FLIGHT TO THE SOUTH POLE
THANKSGIVING DAY, November 25th, gave us what we wanted. At noon the Geological Party radioed a final weather report: “Unchanged. Perfect visibility. No clouds anywhere.” Harrison finished with his balloon runs, Haines with his weather charts. The sky was still somewhat overcast, and the surface wind from the east-southeast. Haines came into the library, his face very grave and determined. Dear old Bill, he always takes his responsibilities seriously. Together we went out for a walk and a last look at the weather. What he said exactly I have forgotten, but it was in effect: “If you don’t go now you may never have another chance as good as this.” And that was that.
There were a few things to be done. Every possible thing that could happen and some that could not possibly happen we had attempted to anticipate and prepare for. First, I delivered to Haines, who would be in charge of the camp during our absence and until the return of Gould, a set of instructions suggesting his procedure in case we should fail. It was, of course, necessary to anticipate this contingency. There were, besides, a number of sealed instructions, to be opened only if no word came from us within a fixed period. These provided for the organization of a relief expedition, the allocation of responsibility, the return of part of the expedition to the United States and the messages which a thoughtful man must leave behind before undertaking such a flight. These last I gave to Lofgren, who had served the expedition faithfully and than whom there is no squarer or truer man.
The mechanics, Bubier, Roth and Demas, went over the plane for the last time, testing everything with scrupulous care. A line of men passed five-gallon cans of gasoline to several men standing on the wing, who poured them into the wing tanks. Another line fed the stream of gear which flowed into the plane. Black weighed each thing before passing it on to McKinley and June, who were stowing the stuff in the cabin. Hanson went over the radio equipment. With de Ganahl I made a careful check of the sextant and the watches and chronometers, which were among the last things put aboard. For days de Ganahl and I had nursed the chronometers, checking them against the time tick which was broadcast every night from the United States. We knew their exact loss or gain. We had to know. An error in time would put the Bumstead sun compass off and our geographical position as well.
No thoroughbred went into a race more carefully, scrupulously groomed than was the Floyd Bennett before the polar flight. Responsibility for its performance rested with no single man. It lay on the shoulders of the whole camp. It was a sobering responsibility, and I think that every man felt it in his heart.
We were done with these details shortly after three o’clock. At the last moment we decided to take aboard an additional 100 gallons of gasoline. There was no telling what kind of winds we would meet. If head winds, then the extra quantity of fuel would be invaluable. If not, we could dump it overboard before we reached the “Hump.”
The total weight was approximately 15,000 pounds.
Haines came up with a final report on the weather. “A twenty-mile wind from the south at 2,000 feet.” It meant clear skies to the south. I went into my office and picked up a flag weighted with a stone from Floyd Bennett’s grave. It seemed fitting that something connected with the spirit of this noble friend who stood with me over the North Pole, on May 9, 1926, should rest as long as stone endures at the bottom of the world.
There were handshakes all around, and at 3:29 o’clock we were off. The skis were in the air after a run of 30 seconds—an excellent take-off. I was greatly relieved. A calm expectation took hold of my mind. Having started, we were certainly going to get somewhere.
There was a flashing glimpse of the men clustered near the runway—those splendid fellows whose willing help and indestructible spirit have never faltered, no, not once—and we faced the south.
The moment the Ford leveled off the impalpable haze with which we had contended so often confused the vision, and we lost several precious minutes before we found the trail. But if Haines’ predictions were correct, this would not last for long.
Our course was laid along the meridian of the trail, which at that point was 143° 45’ W. Although the trail did not always follow that meridian, it would bring us finally to Axel Heiberg Glacier.
The sky began to clear, under the sweeping movements of a southeasterly wind, and presently blue sky showed ahead. Haines was right, as always. Slowly gaining altitude, we passed 20 Mile Depot, then 44 Mile Depot.
From time to time we lost the trail, as our altitude changed or our distance from it varied slightly. But invariably by steering a straight course with the Bumstead sun compass we picked it up again.
Presently the northern edge of the crevasses was underneath. The trail then followed meridian 163° 42’ W. The wind was still from the east and it was necessary to nose the plane 10° to the left of the course, to make good a straight course to the south. Had there been any one below to see, he must have been surprised at the sight of a plane headed well to the east but flying steadily to the south. With this diagonal push tending to press us from our course it was necessary to check the course frequently with the drift indicator.
