The sun chases itself around the sky like a poor trapped honey bee, never deviating from its course, never dipping its radiant head. This could be the centre of the universe. Helmer knows how close they are. He urges the dogs on into a nasty headwind. In an unexpected break with routine, Amundsen has taken up his position further back in the team, perhaps deeming Helmer’s compass and the sledge-meter the only trustworthy judges in this delicate dance to an invisible finish line.
Helmer has not spared the whip; its searing lick of pain has proved a necessary cruelty in this final stage of the journey. The dogs can sense the end, Helmer is sure of it. For days they have appeared slightly perturbed, their snouts raised in quiet investigation whenever gusts of wind come somersaulting at them from the pole. Then again, the animals have grown so attuned to the men’s moods that perhaps their behaviour merely mirrors their masters’ own furtive longing for the endless trek south to finally be over. He glances at the compass, again to the sledge-meter. If only I had this blasted wind at my back instead of full in the face, he thinks.
‘What’s the matter?’ Amundsen’s skis glide to a standstill.
‘The dogs are skittish,’ Helmer says with an offhand tone that disguises true intent. ‘Do you mind going out in front? They’re all over the place.’
Amundsen frowns. The dogs were positively flying ahead but he trusts Helmer’s judgement and it’s no strain to return to his role as frontrunner. If anything, it will be a challenge to keep ahead of the pack.
Again they plunge forward on the featureless plain, this time with the assurance that their leader will be first among men. It is only right, thinks Helmer.
Their most esteemed leader, a man of steel and will and obsession; Helmer follows in his tracks with a mixture of admiration, trust, and even love swelling in his chest as he considers the extent to which Amundsen has shaped his destiny. He is a man like no other, a personage of such depth and complexity that Helmer doubts he will ever get the full measure of Roald Amundsen.
The wind is unyielding, gnawing at his aching, frostbitten face as it has for weeks, but the southerly gales are at the very limit of their powers. Helmer savours the sweet thrill of checking the sledge-meter one last time.
‘Halt!’ he calls.
Amundsen stops. So this is it. The geographic South Pole. How odd to be standing on the spot where nothing but latitude matters, a vanishing point where all lines of longitude cease to exist. It is a realm of absolutes that lies far from the trivial considerations of man, from even notions of good and evil. They shake hands, exchanging smiles and animated sounds but no words. Their feelings are unique and complex, beyond language.
Amundsen assumes a detached air as he takes in a 360-degree sweep. Such a forlorn place, this 90 degrees south, with a character so bland and unassuming as to make their effort and suffering to reach it seem utterly out of proportion.
And where is Scott? His dreaded motor sledges? Not here yet, although there is no doubt in Amundsen’s mind that they will get here. Scott is determined and more than capable. Just not quick enough. Helmer extends the ski poles that have been lashed together to serve as a flagpole. Amundsen invites each man to grasp it in a symbolic gesture – they will plant the Norwegian flag together. It’s an expression of his gratitude, communicating succinctly his profound admiration for these heroic men. The story could have ended very differently.
‘Thus we plant thee, beloved flag, at the South Pole, and give to the plain on which it lies the name of King Haakon VII Plateau.’