It was this decision which, more than any other factor, defeated Shackleton’s ambition to be the first to the South Pole and vitally affected the whole course of exploration in the Antarctic. For until a man, with shrewd eyes, indomitable spirit and the will to risk when risk was necessary, started to analyze things, the idea of wintering on the Barrier was held to be madness.
The man was Amundsen. He carefully studied all information bearing on the Barrier, and it recommended itself to him as a base for the reason it was the farthest south one could go by ship, “a whole degree farther south than Scott could hope to get in McMurdo Sound.”1 And from Shackleton’s discouraging report he drew the startling conclusion that this “peculiar formation in the Barrier is nothing more than the selfsame bight that was observed by Sir James Clark Ross—no doubt with great changes of outline, but still the same. For seventy years, then, this formation—with the exception of the pieces that had broken away—had persisted in the same place. I therefore concluded that it could be no accidental formation. What, once, in the dawn of time, arrested the mighty stream of ice at this spot and formed a lasting bay in its edge, which with a few exceptions runs in an almost straight line, was not merely a passing whim of the fearful force that came crashing on, but something even stronger than that—something that was firmer than the hard ice—namely, the solid land. Here in this spot, then, the Barrier piled itself up and formed the bay we now call the Bay of Whales. The observations we made during our stay there confirm the correctness of this theory.”2 Amundsen, who had a great respect for Shackleton, has told me that if Shackleton had based at the Bay of Whales, he would have been the first to reach the South Pole.
We knew we would find security in the Bay of Whales, if we based near Framheim. The fear of the Barrier disintegrating and carrying our base out to sea was therefore a minor possibility. It was a chance worth taking. The thing that vexed me was the possibility we might find the bay entirely locked in ice, which would force us to stand idly by, using up coal which was now precious as gold, until it broke up. Time was fleeting, and the task of unloading and setting up a base would take weeks.
What did history show? In February, 1900, and February, 1902, Borchgrevink and Scott, respectively, found the Bay open.3 As late as January 24, 1908, Shackleton found the Bay full of ice. Amundsen, years later, January 13, found the Bay open, with the ice half gone and moving out rapidly. The following year the bay ice did not begin to go out until the third week in January; and when Captain Larsen took the Ross in, in December, 1923, and January, 1924, Captain Nilsen had told me, he found the Bay completely ice-locked.
The record was clear on one point: our chances of finding the Bay swept clean of ice at this early date were decidedly slender. Nevertheless, short odds or no, it was a gamble we had to take.
As we cruised along its lee the Barrier constantly changed its outline. It is by no means the formidable uniformity we believe it to be. Its structure varied in height from 70 to 125 feet, small inlets and fractures marked its profile, and scarred cliffs reflected the sun, in chill blue and white, like great reflectors. The instability of the Barrier was forcibly impressed upon us. Occasionally there came from the distance a boom as of remote thunder—the sound of ice cliffs crumbling; and once, as I watched, the face of the Barrier miles away tore loose and fell in a showery cataract of ice. The sea when we drew near was littered with debris, in which several minor icebergs floated proudly in the newness of birth. Not very pleasant, really. This process is called “calving.”
During the morning watch, December 28, we sighted the western gateway to the Bay of Whales, and stood off the entrance some time later. West and east the northern portals of the Bay, which we knew were about twenty miles apart, were shrouded in a drifting haze, so we could see no more than a few miles in either direction. But as we crept within sight of the western wall, gingerly feeling out our way, a glimpse of the full stature of the cliffs was occasionally had: it was with awe that we realized over 100 feet of steep, sheer tightly packed snow lay between water’s edge and summit. I strained with all my might to make out something in the mist shadows ahead; hoping against hope for clear water, then hearing the slap of waves against ice.
