Blood-caked fur as black as seaweed is impossible to ignore. Faint red prints on the snow are a common sight. The dogs whimper when they lick their paws. Helmer examines his dogs one at a time. ‘For goodness sake,’ he says. ‘The snow crust is cutting them to ribbons.’
‘Haven’t had a chance to harden up yet,’ says Sverre matter-of-factly.
Getting the dogs to their feet each morning with the temperature frequently nudging minus 30 is becoming increasingly difficult. Shouting gets a few dedicated individuals up but the vast majority register the human presence with a blink or two then curl even more tightly onto themselves to conceal their faces.
It’s taken them the best part of a week to reach their depot at 80 degrees south. Everything is as they left it and surprisingly little snow has gathered around the depot mound itself. They add 400 kilos of dog pemmican, 25 kilos of seal steaks, 40 kilos of fat and 13 kilos of margarine. Prestrud takes delight in informing Amundsen that he has completed a theodolite reading (something they were unable to do on the previous journey due to faulty equipment) and determined the depot’s position to be at 79 degrees, 59 minutes. It’s astonishing how accurately they judged their position given the only available tools were the sledge-meter and dead reckoning. To be triple sure of returning to the correct spot, they decide to stake out twenty bamboo poles running east–west to the depot at half-kilometre intervals. Each flag is numbered one to ten relative to the depot, so even if they should miss their mark, there’s a 5-kilometre safety buffer on either side that will alert them to any error in their instruments.
Beyond 80 degrees the temperature drops even further. The days are clear, the sun bright, but it is as if some pitiless god has banished all pleasure from the world. They might as well be staring at a painting of the sun, for all the warmth they gain from its intense light.
Amundsen’s feet are wet. There’s nothing he can do to keep them dry in his boots. Each evening he dries his multiple pairs of woollen socks in the radiant heat of the Primus and spreads the sennegrass that has been insulating his soles. The dampness only returns the next day, an unwelcome but nonetheless familiar travelling companion.
‘The Netsilik wear no socks at all, they just use grass,’ he says. ‘Here I am fussing with my woollens.’
Sverre grunts and burrows deeper into his sleeping bag, a clear sign that he’s not interested in a discussion about the merits of wool socks or sennegrass, or any footwear in fact. His breath is needed for more pressing tasks, like raising the temperature in his sleeping bag. All too soon, it will be time to leave the relative warmth and face the rime frost that will cover every surface in the tent by morning.
Amundsen winces. Sitting is excruciating, and the act of skiing a source of intense discomfort. It’s the diet, of course. Sledging rations. Are others suffering too? Surely somebody would have mentioned their rear end by now – either in earnest or in jest. No doubt his tent mate would have complained bitterly about any such inconvenience. Then again, haemorrhoids are not really the grandest topic of conversation at mealtimes.
His thoughts turn to the dogs. Several of the men had difficulty getting their teams to go forward. Even with half a kilo of dog pemmican a day, they’re underfed and losing condition as the days go by. His own team is flagging, their gait less energetic, more untidy. One in particular, Odin, has developed a nasty sore under his shoulder where the harness has rubbed off both fur and skin. He’s noted it in his sledging diary along with the temperature and the day’s distance – a respectable 16 kilometres. The going has been mostly good. They’re climbing slightly now as they approach their goal. Tomorrow won’t be such a long day. They’ll get there without much effort, erect the depot, allow the dogs a day’s rest. Only Amundsen, Johansen, Oscar, Prestrud and Helmer will carry on to 82 and 83 degrees, where they’ll leave another two caches of supplies. Bjaaland, Stubberud and Sverre will return to Framheim, and they’ll need to take Odin with them, strapped to the empty sledge like cargo. Carrying on with a team of five dogs in minus 40 degrees will test Amundsen’s ability as a sledge driver. Undoubtedly a fair amount of the whip will be required to convince the remaining dogs of his skill. Even his beloved Three Musketeers are losing heart.
Stubberud is happy enough when Amundsen tells him to head home. The carpenter is battle-weary and finding the cold a drain on his mental resources. The days of blankness set him thinking of home, almost hallucinating the concentrated green borders of the fjords. The thermometer reads minus 45 degrees – the coldest day yet. Having finished marking out the depot east to west with sections of broken-up crate, he pulls his hood up and gives a shout to set his dogs in motion. Bjaaland will follow and Sverre will bring up the rear, keeping a close eye on the dogs and men. The poor state of the dogs strikes him as more serious than anyone cares to admit.
‘Think you’ll make it? All the way to 83 degrees?’ Sverre goads Helmer. Rivalry often marks their exchanges. ‘It’s pretty cold.’
‘Sure.’ Helmer secures two lashings across Odin’s crabbed form, taking care not to draw them too tightly against the dog’s back.
Sverre asks, ‘How many dogs do you think you’ll lose?’ It’s gentle prodding but prodding nonetheless.
‘I don’t plan on losing any,’ Helmer says, ruffling Odin’s furry head. ‘Just make sure you don’t.’