WE ESTABLISH A BASE
ON our second Christmas Day (we had two because we recrossed the 180th Meridian) an imperceptible brightening in the southern sky—”barrier blink"—suggested the proximity of the Barrier. As the second was the official Christmas Day, I sacrificed a ton or two of coal for sentimental reasons, in speeding up engine revolutions, hoping thereby to make the Barrier before the end of the day. I felt that a glimpse of this mysterious Antarctic rampart which we had fought so hard to gain would be an exciting gift to the men. The Ross Sea was smooth as a mill pond, and the air so fresh and pure that breath was a delight. For all the anxiety with which we anticipated landing, we went forward with our celebration. It was a most excellent affair. Tennant served a fine dinner, Lofgren as toastmaster kept things humming, and our physicist, Taffy Davies, took the part of Santa Claus as only a Welshman can. With journey’s end so near, our happiness was sincere and infectious. In the midst of this, Strom’s voice from the crow’s nest—”Barrier on the starboard bow"—fell with the especially abrupt swiftness that long awaited news always assumes. There was a clatter of dishes hastily dropped or pushed aside, the race of footsteps up the companionway and a wild crowding of men on the fo’c’s’le head and in the rigging. The thing we had come so far to see was before our eyes, a far-flung reach of lifted ice, stretching east and west as far as the eye could see. In the distance it appeared low and flat, not yet impressive, but there it was, the mysterious Barrier. Simultaneously excitement laid hold of the crew: they cheered enthusiastically and pounded on one another’s back.
The City drove slightly to the right, to avoid a large pack of ice which stood between us and the Barrier. The course was then laid for Discovery Inlet. In the back of my mind was the idea that, if we should be unable to base in the Bay of Whales, we might find a base in Discovery Inlet. The Barrier grew steadily before our gaze, and we saw that its sheer white cliff rose eighty or ninety feet from the sea at its foot. Awe seized one with the realization that this towering rampart, which extended east and west for more than four hundred miles, and south for an equal distance, was, except in the few places where it apparently touches land, floating on the sea. If the high cliffs which show above the surface are majestic, how much more majestic must be the mass submerged? Five or six to one would be a conservative estimate of the proportion below sea level. This immense moving, water-born ice sheet is the last retreating remnant of a colossal sheet of ice which, during the period of maximum glaciation, completely covered the continent and lay on the floor of the Ross Sea. With this creation of an ancient ice age before us, inspiring reverie, it was rather shocking to find that the provocative sounds which the ear was trying to pick up came from the loudspeaker in the fo’c’s’le—a jazz band broadcasting from a radio station.
We reached the Barrier at Long. 177° 25’ W., came alongside and cruised all night and part of the next day almost in its shadow. Caution stifled our curiosity, and we rarely ventured nearer than a mile from the base. The scarred and jagged wall commanded respect; one had the fear that an overhanging cliff might let go with scant warning. For here were the breeding grounds of the icebergs, and deep wounds in the Barrier walls told of the labor that brought forth the bergs that prowled the Ross Sea. Near the water’s edge, the Barrier in places was honeycombed with caves, of bewildering shapes and sizes, which, when the sun struck them at just the right angle, blazed with a rich blue coloration. We took soundings every hour, and they showed an average of 250 to 300 fathoms of water. Davies and Quin Blackburn, the surveyor, were meanwhile busy with their pencils, sketching the Barrier as it paraded past.
We made out the mouth of Discovery Inlet shortly after eight o’clock in the morning, and three hours later were inside. We found ourselves in a long narrow harbor, running east and west, imprisoned between cliffs which rose, perpendicularly in places, 100 feet above sea level. These walls were smooth for the most part, but here and there were shattered and cracked as by some great disturbance. Even though it was mid-summer in the inverted seasons of these polar regions, we found the harbor filled with bay ice for more than three quarters of its length; a minor wall, it curved crescent-like between the precipitous sides of the Barrier, effectively halting our advance. As we prepared to moor off its edge, the aviator Parker made a flying leap ashore with the cry: “The Marines are always the first ashore.” A dozen more tumbled after him; in a moment the silence of the bay was broken with their shouts. Plankings were hastily put to use as gangways, a bunch of the dogs were let loose for much needed exercise, and a number of the men, who had been instructed in skiing by the Norwegians, made ready to try their luck under polar conditions.
