Nothing remains of ‘Framheim’, Roald Amundsen’s Antarctic base on the Ross Ice Shelf, formerly known as the Great Ice Barrier. It has completely and utterly disappeared. Amundsen’s Framheim was never meant to be a permanent home, or an enduring monument to the Norwegian explorer’s astonishing achievement. Amundsen was in Antarctica to achieve one thing, and one thing only – to be the first man to reach the southernmost point on the planet.
The ice was thick where the Norwegians built their winter hut in the summer of 1911. Amundsen’s men dug deep into the ice, carving out a series of underground rooms connected by tunnels so they could move about freely even as the fiercest Antarctic blizzards raged overhead. But the Ross Ice Shelf does not stand still. This great floating plate of ice, locked in the frozen embrace of the Antarctic continent and fed continually by the mighty glaciers squeezing forth from the interior, is prone to breaking off in huge chunks. Gone is Amundsen’s simple hut, the sledges, the underground rooms, the ghosts of the Norwegians’ restless dogs. In May 2000, whatever remained of Framheim fell into the sea.
If he were alive, Amundsen would shrug his shoulders. ‘Good thing we were not having breakfast at the time,’ he might reply.
Having secured his victory at the South Pole, Amundsen up and left. No sentimental tears, no regrets. He was pleased to leave the windswept plains of Antarctica for his next big adventure – whatever that might be. Besides, the world was waiting for news. His news.
Three months later in Hobart, Amundsen was able to successfully send word of his achievement to Fridtjof Nansen and the King of Norway. After dodging the clamouring questions of the Tasmanian newsmen desperate for a scoop, Amundsen was able to honour his agreement with the New York Times, Daily Chronicle and London Times for exclusive rights to his story, thanks in large part to the efforts of his brother Leon in negotiating them.
Short of cash, Amundsen set out immediately on a lecture tour of Australia and New Zealand. Everybody wanted to hear the story first hand of how a band of Norwegian adventurers had so expertly married the best of Inuit and Scandinavian cultures to claim the last continent on earth. Dogs, sledges and skis – there wasn’t much more to tell. From Hobart, the men headed home. All except Hjalmar Johansen, who had taken to drink, become quarrelsome and been ordered from the ship to make his own way home to Norway. Shortly after, he took his own life.
As for the dogs, they were thankfully spared another unpleasant sea voyage. A gift was made of them to another expedition that was soon to leave Hobart for Antarctica. The Australian explorer Douglas Mawson was infinitely grateful to the Norwegians. As it turned out, the gift was literally life-saving when dire circumstances compelled him to eat some of their number to survive. Having endured his ordeal, Mawson was able to return a national hero, along with many of Amundsen’s original contingent, who lived out their remaining days in far from unpleasant conditions in Tasmania.
Despite his success, the name Amundsen has often been overshadowed by the tragic story of another great Antarctic explorer, Robert Falcon Scott, who died on his way back from the South Pole, in second place. It’s true that Amundsen’s story may not be as moving as Scott’s, but it is difficult not to find the Norwegian explorer an extremely compelling character. Secretive and stubborn, prepared to mislead his colleagues and consume his dogs if it helped him achieve his aims, Amundsen could be viewed in a less than favourable light. But the truth is far more complex and far more interesting.
It’s fair to say Roald Amundsen was not the most popular man in Great Britain once his Antarctic achievement was reported in the press. Even less so when news of Captain Scott’s death on the ice reached the world the following year. The British public was scandalised. Had Amundsen indirectly caused the death of their national hero by forcing Scott and his men into a race for the pole?
Nobody knows if Amundsen ever spent much time pondering the tragedy and any role he might have unwittingly played in it. We do know he considered Scott ‘a splendid sportsman and a great explorer’. We also know that Amundsen was never interested in basking in the glory of his achievement with parades, parties and public addresses, although these things were necessary for a man who desperately needed others to support his endeavours. For him, success meant money. Not personal riches, but funds to finance his next expedition.
Amundsen was no amateur. He was a professional, with no shortage of men to follow him to the ends of the earth. Signing up to one of his expeditions meant hardship, extreme cold, deprivation, possibly death, along with adventure in the company of one of the world’s greatest explorers. Being associated with Amundsen would set a man up for life and preserve his name in the rich history of polar exploration. Amundsen’s many achievements will never crumble into the sea like Framheim. His achievements are now set in stone. This is the story of but one.