by Chris Turney
Whichever way you decided to reach the pole, you needed a precious book called the Nautical Almanac. Amundsen had written to the British Admiralty to find out when it would be available, and was reassured to learn in July 1910 that the ‘almanac for years 1910–1913 inclusive will be ready and be on sale’—and then promptly forgot to take the 1912 issue to Antarctica. Still produced today by the UK Hydrographic Office, this formidable tome is full to the brim with columns of figures describing the angles of the sun and other stars, planets and phases of the moon, for different times of the day, at different latitudes. For Amundsen and his rivals in the south the almanac was a must: because of the round-the-clock summer light, the sun’s reported movements were the only way to know precisely where you were.
As we saw with Scott and the mistimed chronometers, the most practical way to use the sun was to observe the time it reached the highest point in the sky, known as local noon, to fix your location on the ground. And for measuring local noon, the simplest method was the sextant: it required little training, only patience and a steady hand. The sextant was traditionally used on ships, but because of the difficulty of getting a clear line of sight on the skyline—for example, in mist or fog—it was often necessary to use an artificial horizon to get an accurate fix. In Antarctica the conditions are exacerbated by the lack of contrast between the snowy surface and the sky.
In 1912 artificial horizons were a small box filled with mercury; in these more enlightened days you have to use water—no use in freezing conditions—or motor oil as a substitute. A clear line of sight of the sun is taken; then the sextant’s index arm is used to measure the sun’s angle in the sky, by looking at its reflection in the artificial horizon. To measure as precisely as possible, and to avoid being blinded, a combination of filters removes the worst of the glare and maintains a sharp image. Following this procedure every few minutes allows you to track the rise and fall of the sun across the sky.
Accurate chronometers were essential. Set to Greenwich Mean Time—commonly known today as Universal Mean Time—these watches played an important role in the calculation. The figures in the Nautical Almanac, in tandem with the user’s notes on the angle and time of the sun at its highest point, allowed the latitude to be fixed to an accuracy of just a few minutes. It was remarkably effective, and far easier than the British-preferred method of setting up a heavy tripod and making the same measurements with a theodolite. But both approaches depended on the sun being visible.
When cloud obscured the sun, preventing sextant readings, compass readings could play an important role. They presented numerous problems at high latitudes but offered benefits to the explorer who knew what he was doing. Thanks to the efforts of David, Mawson and Mackay on Shackleton’s Nimrod expedition, the position of the South Magnetic Pole was already reasonably well established. By taking the difference in the compass reading from true south, Amundsen could make the compass a valuable tool for following a particular direction during a day’s march. Perversely, it meant heading north when going polewards.
As the team relentlessly forged their way across the ice a massive mountain range slowly came into view. It was the same one that in 1909 Shackleton had spotted extending from Victoria Land, but Amundsen and his team had come across it considerably further southeast. The barrier was not going to rise steadily to the pole, as the Norwegian had originally hoped. Driving onwards they found a glacier that appeared to pour off the plateau, through the mountains—which Amundsen named the Queen Maud Range, in honour of his monarch. He named the ice stream after one of the expedition’s major patrons, Axel Heiberg, a Norwegian industrialist, and took his sledges and dogs up it.
As they went they made continual weather observations and mapped the land: peaks, glaciers and ice tongues were discovered and recorded. Amundsen also sketched the skyline. These unpublished pencil drawings of the mountain route are housed in the National Library Archive in Oslo, and are evidence of a man acutely aware that he was exploring new terrain, searching for recognisable features that would bring him and his team safely home.
At 85°S the men still had forty-two dogs and had decided to take all of them up to the plateau. Near the top they killed twenty-four, nicknaming the spot Butcher’s Shop, and fed the surviving dogs the meat, storing the leftovers. Scott’s troublesome ponies had needed their own feedstock; these dogs could feed on one another.