Had you been there to glance over the cabin of this modern machine which has so revolutionized polar travel, I think you would have been impressed most of all—perhaps first of all—with the profusion of gear in the cabin. There was a small sledge, rolled masses of sleeping bags, bulky food sacks, two pressure gasoline stoves, rows of cans of gasoline packed about the main tank forward, funnels for draining gasoline and oil from the engine, mounds of clothing, tents and so on, ad infinitum. There was scarcely room in which to move.
June had his radio in the after bulkhead on the port side. From time to time he flashed reports on our progress to the base. From the ear phones strapped to his helmet ran long cords, so that he might move freely about the cabin without being obliged to take them off. His duties were varied and important. He had to attend to the motion picture camera, the radio and the complicated valves of the six gasoline tanks. Every now and then he relieved Balchen at the wheel, or helped him to follow the elusive trail.
McKinley had his mapping camera ready to go into action either on port or starboard side. It was for him and the camera he so sedulously served that the flight was made. The mapping of the corridor between Little America and the South Pole was one of the major objectives of the expedition.
Balchen was forward, bulking large in the narrow compartment, his massive hands on the wheel, now appraising the engines with a critical eye, now the dozen flickering fingers on the dials on the instrument board. Balchen was in his element. His calm fine face bespoke his confidence and sureness. He was anticipating the struggle at the “Hump” almost with eagerness.
It was quite warm forward, behind the engines. But a cold wind swept aft through the cabin, causing one to be thankful for the protection of heavy clothes. When the skies cleared, the cabin was flooded with a golden light. The sound of the engines and propellers filled it. One had to shout to make oneself heard. From the navigation table aft, where my charts were spread out, a trolley ran to the control cabin. Over it I shot to Balchen the necessary messages and courses. On receiving them, he turned and smiled his understanding.
That, briefly, is the picture, and a startling one it makes in contrast with that of Amundsen’s party which had pressed along this same course eighteen years before. A wing, pistons and flashing propellers had taken the place of runners, dogs and legs. Amundsen was delighted to make 25 miles per day. We had to average 90 miles per hour to accomplish our mission. We had the advantages of swiftness and comfort, but we had as well an enlarged fallibility. A flaw in a piece of steel, a bit of dirt in the fuel lines or carburetor jets, a few hours of strong head winds, fog or storm—these things, remotely beyond our control, could destroy our carefully laid plans and nullify our most determined efforts.
Still, it was not these things that entered our minds. Rather it was the thought of the ‘’Hump,” and how we should fare with it.
Soon after passing the crevasses we picked up again the vast escarpment to the right. More clearly than before we saw the white-blue streams of many glaciers discharging into the Barrier, and several of the inner and higher snow-clad peaks glistened so brightly in the sun as to seem like volcanoes in eruption.
Our altitude was then about 1500 feet.
Now the Queen Maud Range loomed ahead. I searched again for the “appearance of land” to the east. Still the rolling Barrier—nothing else.
The quartering wind from the southeast blew with fluctuating direction and velocity, imparting an angle of drift as high as 20° at times.
At 8:15 o’clock we had the Geological Party in sight—a cluster of little beetles about two dark topped tents. Balchen dropped to an altitude of about 750 feet, and McKinley put overboard the photographs of the Queen Maud Range and the other things we had promised to bring. The parachute canopy to which they were attached fluttered open and fell in gentle oscillations, and we saw two or three figures rush out to catch it. We waved to them, and then prepared for a settlement of the issue at the “Hump.”
Up to this time the engines had operated continuously at cruising revolutions—1580 R.P.M.’s for the big center engine, 1600 for the smaller engines outboard. Now Balchen opened them full throttle—1750 R.P.M.’s for the center engine, 1700 for the two outboard—and the Ford girded its loins for the long, hard, fighting pull over the “Hump.” We rose steadily. We were then about 60 miles north of the western portal of Axel Heiberg, and holding our course steadily on meridian 163° 45’ W. with the sun compass.
I watched the altimeters, of which there were two in the navigation compartment. The fingers marched with little jumps across the face of the dial—3000 feet, 3500, 4000, 4500. The Ford had her toes in, and was climbing fast.
Drawing nearer, we had edged 30° to the west of South, to bring not only Axel Heiberg but also Liv’s into view. This was a critical period. I was by no means certain which I should choose. I went forward and took a position behind Balchen. We would figure this thing out together.
The schemes and hopes of the next few minutes were beset by many probabilities. Which would it be—Axel Heiberg or Liv’s Glacier?
There was this significant difference between flying and sledging: we could not pause long for decision or investigation. Minutes stood for gasoline, and gasoline was precious. The waste of so little as half an hour of fuel in a fruitless experiment might well overturn the mathematical balance on which the success of the flight depended. The execution of the plan hung on the proper judgment of the route over the “Hump.”
