We then set about making a home for the Ford. An immense hole was dug, with a steep decline approaching it. With sixty dogs pulling at once, we dragged the fuselage into the center of the colony. The mechanics, Bubier, Roth and Demas, worked like fiends to finish the job.
Now all that remained was to get this huge bird into its nest.
First, we hitched a line to the snowmobile, which had shown a remarkable aptitude for hauling. Then half the camp was mustered into service and distributed at the ends of other lines. We heaved, we pulled, we dug in until the pressure of the lines cut in through heavy jackets. The monster followed grudgingly, then at last it plunged head foremost into its hangar—the coldest hangar1 in the world. The tail was packed in snow, but about the nose we built a capacious chamber out of snow blocks so that the mechanics might continue to work on the engines.
Only two major tasks remained undone out of doors.
Part of the supplies were still in the Barrier cache. But these were soon brought in by men working under the direction of Captain McKinley. March blizzards made a hard task harder. Dense drift and snow repeatedly covered the cache, so that it was necessary for the men to spend half the day shovelling before they could even begin to move the stuff. After one heavy storm, I became worried that part of the buried supplies might never be found, and insisted that the entire area be carefully excavated. Here was carrying coals to Newcastle with a vengeance. There was much good-natured grousing over the order, enlivened by a steady stream of raillery from Taffy Davies and Cyclone Haines. Taffy had been digging for some time, without once uncovering anything, which Haines intimated was due largely to the fact he was simply letting the wind blow the snow off his shovel; so he regarded it as a vindication when his shovel struck something hard. Taffy whooped, and yelled for assistance. Snow flew merrily for a few minutes. Then Taffy dragged out the prize. The most unpopular device this side of the equator lay exposed.
“And I had to do it—snow shovels,” he groaned. He let the bundle drop into the pit and covered his eyes.
The second task involved the acquisition of a last 50 tons of seal meat. Strom and Braathen were sent down to the Bay, and finally secured 32 seals. These were discovered far out on the edge of the newly-formed bay ice. All the other seal holes were empty, their inhabitants having retreated before winter. In fact, nearly all wild life had departed. Only a lone Emperor penguin and two skua gulls on the quest for garbage were seen. We should therefore have to get along with the meat we had.
We could then begin to see the end of work about the camp. All the huts were up, and the men were excavating a series of tunnels for the dogs. Our own tunnel system promised to be so effective that we decided to give the same protection to the dogs. The main tunnels ran west of the mess hall, and consisted of three long corridors in the snow radiating from the main chamber called the chopping house. The chopping house had an entrance to the seal pile, which was then covered with snow. Fortunately, refrigeration is not a problem in the Antarctic. The carcasses became as stiff as steel plate as soon as they were hauled there. One of the tunnels opened into a small chamber which was called the maternity ward. With six females in camp, a number of blessed events were a reasonable certainty. Siple also made use of another tunnel as an approach to his taxidermy station. He dug a deep hole nearby, roofed it with an overturned life boat and connected it to the tunnel with a narrow corridor. This area was given the name of Dog Town, and it was the noisiest township on the whole southern hemisphere.
A second set of tunnels extended prong-like from Braathen’s and Walden’s house, which was fast becoming a celebrated residential quarter. They made their own chopping house, which they merged with a repair shop for skis and sledges, and presently had several leading industries housed under one roof. These tunnels were eight feet deep, and about six feet wide, and at intervals of six feet or more little alcoves were let into the sides to receive the crates. Digging these tunnels was a back-breaking order. For the housing of 80 primitive dogs involves its own problems. Unlike brow-beaten humans, who can be herded into groups without grievous friction, Eskimo dogs remain individualists to the last. They may dwell in the peaceful affinity of brothers for days on end; but for the favor of a lady or a hunk of frozen seal meat they will enthusiastically rend one another limb from limb. We had had half a dozen bloody brawls, due to the fact that some dogs were allowed to roam loose, partly because of carelessness or inexperience on the part of the drivers; and during this period two splendid dogs, Shackleton and Muskeg, were killed in a pitched battle over a female.
The crates, then, had to be sufficiently spaced apart to allow the dogs to move freely on a chain, and not near enough to permit them to come within fighting distance. We therefore staggered them on opposite sides of the tunnels.
It would be well to tell here the story of Spy. Spy was one of Vaughan’s dogs. Toward the end of March I found him in his crate, in a pitiful condition. He had pulled his heart out during the unloading, and now was so lame he could hardly walk. For some strange reason his coat failed to grow in thick, as with the other dogs, so his resistance to cold was low. Vaughan, who loved him as a brother, was of the opinion he should be shot: it would put him out of his misery. But it was decided to bring him into the house, where it was warm, and put him on a special diet.
We gave him canvas to sleep on. The only available space in the camp at the time was in my room, and old Spy lay there for two days, very much to the disgust of Igloo who attacked him whenever my back was turned. His joints were so crippled by cold that he could not stir, but he was on the mend. Saturday, March 30th, we took him out for a bit of exercise. It happened that his old team went by, with black Dinty in the lead, and his boon companions, Watch and Moody, in the traces. Spy watched them go rollicking past, and a spirit like that of the Old Guard must have taken possession of his pain-stiffened limbs, for he went out in a gallant spurt, overtook the team and with a final summoning up of strength forced his way to his place in the team.
