In addition to fuel and oil necessary for the flight, as well as other equipment, we shall carry 300 pounds of food, 200 gallons of gasoline, 25 gallons of oil and a large gasoline stove (for warming the engines) for the cache. We shall also carry 25 gallons of gasoline and a gasoline stove for the Geological Party. Smith will pilot, June will act as radio engineer and relief pilot, and McKinley will, of course, be the mapper.
It is mighty good to be starting.
Later
No luck. We are too impatient.
Radio conditions have been absolutely dead all day. Every man in the Radio Division has tried his hand at the main set, but failed to raise a station. We have been unable to make contact with the New York Times, the ships at New Zealand, the Geological Party—in fact, for the past few hours we have been cut off from the world.
It would be stupid to undertake the flight without radio. So we shall sit still, until the ether returns to normal.
The base-laying flight is one of the most uncertain operations of the whole expedition. If we fail to get down our base, we cannot make the polar flight. If we crack up, we shall not only be forced to give up the polar flight, but we shall also nullify the magnificent work of the Supporting and Geological parties, for the latter party must then put all its efforts into the job of helping us back to Little America.
By the time we get back, if this thing comes to pass, it will be too late to undertake the prolonged flight to the eastward which we plan to make after the polar flight.
Landing away from base in the polar regions is always dangerous, because of the inability of the pilot to judge surface accurately from the air; weather is also an uncertain quantity. This is one of my pet convictions and I would not attempt this landing if it were not absolutely necessary. If the landing can be done, I believe that Dean Smith can do it. He has a tremendous responsibility.
9 o’clock A. M.
Monday
November 18th
The mysterious enervation of the ether is over, and we shall make the flight at once. Engines are turning over and Mulroy has put aboard the fuel cans for the base.
Temperature—several degrees above zero and rising: sky—cloudless: wind—on the surface a 6-mile wind from the southwest, and a quartering 20-mile wind at feet 2,000 according to Haines’s balloon runs.
A perfect day for the flight.
Haines said: “You might wait another year for a better one.”
We took off at 9:40 o’clock A.M., with Smith at the controls. Thirty seconds after the start, after a run of less than a thousand feet, the three engines lifted our 14,300 pounds of dead weight from the snow, and the plane climbed rapidly, bearing to the south. As the engines took up a steady rhythm, under Smith’s deft synchronizing touch, my thoughts and hopes raced ahead. What would we find at the foot of the mountains? A firm, smooth surface? Or a surface torn and marred by crevasses and sastrugi? So much—everything—hung in the balance.
Little America, a few dark roofs and a mass of trodden snow, dropped steadily astern, the radio towers became mere black pins against the white, and the Ross Sea, open, black, and strewn with icebergs, stretched indefinitely to the northern horizon.
Our altitude was 1,200 feet, and Smith kept the plane at this height for some time. For more than a year, we had been wondering if we could follow the dog team trail from the air. We had discussed the problem backward and forward and were now about to find the answer.
Down below, the southern trail wound through the crevasses southwest of Little America, but we could not see it. Reaching the Barrier, we had to search for the trail, and for a time I thought we were not going to be able to follow it. Finally we sighted it—a thin, broken, ribbon. The sun compass checked with the direction of the trail. We could, therefore, keep on an exact course with the sun compass, when and if we missed the trail, and sooner or later would pick it up again. Smith had to keep some distance to the right or left of the trail in order to see it at all.
We saw 20 Mile Depot, a few snow blocks surrounded by a welter of footsteps. Over the beacons the western sun threw long gray shadows.
Visibility was excellent. The atmosphere was wonderfully smooth.
McKinley, who was just getting ready to send his cameras into action, touched my sleeve, pointed down and grinned. In the center of the trail lay a dark hulk, the forlorn wreck of the snowmobile.
Snow, snow everywhere, rising and falling in swelling folds, meeting the blue of the sky with a sharp clear line.
