Nilsen predicted they would arrive in Antarctica on 15 January. They’re a day early. If the sea ice hadn’t cleared out from the Bay of Whales so swiftly, he might have hit his mark. But the captain is not a man to boast.
‘Luck’s on our side,’ Prestrud grins.
‘Some call it luck, Lieutenant,’ replies Amundsen drily. ‘I call it good planning.’
A few light clouds can do little against the brilliant sunshine that bounces off the calm waters of the bay. Now with a perfect landing spot offering itself up, as if on command, it does appear as though providence is smiling on the Norwegians. The Barrier surface beyond the ice foot jutting into the water is irregular but the humps and hollows and rising pressure ridges give comfort.
‘See how the ice is being thrust up like that, Prestrud?’ Amundsen says. ‘There’s got to be land underneath.’ Amundsen has had a few lingering doubts as to whether it is prudent to make their base on an ever-moving ice shelf. Still, in the interests of safety they’ll head inland a good few kilometres. Amundsen doesn’t like the thought of their hut bobbing about on a slab of ice in the middle of the Ross Sea.
Prestrud, Helmer and Johansen set out with Amundsen on skis to check out some possible building sites. The sensation of gliding is odd after their long months at sea. Seals watch the small procession with interest as the men head across the sea ice towards the Barrier edge. There’s enough fresh meat here for more than a year. The animals ignore this new threat encroaching on their colony. Ignorance is bliss. Many of them will not live out the day.
Half an hour of easy skiing gets them to the Barrier edge. But where the once-feared cliff of ice rises from the sea ice, the men find a build-up of windblown snow has created a natural ramp. Amundsen takes the gentle slope with long gliding strides. The others follow. Nothing could be easier.
Prestrud cannot help but say again, ‘Extraordinary luck.’
This time Amundsen must agree. Their entry onto the Antarctic continent is utterly devoid of drama. Perhaps it is a taste of things to come.
Amundsen’s looking for the perfect location for their hut. He’ll know it when he sees it. The men breathe heavily, unaccustomed to such legwork after months of limited physical activity. Nobody will admit to feeling tired and nobody is cold but the ski boots are terribly uncomfortable. Too small, too stiff and with soles that are definitely too thick, the boots rub ankles and heels raw. Oscar has already spent hours unpicking the loathsome boots and trying to modify them. But it’s not enough. They need more adapting. Prestrud winces with every movement of his skis. If victory is going to hurt this much, he might just swap places with Lieutenant Gjertsen after all.
Meanwhile back at the Fram, the seal hunt is on. The seals are at a distinct disadvantage, being scared neither of the approaching men nor of the sound of gunfire. Three seals are dispatched. A fourth figures his end is nigh and makes a break for the water, lolloping over the surface of the deep snow and sweeping up a powdery trail in his wake. Sverre takes after the frightened creature only to sink in the drift up to his thighs. He twists and heaves, breathless and unfit.
‘Come back, you rotten beggar.’
The seal has no intention of doing what he asks. Sverre looks imploringly at the men watching from the Fram as though they might be able to offer some advice or even sympathy to the hunter.
‘Don’t let that seal get the better of you,’ goads Stubberud. ‘Show him who’s boss.’
Everybody laughs. The fat Weddell seals are inquisitive to the point of foolishness and come looking for trouble. Taking pot shots from the deck isn’t particularly sporting. Oscar launches breadballs at the seals to wake them up, irritating those on board who hope to score a bullseye.
‘Hey! I almost had him,’ complains Lieutenant Gjertsen, lowering his rifle and glowering at Oscar.
‘I’m giving the poor blighter a chance.’
‘A chance to be riddled with holes before I can kill him. You’re a menace to man and beast.’
Captain Nilsen walks the deck and contemplates the work ahead of them. There’s a lot of gear to unload and haul inland. Nilsen surveys the dogs – slumbering, mostly. They’ll have to abandon their lazy habits. Hardship awaits. For his own pup too, now that he’s big enough to join the fray.
Nilsen drops to one knee and takes the dog’s head in both hands. ‘You’ll do me proud, won’t you, Madeiro?’
The dog licks Nilsen’s face.
‘We’ll see each other again. When all this is over, you’ll have been to the pole and back,’ Nilsen says brightly. But he knows there’s little chance of any of the dogs returning alive.