by Chris Turney
In an age where we can effortlessly—albeit virtually—explore a vast amount of the world’s surface from the comfort of a warm home, it is easy to forget that the Norwegians were off the map. When Amundsen was heading to Antarctica, there was still debate over whether it was a continent or a string of islands covered in ice. Unlike Scott, Amundsen could not follow an established route—he had to blaze a new path through an unknown landscape.
The immediate challenge was the Great Ice Barrier. In Scott’s 1903 attempt to reach the geographic pole with Shackleton and Wilson, the British team had reported reaching 83°S and finding the barrier kept going. In the process, Scott and his men had discovered the mountain chain that formed the backbone of Victoria Land continued to the south, and apparently bordered the barrier, holding back a vast high-altitude plateau. Scott believed that most of the barrier was floating, but how much further it extended beyond Shackleton’s later route was unknown. Closer to the pole, Scott wrote in 1905, it was ‘extremely improbable that the full height of the ice-cap of Victoria Land could be seen anywhere from the sea or from the barrier surface. It is certain that the ice-cap is of very great extent…[and] that it maintains a great and approximately uniform level over the whole continent.’ Shackleton’s findings seemed to bear this out.
But from Amundsen’s perspective no one had any idea where the barrier ended and the plateau began. The Norwegian had no desire to be accused of using the ‘British route’—which meant starting further east, heading into uncharted territory. And yet there were significant benefits. It also took best advantage of the relative proximity of the Bay of Whales to the geographic pole: Framheim was 1° of latitude closer than Scott’s base, equivalent to more than one hundred kilometres that would not have to be covered by sledges, skis or dogs. Early on, Amundsen suspected the barrier was an enormous glacier, and that ‘after a steady climb, we will reach the pole at around 7000 ft, perhaps a bit higher’, offering the prospect of an easier route. If the mountains did continue south, as Shackleton had suggested, it meant less time spent on the high-altitude plateau. And with more of Antarctica to explore, the Norwegians would be able to proclaim genuine discoveries to learned societies on their return.
There was, however, one big risk: the Bay of Whales. Shackleton had visited the same spot just a few years earlier, and felt it distinctly unsafe—a view also held by Victor Campbell, when he had visited in the Terra Nova. In his book The South Pole Amundsen later downplayed any concerns and suggested the Bay of Whales had changed little in shape since Ross had visited in the 1840s.
The Norwegian leader popularised the idea that this part of the barrier sat on land. But some expedition members felt movement—something that signalled there was sea below and the location unsafe. If this was true, Framheim risked being cast adrift into the Ross Sea. Amundsen noted their observations but maintained publicly that if Shackleton had based his operations there he would have probably made it to the pole.
We now know the ice around the Bay of Whales is floating and fundamentally unstable. Shackleton was correct: the configuration of the Bay of Whales changes continuously, sometimes drastically. The bay is formed downstream of a prominent ice-covered feature known as Roosevelt Island. A survey in the 1930s found Roosevelt Island lies at the meeting point of two separate ice systems, which flow north nearly half a kilometre a year. The result downstream is a jumble of ice that frequently collapses into the sea. At times the bay almost completely disappears, rendering it unsafe to use, even as a temporary harbour.
Amundsen set about monitoring the weather from his new home at Framheim, and a routine for observations was soon established. The Norwegian had brought the latest instruments to make automatic measurements—although these were not as sophisticated as Simpson’s contraptions. For atmospheric pressure, the barometers were housed indoors behind the open kitchen door, to shelter them from the heat of the stove and prevent jarring. In the living room was a barograph, a device with a stack of small bellows that were highly sensitive to the pressure of air overhead. These would inflate or deflate over time, recording the changing conditions on a slowly rotating barrel of graph paper.