True, we had a 40 percent safety factor over fuel needs to the Pole and back. This, of course, was a theoretical margin. It was a precaution against depletion resulting from head winds, and its value could not be weakened by a mistake in judgment. In fact, head winds had already exhausted some of this reserve.
Yet how well, after all, could judgment forecast the ultimate result? There were few facts on which we might base a wise decision. We knew, for example, that the highest point of the pass of Axel Heiberg Glacier which Amundsen reported was 10,500 feet. We would know, in a very few minutes, after June had calculated the gasoline consumption, the weight of the plane. From that we could determine, according to the tables which we had worked out and were then before me, the approximate ceiling we would have. We would know, too, whether or not we should be able to complete the flight, other conditions being favorable.
These were the known elements. The unknown were burdened with equally important consequences. The structural nature of the head of the pass was of prime importance. We knew from Amundsen’s descriptions and from what we could see with our own eyes, that the pass was surrounded by towering peaks on each side, extending much higher than the maximum altitude of the heavily loaded plane. But whether the pass was wide or narrow; whether it would allow us room to maneuver in case we could not rise above it; whether it would be narrow and running with a torrent of down-pressing wind which would dash a plane, already hovering at its peak of maximum efficiency, to the glacier floor—these were things, naturally, we could not possibly know until the issue was directly at hand.
I stood beside Balchen, carefully studying the looming fortress, still wondering by what means we should attempt to carry it. With a gesture of the hand Balchen pointed to fog vapor rising from the black rock of the foothills which were Nansen’s high priests—caused no doubt by the condensation of warm currents of air radiated from the sun-heated rocks. A thin layer of cloud seemed to cap Axel Heiberg’s pass, and extended almost to Liv’s Glacier. But of this we were not certain. Perhaps it was the surface of the snow. If cloud, then our difficulties were at hand. Even high clouds would be resting on the floor of the uplifted plateau.
There was, then, a gamble in the decision. Doubtless a flip of the coin would have served as well. In the end, we decided to choose Liv’s Glacier, the unknown pass to the right, which Amundsen had seen far in the distance and named after Dr. Nansen’s daughter. It seemed to be wider than Axel Heiberg, and the pass not quite as high.
A few minutes after nine o’clock we passed near the intermediate base, which of course we could not see. Our altitude was then about 9000 feet. At 9:15 o’clock we had the eastern portal on our left, and were ready to tackle the “Hump.” We had discussed the “Hump” so often, had anticipated and maligned it so much, that now that it was in front of us and waiting in the flesh—in rock-ribbed glaciated reality—we felt that we were meeting an old acquaintance. But we approached it warily, respectfully, climbing steadily all the while with our maximum power, to get a better view of its none too friendly visage.
June, wholly unaffected by the immediate perplexities, went about his job of getting the plane in fighting trim. He ripped open the last of the fuel cans, and poured the contents into the main tank. The empty tins he dropped overboard, through the trap door. Every tin weighed two pounds; and every pound dropped was to our advantage. The fumes filled the cabin, offending one’s stomach and eyes. June examined the gauges of the five wing tanks, then measured with a graduated stick the amount of fuel in the main tank. He jotted the figures on a pad, made a few calculations and handed me the results. Consumption had thus far averaged between 55 and 60 gallons per hour. It had taken us longer to reach the mountains than we had expected, owing to head winds. However, the extra fuel taken aboard just before we left had absorbed this loss and we actually had a credit balance. We had, then, enough gasoline to take us to the Pole and back.
With that doubt disposed of, we went at the “Hump” confidently.
We were still rising, and the engines were pulling wonderfully well. The wind was about abeam, and, according to my calculations, not materially affecting the speed.
Liv’s Glacier was before us almost in its full sweeping entirety—a Niagric torrent doomed to rigidity, with frozen whirlpools and waterfalls. Far ahead it bent in a wide curve to the west of south. About thirty-five miles away it disappeared into a vague white surface—could it be the plateau? We then had nearly the whole of Nansen’s foothills on the left. One of these formed the eastern portal of Liv’s Glacier. When we first saw them on the base-laying flight, they had seemed to be high and imposing mountains; but now they were obscure and small. Nansen was on the left, to the southeast, and filled the horizon. The marbled walls of Fisher Mountain, with its company of stalwart foothills, was on the right, crowding into the horizon on the southwest. The ice line of the glacier, where it met the Barrier, was quite distinct; but the immense crevasses which we had seen before were softened and subdued by the difference in altitude, and now resembled the fluted surface of a washing board.