We passed Depot No. 2 at a speed in excess of a hundred miles per hour. We could see the crevassed area long before we reached it. I had been intent on navigating when suddenly Dean turned in his seat and wiggled his finger. Dark shadows appeared in the smooth floor of the Barrier ahead—the crevasses. As we approached, the pattern evolved. What a frightful mess it was! It was a frozen whirlpool. Even under the softening influence of vertical vision and altitude, the horrible nature of the surface was apparent. The area was traversed by massive pressure ridges and crevasses, the sides of which showed black and blue in the sun, and the shearing movement of the Barrier had wrought destruction of millions of tons of frozen ice and snow. Had the guns of half a dozen armies played upon the scene, they could not have worked as much destruction.
To the east a mass of crevasses was spread fanwise, furrowed and partly drifted over.
Here for two days the Supporting Party had risked its necks; and we were over it in two, perhaps three minutes. I almost felt ashamed.
From the surface the crevassed area appeared to them to stretch indefinitely from east to west. But from the air we saw that it was not more than 25 or 30 miles from end to end, and a fine route around it lay to the eastward.
Amundsen had reported two high peaks to the eastward in Latitude 82 degrees. He did not name these peaks, and thought they were part of Carmen Land. I searched for them with binoculars, but could not see them. Did the Barrier continue indefinitely to the east? I decided that on the return flight, as well as on the polar flight, we should have to investigate this area.
Smooth and undulating, the Barrier stretched to the south. The crumbled dome of Depot No. 4 was underneath.
“We ought to meet the Geological Party any minute,” I shouted.
“I see them now,” McKinley answered.
Five teams, scattered and each making its way alone, were headed up a long, rolling rise in the Barrier.
“They haven’t heard us yet,” McKinley shouted.
That was apparent, for they had not turned. Smith brought the ship down in a long, curving glide. The poor devils, we saw quickly, were having a hard time. Some of the men were in harness, pulling with the dogs, and the sight of their bending backs, the separation of the sledges, the very, very slow progress told everything. They had picked up a maximum load at Depot No. 4, and the men had their toes dug in and the dogs had their bellies to the snow trying to keep the sledges moving.
“Must be cold down there,” McKinley yelled. “They have their parkas up—can’t hear the engines.”
We passed them at 300 feet, swinging low in salute, and caught sight of two or three white faces lifted up.
“Don’t cheer, boys,” June said, “the poor devils are dying.”
If ever a conclusive contrast was struck between the new and the old methods of polar travelling, it was then.
We dropped them a bag of letters and miscellaneous equipment and continued on. Smith had done a fine job in keeping to the trail, which was always elusive. On the few occasions when we lost the trail, the sun compass took the plane on a bee line until we sighted it again.
A little later to the southwestward a magnificent peak appeared in the sky. It was the strangest mountain I have ever seen. It lacked body and base. It was a towering, truncated, gray-black peak pinned against a cloudless sky. Halfway down it ended, with a clear line of breakage, against the shimmering brilliance of daylight, as if the agency responsible for its structure had started to build it from the top, grew ti
red when the job was half done and left it there, like Mahomet’s tomb, between earth and heaven. A mirage, I thought.
Then another peak, a third, a fourth, then a whole line of them popped suddenly in the sky, at least 150 miles away, trending laterally across our path; and the same shimmering light played underneath. Could they be—why, surely they must be—the mountains between the range that Amundsen saw on his polar journey (Crown Prince Olav) and those which Scott and Shackleton saw from Beardmore Glacier.
For the first time in history the entire sweep of this majestic mass which buttresses the polar plateau was visible to human eyes. Smith gradually lifted the plane to 2000 feet, and the beauty and the extent of this range were more fully shown.
Fold upon fold, peak upon peak, the range rimmed the polar plateau, bending in a broad sweeping curve to the east. I studied them through my glasses. Some black rock showed, a charred and weathered black which gave the peaks an air of ageless sturdiness. Here and there the blue-white stream of a glacier cut through the ebony; and one glacier, larger and more beautiful than the rest, which could be seen almost at the limit of vision, I took to be Beardmore Glacier, up which the parties of Scott and Shackleton had climbed, with infinite patience and pain, in search of a highway to the Pole. But of course I could not be sure; it is always difficult to recognize from the surface a mountain according to written description; but from the air it is well-nigh impossible.
