They are mythic in size, crevasses hundreds of feet across and possibly thousands deep. At least they’re easy to spot. In fact the men can’t help peering over the side with a sort of stomach-churning glee. ‘There but for the grace of God go I,’ they have a fondness for saying. Long skis are three times blessed when crossing treacherous-looking sections of rotten surface; more so when skimming over innocent-looking stretches of pristine snow. Misplaced confidence can crumble in an instant.
‘Whoa!’ Helmer shouts, pivoting on his heels.
A mighty crust breaks away under the back of his skis with a dull booming sound, revealing a void that has been waiting a thousand years to swallow a man. This is a land of traps and snares. Not long after, Oscar’s dogs disappear into a hole and must be hauled up one at a time, utterly bewildered. Amundsen takes it as a sign to make camp. Ironically, there is solid ice underfoot and they must secure the tent pegs with an axe. Five kilometres of progress, that is all they have to show for their day of hard slog. It’s woeful compared to their usual distance. Twice since setting out across the glacier they’ve decided to take a rest day but then can’t resist the temptation of continuing when the latest observation places them ever closer to Shackleton’s record. At the crest of every ridge, hope reigns supreme – will their troubles be over? Disappointment and dismay are the answer more often than not. But gradually the nature of the Devil’s Glacier is changing. Perhaps the end is in sight.
It is 4 December. Haunted by the threat of the Scott stealing the show, the Norwegians have become battle hardened, acting like a marauding Viking party taking ill winds and dire peril in their stride. And it’s not just the weather conspiring against them. This final section of the Devil’s Glacier is by far the worst they’ve encountered.
‘Wonderful conditions for a skater,’ says Amundsen drily, as he appraises the wide valley of sheet ice.
Apart from Amundsen, who skitters about on his skis, everyone has decided to proceed on foot. Every step sends a bone-rattling shudder through the surface like a dungeon door slamming. It is obviously hollow underneath. If they can shuttle the dogs across quickly enough, it might just hold.
‘This must be the Devil’s Dancefloor,’ someone suggests through gritted teeth.
The dogs’ claws scratch and scrape, unable to get purchase on the slick surface. Ultimately much pushing from behind is necessary, but with unexpected results. Oscar’s sledge breaks the surface and tips over onto its side, one runner dipping into a crevasse. Sverre is quick to his side. Together they lie with their heads in the hole, discussing the best course of action while Bjaaland calmly gets his camera out and takes a photo.
Oscar eyes the deadly fate he narrowly escaped.
‘What does the crevasse look like?’ Amundsen yells from the front.
‘You know, the usual … bottomless,’ shouts Sverre casually.
How accustomed they’ve become to danger.