The Norwegians set a terrific pace with the sun on their faces and, finally, the dreaded southerly wind at their backs. Bjaaland is happy to leave his sledge and act as forerunner, retracing their old tracks at lightning speed. The others follow as best they can – Helmer and Oscar with two teams of eight dogs, Sverre and Amundsen struggling a little to keep up with the fevered advance into blinding sunlight. Snow goggles offer negligible protection against the glare. Their eyes water and ache.
‘Give me some bad weather!’ roars Sverre at the sun, shielding his eyes.
They all agree a day of haze or gloom would be pure bliss. After suffering for a couple of days they opt to travel at night, when the midnight sun is comfortably overhead, casting the briefest of shadows before them as they continue their route north.
The cairns that they erected on the plateau were well worth the minor effort of building them. At only a metre high, they are nonetheless highly visible on the clean-sheet flatness, showing up like miniature beacons emitting a reflective glow. The men still scan the horizon for signs of Scott – as much out of habit as a sort of devilish curiosity – but there is no indication that they will have to share the Antarctic plateau with the members of the British expedition.
Amundsen cannot still his whirring mind, which is drifting dangerously close to paranoia when it comes to Scott. ‘He can only be a matter of days from reaching the pole,’ he mutters more to himself than to anyone in particular. Despite the favourable conditions, the chief ’s mood is at its most sombre. For him it’s not over. In fact, the real race has just begun.
‘It’s our story and we must be the ones to tell it. If Scott gets back first, he can cast our victory in whatever light he wishes. It’ll be Cook and Peary all over again.’ He runs a hand over his ravaged face. ‘The newspapers love nothing more than a scandal.’
Once before he lost the upper hand. The memory is still a painful one.