The need for haste, which was always with us, reasserted itself; and Balchen, Braathen, Strom, Petersen and I set out on skis to the eastward, in search of a possible landing field; meanwhile another group of men started out to explore the fascinating caves in the Barrier. Our trip proved worthwhile from a geographical point of view, for it greatly extended the known size of the Inlet. Instead of running east and west and ending about ten miles from the mouth, as shown on the charts, we found there is a general curve from the east to the south. At the beginning of the curve, the inlet narrowed down into an inner bay, on the western side of which we observed two snow-covered ice hills rising forty or fifty feet above the Barrier, which was very nearly 150 feet high at this point. These little hillocks (relatively) were fissured by pressure, a most interesting discovery, for it suggested an explanation as to why this harbor keeps its shape: beyond a doubt land lies underneath, holding the Barrier intact at this point. Beyond these hillocks the bay widened slightly, continued in a southerly direction for several miles and appeared to end in front of an enormous boulderlike formation of ice, behind which we saw a wide crevasse extending four or five miles.
In making this survey, we found a place about three quarters of the distance between the ship and the end of the harbor where the Barrier fell in a gentle slope to the bay ice, and up this we made our way: we managed to climb 150 feet, and yet did not attain the level floor of the Barrier. From this eminence, however, we had a fine view of the inlet and the mysterious hinterland beyond, stretching empty and rolling to the south. I wished I might have spent more time exploring this glaciological perplexity, but we had already been out several hours and I was anxious to get on to the Bay of Whales. We found no good landing field. So we turned back.
For the first time, we had to cope with the extraordinary visibility with which the Antarctic baffles all travellers. An impalpable haze took possession of the atmosphere, in which the eyes became uncertain and the relative distance of objects confused. We stumbled across little rises in the snow we did not see, and breathlessly plunged down declines before we knew we were on them. A hump of snow that seemed under our noses turned out to be fifty yards away. It was all very confusing, and we were tired when we reached the ship. We had covered about twenty miles on skis, a lengthy journey for those of us who were not used to them. I must confess that I was a lame duck on the journey.
On reaching the ship, we found her rising and falling on a strong swell. The ice where she lay was broken up and had already begun to go out, and several large floes were bumping her sides. Realizing that a storm might be a serious matter under these conditions, I gave orders to have all men brought aboard and to put out at once. A warning blast was sounded on the whistle, and a moment later the last stragglers came dashing across the ice.
Midnight
Dec. 26, 1930
En route to Bay of Whales
We’re at sea now, coasting along the edge of the Barrier, heading for the Bay of Whales. We’re under sail alone—trying to save coal. We now have constant daylight. At midnight it is scarcely less bright than at noon.
Getting the City started was a job. The men who had been ashore came back exhausted, and after dinner were asleep in their chairs. Scarcely enough hands could be mustered into action to get sail, and the second watch is still on duty—sixteen hours of work for them. This must not be allowed to happen again. Until we know more about this region, we must be constantly alert.
Every one commented on the penetrating quality of the cold. For all the heat of the sun, the light wind cut through light clothing like a knife; and on the Barrier especially, it was so cold that one could not stand still for more than a few seconds at a time.
My mind as to the men is now made up. Gould I have made Second in Command. A splendid fellow, competent, a brilliant geologist, and popular with men. He has proper respect for the seriousness of the job. Naturally, he is greatly interested in the scientific results, and this is most important in the Second in Command. He will do well, I am sure, and I am fortunate to have him. I am now casting about for a Third in Command; McKinley, I think, will be the man. He is one of the most delightful and charming men I have ever known. Reserved to the point of reticence, he nevertheless is outspoken when the proper time for speech comes. He is a former army officer, with years of experience in handling men, and seems to possess that tactfulness and sympathy that makes for efficient leadership.
Picking the senior in charge of the aviation unit was a more difficult thing. For here I had the job of selecting a man from four specialists, each with his special qualifications and claims, and all of them unusual men. I had selected them from hundreds. In the end my choice was Balchen, because of his service with me in the past, his knowledge of polar conditions and, above everything else, his great loyalty to whatever cause he serves. It was the latter quality, I think, that moved me most. We have been through much together—Bernt and I—and I know him. His service alone entitles him to the senior post in aviation. I cannot speak too highly of the manner in which Dean Smith, June and Parker took the news. With such splendid fellows with me, I can await the future with untroubled mind.