The floor of the glacier rose sharply, in a series of ice falls and terraces, some of which were well above the (then) altitude of the plane. These glacial waterfalls, some of which were from 200 to 400 feet high, seemed more beautiful than any precipitous stream I have ever seen. Beautiful yes, but how rudely and with what finality they would deal with steel and duralumin that was fated to collide with them at 100 miles per hour.
About ten miles up, the glacier was given over to terrific crevasses, where the weight of the flow carried it against solid rock.
At this point the stream of air pouring down the pass roughened perceptibly. The great wing shivered and teetered as it balanced itself against the changing pressures. The wind from the left flowed against Fisher’s steep flanks, and the constant, hammering bumps made footing uncertain. But McKinley steadily trained his 50-pound camera on the mountains to the left. The uncertainties of load and ceiling were not his concern. His only concern was photographs—photographs over which students and geographers might pore in the calm quiet of their studies. Had we gone down in a tailspin, I am sure that McKinley would have operated his camera all the way down.
The altimeters showed a height of 9600 feet, but the figure was not necessarily exact. More likely than not, the barometric principle on which it operated was influenced by local changes in pressure. Nevertheless there were indications we were near the service ceiling of the plane.
The roughness of the air increased and became so violent that we were forced to swing slightly to the left, in search of calmer air. This brought us over a frightfully crevassed slope which ran up and toward Mount Nansen. We thus escaped the turbulent swirl about Fisher, but the down-surging currents here damped our climb. To the left we had the “blind” mountain glacier of Nansen in full view; and when we looked ahead we saw the plateau—a smooth, level plain of snow between Nansen and Fisher. The pass rose up to meet it.
In the center of the pass was a massive outcropping of snow-covered rock, resembling an island, which protruded above and separated the descending stream of ice. Perhaps it was a peak or the highest eminence of a ridge connecting Fisher and Nansen which had managed through the ages to hold its head above the glacial torrent pouring down from the plateau. But its particular structure or relationship was of small moment then. I watched it only with reference to the climb of the plane; and realized, with some disgust and more consternation, that the nose of the plane, in spite of the fact that Balchen had steepened the angle of attack, did not rise materially above the outcropping. We were still climbing, but at a rapidly diminishing rate of speed. In the rarefied air the heavy plane responded to the controls with marked sluggishness.
It was an awesome thing, creeping (so it seemed) through the narrow pass, with the black walls of Nansen and Fisher on either side, higher than the level of the wings, watching the nose of the ship bob up and down across the face of that lone chunk of rock. It would move up, then slide down. Then move up, and fall off again. For perhaps a minute or two we deferred the decision; but there was no escaping it. If we were to risk a passage through the pass, we needed greater maneuverability than we had at that moment. The pass was uncomfortably narrow. Once we entered it there would be no retreat. It offered no room for turn. If power was lost momentarily or if the air became excessively rough, we could only go ahead, or down. We needed power, and there was only one way in which to get it.
June, anticipating the command, left the radio and put his hand on the dump valve of the main tank. A pressure of the fingers—that was all that was necessary—and in two minutes 600 gallons of gasoline would gush out. I signalled to wait.
Balchen held to the climb to the last degree of safety. But it was clear to both of us that he could not hold it long enough. Balchen began to yell and gesticulate, and it was hard to catch the words in the roar of the engines echoing from the cliffs on either side. But the meaning was manifest. “Overboard—overboard—200 pounds!”
Which would it be—gasoline or food?
If gasoline, I thought, we might as well stop there and turn back. We could never get back to the base from the Pole. If food, the lives of all of us would be jeopardized in the event of a forced landing. Was that fair to McKinley, Balchen and June? It really took only a moment to reach the decision. The Pole, after all, was our objective. I knew the character of the three men. They were not so lightly to be turned aside. McKinley, in fact, had already hauled one of the food bags to the trap door. It weighed 125 pounds.
“Harold, a bag of food overboard,” I said to June. He signalled to McKinley. The brown bag was pushed out and fell, spinning, to the glacier. The improvement in the flying qualities of the plane was noticeable. The Floyd Bennett took another breath and renewed the climb.
