After September’s false start and the uncomfortable atmosphere that has persisted in the hut since Johansen’s outburst, it’s a relief to be in the fresh air and on the move again. Helmer, Oscar, Bjaaland and Sverre are the chosen ones; Prestrud, Stubberud and Johansen will stay behind with Lindstrøm.
Despite being the only man (aside from the chief) to escape the debilitating effects of frostbite on the abortive September journey, Johansen is firmly on the outer. Offering his best wishes to the departing men and shaking Amundsen’s hand in farewell, he suppresses all feelings of resentment. The irony of being 100 per cent healthy and yet left behind with the invalids is not lost on him. What would Nansen say?
To add insult to injury, Johansen is now under the command of Lieutenant Prestrud. It’s a move designed to punish and humiliate him. Everyone knows his knowledge and experience are far superior. Together they will undertake a pre-Christmas excursion to the as-yet-unexplored King Edward VII Land, while the others take on the South Pole. Stubberud’s been assigned as their third man. He is bitter but can do little to change his fate. His frostbitten heel still gives him trouble. To be excluded is a blow to his pride and his ambitions – he has put his entire heart and soul into readying the team for victory, and his life has been on hold for more than a year.
A strong southerly headwind and thick driving snow characterise the polar party’s first days. With no features to fix on, no hints as to their position, each man drifts in and out of his thoughts. The hours dissolve into white nothingness, mile after mile after mile. They’ve made this journey three times already and yet there is nothing familiar about their route. Old tracks show up from time to time but never with enough conviction to offer definitive guidance. Helmer commands the leading sledge with one eye on his compass and the other on the sledge-meter. Twice they’ve strayed off course. Once into the treacherous eastern crevasse field encountered during the third depot-laying journey. A superstitious man would say it is Johansen’s revenge.
Sheltering at their 82 degrees depot, the five men are at the boundary of their knowledge. Beyond the tent is an unknown land full of peril. The extreme physical challenges they will face in the months ahead will test the limits of their endurance and mental grit. Everyone is aware that death could claim one or all of their number, but nobody is going to deny the excitement they each feel; there’s a race to win.
With their sledges stocked up with enough provisions to last ninety-nine days, the long road ahead seems not so daunting. The ‘road’, such as it is, has been plotted on the map and is represented by a heavy line, straight as an arrow, pointing south. Should any obstacles lie in the way – mountains, valleys or impassable glaciers – they’ll only find out en route. It’s the men’s unspoken hope that their chosen line will rise in a gradual fashion all the way to the polar plateau without offering much resistance. Amundsen knows that even though Scott will be sticking to the route taken by Shackleton up the Beardmore Glacier, he will face his own fair share of risks. It’s likely that the Norwegians will have to navigate similar terrain to pierce the Transantarctic Mountains. They’ve got alpine ropes, but any obstacles requiring serious mountaineering skills will put an end to their dreams.
‘We’ve been lucky,’ says Oscar.
There’s a general murmur of agreement. With each passing day they appreciate in starker relief the monumental scale of their ambitions and the potential for it all to end in tragedy.
‘We’ve been lucky? Don’t you mean me?’ Helmer scoffs, recalling how heavily he had fallen across the wide gash of a crevasse. His skis had got tangled in the pulley hook of the dogs’ traces. Locked at a right angle by his skis and unable to haul himself to safety, Helmer was rendered powerless. Of course his team used the delay to launch into a vicious brawl. Half-in, half-out, the heavy sledge had teetered dangerously closer to the edge with each jarring movement of the dogs. It took four men more than half an hour in gusting winds to bring the situation under control, sweating, swearing, fearing the loss of the sledge, their provisions, a team of the best dogs and a man into the bargain.
‘What about me?’ protests Bjaaland, who almost lost his entire sledge down a yawning chasm in the midst of Johansen’s crevasse field. The rescue had pushed the entire team to the brink of exhaustion. Finally the sledge had been unloaded in its precarious position, crate by crate, at great personal risk to Oscar who had volunteered to be lowered into the hole.
‘Looking down and seeing those horrible spikes of ice. If Bjaaland hadn’t broken every bone in his body on the way down, he’d have been impaled.’ Oscar whistles in unpleasant recollection. ‘Where the dogs had crossed was the narrowest part of the crevasse. Either side of that, it opened up wider than a street. None of us would have escaped if we’d been spread out.’ He stirs his bowl of pemmican, blowing the steam away with his own misty breath.
‘Down there you’re out of the blasted wind at least.’ Sverre’s laugh develops into a dry cough.
‘Do you think the dogs can tell where to cross?’ Oscar asks.
Sverre frowns. ‘Not sure about that.’
‘Dumb luck,’ adds Amundsen.
Considering the dangers, the dogs are performing well. Two have been shot. One for being too scrawny, the other for being too fat. Neither could keep up the pace of the other dogs, who dash off each morning with such a lust for life that the men have allowed themselves to be towed behind the sledges on their skis – a luxury that will no doubt be short-lived.
A daily average of 27 kilometres is a most respectable distance, particularly when achieved in one stretch without stopping for food or drink. Some days the surface is heavy, impeding the dogs’ forward momentum. Other days the surface is sticky like glue. Still other days the snow is grainy and loose. On the rare days when it is firm underfoot, it is almost a pleasure to be out. There is similar variation in the weather. It can be minus 35 degrees one day, minus 10 the next. Not surprisingly, the men are attuned to even the mildest changes in temperature, especially when nature calls.
Amundsen decides they will build a cairn every 5 kilometres. It will make navigating home a little less random and save on time, as they won’t need to take observations and calculate their position. They’ll also establish a depot for every degree of latitude they gain, leaving a portion of their provisions at each stop, which will cut down on the weight of the sledges and the burden on the dogs. They will soon start to lose condition. This next stage will be far from pleasant for these unfortunate creatures, soon to be reduced to cannibals. Competing in a race of their own, the dogs will need to earn the right to life. According to Amundsen’s calculations, of the forty-two dogs that set out, only twelve will return.