Outside, Amundsen placed a weather station in what he thought was a ‘lucky position’. Fourteen metres from the hut, it was far enough away to be unaffected by any heat leaking from Framheim. Henrik Lindstrom, the cook, built a Stevenson screen to house the instruments outside. Made from an old wooden Fram model, the screen had four louvred sides, which allowed the air to circulate while keeping the devices out of direct sunlight. Into this were placed two thermometers; a hydrometer, for measuring moisture in the air; and a thermograph, an instrument similar in principle to the barograph but which was comprised of a bimetallic strip of brass and steel that flexed with changes in temperature. Thermographs regularly choked with snow during blizzards. Set apart was a weathervane and an anemometer to measure the wind.
In case the thermometer broke, Amundsen had a regular competition for guessing the temperature. Each team member was required to estimate the temperature every day and the figures were diligently entered into the expedition book; the closest one at the end of each month won its predictor a few cigars. It provided a brief distraction during the long winter wait. Over the winter, when the night sky was clear enough, Amundsen was still able to make geographic discoveries from his base, remarking: ‘the dark, heavy water-sky was visible in a marked degree, leaving no doubt that a large extent of the Ross Sea was open the whole year round.’
Before the assault on the south could be made, supplies had to be laid on the barrier for the following summer. In the final sun of early 1911 depots were placed at every degree of latitude across the barrier to 82°S. Totalling more than a tonne and a half, this was enough food for eight men. An organisational genius, Amundsen prepared for the worst. Aware that the paraffin used as fuel for the Nansen cookers could ‘creep’ out of stoppered containers at low temperatures, he made sure the caps were soldered secure to prevent leakage. It was remarkably effective: while tracing the Norwegian Antarctic route in 2011, the British Army officer Henry Worsley found a can of Amundsen’s paraffin, still full.
In anticipation of poor conditions, the depots had a system of black flags to help orient the travelling team. Ten bamboo poles with flags were planted up to nine hundred metres on either side of each depot; each was numbered, giving the direction to the supplies. It was a superb piece of planning that minimised the chance of getting lost.
By March the Norwegian leader found he had not done all of his homework, discovering that the temperature sometimes hit -40°C. ‘We were astonished to find this low temperature while summer ought still to have lasted,’ Amundsen wrote, ‘especially when I remembered the moderate temperatures Shackleton had observed on his southern sledging journey.’
During the British Discovery expedition, Scott had undertaken a similar program of weather observations, led by the hapless Royds. On returning to Europe, Scott had invited the Austrian meteorologist Julius von Hann to take a look at the data. Hann realised that in Antarctica, unlike anywhere else on the planet, once the sun dipped below horizon temperatures plummeted and stayed low until the sun rose back above the skyline. Temperatures almost flatline the whole winter; March temperatures are as cold as July. This is in marked contrast to the Arctic, where the coldest temperatures are restricted to the few months around the shortest day of the year.
In 1909 Hann described the Antarctic winter as kernlos, coreless. Simpson’s observed temperature inversion and the lack of any surrounding land meant Antarctica received no benefit from warming at lower latitudes and went straight from summer to winter, where it remained cold; there was little spring or autumn to speak of. It was a classic example of how northern concepts had no real meaning in the south. But now Amundsen made a finding of his own. He realised he was working in a much colder location than Ross Island: he had inadvertently discovered another pole, this one marking the location of the most frigid conditions in the south.
Due to the limited observations made before 1911, Amundsen had come across the latest contender for the Pole of Cold—in the eastern part of the Great Ice Barrier, right where he had chosen to reside for winter.
None the wiser, the English-speaking press talked admiringly of the Norwegian team using the winter moonlight to reach their ultimate destination. Amundsen sensibly stayed in Framheim.
The Norwegian expedition knew that their presence in Antarctica might cause consternation among the British based in McMurdo Sound. The stakes were high, with paranoia to match. One of the Fram sailors wrote, ‘Well, if they are planning something bad (we were constantly asking ourselves in what light the Englishmen would view our competition) the dogs will manage to make them turn back…I had better be armed for all eventualities.’