Now the down-currents over Nansen became stronger. The plane trembled and rose and fell, as if struck bodily. We veered a trifle to the right, searching for helpful rising eddies. The issue was still in doubt and Balchen’s irritation with the inexorable laws which limited our altitude waxed and grew profane. The head of the pass was still on a level with the plane’s line of flight. Balchen was flying shrewdly. He maintained flight at a sufficient distance below the absolute ceiling of the plane to retain at all times enough maneuverability to make him master of the ship. But he was hard pressed by circumstances; and I realized that unless the plane was further lightened, the final thrust might bring us perilously close to the end of our reserve.
“More,” Bernt shouted. “Another bag.”
McKinley shoved a second bag through the trap door, and this time we saw it hit the glacier, and scatter in a soundless explosion. Two hundred and fifty pounds of food—enough to feed four men for a month—lay on that lifeless waste.
The sacrifice was the saving factor. The plane, literally, rose with a jump; the engines dug in and we soon showed a gain in altitude of from 300 to 400 feet. It was what we wanted. We would clear the pass with about 500 feet to spare. Balchen gave a shout of joy. It was just as well. We could dump no more food. There was nothing left to dump except McKinley’s camera. I am sure that had he been asked to put it overboard, he would have done so instantly; and I am equally sure he would have followed the precious instrument with his own body.
The next few minutes dragged. We moved at a speed of 77 nautical miles per hour through the pass, with the black walls of Nansen on our left. The wing gradually lifted above them. The floor of the plateau stretched in a white immensity to the south. We were over the dreaded “Hump” at last. The Pole lay dead ahead over the horizon, less than 300 miles away. It was then about 9:45 o’clock (I did not note the exact time. There were other things to think about).
Gaining the plateau, we studied the situation a moment and then shifted course to the southward. Nansen’s enormous towering ridge, lipped by the plateau, shoved its heavily broken sides into the sky. To the right of it Ruth Gade’s tented arch gradually became, as we watched, a white inverted porcelain bowl. A whole chain of mountains began to parade across the eastern horizon. How high they are I cannot say,1 but surely many of them must be in excess of 15,000 feet, to stand so boldly above the rim of the 10,000 foot plateau. Peak on peak, ridge on ridge, draped in snow garments which brilliantly reflected the sun, they extended in a solid array to the southeast. But can one really say they run in that direction? The lines of direction are so bent in this region that 150 miles farther on, even were they to continue in the same general straight line, they must run north of east. This is what happens near the Pole.
However, such preoccupations did not bother us then. We were on a flight of discovery, and wanted to see things and record them. To bring them nearer, we had soon edged the course slightly to the east of the southern course we had taken. McKinley’s camera, which had never ceased to operate, trained on them, taking a succession of oblique, overlapping mapping photographs. Far to the left I made out what appeared to be the largest glacier we had yet seen, discharging into the new range we had first observed on the base-laying flight.
We laid our line of flight on the 171st meridian.
On the right was a range, which appeared to trend to the south nearly to 87° and more or less parallel to and perhaps a little beyond the 180th meridian—a line of low-hung peaks standing above the swelling folds of the plateau. Now, with the full panorama before us, in all its appalling ruggedness and gothic massiveness, we had a conception of the ice age in its flood tide. Here was the core, the center point of the Antarctic ice sheet. How deep it lay under us, whether 1,000 feet or feet, we could not tell. But deep it must be, thus to dominate nearly all but the highest peaks which rimmed it, like the walls of a dam. Seeking an outlet to relieve its incalculable pressures, it presses through the passes which become glacial spillways, and makes for the sea. The parade of the mountains, the contrast of black and white, the upreaching peaks and the trisulcated troughs of the glaciers, the plateau spreading to an illusory horizon—it was something never to be forgotten.
The plateau seemed to be falling in a slope to the south. Our altitude was then between 10,500 and 11,000 feet. We were “riding” the engines, conscious of the fact that if one should fail we must come down. Once the starboard engine did sputter a bit, and Balchen nosed down while June rushed to the fuel valves. But it was nothing; to conserve fuel, Balchen had “leaned” the mixture too much. A quick adjustment corrected the fault, and in a moment the engine took up its steady rhythm. Moments like this one make a pioneering flight anything but dull; one moment everything is lovely, and the next is full of forebodings.
The drift indicator showed a variable wind from the east. To compensate for it, we had to point the nose of the plane an average of about 12° to the east, in order to steer a straight course for the Pole. The influence of the drift on the course was always a bothersome element. It had to be watched carefully, and any change in the angle of drift detected at once, so as to make good a straight course south. Fitted in the floor of the plane was a drift indicator which McKinley used in connection with his photographic work, and during the flight he constantly checked the drift with me. Whenever I noted any change in the direction or strength of the wind, I would steady Balchen on his course with the sun compass, first shaking the trolley line to attract his attention, then waving him on to the new course.