Brophy, however, has begun to worry me. The tone and wording of his radios indicate that something is decidedly wrong. His messages are verbose and erratic. The job of getting the Boiling ready1 seems to have vexed his patience, and now I find myself compelled to make decisions on the loading of a ship more than 2,000 miles away. Such matters have kept me up most of the night for nearly a week. Brophy was on the verge of a nervous breakdown when we left, and it may be that he is seriously ill. I must ask him to be frank on this point.
Twenty-four hours now will tell the story. Shall we be able to get into the Bay of Whales? Shall we find a low place in the Barrier where we can unload supplies? Our fate turns upon these things. But I am too exhausted to bother. The sound of the wind in the rigging, the soft slap of the waves against the sides of the ship are an irresistible suggestion to sleep. Cheerio.
It was only a cat’s-nap, however. I was up and about in time to see the City round the eastern portal of Discovery Harbor at about four A. M. The four to eight watch proved so drowsy, however, it was hours before we had all sails set. I urged Captain Melville not to use the engines except when absolutely necessary. Drawing near the end of the journey, I saw the need for greater caution, and took advantage of the time to prepare a number of safety rules, with the assistance of Gould, which I caused to be posted on the bulletin board. It was natural that the men should have little respect for ice conditions, none of them, with the exception of Ronne, having been in the Antarctic before: and Ronne had remained only a few weeks. My own knowledge came largely from our two Arctic expeditions, Antarctic literature and discussion with explorers, still it was sufficient to instill in me a great distrust. The danger of falling down an unseen crevasse or floating away on a piece of bay ice that suddenly detaches itself from the main body is always present: and the last thing I wanted was a casualty. So I announced, that the regulations restricting the movements of landing parties would be strictly enforced.
These regulations said, in part:
“Crevasses in the ice barrier and floating bay ice, and getting lost in storms are, it appears, the biggest hazard that the expedition (other than flyers and trail parties) will encounter.
“Fortunately, the Ross Ice Barrier, except in the proximity of land, has, so far as we know, very few crevasses. However, men out on unknown terrain should keep constantly on the alert for crevasses.
“Except in cases of extreme emergency, travelling over unknown areas shall be done by not less than three men, and whatever party sets out should use Alpine rope and bamboo poles.
“Frequently there is no indication on the snow to warn of a dangerous crevasse. If Alpine ropes are used, together with the bamboo pole or skis, there will be little or no danger.
“Some crevasses, of course, are not covered by a snow bridge. Some that are so covered show a slight rounding of the snow above the level of the Barrier area. Whatever crevasses may be near the base should be inspected by every member of the expedition so that he may familiarize himself with their character.
“The first scouting party to leave the ship for the proposed base will use special care in searching for crevasses. Skis distribute the weight in such a way that, in passing over a snow-covered crevasse, there is less danger in falling through. Snow shoes also distribute the weight, and long snow shoes have been provided for the reason they distribute the weight more widely than shorter ones.
“The ship will probably unload alongside the bay ice. Cracks may appear in this ice at any time, and therefore every man should be on the watch for them. The weather is fairly cold, and frequently a man falling into cold water in heavy clothes cannot drag himself back onto the ice. Where practicable, therefore, men should travel over the bay ice in pairs or groups.
“To prevent casualty from getting lost in a storm, parties should not go any distance from the base without having a competent navigator along. There is considerable variation in the compass in this district—about 106 degrees from true.
“It is very easy to lose one’s way in a snow storm. Storms here may rage for days. On a number of occasions it has happened that men on exploring parties have lost their lives by losing their way only a few miles from base. I wish to emphasize this point especially.
“There are two competent weather men on the expedition, and weather predictions will always be available at the base.
“Special parties going out from the ship shall be designated Nos. 1 and 2, and will respond to the following signals:
“1 blast on ship’s whistle: Party No. 1 returns at once.
“2 blasts on the ship’s whistle: Party No. 2 returns at once.
“3 blasts on ship’s whistle, or flag on mainmast: Storm warning, and all hands will return to ship at once.”
