Johansen has a serious set to his face as he works. The calm of the little workshop Bjaaland has set up below decks suits him. Bjaaland is grateful for the help. Adjusting twenty pairs of hickory skis to suit each member of the crew is a fiddly task, made trickier by rough seas tossing equipment every which way. For a time the two men talk about Captain Scott. Nobody ever seems to tire of discussing the British reaction to Amundsen’s plan or the fury they must feel at being unwittingly drawn into a race. Inevitably the conversation turns to their own expectations of success and the various advantages they hope will secure a Norwegian victory.
‘Amundsen did well, getting a man of your calibre to join this escapade,’ says Bjaaland.
Johansen shrugs. ‘Could say the same of you: Norway’s champion skier!’
Bjaaland can’t help smiling. ‘You know it’s funny, wherever I am, whatever I’m doing, I’d rather be someplace else. I met Amundsen in a train station in Germany. I was travelling with the Norwegian ski team to a competition in France. I told him I’d like to ski to the North Pole. He offered to take me with him.’
‘You’re his ticket to a swift victory. That’s what Amundsen wants – speed. To snatch the prize from Scott.’ Johansen takes off his cap and runs a hand over his close-cropped white hair. He’s slightly older than the rest, or at least he seems to be. The whole nation knows of his adventures with Nansen in the Arctic. He may be only forty-three years old, but Johansen’s already lived a thousand lives.
‘I read your book,’ says Bjaaland, proud to finally have a chance to mention it. Still, he is self-conscious enough around the renowned adventurer to avoid eye contact.
‘Did you like it?’
‘I did. Must have been incredible. Being with Nansen.’
Johansen hums agreement.
‘So what’s he like?’
‘Nansen?’ Johansen rubs his chin. ‘The best. He saved my life.’
‘I thought you saved his life.’
‘I did.’
The two men laugh then retreat into companionable silence.
After a minute Bjaaland asks, ‘So what happened?’ He’s like a child eager for a retelling of a favourite tale.
‘A polar bear struck me on the head. I would have been mincemeat. That big boy was twice the size of a man. Nansen shot him. And then we ate him. I think Nansen probably couldn’t bear the thought of being left alone so far from civilisation.’ Johansen grins.
‘Good thing there are no polar bears where we’re going,’ Bjaaland says.
‘Plenty of crevasses that’ll swallow you whole.’
Bjaaland selects a fresh pair of skis and runs his hand admiringly down their length. ‘Extra long skis are a good idea. Hard to disappear down a crack with these on your feet.’
After a short silence, Bjaaland eases the conversation back to adventure. ‘When I was reading your book, I’d never have imagined that I’d be with the man who set out with Nansen to discover the North Pole.’
‘If only we’d succeeded …’
‘That doesn’t really matter. It was the furthest north anyone had ever been. Before Peary. Or Cook. Whoever reached it!’
‘I’d like to know how they did it,’ Johansen says. ‘Hard to make any progress north, when the ice you’re on is constantly drifting south.’ He remembers the days of frustration all too keenly. After a full day’s march, to end the day in more or less the same place. Ridiculous.
‘Of course failing to wind the chronometers put us at a slight disadvantage …’ Johansen trails off, his understatement left hanging as he recalls the feeling of dread at having no way of determining their position or that of the Fram. Things had progressed from bad to worse with the sea ice breaking up, leaving them to bob about on an ice floe for more than a month. All the dogs were dead by that stage. Thankfully they had the kayaks, although one had been badly mauled by a walrus. They were lucky not to be savaged themselves. What sweet relief to finally reach terra firma. Franz Josef Land. Uninhabited, unfortunately, but a safe place to make a decent shelter from walrus hide and enjoy eight months of waiting for winter to pass so they could get going again. At least they’d had plenty to eat. Walrus, polar bear – they’d exacted revenge on those two species. Johansen sighs. ‘Quite a time we had.’
Johansen steps back from the work bench. For a moment he looks thoughtful. A return to the ice. This is really all he wants. Not the comfortable existence of a husband and father, warming his legs by the fire as his wife, Hilda, bustles about and children squabble. Domestic life – such a brutal disappointment when contrasted with a fight for survival. How close he and Nansen came to death; how alive he felt in its presence.
‘Well, you’re in for another adventure. With another great explorer.’
‘You know, I get the distinct impression that Amundsen does not want me here.’
‘Really?’
‘Well, he hand-picked everyone else himself. I’m quite sure I’m only here because of Nansen.’
Bjaaland snorts in disbelief. ‘You’ve got more experience than anybody. Even Amundsen.’
Johansen sucks in his breath with displeasure. ‘Be careful now. Comments like that …’
Bjaaland blushes. ‘Sorry, I just thought—’
‘Hey, it’s all fine!’ Johansen says, shrugging off his truthfulness with a light-hearted tone. ‘Me? All I care about is getting to the South Pole.’