The basis of these calculations was the ground speed; and owing to the impossibility of determining the height of the plane above the snow, this value was not easily accessible. The altimeters register altitudes, only in reference to sea level. There is a way, however. By timing with a stop watch how long it takes a crevasse, sastrugi or smoke bomb to run the length of the drift indicator wire in the floor of the plane, and then turning north and passing over the object again, timing it a second time, it is possible by mathematics to get the speed.
Consequently, I spent a great deal of time kneeling on the floor of the plane, sighting sastrugi whenever I detected any change in drift. It was by no means a comfortable position. The temperature had dropped steadily since we reached the plateau, and when I opened the trap-door a torrent of sub-zero atmosphere swirled in, numbing my face and hands.
These readings showed that while the engines were cruising at about 100 miles per hour, the plane was actually moving over the snow at the rate of 90 statute miles per hour.
The character of the plateau surface varied from time to time. There were stretches of smooth, soft snow, colonies of domed haycocks and arrow-headed sastrugi. To have been forced down in these latter areas would have been as dangerous as being forced down in a rock-strewn field. From the time we reached the plateau its level appeared to fall gently toward the Pole; the altimeter showed that the Ford was maintaining a fairly steady ceiling at approximately 11,000 feet, and the plateau fell farther below.
While the mountains on the left were still in view, I attempted to shoot the sun with the sextant to get its altitude. This would give us a sun line which would cut our line of flight and at the point of intersection tell us what the sun had to say about our progress. The air, however, was slightly rough; the powerful center engine, laboring to keep the heavy load at an altitude of two miles, produced a weaving in the plane; and the most patient efforts failed to bring the sun and the bubble together long enough for a dependable sight. This was bothersome, but relatively unimportant at the time. We were quite confident as to the accuracy of the dead reckoning, and hoped that conditions would improve in the vicinity of the Pole.
From time to time June “spelled” Balchen at the controls; and Balchen would walk back to the cabin, flexing his cramped muscles. There was little thought of food in any of us—a beef sandwich, stiff as a board, and tea and coffee from a thermos bottle. It was difficult to believe that in recent history the most resolute men who had ever attempted to carry a remote objective, Scott and Shackleton, had plodded over this same plateau, a few miles each day, with hunger—fierce, unrelenting hunger stalking them every step of the way.
Between 11:30 and 12:30 o’clock the mountains to the eastward began to disappear, gradually of course, dropping imperceptibly out of view, one after another. Not long after 12:30 o’clock the whole range had retreated from vision, and the plateau met the horizon in an indefinite line. The mountains to the right had long since disappeared.
At 12:38 o’clock I finally shot the sun. It hung, a ball of fire, just beyond south to the east, 21° above the horizon. So it was quite low, and we stared it in the eye. The sight gave me an approximate line of latitude, which placed us very near our position as calculated by dead reckoning. That dead reckoning and astronomy should check so closely was very encouraging. The position line placed us at Lat. 89° 4½’ S., or 55½ miles from the pole. A short time later we reached an altitude of 11,000 feet. According to Amundsen’s records, the plateau, which had risen to 10,300 feet, descended here to 9,600 feet. We were, therefore, about 1400 feet above the plateau.
So the Pole, the mysterious objective, was actually in sight. But I could not yet spare it so much as a glance. Chronometers, drift indicators and compasses are hard task-masters.
Relieved by June, Balchen came aft and reported that visibility was not as good as it had been. Clouds were gathering on the horizon off the port bow and a storm, Balchen thought, was in the air. A storm was the last thing we wanted to meet on the plateau on the way back. It would be difficult enough to pass the Queen Maud Range in bright sunlight; in thick weather it would be suicidal. Conditions, however, were merely unpromising: not really bad, simply not good. If worse came to worse, we decided we could out-race the clouds to the mountains.
At six minutes after one o’clock, a sight of the sun put us a few miles ahead of our dead reckoning position. We were very close now. The sight was a check, but I depended more on the previous sight. At 1:14 o’clock, Greenwich Civil Time, our calculations showed that we were at the Pole.
We turned right and flew three or four miles. Had we turned right just before reaching the Pole, one could say that we had turned westward; but having reached the Pole we really turned northward, because all directions at the South Pole are north. We now reversed our direction, which had been northward, and flew toward the Pole again. Our direction then was southward, although at right angles to our previous line of course, which was also southward. It is difficult, therefore, to speak of directions during these maneuvers. For example, the moment we crossed the Pole again after this second change of course our direction, which had been southward, instantly became northward, although we were still on the same straight line.
