Fresh dogs, fat and keen, scamper forward towing their heavy loads over the uneven surface in a display of unbridled enthusiasm. They’re a far cry from the dogs that returned from the last depot-laying journey, limping and harassed by the whip. It will take those dogs some weeks to regain their condition. This time a number of the older puppies have entered the fray, interspersed among the mature dogs so any youth and inexperience can be held in check.
Matching their momentum, Johansen skis in smooth, confident strides like an insect on the surface of a pond. He feels liberated. The alcohol abuse, his failed marriage, the children he hasn’t seen in years – none of it weighs so heavy anymore. The only thing that counts is where he is now – the majesty of this boundless arena, welcoming him into its forgiving embrace. This is where he belongs. He will achieve greatness at the pole. He will be a national hero again. Redemption awaits!
You’re the leader, that’s what Amundsen said and everybody heard him say it. For the first time since setting sail aboard the Fram, Johansen has received official recognition of his polar credentials. After experiencing the fame associated with being Fridtjof Nansen’s right-hand man, it’s been a struggle reverting to being just one of the men, constantly deferring to Amundsen and his judgement when he has just as much to offer. And on board the Fram, taking orders from young officers who have not yet proven themselves. More than once, while scrubbing dog turds off the decking, he’d considered dousing Lieutenant Prestrud with a bucket of salt water.
The fog is sly in its approach. Nobody notices its slow strangulation of the sky. The brilliant blue becomes faded, then briefly grey before surrendering to an impenetrable dullness. The flat light is disorientating. The men continue regardless, but in a direction further west than anyone realises.
Johansen calls to Stubberud. ‘Remember, one flag every kilometre.’
The carpenter signals he’s understood. The flagpoles are taller than a man and are indispensable now that they’re losing the light. Shorter days, dark nights, foul autumn weather. Disagreeable.
‘There’s nothing out here. No markers, no frozen fish,’ says Helmer, pulling level with Johansen. ‘Stubberud can forget about laying his flags. This is not our old route. We’re lost.’
‘We’re not lost,’ says Johansen, annoyed at Helmer’s unhelpful comment, but he halts the team and hollers to Prestrud.
Prestrud is clear on their last known coordinates and he’s thankful that it was not his navigating that led them astray. ‘Do you want a compass heading?’ he asks Johansen.
Johansen nods. ‘And the sledge-meter. What distance have we covered, Oscar?’
‘Last time I saw one of our old broken-up markers was about an hour ago,’ offers Helmer.
Johansen tips back his head and squints into the glare. Flat light. There’s no telling the position of the sun and therefore no possibility of taking angles with a sextant. But he continues to stare at the possibility of the sun’s disc, using some mysterious past knowledge to determine their next course of action. ‘By my reckoning we’ve travelled too far west. We need to carry on in a south-easterly direction to correct. We’ll come across our old tracks or the markers soon enough.’
There’s plenty of grumbling, and backchat that they’d never engage in with the chief. Two days into a route that they have already successfully navigated twice and they’re lost. Still, it’s nobody’s fault. It’s easy to veer off course with such poor visibility.
‘Halt!’ shouts Johansen, diving onto his sledge. Two dogs are already gone.
Helmer, Sverre and Stubberud bring their dogs to heel. Prestrud, Bjaaland and Oscar appear from the gloom, unsure what the commotion is all about.
Thankfully Johansen keeps his head. He inches forward on his skis and peers down the crevasse, assessing the situation. ‘Damn it,’ he hisses in exasperation. ‘Both gone.’
Some way off Oscar hears a curious thud. Suddenly a gap stretches open behind him, unzipping the surface with one smooth stroke. Snow tumbles in like a waterfall. His eyes widen in horror.
Sverre shouts obscenities as another gap opens up under his sledge with a loud hollow boom.
‘Crevasse field,’ calls Johansen to the others. ‘Nobody move.’
The dogs are working themselves into a frenzy on the spot. The tension, the uncertainty underfoot, the confused arrangement of the various teams – all of it puts them on edge.
Helmer asks, ‘What now?’
Johansen has already freed up some alpine rope from his sledge. With grim focus he ties a series of knots at equal intervals along its length. ‘You and Sverre. You’re going to rope up. I need you to check to the east. Make sure you move in parallel. And keep the rope taut. The knots will stop the rope from cutting in too deeply if one of you falls.’
Picking a way forward, Helmer and Sverre determine a safe route and double back for the sledges. For hours they work in tandem, applying the method suggested by Johansen. The danger lies in the ground appearing solid. But all it takes is one man’s misstep and large pieces of the surface fall away, revealing bottomless crevasses that would swallow not just dogs but men and sledges too. Progress is slow but Johansen refuses to take chances. Just as the light is fading, Johansen deems their location sufficiently safe to set up camp. It’s a relief after spending the best part of a day on tenterhooks, barely daring to breathe lest it trigger the collapse of the delicate snow bridges underfoot.
They’re trialling new, larger tents: two sewn together, thanks to Oscar’s skill with the sewing machine. With four men in one and three in the other, there’s ample room for undressing, preparing food, and drying clothing and footwear.
Johansen examines his fur clothing, how worn it has become in parts. The seat of his trousers is utterly bare, now a bald expanse of leather devoid of any insulation. No wonder his rear end is frozen solid. The others have similar complaints with the deteriorating state of their clothing. Looks like a whole winter of repairs.
‘Not a bad test for the dog harnesses,’ says Oscar, dishing up the pemmican stew.
Stubberud snorts. ‘I’m not sure Johansen would agree. He’s lost his two leading dogs.’
Johansen jerks his head in agreement.
Oscar continues, ‘The fact that the dogs are each individually attached to the sledge is a great idea, isn’t it? Being fanned out like that. If the dogs had been two by two in those Alaskan harnesses, Johansen would have lost all his dogs – and the sledge too, probably.’
‘That Amundsen,’ says Stubberud admiringly. ‘He knows his stuff.’
‘Sure does,’ Oscar is quick to agree. ‘Everything has a clear purpose.’
Well, it wasn’t Amundsen who led you out of trouble today, was it, lads? Johansen thinks sourly. And not a word of thanks or acknowledgement of my skill. Without another word, he licks clean his bowl and places it beside him, ready for the morning meal. Perhaps next time, I’ll let them blunder their own way out of danger.