to eat, dipping the meat in each of the separate “dipping sauces.” At their invitation my wife joined in, saying each of the four sauces had its own delicious flavor: vinegary from intestinal fluids; salty from krill in the stomach; piquant, perhaps from the bile; and buttery from brains or fat. One of the party used the boathook to bring up a long piece of kelp from the water and then chopped it into thin strips for a salad on the side. They did it all with the practiced ease of long tradition.

  When the meal was over, the men removed the flippers and rolled up the skin for use at home. Even the eyeballs went somewhere. It seemed they ate or took away every part of that seal, packed away in the boat or inside their own bodies. As we left, a few fulmars descended to pick at the bloody patch on the ice.

  As I watched all this I was freezing cold, despite being wrapped in all the winter clothes I had brought from home: two of everything—coats, hats, mittens, woolen socks, and woolen pants—while my hosts wore light jackets and were hatless and gloveless, smiling, eating, and laughing. They had all they wanted or needed right there, fresh good food they caught and processed themselves, right from their own sea. I could see the joy and pride it gave them in the gathering, the eating, and the sharing. It could have been a banquet scene from a thousand years ago.