We continued on the same straight line of flight for about six miles, and this took the plane about three miles beyond the original line of flight we had followed from the mountains. Then we cut diagonally across an extension of our line of flight, which we hit five miles beyond the Pole. At 1:25 o’clock we turned back—toward the Pole and Little America.
It is a confusing place, this imaginary point, the South Pole. All time meridians converge there. A person unfortunate enough to be living in the vicinity would have difficulty in telling just what time to keep. Time is reckoned by the interval between two successive crossings of the sun over the meridian at the place at which the time is reckoned. As all meridians intersect at the South Pole, there is no particular meridian. The sun circles the sky at the same height above the snow horizon, and this height changes only an imperceptible amount every twenty-four hours. Directions, as we reckon them, would likewise mean nothing to this unfortunate creature. For unless he were travelling either north or south, it would be impossible for him to walk in a straight line and still retain the same direction. His direction would change noticeably every few minutes; and to keep his original direction he would be forced to follow a spiral course.
A few minutes after the turn I opened the trap door and dropped over the calculated position of the Pole the small flag which was weighted with the stone from Bennett’s grave. Stone and flag plunged down together. The flag had been advanced 1,500 miles farther south than it had ever been before our expedition reached the Antarctic. June radioed the following message to Little America: “My calculations indicate that we have reached the vicinity of the South Pole. Flying high for a survey. Byrd.”
The altimeters indicated our altitude as 11,000 feet.
For a few seconds we stood over the spot where Amundsen had stood, December 14, 1911; and where Scott had also stood, 34 days later, reading the note which Amundsen had left for him. In their honor, the flags of their countries were again carried over the Pole. There was nothing now to mark that scene; only a white desolation and solitude disturbed by the sound of our engines. The Pole lay in the center of a limitless plain. No mountains were visible. In the direction of Little America visibility was good, and so it was on the left. But to the right, which is to say to the eastward, the horizon was covered with clouds. If mountains lay there, as some geologists believe, they were concealed and we had no hint of them.
And that, in brief, is all there is to tell about the South Pole. One gets there, and that is about all there is for the telling. It is the effort to get there that counts.
We put the Pole behind us and raced for home.
The mountains to the eastward came into view again, one by one. But whereas before the southernmost peaks had stood out clear and distinct, they were now confused by haze and clouds. The clouds were travelling fast, threatening to close in ahead of us, and if we valued our skins, it behooved us to beat them to the pass.
We were then riding the 168th meridian to Axel Heiberg Glacier. It was my intention to return somewhat to the eastward of the original course, in order to bring within range as much new territory as was possible. McKinley, who had photographed the area to the eastward on the way to the Pole, was then mapping the area to the westward. By that time his camera must have seemed almost as heavy as the mountains he was photographing. But his efforts never slackened. When the highest mountains to the eastward came into view, he mapped them as well.
Time began to crawl. It was a case of hitting the pass of Axel Heiberg Glacier ahead of the clouds or being sorry. The wind was then astern and helping us considerably. At first it maintained a fairly steady direction, then shifted and hit the Ford dead astern. Of course, its direction varied from time to time. Our speed increased. About two o’clock, seeking a still stronger wind aloft, we climbed several hundred feet and here found a fairly stiff following wind. With that boosting us, we hurried over the plateau. At three o’clock Balchen opened the throttles wide and a short time later we climbed about 400 feet higher. At this level the wind was even stronger. We commenced to make a speed better than 125 miles per hour. Our altitude was between 11,500 and 12,000 feet.
About half past three o’clock Balchen’s face broke into a smile. Ruth Gade’s conical turret was off the starboard bow. There was Nansen off the port bow. Soon W. Christophersen came into view, a small rounded dome between Ruth Gade and Nansen. The charts, photographs and descriptions which I had culled from Amundsen’s book, as well as the photographs which McKinley had taken on the base-laying flight, were before me: and as each new prominence appeared and fell neatly into its expected place, we were delighted. Our return course had been straight and our position coincided with our dead reckoning position. The flight was almost done. Best of all, the pass was clear.
We edged to the left, to bring Axel Heiberg’s corridor into view. Then we changed course to the right, to examine a depression to the right of Ruth Gade. While moving toward it, we noticed still another pass to the left of Ruth Gade, apparently the most accessible of all, and decided to make for that. The maneuver brought Don Pedro Christophersen into full view. He was a good-sized fellow. But how very beautiful was Ruth Gade!