But when the British expedition ship Terra Nova came across the Norwegians in the Bay of Whales, it was all peace and calm. They had tea and coffee, and gave each other guided tours of the two vessels. This offered Amundsen the opportunity to allay one of his fears about the British effort. Although 1911 was early for long-distance wireless telegraphy, Amundsen knew Scott was interested in the technology. In the race for the geographic pole the spoils would go to the person who reported success to the world at large, even if he came in second. The Norwegian could breathe a sigh of relief: there was no wireless on the Terra Nova.
Amundsen was, though, also aware of the motor sledges’ potential for accelerating the British push to the pole. He asked Campbell about them and the reply did nothing to calm his fears: one of them was already on ‘terra firma’. Campbell was referring to the sledge lost on the seabed, but he was not going to give the Norwegian the satisfaction of knowing it. Amundsen and his men reportedly fell silent. The British departed, leaving a parting gift: bad head colds for the Norwegian expedition.
Back in London, Leon Amundsen was desperately trying to secure a deal with a British newspaper for exclusive rights to the scoop from his brother’s journey. During these negotiations he met many of the protagonists of 1912. Captain John King Davis, who would be second-in-command of the Australasian Antarctic Expedition led by Mawson, declared his hope that Amundsen would beat Scott. The new president of the RGS, Leonard Darwin—son of Charles—happily exclaimed, ‘let the best man win.’ But there was little love lost with Markham, Leon describing the older man as a ‘jabbering idiot’. Shackleton worked hard on the Norwegians’ behalf, too, negotiating with different newspapers in London. Leon finally managed to secure an exclusive deal with the now-defunct British Daily Chronicle for £2000, which Shackleton felt was good, ‘as Polar news is somewhat at a discount’.
In April 1911 the journal of the RGS reported that the Fram had reached Buenos Aires after leaving Amundsen at King Edward VII Land, and was expected to return south in early October to collect him. The same issue announced that Congress had passed a bill to retire Commander Peary with the rank and pay of a rear admiral in gratitude for his services to America. It was a timely reminder that in exploration terms the north was settled; the south was all that mattered now.
By the end of August, Amundsen was champing at the bit to start for the pole. The thought of the British explorers gave him no peace. One of the Norwegian team wrote while at Framheim, ‘if we were not first at the Pole, we might just as well stay home.’ By early September 1911 they recorded a third day of relatively mild temperatures, hovering around a fine -32°C. Though the sun was not permanently over the horizon, Amundsen could wait no more. Leaving Lindstrom to make weather observations while they were away, the other eight Norwegians headed south.
For transportation Amundsen followed the advice of his mentor, Nansen. The great Norwegian innovator had set out the principles for sledging in polar regions, and Amundsen embraced them wholeheartedly. The wooden sledges were European ash and made up of two wide flat runners bent at both ends, like skis. These were connected by a series of uprights and crossbars to form a frame, topped off with lengthwise slats that were capable of bearing half a tonne. The sledges were lashed with strips of leather—known as greenhide—that allowed the body to flex and follow the contours of the frequently uneven surfaces: a design feature that made it hard to beat on the Antarctic ice. Distances were measured by a sledgeometer, a wheel attached to the back of each sledge specially calibrated for distance. Spurning many of the British choices, the Norwegians decided to use skis and dogs to transport them and their supplies; the men wore fur to keep warm. It was a powerful combination for covering ground quickly.
The warming at Framheim was a false dawn. Temperatures quickly plummeted, reaching -56°C just a few days later. Man and dog alike suffered from the extreme cold and, to top it all, the alcohol froze. By 14 September it was too much. Two of the men were suffering frostbite, and were at risk of losing their heels from the extreme cold. Amundsen decided to return to base. The supplies were quickly stashed and the men fled back to Framheim. Two days later the second-in-command, Kristian Prestrud, was in a terrible state and could ski no longer. Johansen waited two hours and let him ride with his dog team. The Arctic veteran had managed to secure a tent from one of the others but with no stove or food, save for a few dry biscuits, the two men had to push on as best they could.
