Amundsen points one ski pole south. There can be no mistake where he means to direct the men’s gaze. The landscape could not be more different from the monotonous barrier surface they’ve spent the best part of a month crossing. The Transantarctic Mountains are like the fortifications holding back the vast polar ice cap; a daunting prospect for the most accomplished mountaineer. Somehow the Norwegians will have to find a way through the maze of summits with their dogs and sledges.
‘Never thought I’d be excited to see bare rock,’ says Helmer.
‘Reminds me of the glaciers back home,’ Amundsen says admiringly.
Helmer just squints in the bright sunshine.
Amundsen’s eyes don’t stray from the view. ‘Did I ever tell you about the little adventure I had with my brother on Hardangervidda? I nearly died.’
Helmer doesn’t ask for details. He’s silent. The gigantic peaks stretching out east to west before him present quite a foe.
‘That’s our way up,’ says Amundsen simply.
Rather than an orderly route south, the glacier presents a jumbled mess of obstacles and pitfalls. Thankfully the weather is still and clear, but having to guide the dog teams so carefully around jagged blocks of ice, gaping holes and frightful chasms will slow their progress significantly. Planning will only take them so far at this critical stage of the journey. To navigate successfully through this mountain range they’ll need a fair dollop of luck. Amundsen hates the very thought. Expect the unexpected, plan for the worst – this is his personal credo; however, it cannot guarantee their success in this instance.
‘Sixty days’ provisions, that’s all we take.’ Amundsen directs the unloading. All unnecessary weight is stripped and cached.
‘I hope we make it back within your timeframe,’ sighs Bjaaland. ‘Else we’ll all be going on a diet.’
Nervous laughter ripples through the company.
‘Keep your jokes to yourself,’ snaps Amundsen. ‘They’re not funny.’
Bjaaland straightens his back and catches Oscar’s eye. The look passing between the men says it all.
Uncertainty is a heavy burden for Amundsen. More so than for any other man merely seeking personal glory. He faces an immense cost of failure. Thoughts of Scott and his motor sledges continue to torment him like an out-of-reach itch. The British could well be chugging their way to victory by now, having followed Shackleton’s well-documented route up the Beardmore Glacier.
And here we are, striking out into unknown territory, Amundsen stews. Sharing moments of self-doubt is not in his nature. Neither is losing. For now, he will keep his anxiety concealed behind a curtain of ill-humour and irritability.
After so long skiing on the flat, the men tackle the uphill slopes in a clumsy fashion. The first few days of climbing through loose deep powder are arduous and they struggle to develop technique. At least there is the thrill of being the first people to see this dramatic landscape, and the novelty of naming vast swathes of this newly discovered land after kings, dignitaries, benefactors and members of the expedition. As they venture higher up and deeper into the mountains, Captain Nilsen, Fridtjof Nansen and Queen Maud are the obvious winners – even Amundsen’s housekeeper Betty has had a peak named in her honour. At night in the tent Amundsen announces that their route will henceforth be named the Axel Heiberg Glacier, after a wealthy sponsor. There are grunts of acknowledgement but ultimately dinner holds more interest. They are all exhausted.
Bjaaland is one man at home in the mountains. The uphill skiing that the others are still trying to perfect is an effortless ballet for the champion skier. Amundsen has sent him ahead of the dogs, part encouraging presence, part human prey for the eager teams to chase down. Often the slope is so steep that the men harness up twenty dogs to get one sledge moving. Each dog claws its way up the slope, panting, its belly low to the snow. Try as they might, they’ve yet to catch Bjaaland, but their ardour has carried them over a lot of difficult ground in an impressively short time.
As well as steep climbs, there have been numerous descents – some of them hundreds of metres in length. Every descent elicits a chorus of groans. A spot of downhill would normally pass for entertainment, but in the current context it is nothing but a cursed necessity. When you’ve fought so hard for uphill victory, it hurts to give up even a metre of altitude. Helmer wraps rope around the sledge runners to ensure they don’t pick up too much speed on the way down. Trying to control a rampaging dog team and a sledge weighing several hundred kilograms involves nerves of steel and certainly the presence of mind to get out of the way should another team come barrelling out of control. Capsizing would signal disaster. Stubberud’s lovingly honed sledging boxes do not have the structural integrity to survive an impact.