It was one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen: and for a penny I would pluck a moral from it. The whole camp stopped working at the sight, and watched with wonder how Moody and Watch muzzled the veteran, and laid their paws on him in a most extraordinary gesture. That these wild and untrammeled animals should be capable of harboring so deep and lasting a sentiment was beyond understanding.
Spy gradually grew better and soon was sufficiently recovered to return to his crate. This splendid old veteran lived long enough to do fine work in the spring.
Tuesday
April 1st
We are getting a taste of Antarctic weather. Last night the temperature dipped to 47° below zero and today it is not much higher. Still digging tunnels. It is chilling work. There have been a number of cases of frost-bite, and we have been compelled to warn several of the men to be careful. The distressing thing about this painful affliction is that it generally finds its victims in an innocent frame of mind, blissfully unconscious of the harm done. We watch one another for the tell-tale patch of yellow-white on the cheeks and nose, and detecting them has become as insidious a game as beaver. “Beg your pardon, Mr. Haines, but I observe you have a frost-bite on your cheek.” “Thanks very much, Mr. Harrison,” with a tender rubbing on the spot, “but you might look to your own with advantage.”
There’s an art in defeating frost-bite. If rubbed too vigorously, the tissue is injured. A gentle, delicate pressure—or rather working of the flesh that is attacked—is quite efficacious. This must be done with the bare hand, which adds a zestful element of hazard to the operation. Some of the boys consoled their faces so long that they soon nipped their fingers, and were jumping up and down like lunatics.
The sun is still above the horizon, but sinking perceptibly every day. Its shadow effects are really marvellous. The slightest outcropping in the Barrier has a lengthening cone of violet and purple silhouette, and a man moving about is pursued by a shadow so immense and grotesque as to be positively embar
rassing.
The sunsets are beautiful. They bedevil my mind struggling for adequate expression with so overpowering a sense of helplessness as to cause the best words to end in muddled indecision.
I must bring up a subject that has been troubling me. Some time ago I decided to withhold Owen’s dispatches from the men. I had a definite reason for this. Publicity is the worst disease that a weak man can get. It nourishes dissatisfaction, even jealousy. It can rend the most compactly organized group of men. Down here I had hoped to get away from that evil. If it were possible, I wanted to create a single attitude—a single state of mind—unfettered by the trivial considerations of civilization. That is, I wanted—and, in fact, shall persist in wanting—the task to be more important than the personal contribution to it.
If I could have had my way, few names or all names would be mentioned in Owen’s stories. Every effort would be a collective undertaking. But of course such a thing cannot be. Owen’s job is difficult enough as it is, without encumbering him with limitations. No reporter who takes his art seriously, and Owen does, should be hampered in any way whatsoever, if it can possibly be avoided. News should be held inviolate.
Then, too, the men must be considered. I suppose that of all the men here I have the least right to talk depreciatively of the value of getting one’s name in the newspapers; but I am certainly in a position to tell them that the privilege soon responds to the law of diminishing returns. With these men, however, the usual conditions are altered. Owen’s stories are an indirect connection with their families and friends. Naturally, this is an important consideration.
What I do fear is the fact that the nature of the work the men must do, and are fitted to do, must of necessity give greater prominence to some than to others. There will be some who will receive scant mention, if any at all, in spite of the fact their work may be just as important to the expedition as that of the others. It is no fault of Owen’s, but it is a pity it has to be. For I have striven to reduce all values to a common level, in which no job is meaner or more meritorious than the rest. If distinctions are drawn in the record, the whole plan must collapse.
In a word, we are trying to get away from the false standards by which men live under more civilized conditions. The Antarctic is a new world for all of us which requires its own standards, and these are materially different from those set up in civilization, whereby we venerate prestige, influence and associated characteristics and ignore the inconspicuous, but equally valid properties. Now that vital operations have ceased for the winter, the hand is quite as important as the brain, and the digging out of house entrances and windows after a storm, the care of fires, etc., are prime factors in keeping alive. They are the essential things. This fact I have tried to drive home, not always with success.
The men are, for the most part, of the volunteer type, proud, independent and ambitious. Every one of them is eager to participate in the scientific labors of the expedition, no matter how arduous they may be. Such work is obviously important; it provides its own incentive and fits into the standards that are venerated. The less conspicuous tasks they are inclined to swallow hard, and regard them as chores, I think, which might well be performed by professionals. But alas! if there was such a thing as a professional snow shoveller, fire tender, etc., they would have no place on an expedition. Moreover, the crux of the matter is that these presumably onerous tasks have become the vital things. I know, too, from experience that the volunteer type (I do not mean that all the men are volunteers, but with most of them the pay certainly must be one of the last considerations) does not always bear up well when praise, prestige and rank are rammed down their throats. Their spirit is bound to be affected. Gould, McKinley, Balchen and Haines stand squarely with me on this point.