The Norwegians pushed on, but in the rush the expedition crampons were accidentally left at the site of the slaughter. The omission was not spotted until the team faced crossing an area of heavily crevassed ice that became known as the Devil’s Ballroom. Amundsen weighed up whether to go back to retrieve them. It was tempting to return: the crampons would make travelling easier. But the estimated time lost was a price Amundsen was not prepared to pay. They struggled on over the ice as best they could, dogs and men regularly falling into crevasses. Lives were nearly lost in the desperate bid to reach the pole. The travelling eventually became easier, though the temperature was now routinely -20°C.
Now the hypsometer—about which Amundsen had contacted Shackleton’s office—came into its own. The Norwegian leader needed to know when he had reached the plateau itself. This piece of kit was invaluable: so important, in fact, that Amundsen took four thermometers in case of breakages. On 6 December, at 88°S, the team took the boiling-point temperature and found they were around 3300 metres above sea level: ‘Are we now on the final high plateau?’ Amundsen wrote in his diary. ‘I think so.’ They were no longer climbing the Axel Heiberg Glacier and were through the fractured ice—they had reached the Antarctic Plateau.
In polar environments the body quickly becomes dehydrated. Amundsen’s men were now frequently complaining of feeling parched during their travels, as well as suffering from headaches and breathlessness brought on by altitude sickness. For the men on the plateau, the effects were exacerbated by the thinner air at that elevation, increasing metabolic and respiration rates. The dry air and increased body temperature in Antarctica means your body sweats more profusely when doing any arduous work; even driving a sledge can become thirsty work. During breaks you have to drink considerable amounts of liquid. And yet eating snow can be fatal: it is not possible to digest enough to meet the body’s daily water needs without dangerously lowering its core temperature. Fortunately, the Norwegians had enough fuel to melt snow and drink their fill.
But they were suffering. Three of the men, including Amundsen, had frostbitten faces, with ‘sores, inflammation and scabs all down the left side’, while the dogs were becoming increasingly threatening. Amundsen considered them ‘dangerous enemies when one leaves the sledges…although strangely enough they haven’t tried anything’.
On 7 December they were getting close and the sun’s angle in the sky was becoming ever more critical to their enterprise. It was five days since their last sighting: ‘It took time for “Her Ladyship” to show herself,’ Amundsen wrote in his diary. ‘But finally she came, not in all her glory, but modestly and sedate… We took a bearing, we made no mistake, and the result was exactly 88°16’; a wonderful triumph, after a march of 1½° in thick fog and snow drift.’ They were close to their goal.
The team passed Shackleton’s record furthest south on 8 December. Emboldened, and aided by good weather, the Norwegians reached the pole area just six days later and made camp. It was mid-December, close to the summer solstice. The sun’s position in the sky was still increasing slightly, though not obviously to the naked eye. Keen to avoid controversy, Amundsen surveyed the area until he was satisfied they could prove their success. The team was split in two, Amundsen making observations with his sextant over twenty-four hours while another group drove 18.5 kilometres out from where the observations were being made, effectively boxing the pole in. They wanted to avoid the debacle of Cook and Peary in the north, and ensure everyone could testify to the readings made.
Their final latitude was recorded as 89°59’S. Those present countersigned the entry for the day, te
stifying to the measurements and agreeing they had claimed the South Geographic Pole. Contrary to the Norwegian explorer’s diary entry, the men reached the pole on 14 December 1911. Just as Phileas Fogg gained a day during his journey around the world, so Amundsen had crossed the dateline sailing to Antarctica and thus was a day off in his log.
‘It is quite interesting to see the sun wander round the sky at the same height day and night,’ Amundsen wrote in his diary on reaching the pole. ‘I think we are the first to see this strange sight.’ Regardless of what he had publicly stated, Amundsen does not seem to have believed that Cook, let alone Peary, had made it to the North Geographic Pole.