Every morning the men step from the tent, alive with a sense of wonderment at the majesty of their surroundings, but the feelings of awe fade as muscles that were pushed to their limits the day before start to complain in earnest. They still don’t know where they’re going or if their chosen route will deliver them to the polar plateau. Every day the distance seems greater, the challenge all the more unreasonable. The sun beats down without respite, its white acid light reflecting off every imaginable surface. Their lips are dry and cracked and thirst is a constant. Speaking only intensifies their dehydration, so they abandon conversation unless absolutely necessary.
‘Should’ve kept to the east,’ Bjaaland says.
Amundsen doesn’t slacken his pace, instead points the way forward with his pole.
‘But it’s pointless. We’ll need to backtrack.’
Refusing to stop, Amundsen simply says, ‘The compass points south.’
‘There’s no sense to it,’ Bjaaland complains. He’s thoroughly sick of getting to the end of a strenuous climb only to discover, when looking back over the terrain, that there was an easier way up.
For Amundsen it is like listening to the constant grizzling of a child, one who he prefers to ignore.
But Bjaaland craves a response. ‘Your problem is you can’t admit you’re wrong,’ he says dejectedly.
Now Amundsen stops. He regards Bjaaland in stern silence. When he finally speaks, his voice is chalky dry. ‘Olav Bjaaland: on reaching the Antarctic plateau you will be relieved of your duties and return to Framheim.’
‘What?’ Bjaaland splutters. ‘What have I done wrong?’
‘Your negative attitude. You will return to Framheim.’
‘But I don’t know how.’
‘Then Sverre will take you.’
It’s like it was with Johansen, only, in the middle of nowhere, it’s far worse. His first instinct is to object loudly, but Bjaaland can tell by the way Amundsen clenches his jaw that to argue now would have little effect. Bjaaland looks to Sverre, who is too far behind to have heard the exchange, but he’ll soon know all about it.
‘This is disgusting,’ Sverre fumes to Bjaaland in the privacy of their tent later that evening. ‘Two able-bodied men … and he wants to send us back? The man’s got a screw loose.’
Bjaaland nods vigorously. ‘We could die out there on our own.’
Even as Sverre and Bjaaland rail against their leader, Helmer and Oscar refuse to hear one bad word about the chief. Both men would follow him into the abyss if he asked for volunteers. Their confidence is not misplaced. Amundsen’s sound planning and infinite patience in working out every last detail have brought them safely to 85.36 degrees south; the same principles will carry them forward to 90 degrees. It may feel an eternity since they set off from the barrier but it has only taken the team four days to travel 77 kilometres up the wholly uncharted Axel Heiberg Glacier.
‘I’ve seen it all before,’ says Helmer. ‘The chief ’s just focused on his outcome. Bjaaland should ask for forgiveness and see what he says.’
Mentally and physically exhausted, Bjaaland has lost the naïve sense of adventure he felt on leaving Framheim. Good-natured conversation and camaraderie have been sacrificed to fatigue and anxiety. This is polar exploration, raw and unpleasant, and he’s not sure it’s for him. Even so, he’ll not be deprived of victory at the pole after getting this far.
‘I’m sorry,’ says Bjaaland.
Amundsen does not look up from his diary.
‘I really am so sorry. It won’t happen again. I promise. I don’t want to go back. I want to carry on to the pole.’
‘Hindsight is a wonderful thing,’ Amundsen sighs as he notes down the various ‘shortcuts’ they’ve failed to spot from below. In time they’ll be crossing back over here from the opposite direction and every bit of ground they can make up the better – however tired they feel now after climbing the Axel Heiberg Glacier, they will feel ten times more exhausted on their return from the pole. The men have earned two days of rest. There is a fearful challenge ahead of them.
‘Very well, Bjaaland,’ says Amundsen. ‘You may stay.’