Helmer can’t help himself. The fingernail of his index finger tentatively explores the outer edges of his scab, tests it with gentle pressure until tenderness sets his finger roving over his chin in search of something he can flick off. The discussion in the tent continues.
‘I wouldn’t complain if I were you,’ says Oscar mildly. ‘We’ve managed to bypass that awful Devil’s Ballroom and the Devil’s Glacier – we’ve done in one day what took three days.’
‘But we still don’t know where we are.’ Sverre’s face is stern. ‘And that depot on the edge of the Devil’s Glacier, we have no idea where to find it.’
Bjaaland pipes up. ‘We’ve come too far west. The depot has got to be east of us.’
Amundsen corrects him. ‘Our course has tended too far east. The depot lies to our west.’
Bjaaland gives a sullen shrug but chooses not to contradict their leader. Time will tell. Ultimately, does it matter who’s right? The weather looks far from promising and the chances of finding the depot are becoming increasingly slim. Rations are sufficient to get them back down to the barrier but the dogs won’t last three days. No dogs, no pulling power. Each man’s thoughts turn to the man-hauling harnesses they all carry in reserve.
‘Shall we carry on to the Butcher’s Shop?’ Helmer asks the next morning. ‘We could spend days looking for this depot and never find a damn thing.’
Amundsen squints towards the mountains. They’re sure to recognise some landmark before long. But if they don’t? What then? ‘Okay,’ he says resignedly.
Tending ever northward, they remain committed to their course while feeling ever more unconnected to their surroundings. Heads swivel this way and that, trying to make sense of the peaks and formations that flank their undulating route. It’s only when they turn to face south that they figure they must actually be quite close to their original tracks. Nobody could forget that view over the Devil’s Glacier that had so intimidated them on their way south.
‘See! We came too far to the west,’ Bjaaland says with sudden confidence.
Murmurs of grudging acceptance echo round. But they soon see that angling further east will not get them where they need to be. In fact, they’ve overshot the Butcher’s Shop by some distance.
‘We should turn back,’ says Amundsen, pursing his lips in annoyance.
Helmer is quick to volunteer. He knows time is running out. Bjaaland also raises a hand.
Amundsen looks unsure. ‘I don’t like to get separated.’
‘Relax,’ Helmer says. ‘It can’t be more than a kilometre or two.’
Amundsen has misgivings. He watches the two men strike out and curses the temptation and trickery of this place, how one moment it can appear magical and miraculous and next distorted and malign, enticing prey into its mouth only to snap it shut. It will be pure torture staying put and waiting this out.
Helmer and Bjaaland travel for some time. Wave over icy wave they battle, Helmer with his dogs hauling an empty sledge, which bucks and kicks in the absence of any ballast, and Bjaaland doing his best to follow on skis. Eight kilometres becomes eleven, then fifteen as the fog closes in and the men struggle through increasingly deep snowdrifts where nothing is as it appears.
‘We should have brought sleeping bags at least,’ Helmer says, scowling. ‘If the weather packs it in, we’ll be in trouble.’
Back at camp, Oscar and Sverre have turned in. Amundsen will not rest until he sees his two men return. Eight hours they’ve been gone – it should have taken them two or three at most. Pacing back and forth, scanning the muddle of pressure ridges to the east through his binoculars, Amundsen feels dread at the deteriorating weather. How could he have let them cast out alone without any shelter? No provisions, nothing to drink? How could he have done otherwise? With their spare tent left at the pole, they only have one. And as for food, hopefully they’ll eat something once they locate the Butcher’s Shop. Another hour inches by, and another. Amundsen considers their options. In all likelihood they’ll need to kill off the remaining dogs and manhaul back to Framheim.
Ten hours have passed when, out of the fog, dark shapes appear. Clutched by sudden euphoria, Amundsen sweeps into the tent and sets to work preparing food and drink for the returning men.
Oscar’s head emerges from the sleeping bag. ‘Are they back already?’
‘Back already? They’ve been gone ten hours!’ scolds Amundsen as he fiddles with the Primus.
Sverre’s voice is muffled by the reindeer fur. ‘Did they find the depot?’
‘Looks like it. Neither of them were riding on the sledge, so it must be quite heavily loaded.’
The pot is soon bubbling away. There is a disturbance outside – dog sounds mostly, but also the laboured breathing of men.
‘We’re back!’ Bjaaland sticks his head in the tent. He pushes his hood back. ‘Sixty-seven kilometres.’
‘What?’ Amundsen is incredulous.
Both Oscar and Sverre are now sitting up in their bags. ‘You’re joking,’ says Sverre.
‘No,’ says Bjaaland with pride. ‘Sixty-seven kilometres in ten hours. I just need to help Helmer with the dogs.’
Amundsen gets to his feet. ‘No, Bjaaland. You come in. I’ll get Helmer. Leave the dogs to me.’ The first thing Amundsen sees on leaving the tent is the forlorn sight of dog carcasses piled high on the sledge. ‘Get inside, Helmer, and fill your tank.’ He slaps the man on the back.
For once, Helmer has no cocky reply. He’s hungry and tired, with a raging thirst that he’s desperate to satisfy.
We’re safe, Amundsen thinks as he unbuckles the dogs from their traces. But we came so close to disaster. He shakes his head. Gratitude is a funny emotion, one that he does not often have cause to experience in its full flush. But he feels it now.