The Bay still held in its bosom a solid wall of ice that the power of half a dozen vessels of the City’s power could not bend aside. It was a disappointing finding. We changed course sharply, veering to the right, but progress in this direction brought no improvement. When wind brushed the haze aside, we saw that the bay ice, which in places was so heavily crossed and ridged by pressure as to appear impassable, stretched solidly from West Cape to the eastern wall of the Barrier. At least eight miles of it lay between us and the place where we hoped to establish our base. There was no doubting the fact the ice was far north of the point where Amundsen found it,1 I realized there was much dirty work cut out for us.
We moored to the edge of the bay ice with ice anchors, which were hammered into the ice some distance from the ship, and hastily made ready for a trip of inquiry. Our great need at the moment was to find a suitable place for a base: worry over getting supplies to it could come next. By seven o’clock we were ready to start. Two dog teams were ready, Walden’s and Vaughan’s. On one of them Petersen had packed a portable radio set, and with him, Balchen and Braathen, our ski experts, I started across the ice, striking for the eastern wall of the Barrier, where it sloped to within thirty feet of sea level.
To the south the bay ice was criss-crossed by pressure ridges: near the Barrier massive blocks had been forced up; these we avoided carefully, picking our way roundabout over fairly smooth ice until we neared the place where the Barrier descended to the bay ice. Here we found the whole eastern edge marked by crevasses, which had been partly drifted and closed by snow. We found a way through them, and gained the Barrier via a gentle snow incline. Before we ventured any farther, I insisted the party be roped together, lest an incautious traveller find himself plunged suddenly into a crevasse. In this manner we made our way up the Barrier, which rose steadily, and presently we saw stretching before us, provocatively indefinite in the haze, the smooth roof of the Barrier stretching south. Our goal was Framheim, but though we knew that by then probably all trace of its existence had been obliterated, each of us, I think, had in his mind the thought that perhaps some quirk in Nature had left part of it exposed. We followed the Barrier’s edge for five or six miles and came to a place where the Barrier sloped gently into a kind of valley, but could tell very little about its shape. There was an extaordinary baffling condition of visibility in which it was broad daylight and not foggy, yet we could see only several hundred feet and inequalities on the surface took on weird shapes. We had an oppressive, shut-in feeling—a strange feeling on the vast stretches of the Barrier. Westward this basin continued to descend into an inconspicuous inlet.
We judged then that we were in the vicinity of Framheim, and the eagerness of the Norwegians, Balchen, Braathen and Petersen to locate the camp of their countrymen, was infectious. Petersen and Balchen skied to the southward to inspect a haycock which they thought might cover the house Amundsen left behind. Braathan and I went to the westward and descended the slope which fell into what was apparently a small bay. We scanned the scene for the sight of the two great pressure blocks that Amundsen told of, Mounts Nelson and Ronniken, but saw not a trace of them. Braathen shrieked, “I see a peak,—there is Mt. Ronniken”—which he took to be about 75 feet high and some distance off. He made for it as fast as he could propel his skis, only to be greatly chagrined to discover the “peak” was no higher than his shoulders and almost at the end of his nose. Such, at times, are the confounding properties of Antarctic visibility.
It may well be, as I concluded then, that these ridges, which Amundsen described as huge, “raising their highest summits over 100 feet in the air,”1 have been entirely drifted over during the intervening years. Certainly nothing that approached his description of them was visible. We continued on about a mile to the end of t
he bay, for such we saw it to be, and found that it debouched into the Bay of Whales amidst a chaos of pressure ridges that in the dimness looked like pre-historic monsters. We selected a camp site on a level piece of ice that was nearly surrounded by chaotic ice shapes. The others followed our tracks and soon joined us and we pitched camp; the first members of an American expedition to sleep on the Antarctic Continent. My diary reports:
Midnight
Dec. 30, 1928
Camp on the Bay Ice
It is as quiet here as in a tomb. Nothing stirs. The silence is so deep one could almost reach out and take hold of it.