Slowly, now, the Queen Maud Range came into view: first a few lone peaks dancing above the cylinder heads in the arc of the propeller ; then dark shoulders of rock draped with snow; then, finally, a solid mass of mountains cut and riven by glacial streams. Here, indeed, was what we had come so far to see.
Spread out on the navigation table were Amundsen’s charts, a number of photographs ripped from his book, and scribbled notes taken from his descriptions.
Here was a subject which de Ganahl, one of the expedition’s navigators, and I had discussed exhaustively on many occasions. Would it be possible to recognize from the air the mountains which Amundsen had seen and described according to their characteristics as seen from the ground? Amundsen had repeatedly confessed that under different conditions of visibility he failed to recognize mountains which he believed he knew well. It was absolutely necessary that I know exactly where we were when we prepared to land for the base. Thus far I had recognized nothing, but I had confidence, however, in the sun compass and drift indicator. I knew that we were flying in a straight line south.
I searched first of all for Mt. Fridtjof Nansen—”15,000 feet1 · · · a blue-black look … a mighty hood of ice that raised its shining top … the immense Mount Nansen”2 and then for its eminent companion, Don Pedro Christophersen … “farther to the east … more covered with snow … but the long, gabled summit was to a great extent bare,”3 and for Axel Heiberg Glacier … “that rose in terraces along their sides … fearfully broken and disturbed1 · · · the great main ice field … stretching right up from the Barrier between the lofty mountains running east and west.”2
But I recognized nothing. We were heading for a glacier which I took to be Axel Heiberg because I had confidence in Albert Bumstead’s sun compass. There was a great mountain mass ahead, a trifle to the starboard bow, and there was an even larger mass to the right of it. There were huge mountains on the port bow too. At the foot of these high mountains were rows of even, pyramidal, black foothills like Arab tents struck at their feet.
But another mountain had shouldered its mass in sturdy prominence against the rest, a stately, glittering cone. Could this be Ole Engelstads? I studied Amundsen’s description of it. “…Ole Engelstad’s a great snow cone rising in the air to 19,000 feet3” · · · Mount Wilhelm Christophersen and Mount Ole Engelstad formed the end of Axel Heiberg Glacier, “two beehived-shaped summits, entirely covered with snow.”4 No, this peak did not fall into that description. It must be—I hastily riffled the photographs, refreshing my mind with detail in them as we advanced steadily toward the range.
A queer thing happened as we approached. The cone of the mysterious mountain gradually separated itself from the mountain mass on the port bow and the shape of the mountain changed before our eyes. It had ceased to be a cone. From the northern peak a ridge ran far back, to the south, and the effect then was that of a tented arch. I saw, at the moment, a definite structural similarity with the picture of a mountain on my table—ah, Ruth Gade.5 It was a gorgeous mass, rising 14,000 to 15,000 feet.
Here was one thing on which to hang our position. There could be no doubt that the photograph I held in my hand and the one I was looking at were the same. From it I worked to locate the other mountains. The big mountain mass on the starboard bow must be the great Nansen. But wonders, there was an even greater mass to the right of Nansen, seen in its length, perhaps for the first time. I concluded that Don Pedro Christophersen and Ole Engelstad must be hidden behind Nansen. Axel Heiberg Glacier was ahead and Liv’s Glacier to the right. Good! Now we knew where we were.
It seems almost absurd, as I look back upon it, to have been standing thus, staring one moment at a far-flung shield of snow-draped rock, and the next at a few words and photographs, striving to put them together. If ever I saw the inadequacies of words I did then. Cones, summits, peaks, flanks, ridges, turrets—scramble them together, add a dash or two of adjectives, and one has, at best, an approximation. Here we had the thing before us, in all its wonderful complexity. Even photographs were misleading; for with every mile of our advance the shapes and attitudes of the mountains changed and became almost irrecognizable.