However, now that there is more time for leisure it would be contrary to the principles of the expedition and highhanded of me to oppose the posting of the stories on the bulletin board. I am not-at all sure that it will satisfy every one, but at any rate I shall do it. Merely seeing in black and white an account of what they have accomplished that day with their own hands and brains may convince them that it is not lost labor after all.
But I shall quietly try to spread the word, as I have done before, that the Antarctic is no place for the spotlight. It casts only a faint glow 10,000 miles away.
From time to time we had attempted to locate Amundsen’s old camp, but without success. We decided to try it again, and on March 11th, I went out with Davies, Strom, Balchen, Thorne, Van der Veer, Goodale, and Crockett to make a last search while the weather remained favorable. It was a cold day, 38° below zero and we were bundled up to twice natural size in furs, parkas and mittens. Only the nose and eyes were visible, and from the narrow opening in the hood one’s breath came out in clouds of vapor. We puffed like steam engines.
To the best of our knowledge, Framheim was about three miles to the south of Little America. True, we should have great difficulty in trying to recognize anything, for the Antarctic is an area of eternal change; and in the 17 years that had intervened, Framheim must long since have disappeared under the snow. But we still had the idea that we might stumble on it, and I refreshed my mind with Amundsen’s description of the place, and, in fact, carried with me maps and the chapter in his book describing its location.
There were two ways to reach the basin he described. It was possible to go down over the bay ice, then up a long slope to the Barrier. But the ice was so broken up with pressure to the west of Framheim that the trip was almost a hardship. The second lay over the Barrier. We chose the second. Walking briskly, we pursued a course that brought us up a rolling rise in the Barrier, whence we descended into the valley of haycocks, from which tiny threads of vapor arose. We threaded these, ascended to the high rolling Barrier and then through a pass which brought us at last to the basin. As we stood on the rim of the basin, we had a perfect view of the Barrier, which was like a burnished shield, with glints hidden in its depths. We could trace the serrated edges of the Barrier, enfolding the Bay of Whales in a series of capes, and what we took to be Amundsen’s Cape Man’s Head was the southernmost of these. Even it had changed, and there was nothing in its profile to indicate the resemblance for which Amundsen had named it. Storms had worn it into a shapeless cliff. The bay ice stretched north in a plain of mottled gray, and beyond lay the Ross Sea, dark and immense under a brooding sky.
We trudged again up and down the basin, studying it from all angles, poring over maps, but with no more success than we had had before. A modest lump in the snow we tried to expand in our imaginations as the snow-banked remnant of Mt. Nilsen, but of Mt. Ronniken not a trace remained, unless the tiny haycock we saw was all that had survived its former eminence. Poor old Ronne, we thought, this will be a dreadful blow. Imagine having the mountain that is named after you reverse the order and become a mole hill! Even the flag pole on Amundsen’s hut had disappeared beneath the snow, and a sensitive magnetic instrument which Davies had brought along failed to show any metal underneath the crust, although we tried it out in many places.
We had already tarried there much too long, and with twilight approaching hastened home. It became quite dark at an early hour, and we had no desire to stay out-of-doors any longer than was necessary. As it was, it was nip-and-tuck with frost-bite all the way back. The wind was blowing which made a tremendous difference. The deadly little yellow patches blossomed on noses and cheeks with the spontaneity of flowers in the spring. In the space of a few minutes, I warned Balchen, he warned Strom, Strom warned Davies, and Davies warned Crockett of danger. We came into the administration building on the run, and as we opened the door a torrent of fog, caused by the cold air striking the heated atmosphere of the room like steam. One could have had a Turkish bath as he stood. It was good to be back to the stove, and the tea that Tennant provided was like nectar.
Because the sun would disappear in eight days, we decided to conserve daylight as much as possible. So at taps that night we ordered the c
locks set ahead one hour. We had been operating on 18oth Meridian Time, and by this device gained another hour of daylight. It was no doubt the first experiment with daylight saving time in the Antarctic.
The days shortened perceptibly, in spite of artificial opposition, and the twilights lengthened. There followed perhaps the most beautiful days of our visit. For as the sun rolled lower and lower about the horizon, becoming a dull, red orb that gave off little heat, the hues in the sky deepened and became intensified, and a rain of radiant iridescence seemed to drop softly upon the chill gray of the Barrier, warming and nourishing it into flame. It was a frigid world aflame with frigid colors. The cliffs surrendered none of their color as twilight approached, the somber sweep of Ross Sea none of its darkness: and the effect of night marching over the scene was inexpressibly strange.
We last saw the sun on April 17th, but its beauty remained behind. Its official departure was not set until the 19th, but the following days were cloudy and we saw no more of it. This last time it rolled like a burning disc around the northern horizon, touching off in a final burst of radiance the scene it would quit for four months. It poised for a while on the western horizon, and a long, tantalizing twilight began to spread gray tendrils over the Barrier. Then it dipped suddenly below the horizon. An eruption of green, blue, red and yellow diffused the entire southern horizon, and stayed for a time the descent of night. But night advanced with deepening power, and soon was in full sway of his empire.
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