A moment ago I stepped outside the tent and was impressed anew with the deceiving effect of the Antarctic on the eye. Try as I could, screwing the eyes, I could not make out the distance of things from us, nor their shape. Skiing, it was the same. We glided smoothly over a surface and then all of a sudden came to a cropper on a slight upward slope we failed to see. We sighted a mountain of snow, miles off, and it turned out to be a haycock twenty yards away. We strove to reach a pressure ridge close aboard and found it still miles away. Just as I wrote the last sentence there came a sharp cracking noise directly under us and a rumble from not far away. Pressure is working in the ice and no doubt creating wide cracks in the Barrier. However, this is no cause for alarm.
I A.M.
Jan. I, 1929
We made an unsuccessful exploration trip today to the southward in an attempt to locate a base. We sledged over the bay ice close to the Barrier cliffs which rose sheer on our left hand to heights of 50 to 7 S feet. The bay ice at its foot was rolling in thick, heavy ridges and cracks. There was no way up. As I was so inexpert with skis that I could not keep up with the Norwegians, I had to go without them, with the result that I fell through three or four cracks, thinly roofed over by snow. Each time I saved myself by spreading my arms. The others, however, slid over these easily with their skis.
After travelling two or three miles south we came to a place where the Barrier descended to the bay ice in a long easy slope. Here the snow had filled in and provided a ramp to the Barrier. Petersen and I began to climb up. Just as Petersen reached the top, the fragile covering of the crevasse gave way underneath him and only his skis saved him from a nasty fall. A moment later Walden’s heavily loaded sledge nearly went to the bottom of the sea through a slush hole in the ice, and Walden came within a hair’s breadth of falling in while trying to save the sledge. His famous leader, Chinook, showed the greatest concern while watching his actions, and one had the feeling that he was determined to prevent his master from taking what he judged to be a foolish risk.
On our return from this unsuccessful mission, Petersen and Balchen prepared the evening meal—pork and beans, bread and butter, peanut butter, biscuits and canned apple sauce for dessert. Few meals ever tasted better. I have forgotten to mention that this is New Year’s Eve and we drank the New Year in with tea.
Petersen has put up a bamboo pole to serve as a mast for his antenna, his radio set is assembled and he is now working the key. Messages are flying between our camp and the ship. New inquiries have been relayed from Brophy in New Zealand, with respect to the loading of the Boiling. The radio beyond doubt has ended the isolation of this ice cap. As a practical thing, its help is priceless. But I can see where it is going to destroy all peace of mind, which is half the attraction of the polar regions. Our external difficulties must always be with us.
The dogs have delighted me beyond words. They are so lively and strong one would never think they have been cooped up for more than a month. Terror, Vaughan’s leader, pulled today until he could hardly stand. The love these Eskimo dogs have for their work is quite wonderful. As we are about to start out from the City, one of the dogs appeared to be so lame that we decided to leave him behind, but he broke from the hands that held him and staggered to his place in the team. He seemed heart-broken, really, when we went off without him. We were off with a rush and a great flurry of snow, the dogs’ feet padding the snow with a soft noise and the sledge creaking and slamming on the unequal surface.
We can see now that the wisest thing we have done was to insist upon bringing a great many dogs. We were assured that half the number we demanded would serve our purposes. But now, with the problem of unloading confronting us, we can use every one, and many more for that matter.
Jan. 1st, 1929
Tonight I may sleep with the certainty that the second phase of our operations—reaching the base—is concluded in satisfactory fashion. The third—unloading and creating the base—may perhaps be the most difficult task of all. It is a river we shall cross, however, when we come to it. We shall surely find a way across.
Having failed yesterday to find a suitable location for a base to the southward, this morning Bernt and I returned to the bay we had followed when we glided down from the Barrier, and found that the slope at its head was a very gradual ascent to the Barrier. We climbed it. Visibility had slightly improved and we found ourselves in a kind of a basin. We recognized instantly that here was an excellent place for our base and named it Little America. It is splendidly protected by a high snow rim from the winds in all directions but west, and accessible from the point of view of loading operations. We have named the inlet Versur-Mer Bay after the village that was so hospitable to us when we landed in France at the end of our trans-Atlantic flight.