As the day wore on, and we busied ourselves preparing for the manifold tasks that would attend landing, an air of uncertainty descended upon the City. So much did depend upon what we found! Even the dullest men sensed the magnitude of our problem. If the ice in the Bay of Whales had not gone out, we faced the heart-breaking tasks of sledging several hundred tons of supplies over miles of treacherous ice. Even with favorable conditions, the operation would be difficult and perilous; if conditions were bad, it might be impossible. Leaving the dog men to their duties of overhauling gear and sledges for the first dash, I returned to the library, to refresh my mind for the last time with the limited information about this place that I now knew nearly by heart.
What would we find at the end? Shackleton passed the Bay of Whales in January, 1908, and James Murray, his biologist, described it thus:1
“The desolation and lifelessness of the Antarctic were fully realized as we approached the great Ice Barrier. There was no living thing in sight as we steamed eastward, tracing the line of this immense glacier. Towards midnight there opened suddenly on our sight a scene of a bounding life. The cliff of the Barrier terminated, and a wide bay opened up, extending far to the south, and partly filled by fast ice of one season’s growth. Away to the eastward the cliff recommenced. This bay, which we afterwards referred to by the appropriate name of the Bay of Whales, was teeming with all the familiar kinds of Antarctic life. Hundreds of whales, killers, finners and hump-backs, were rising and blowing all around. On the ice groups of Weddell seals were basking in the midnight sunshine. Emperor penguins were standing about or tobogganing in unconcerned parties. Skua gulls were flying heavily, or sitting drowsily on the ice …”
But the spectacle that delighted the eyes of the biologist Murray did not have the same effect on the explorer Shackleton, in search of a place for a base, and harassed by the pack ice menacing his ship. He recognized it as the place where Borchgrevink landed in 1900, and believed that Scott’s Discovery expedition, of which he was a member, passed the same inlet in a fog two years later.1 But he saw that something colossal had meanwhile happened. Miles of the Barrier had apparently calved off, in a magnificent, unseen demonstration, the inlet was swallowed up, leaving a long wide bay joining up with Borchgrevink’s inlet, and the whole “was now merged in what we had called the Bay of Whales.”2 To Shackleton, the discovery of this change was a great disappointment, and complimenting himself upon having escaped a terrible fate, he sped the Nimrod out to the Bay, with the thought in mind that this disturbance might have occurred while his party was there: “(it) made me decide then and there that under no circumstances would I winter on the Barrier, and that wherever we did land we would secure a solid rock foundation for our winter home.”3
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 round-about 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 the 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.
Realizing how important now was the need for haste, to compensate for the loss of time that must result from recurrence of the same situation, we impressed every free hand and every dog that could move its bones into the service of transport. Men who were not on watch on the ship volunteered to man-haul supplies to a safe place on the bay ice, where they could be picked up by dog teams sent out for the base. Dogs that were ignored in the first picking, because they had not been broken to harness or were less strong than the others, were welcomed into service like thoroughbreds. Saturday, the 5th, we had nine teams on the trail, and several of these made an extra trip to haul up the 4000 lbs. of supplies that nine men had laboriously hauled to the cache on the bay ice. That day we moved five tons to Little America.
Sunday
January 6, 1929
Bay of Whales
Worked like devils today—and a miserable four tons ashore to show for our efforts. We must do better. With the time at our disposal before the Boiling arrives, six tons per day is the minimum we can allow for: Ten would be more to my liking. But how to do better, is the question.
I am delighted by the way in which the green drivers are handling their dogs. In a few weeks they will be veterans. Blackburn, de Ganahl and Siple are doing especially well, in view of the fact they never drove dogs before. Of course, the Three Musketeers and Walden are our mainstays. They have worked so long together that they know exactly what to do. Several of the new drivers, however, are having difficulty and today one of the teams broke loose half way between the ship and Little America, escaped from its driver and came running back to the ship. The driver came in much chagrined.
