‘I can’t understand why the English have such disdain for skis and dogs. And they pour scorn on fur clothing. We’ll show them. We’ll demonstrate the full extent of the knowledge and understanding that has propelled the Norwegians to the forefront of polar exploration!’
Amundsen is not a boastful man. This is more a war cry, a limbering up before the dash south. ‘It’s so interesting, in his account of reaching furthest south, Shackleton pronounces that fur is unnecessary and that a wool and a windproof layer are sufficient. But then he complains of the cold!’
‘Well, aren’t we lucky then?’ adds Helmer, his sarcasm clear. ‘If it weren’t for Shackleton’s stupidity, he’d have made it to the pole and I’d be back in Norway cuddling my wife.’
‘And where would you rather be?’ Sverre asks.
There’s a pause as Helmer pretends to consider the question deeply. ‘Here, of course!’
The men roar with laughter.
Amundsen quietens the room. ‘I’m not saying Shackleton and his companions lacked courage and strength. I just can’t share his view that the Great Ice Barrier is such a mysterious place. It’s obviously a glacier. Massive to be sure, but a glacier nonetheless.’
August has been a frenzy of last-minute activity. The major adjustments to equipment and packing are now finished and attention has turned to myriad smaller tasks – making scales for weighing provisions, producing lighter tent poles, redesigning ski bindings. Oscar has fashioned large windproof layers to fit over reindeer trousers and Helmer has made leather snow goggles. Sverre has re-soldered all the lids of the tins of paraffin to prevent any evaporation – the evil vapours in his fuel storage are proof that significant leakage has already taken place. Once again each man has stripped back his individual snow boots, intent on perfecting the fit while he still has the luxury of a table, chair and warmth enough to wield a needle and thread. In an unpopular move, Amundsen has decreed that each man will sew a sledging harness for himself.
‘You can’t be serious,’ Bjaaland scoffs with incredulity.
But Amundsen is serious. Should the unthinkable happen and all the dogs perish, the men will provide pulling power.
The day before departure passes quickly. Using a makeshift crane, the men winch seven fully laden sledges out from the underground workshop and into the light of day. The dogs are harnessed to the heavy loads and sent up onto the barrier with the chief leading the way on skis. The trip takes two hours. On arrival at the designated ‘starting point’, the dogs are released and sent home, and yet a few choose to remain by the sledges, showing a degree of loyalty that puts the men to shame, knowing as they do that few dogs will survive. Spirits are high that night. There’s a certain luxury in having started the polar journey and returning home to Fatty for dinner.
According to Prestrud’s astronomical tables the sun is due to reappear the next day, but it is still fearfully cold. Sverre recounts how his breath turned to ice in mid-air and rustled as it fell to the ground. Everyone saw how Amundsen’s nostrils froze that morning. The solid ice cubes completely restricted his flow of air. The coughing and clearing and shaking of his head would have been comical if not for the chief ’s foul mood. He is beyond frustrated. To depart in such conditions is unwise. Their grand departure will be postponed for another five days.
‘Praise the Lord for small mercies,’ breathes Bjaaland.
‘I’m going to make a sandwich for the sun,’ says Lindstrøm.
‘A sandwich?’ snorts Stubberud. ‘What does the sun need with a sandwich?’
‘Leave him be. I’ve learnt never to question Fatty and his mysterious ways.’ Amundsen folds his arms across his chest.
The following day the dogs end up eating Lindstrøm’s offering. The sun has returned after its long winter absence, but fails to cast any of its rays from behind an ominous fortress of cloud on the horizon.
The days drag by. Each day colder than the last. Minus 52, minus 53 degrees. The men are restless, increasingly worried about their chances of withstanding the penetrating cold of early spring. Resentment surfaces. Must we really do this? Is he serious about setting off? Voices never rise above whispers, but Amundsen’s not fooled; their unease is palpable. Emotion has no place in his decision-making. Logic must prevail. When the chief again revises their date of departure, it is the prevailing winter temperatures he cites rather than any dire misgivings the men themselves have raised.
Seven o’clock on the morning of 4 September is their scheduled departure, but once the day arrives, so does a savage howling wind that sends so much drift into the air that the men cannot see their hands in front of their faces. Amundsen expresses his rage in a silence so profound that not even Lindstrøm attempts carefree banter. Three days pass. The atmosphere in the hut is tomblike.
‘For goodness’ sake, let’s just go!’ shouts Helmer, thumping the table in exasperation.
And the next day they do, whether they want to or not.