The Norwegians erected a tent, which they called Polheim, to mark their visit, and left in it some spare gear and, in anticipation of the imminent British arrival, a short letter to King Haakon. Amundsen requested Scott deliver the latter, in case anything should happen to the Norwegian party on the return journey. The letter, with the dark expedition logo of the Fram in the top left-hand corner, is preserved today in the National Library Archive in Oslo.
With their task achieved, Amundsen and his men enjoyed a smoke, then raced back to the Fram. The Norwegians did not wish to meet Scott, and feared the British were hot on their heels. Everything now depended on getting the news home first. Yet they continued to make weather observations on the journey north and also collected rock samples as gifts for their colleagues at Framheim.
Although Johansen and Prestrud had been sent away, ill feeling still bubbled to the surface during the mission. Amundsen felt the pressure of his task—and it did not help that he was suffering from haemorrhoids, a common problem for polar explorers, who lived off constipating high-protein diets. Amundsen’s short temper and unwillingness to be contradicted were a constant source of irritation for the rest of the team. On the ascent of the Axel Heiberg Glacier the skier Olav Bjaaland had questioned Amundsen’s instructions; the leader then ordered his subordinate to return to Framheim. Bjaaland was no navigator, so one of the other men, Sverre Hassel, was instructed to escort him back once they had reached the plateau. Only by pleading on his knees was Bjaaland allowed to stay on.
Hassel wrote in his diary that he and Bjaaland were also rebuked for having snored in the tent: ‘That’s O.K. by me but things can be said in several ways. Mr. A. always chooses the nastiest and most haughty one.’ Sometime later he mused, ‘One might think the man has a screw loose. He has many times in the last few days actually initiated quarrels, an extraordinary stand to take for a Governor and leader for whom peace and good camaraderie should be the main target.’ Even Helmer Hanssen, who had managed to avoid falling out with Amundsen for most of the expedition, argued with him just a week short of Framheim, when he suggested one of the dogs stank and the Norwegian leader insisted she did not. The two men did not speak for days.
The successful team reached Framheim on 26 January 1912, having taken ninety-nine days to cover the three thousand kilometres. The original schedule proved remarkably accurate, down to the supplies, number of dogs and time needed for the journey—in fact, the team made it back eight days sooner than expected. Because of the extra supplies in depots, most of the men had actually increased their weight during their return trip. It was an incredible achievement, and the dogs—in spite of their sometimes threatening demeanour—had shown their worth beyond doubt.
With the Norwegian flag flying over the barrier to signify Amundsen’s return, the Fram returned to the Bay of Whales. No time was wasted. By 30 January the remaining dogs were on board and Framheim left behind. It was time for Amundsen to tell the world of his success.
On 6 March 1912 the Fram quietly dropped anchor in Hobart, southern Tasmania. Word quickly leaked out that Amundsen—at first thought a tramp in one of the local hotels—had made it back to civilisation, but it was unclear whether he had been successful in his quest. Desperate journalists swamped the Norwegian leader, to no avail. He had an exclusive deal with the Daily Chronicle and he had learned his lesson from the Northwest Passage. Amundsen sent telegrams in code to the king, his brother Leon and the Daily Chronicle. To Nansen, he sent the message, ‘Thanks for everything. Mission accomplished. All well.’ Then he tried to hide.
With little to go on, the other newspapers gossiped away, speculating that Scott may have beaten Amundsen. Out of the loop, the Manchester Guardian declared in frustration, ‘In Christiania they know that a telegram has been received saying Amundsen has reached the Pole; in Wellington, New Zealand, they know that Amundsen has telegraphed the news that the man who has reached the Pole is Scott.’ Norwegian papers, meanwhile, emphasised their man’s experience and his ‘sterling personal qualities’: ‘These are a guarantee that he will have made exact and complete meteorological, magnetic and geographical observations, which together with Scott’s observations, will give important scientific results.’
On 7 March 1912 the Daily Chronicle proclaimed the news of Roald Amundsen’s success. Letters and telegrams of congratulations poured in from around the world. Some in the British press expressed outrage; most were more restrained. Outside Europe, interest was equally intense, with the New York Times managing to obtain word of Amundsen’s triumph and reporting it on the same day as the public announcement in Britain.