It was then past two o’clock.
Ever since we had passed the crevasses, I had searched for signs of Carmen Land and the mountain range which Amundsen believed connected Carmen Land to King Edward VII Land and South Victoria Land.1 We not only failed to see the “two lofty white summits” or the “appearance of land” to the southeast “in about 82°,”2 which he reported on the return journey from the Pole, but we had not yet caught sight of the chain of mountains which he first saw at 84°,3 on the way in, and later as he stood halfway up the mountains and paused, before he renewed the ascent, for a backward glance at the Barrier.4
Of this fascinating area not a trace had yet appeared.
This was the more surprising as we were approximately over Amundsen’s route and had naturally a more extensive field of vision.
New personalities emerged in the mountains ahead of us. To the left of Ruth Gade two snow-swathed peaks, of almost exactly the same shape, began to stand out from the rest. A conservative estimate put their heights at from 10,000 to 14,000 feet. Behind these the highest peak, curved to the southeast and the foothills continued endlessly to the eastward. Here and there I could see the blue-white glint of glaciers against the soft, velvet-black of exposed rock. And once or twice I was quite sure that I saw, behind the tops of the glacier, the white floor of the plateau. But of that I could not be certain. It was quite likely, I warned myself, that the imagination conjured up what the eye was most eager to see.
The colossal mass to the right of Nansen was unlike anything that Amundsen described. It was easily the most impressive mountain of the lot. It did not have Nansen’s chill sculptured profile. This was consolidated mass, with the frowning ramparts of a fortress. It was at least 20 miles in length.1
To the right, the peaks and spurs of Crown Prince Olav Mountains continued to South Victoria Land. Behind the first outposts I had seen a second range, with peaks higher and more superb than those in front.
Smith edged slightly toward the western portal of Axel Heiberg Glacier, where we planned to make the base. The Barrier underneath became more rolling, its level stretch giving way to a series of swelling undulations.
We drew within a few miles of Nansen’s approaches, and saw that the surface, in the vicinity of Axel Heiberg Glacier, did not appear as favorable for landing. We headed to the westward and found, 15 miles or so in that direction, deep, fan-shaped crevasses, which were from
10 to 50 feet from edge to edge and partly drifted, marring the surface of the Barrier. The area was impossible for a landing. We kept these crevasses to the westward and flew south for a few minutes. The eastern portal of Liv’s Glacier was several miles to the west.
Anxiously we studied the surface. It was not at all promising. Everywhere the Barrier was scored with the wave-like formations of sastrugi, and these, for the most part, appeared to be so high and rough as to forbid the attempting of a landing. However, several miles north of Nansen’s foothills, the western peaks of which served as the eastern portal to Liv’s Glacier, there was a pool of fairly level snow : there we decided to lay the base.
We dropped lower. I let go a smoke bomb to get the wind direction, and its column leaned slightly on a gentle easterly. Then we dropped four bombs in line, as a means of determining our distance above the snow. As we turned and came into the wind, I had a fair view of Liv’s Glacier. Amundsen had wondered what this glacier was like. The main channel, which was astonishingly wide, curved behind Nansen’s foothills and rose, in a series of escalated ice falls, some of which were at least 200 feet in height, to a great elevation. Far up it seemed to bend slightly to the west, disappearing behind the arm of Nansen and the bulking shoulder of Fisher Mountain.
The moment which we had looked forward to with apprehension was at hand. Everything depended upon this landing, and Dean Smith carried a heavy burden on his shoulders. When such moments come, the time for worry is passed. One feels calm, calmer than when planning for such a critical project. We had gone as far as mere planning could carry us, and the result rested with Fate. There was no thought of physical danger. We were oppressed only by the fear that if things went wrong now the whole expedition would suffer.
I had supreme confidence in Smith. He brought the plane down with rare caution. The surface was rough, and I was more than thankful that the new skis were long and wide. Had they been narrower and shorter, we might easily have stubbed or smashed them on the razor-backed sastrugi which traversed even the less disturbed spaces.
Little America Page 35