The idea has been in my mind that we may have to freeze the City in for the winter, if we fail to land all supplies before the middle of February. The Boiling ought to reach here within a month; and she must be unloaded—absolutely! “Freezing in” the City would complicate matters terribly and would also be dangerous. It must mean increasing the winter party by at least twenty men, with attendant overcrowding, besides enlarging responsibility. I shall not like it. However, let us see what another week brings. The Boiling presents an equally trying problem. No matter how much we rush, unless the ice goes out much farther to the south, I doubt whether we should have time to unload her before the bay begins to freeze over late in February. She cannot possibly survive even a slight squeeze. Moreover, I am reluctant to unload the airplanes on the bay ice. A sudden break might drop them all to the bottom of the bay. Our only hope is to force the Bolling to the Barrier, unload her there, cache the supplies nearby and haul them to Little America after the ships go north. If we can get all the supplies on the Barrier during the next month, they will be reasonably safe there until we find time to move them to the base. From the rigging of the City we can see a place where the height of the Barrier drops to within 20 to 30 feet of the level of the bay ice, and what appears to be a tightly packed ramp of snow leads up to it gently. This would be just the place, but unfortunately at least two miles of thick bay ice lie between us and it. We must find a way to get in.
A big lead opened up in the ice about four o’clock this afternoon, not far from the ship, forcing us to move our berth a quarter of a mile to the west, which means a longer journey for the teams.
We tried breaking the ice this afternoon in an attempt to reduce the distance to the base—backed the City and charged it, full speed ahead. Gave it a number of fearful wallops, but with no success. The force of each charge carried the City well up on the ice, where she poised a moment, every yard clacking and loose things pounding in the ship, and then fell back, her screw protesting and churning the water at her best speed. The impact was enough to throw an unwary man to the deck.
We had to give that up. Using too much coal. The best we did was to chip off a few slivers of ice.
Now we pray for a storm, whereas a few days ago we begged to be delivered from one. A walloping storm from the north would make waves that would break up the seaward edge of the bay ice, and we could make our way to a low place in the Barrier to the eastward.
We have had a really severe epidemic of influenza; about forty percent of the men are suffering, with varying stages of severity. Doc Coman believes the germ was spread by the dogs.
Everyone is dreadfully tired.
Next day there was some improvement. Part of the bay ice to which we were moored separated itself from the main pack under the gentle persuasion of a swell. We are able to make a new berth about half a mile to the south. By lightening slightly the weight of the loads, we found that four of the teams were able to make two round-trips in the same day. We now had ten teams on the ice, and I confess that even then I had my eyes on the last of the dogs, “the lame, the halt and the blind.” Dogs which everyone believed were wholly useless did excellent work. Chris Braathen made a splendid lead dog out of a motheaten husky that was blind in one eye. He calls him Moose-Moss-Mouse.
Tuesday, the 8th, the lookout reported a lead running north and south had opened up to the eastward. We forced the City into it, and battered our way through a mass of drift ice to a position two miles nearer the base. With that our prospects brightened: if we could hold that position, all the teams ought to be able to average two trips per day.
“Let’s go,” someone yelled. And instantly the discouragement seemed mysteriously to fall away. Fatigue that a moment before seemed overpowering was brushed aside. Instead of seeming as distant and inaccessible as the South Pole, Little America came magically nearer within reach. We had a pre-taste of victory, and it made all the difference in the world. I have seen the same thing happen to football teams, one moment in the slough of despond, and the next, owing to a fortuitous turn of fortune that brought them suddenly within striking distance of the goal, vividly infused with the psychology of victory. Here, on this forsaken tableland of ice, which Nature implacably refused to bend to our wishes, the thing was an interesting experience. We were close—closer than I care to remember—to humiliation, only to be carried ahead by a word we have, in the triteness and cynicism of our language, cheapened—the word faith.
Footnotes
1 The Boiling reached New Zealand on Dec. 20th, and was then making ready for a trip to the Barrier.
1 Shackleton, “Heart of the Antarctic,” i, p. 233.
1 Shackleton, “Heart of the Antarctic,” i, p. 81.
2 Ibid., i, p. 75.
3 Heart of the Antarctic,” i, p. 76.
1 Amundsen, “The South Pole,” i, p. 47.
2 Amundsen, “The South Pole,” i, p. 49.
3 Hayes, “Antarctica,” p. 376.
1 The Fram was moored 2.2 geographical miles from Framheim. “The South Pole,” i, p. 182.
1 Amundsen. “The South Pole,” i, 173.