What was once pristine white landscape around Framheim is a now a minefield of excrement. The dogs are on the prowl, all seventy of them. Big and small, they range about in twos and threes, nosing in drifts of snow for whatever remains of the seals that were butchered for meat. Nothing in the Norwegian camp escapes their interference. Boxes are overturned. Ropes are gnawed at. The tents are layered with wild maps of yellow ice, the result of the dogs’ never-ending quest to mark as much territory as possible while their comrades are away. Everywhere they go, they leave mess. Little can be done, as there’s no longer any other reason to keep the dogs chained up. Lindstrøm stretches barbed wire around Framheim to keep them from clambering up the steadily accumulating snow and onto the roof while Amundsen builds a perimeter wall from blocks of snow to barricade the tent used to store precious meat supplies. But the dogs are persistent and have learnt that if they jump high enough they can steal into the store. Soon Amundsen is unfurling barbed wire as well.
With the exterior dog-proofed, Lindstrøm turns his attention to the hut’s interior. It’s in a filthy state. Nine men sleeping, eating, working and drying sodden clothing and footwear has made a mockery of the strict order he had established during their previous absence.
‘Good grief,’ he mumbles as he examines a box full of dirty, worn-out reindeer kamiks found lurking under a bunk. ‘This place is a rat’s nest.’ He flings the box and its contents out through the open door of the hut. The kamiks scatter on the snow and are immediately snapped up by a pack of excited dogs. The trouble is there are too few to go around. Some dogs tear off with a prize in their jaws. The less fortunate follow in hot pursuit. A fight erupts over the remaining spoils but not one dog gets to enjoy a smelly bootie in its entirety. Within minutes, they’re torn to shreds. Clumps of reindeer fur and clumps of dog fur litter the snow.
‘We’ll have to go through the same filthy stage when the others get back,’ sighs Amundsen, hefting another pot of boiling water off the coal range and into the washing tub on the kitchen floor. ‘We have to maintain order in here or we’ll go mad. We’ll kill each other.’
Amundsen heads outside and scans the surrounding area for snow that’s clean enough to melt for cleaning. When he returns, Lindstrøm is furiously wiping down the walls. ‘Fat,’ he says by way of explanation, ‘from all the frying.’
The pot of snow is again on the heat. Another one and the washing tub will be sufficiently full for his purpose. Amundsen dips a cloth in the hot water and joins Lindstrøm at his task.
‘A means of escape, that’s what each man needs. Somewhere to get away from others,’ Lindstrøm says. ‘Do you remember on the Gjøa, when we were caught in the ice over winter? That was a bloody small boat. It didn’t take long for us to figure out it was better to learn how to make an igloo from the Netsilik and get a bit of space from our shipmates. Pity they never gave us a moment’s peace though – always visiting!’ Lindstrøm laughs at the memory.
‘Shall I suggest that then, Fatty? That we each construct an igloo to see out the winter?’
Lindstrøm groans. ‘Oh no, we’d all go mad from loneliness.’
Amundsen smiles. He feels fortunate to have a man so good-natured, so positive in his outlook on his team once again. Just like the old days.
The cook continues his train of thought, ‘It’s almost as if we all need to head out to work in the morning and come back together in the evening to share a meal, play cards or listen to the gramophone. If we’ve all been busy during the day, we’d have something to talk about.’
‘Yes, I see what you mean. There’s certainly lots to do ahead of our polar journey. Problem is, it’s winter. Working outside is just not possible.’
‘Well, I’ve got my larder carved out of the snow beside the hut but I don’t fancy sharing that space with the dust and muck of the carpenters or with the constant whirring of Oscar’s sewing machine.’ Lindstrøm straightens his jacket and takes a moment to admire the fresh appearance of the hut’s degreased walls. ‘Your water’s boiling.’
‘I’m going to close the door now,’ says Amundsen. ‘Any more cold air circulating in here and the water in my tin tub will freeze.’
‘Can you spare some?’ Lindstrøm asks as he watches the chief tip the last pot of steaming liquid into what has become an otherwise lukewarm tub. ‘You won’t need all of that to wash your clothes.’
Amundsen swirls his hand through the water. It’s pleasingly hot, but given the chill still pervading the hut, he doesn’t have long before it will start to cool to the point of unpleasantness. Deftly sliding out of his kamiks, he pulls his pants and woollen underwear off. He wrestles off his jacket, sweater, wool shirt and undershirt. His socks he leaves until last.
The washing tub’s not big and the chief is a very tall man. The sight of Amundsen dipping his pale rear end into the water sets Lindstrøm giggling like a schoolboy.
Amundsen frowns comically. ‘You did say you wanted to thoroughly clean everything in the hut.’
Lindstrøm hands the chief a cloth and some soap. Then, still chuckling, he grabs his hat and heads outside for a walk. Allowing a bit of privacy is the least he can do to ensure full enjoyment of this momentous event – Amundsen’s first proper wash in seven months.