Today we returned to the ship, taking a circuitous route through the pressure ridge in the bay. Farther to the south we found the bay ice badly ridged by pressure. Beyond, the Bay ended against the Barrier, which rose, in a series of terraces, to considerable height.
The dogs, refreshed by long sleep, fairly raced back to the City, and my hurrying thoughts preceded them. How best to accomplish the job of unloading tons of supplies in a single month allowed us? Balchen had remained in the tent we set up at the base, and I made up my mind to send Gould in at once to take charge of the temporary camp, and with it the responsibility of putting up the houses and getting the camp ready for winter. McKinley is to have charge of supervising the transport of supplies from the City to Little America. He will have a very difficult task to keep them moving on schedule. George Black, another member of the North Pole Expedition, has been made supply officer. In that capacity he will keep track of all supplies.
We have decided to unload the City directly on the bay ice. This was a decision over which I hesitated for some time, knowing that however firm the ice seemed to be it must presently break up, perhaps with scant warning and with attendant risk to supplies and personnel. It is true that patience is one of the strongest weapons with which man can combat polar regions but there inevitably comes a time when the long chance is the most wiser one. This seems to be such a time.
There was much excitement aboard ship when we broke the news we had found a site for the base, and instantly preparations were begun to unload. The City was edged slightly to the east, to bring her nearer the Barrier and reduce the length of the trail by a few yards. Planks were run from the deck to the bay ice, and down this a stream of boxes, gasoline drums, crates and other articles commenced to pour in noisy confusion. As fast as these things touched the ice, a second party of men moved them back some distance from the edge, to minimize the risk of loss in case the ice started to break up. There was a great to-do as the dog men got their teams ready, for the dogs seemed to realize their enforced vacation was over and lively work was at hand. They rolled in the snow, dashed about in insane circles; and a number of them, at some fancied wrong, sprang at one another’s throats. There was serious work with the handle end of the whips before peace could be restored. But in time Walden, the Three Musketeers, and Jack Bursey had five teams in harness, eager to go, and before lunch they started for Little America, sledges heaped high with supplies. An excellent way to start the New Year. They made a pretty sight snaking across the bay. The dogs’ tails waved like plumes, and the drivers hurried behind, cracking their long whips and chattering incessantly in the mad monologue
that passes as language between driver and dogs. We kept them in sight until they moved up the low slope on the Barrier, and then lost them behind a ridge. Some time later Gould radioed the ship that he had found the site, that several tents were up and that Little America, the most southern American community, was formally colonized.
We ran our teams thereafter with some attempt at railroad precision. Perhaps we erred on the side of caution: I do not think so, for it is my experience that in the polar regions the most careful way of doing things is often the fastest. First of all, we marked out the trail between vessel and base with red-orange flags, so chosen because of their relatively high visibility. These would serve as sign-posts in case a storm caught a driver on the trail. A lookout watch was permanently assigned to the crow’s nest, to follow the teams across the bay ice and watch for cracks in the ice. Besides this, the departure of every team from either terminal was reported by radio to the other end: the absence of a team that ran into difficulties, perhaps in crevasses, must soon be noticed. No team was allowed to travel alone.
We drove, now, as if our lives depended upon it.
Tuesday, January 2, we sent off seven teams, each fully loaded, to the base. On this day, an evil-looking crack opened up in the ice, cutting across the old trail, so the teams had to detour a mile to the westward to get around it. This made the sledge journey to the base a total of nine miles—or eighteen miles for every load. Wednesday, we sent off eight teams. They had barely departed when a huge field of excessively roughened and jagged ice bore down on the ship from the eastward. To save the ship, we hastily got up steam and put out to sea, warning the base party of our departure by radio. We hoisted sail but dared not drift with the wind, as that would have driven us against the Barrier, so tacked about all night long, trying to conserve coal. It was a miserable night, for we collided with pieces of scattered pack continually, and the men were on duty nearly the entire night.
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