They reached Framheim at half-past midnight, six and a half hours after the rest of the team. Lindstrom made them coffee but no one else stirred from their sleep, though Prestrud could easily have died on the journey. Amundsen later downplayed the affair, questioning where the two men had been: ‘Heaven knows what they had been doing on the way!’ The most charitable view is that Amundsen had thought everyone could look after themselves—not a great philosophy for a leader—and had returned to Framheim without looking back.
In his diary Johansen describes it as a ‘sad aftermath’. Asked at breakfast why he and Prestrud had been so late, Johansen ‘expressed amongst other things my opinion about this strange way of travel and that I had never done anything like this before’. Told patronisingly ‘that I would learn as long as I lived and that I would learn more later’, Johansen felt ‘the arguments were harsh.’
Amundsen claimed in his diary that ‘unflattering statements regarding my position as leader for our actions here’ had been made. ‘During the morning the Chief [Amundsen] walked around and became angry about these statements,’ Johansen recorded. It was then that Amundsen showed a single-mindedness that saved his leadership and, arguably, the expedition—but at a cost. Amundsen talked each man round, including Prestrud. Johansen was isolated. ‘Naturally after what has taken place, he is completely barred from the 3rd Fram voyage,’ Amundsen wrote in his diary. He decided to split the team—he could not risk mutiny during the second attempt on the pole.
With the British gone, Amundsen could use the spare men to achieve another first for the expedition: to explore King Edward VII Land. Prestrud would lead a three-man expedition and Johansen would participate as ‘a private person’. Johansen later lamented, ‘I have been found incompetent for participation in the expedition to the South Pole and so I have been excluded.’
Amundsen’s lapse of judgement in the recent attempt on the pole had unintended practical benefits. The depots laid at the end of the previous summer with the dumped supplies from the aborted effort meant there was a far larger amount of food cached than had been planned, and it was now available for those who would make the next assault on the South Geographic Pole. With only five men now making the journey, the team was well stocked for food.
On 19 October, Amundsen and his men left with fifty-two dogs pulling four sledges and enough supplies for sixty days. The conditions were now far warmer than September; typical daily minimum temperatures were reaching a relatively balmy -18° to -12°C—ideal for sledges. Because their runners were made using a metal alloy—confusingly called ‘German silver’, despite it containing no silver—the sledges did not stick to the surface ice. Metal running over ice at these temperatures generates sufficient friction to melt the surface crystals and form a thi
n film of liquid water, which serves as a lubricant. Too cold and the system falters, as the Cape Crozier effort had found.
Cherry-Garrard, on Scott’s team, concluded years later that the most favourable surface for pulling sledges was at -9°C, and they would continue to work reasonably well down to -40°. Colder than this and the water molecules can still form on the surface of the snow crystals, but there are fewer of them and sledging becomes less efficient. Colder still and it is almost impossible. Amundsen was a master in this regard. The Norwegians averaged thirty-seven kilometres a day across the barrier using dogs. They would often cover this impressive distance in just five hours or so, giving the men plenty of time to pitch the tent and rest for the remaining part of the day before the next effort. Boredom was a common complaint.
Amundsen took no longitude sights during the journey, depending instead on a single longitude fix at Framheim and then sticking with latitude observations alone, noting the distances covered each day, courtesy of the sledgeometers. In the early twentieth century there were two schools of thought on how best to navigate off the map in Antarctica. Some, like Scott, felt precise measurements of both latitude and longitude were important if you were to claim a geographical first. But at high latitudes the meridians converge—so much so that a degree of longitude changes drastically across the globe; at the equator it is 111 kilometres, while at 86°S the difference shrinks to just six kilometres and at the pole, of course, it is nothing at all.
In a specially convened session of the RGS in 1910 the British geographer and surveyor Arthur Hinks had argued that it was not always necessary to pay much mind to longitude in southern-polar exploration. Unlike in the Arctic, where moving sea ice can wreak havoc with bearings, in the south latitude could suffice: all you had to do was to measure the distance covered each day and keep to a bearing. The simplicity of this approach had impressed Amundsen.