Intrepid explorer though he was, Amundsen was not a natural storyteller, and the trip was accounted in a clinical fashion. Moments of danger were brushed over, told without the excitement the public had come to expect from Nansen, Shackleton and Scott. Amundsen made a virtue of being prepared: ‘I may say that this is the greatest factor—the way in which the expedition is equipped—the way in which every difficulty is foreseen, and precautions taken for meeting or avoiding it. Victory awaits him who has everything in order—luck, people call it. Defeat is certain for him who has neglected to take the necessary precautions in time; this is called bad luck.’
True—but Amundsen seemed to have little sense of the story people wanted to hear. And though the Norwegian team was remarkably well prepared and had planned for almost every eventuality, success was not a foregone conclusion. Spectacular arguments had broken out among the men, threatening their main objective, while crevasses were an ever-present threat, even if Amundsen played down the risks. Little of the expedition’s tension and danger came across in the reports.
The photographer Anders Beer Wilse, who had taught the expedition members to expose and develop film, found that Amundsen had largely ignored these efforts, preferring instead to use his Kodak and declare, ‘If I take six pictures with various aperture and shutter speed, one of them will probably turn out right.’ Today the old cameras appear a wonderful mix of buttons, bellows and strange attachments, but they are unforgiving. I tried using a similar camera in Antarctica and, despite the enormous amount of help I received before heading south, I ended up adopting the Amundsen method, taking a range of shots and hoping the odd image would work. Most didn’t. Glass plates added another level of complexity, and the extra weight, along with the need to change the plates in a suffocating sleeping bag, did not endear them to many explorers.
Wilse believed that Amundsen’s poor images cost him several thousand kroner in lost revenue. The press had to rely on photos taken by others—in particular Bjaaland, who took the most famous photo of them all at the South Pole. In it four men stand in a white void, Amundsen on the far left, facing the Norwegian flag flying over the dark tent, Polheim. Most versions of this image are copies of copies. Some are fuzzy, and the fuzziest of all shows a relatively slimline Amundsen and the flag rippling. For his lectures Amundsen understandably seems to have preferred these, the most retouched and flattering copies of the image. To the new nation of Norway, the shot was more than evidence of a world first: it was a public statement that Norway had arrived on the global scene.
The glass plate that gave birth to this famous photograph was developed in Hobart; unfortunately, it seems to have long since disappeared. In 2009 a copy of the closest thing to the original was discovered
in the National Library of Australia, in Canberra. A large dog-eared dark-brown album labelled Tasmanian Views contains an eclectic collection of photos developed by a professional Hobart photographer, J. W. Beattie, and his assistant, Edward Searle, who Amundsen records having visited. Inside is a strikingly detailed copy of the glass-plate photo taken at Polheim. Amundsen is shown, full-bellied, as one of four bareheaded, sunburnt men saluting the Norwegian flag; the limp pennant suggests the wind was considerably weaker than depicted in the better-known, reproduced versions; even the horizon is discernible.
After his first lectures in Australia, Amundsen did not attract positive comments. When the American promoter Lee Keedick heard rumours that Amundsen had ‘made a poor figure on the rostrum’, he wrote to Leon and recommended the polar explorer find an English teacher. He warned against including too many scientific elements in public lectures, and suggested Amundsen concentrate more on the humorous aspects: ‘Shackleton did this with the most satisfactory results.’
In response Amundsen worked hard on his presentation style and language skills, peppering his talks with photo slides and film footage from the expedition. By Sydney, things were markedly better. Edgeworth David hosted, speaking highly of Amundsen’s achievement and defending his decision to head south. During the Norwegian’s numerous talks there was frequent applause, particularly when Amundsen announced that ‘he was quite certain that Captain Scott had been to the South Pole, and was now safe and sound in his winter quarters’. It was invaluable practise before Europe.