A few clouds were beginning to gather in the passes to the right and left. We had out-stripped the main advance.
By 3:50 o’clock we had passed over the head of the glacier, sinking lower all the time, and glided down the shattered terraces between the precipitous sides of Ruth Gade and Don Pedro Christophersen. The glacier we were following debouched into Axel Heiberg. The air in places was very bumpy, and the loose gear in the plane was tossed about rather wildly. Nansen’s noble summit showed above Don Pedro Christophersen, a stern but kindly spectator of the descent.
We emerged from the glacier shortly after four o’clock.
June finished with his calculations of the fuel supply and reported there was a slight margin over needs. There was enough, then, to make further inquiry into Carmen Land, so we continued to the eastward. McKinley, I decided, ought to photograph the area.
We were now over the Barrier, and we could see how the shearing movements of the Barrier, where it pressed against the feet of the mountains, had resulted in very deep and extensive crevasses in several areas. What mighty pressures must be at work, to rip that tough fabric as if it were silk. The extensions of Queen Maud Range and the new mountains which we had seen on the base-laying flight were on our right, a solid rampart extending to the south of east. They were almost wholly covered with snow and some were broken by glaciers of considerable size and beauty. Indeed, what is, I think, one of the most beautiful glaciers in the world lies about 30 miles from our mountain base. I saw it for the first time then and was struck with its wild loveliness. It was wide and curving, a glacial river, and we could look up into it for miles.
The flight proved what I already knew to be true. Carmen Land does not exist. McKinley photographed the Barrier where Amundsen believed it lay, and we then turned westward, looking for the base.
Soon after we turned I became puzzled by the unfamiliar aspects of the mountains in the port beam. They appeared to be unlike any that we had seen. Yet my calculations placed us eastward of Ruth Gade. Could it be that we were off the course? Surely it did not seem possible that we could have gone so far astray in such a short time. I stared at the mountains and racked my brain. Where in the world, I asked myself, is Ruth Gade? All four of us conferred for a moment. My companions, who evidently had not been watching the course carefully, were unanimously of the opinion that the base was still farther to eastward. For a few frightful seconds I was uncertain as to the validity of my course. If the base were really to the east of us, then I was the world’s worst navigator. For my calculations showed that it was to the west.
As I unrolled my charts, my eye caught on a penciled notation in the corner of one. It said: “Remember that the appearances of mountains change according to the position from which viewed.” Amundsen had been misled on a number of occasions by this illusion, and my experience on the base-laying flight had caused me to take this warning as a controlling principle. The night before the start of the polar flight I wrote the warning on the chart.
While I watched these strange mountains, the peaks began to change their shapes. This unfamiliar eminence—why, it was Ruth Gade in a new attitude. There was Nansen. And there, of course, were Nansen’s foothills.
With these points established, finding the cache itself was a matter of a few minutes. We edged over to Liv’s Glacier, made several turns at lower altitudes, and finally spotted it. June, who had been a member of the base-laying party and therefore knew the character of the surface, brought the plane down smoothly. The skis touched the surface at 4:47 o’clock.
Taking the fuel aboard was quite a problem. Each can had to be broken open and poured, one by one, into the wing tanks, and we soon tired of lifting them to June, who was doing the pouring. It was six o’clock before we rose from the Barrier and headed north, on the last leg of the flight. By that time the out-riders of the storm clouds were creeping over the mountain rim to the east. They were too far away to be troublesome.
We steered a straight course for Little America, and made no attempt to pick up the trail, which was to the east. But our course converged with the trail a few miles north of Little America. We flew by sun compass and drift indicator and made a perfect land fall. Again the sun compass had done its job.
We had Little America’s radio spires in sight at ten o’clock. A few minutes later we were over the administration building, swinging west to come in for a landing. A last survey showed that the Bay of Whales was still choked with ice, the northern edge of which extended almost to West Cape. At 10:08 o’clock, November 29th, the Ford’s skis touched snow, and the flight was over.
Sunday
November 29th
Well, it’s done. We have seen the Pole and the American flag has been advanced to the South Pole. McKinley, Balchen and June have delivered the goods. They took the Pole in their stride, neatly, expeditiously, and undismayed. If I had searched the world I doubt if I could have found a better team. Theirs was the actual doing. But there is not a man in this camp who did not assist in the preparations for the flight. Whatever merit accrues to the accomplishment must be shared with them. They are splendid.
Footnote
1 These heights will be established, however, after the necessary and involved mathematical processes have been applied to McKinley’s photographs.