 29 Volume 2, Chapter 14, Northward After two days of bustle and getting on board the things we were to take with us, we managed to be ready for sea on the afternoon of January 30. There could scarcely have been anything at that moment that rejoiced us more than just the fact that we were able at so early a date to set our course northward, and thus take the first step on the way to that world which, as we knew, would soon begin to expect news from us or of us. And yet I wonder whether there was not a little feeling of melancholy in the midst of all our joy. It can hardly be doubted that such was really the case, although to many this may seem a flat contradiction, but it is not altogether so easy to part from a place that has been one's home for any length of time, even though this home lie on the seventy-ninth degree of latitude, more or less buried in snow and ice. We human beings are far too dependent on habit to be able to tear ourselves abruptly from the surroundings with which we have been obliged to be familiar for many months. That outsiders would perhaps pray all the powers of goodness to preserve them from such surroundings does not counteract the full validity of this rule. To an overwhelming majority of our fellow men, Franheim would certainly appear as one of those spots on our planet where they would least of all wish to find themselves, a God forsaken out of the way whole that could offer nothing but the very climax of desolation, discomfort, and boredom. To us nine who stood on the gangway ready to leave this place, things appeared somewhat differently. That strong little house that now lay entirely hidden beneath the snow behind Mount Nelson had for a whole year been our home, and a thoroughly good and comfortable home it was, where after so many a hard day's work we had found all the rest and quiet we wanted. Through the whole and arctic winter, and it is a winter, those four walls had protected us so well that many a poor wretch in milder latitudes would have envied us with all his heart if he could have seen us, and conditioned so hard that every form of life flies headlong from them. We had lived on at Franheim undisturbed and untroubled, and lived, be it said, not as animals, but as civilized human beings, who had always within their reach most of the good things that are found in a well-ordered home. Darkness and cold rained outside, and the blizzards no doubt did their best to blot out most traces of our activity. But these enemies never came within the door of our excellent dwelling. Where we shared quarters with light and warmth and comfort. What wonder was it that this spot exercised a strong attraction upon each of us at the moment when we were to turn our backs on it for good? Outside the great world beckoned to us, that is true, and it might have much to offer us that we had had to forgo for a long time, but in what a weight it is, there was certainly a great deal that we would gladly have put off for as long as possible. When everyday life came with its cares and worries, it might well happen that we should look back with regret to our peaceful and untroubled existence at Franheim. However, this feeling of melancholy was hardly so strong that we could not all get over it comparatively quickly. Judging by the faces at any rate, one would have thought that joy was the most predominant mood. And why not? It was no use dwelling on the past, however attractive it might seem just then, and as to the future, we had every right to expect the best of it. Who cared to think of coming troubles? No one. Therefore the Fram was dressed with flags from stem to stern, and therefore faces beamed at each other as we said goodbye to our home on the barrier. We could leave it with the consciousness that the object of our year's day had been attained, and, after all, this consciousness was of considerably more weight than the thought that we had been so happy there. One thing that, in the course of our two years' association on this expedition, contributed enormously to making time pass easily, and keeping each of us in full vigor was the entire absence of what I might call dead periods. As soon as one problem was solved, another instantly appeared. No sooner was one goal reached than the next one beckoned from afar. In this way we always had our hands full, and when that is the case, as everyone knows, time flies quickly. One often hears it asked, how is it possible to make the time pass on such a trip? My good friends, I would answer, if anything caused us worry, it was the thought of how we should find time enough for all we had to do. Perhaps to many this assertion will bear the stamp of improbability. It is, nevertheless, absolutely true. Those who have read this narrative through will, in any case, have received the impression that unemployment was an evil that was utterly unknown in our little community. At the stage where we now found ourselves, with the main object of our enterprise achieved, there might have been reason to expect a certain degree of relaxation of interest. This however was not the case. The fact was that what we had done would have no real value until it was brought to the knowledge of mankind, and this communication had to be made with as little loss at time as possible. If anyone was interested in being first in the market, it was certainly ourselves. The probability was, no doubt, that we were out in good time, but in spite of it all, it was only a probability. On the other hand, it was absolutely certain that we had a voyage of 2,400 nautical miles to Hobart, which had been selected as our first port of call, and it was almost equally certain that this voyage would be both slow and troublesome. A year before our trip through the Ross Sea had turned out almost like a pleasure cruise, but that was in the middle of summer. Now we were in February, and autumn was at hand. As regards the belt of drift ice, Captain Nielsen thought it would cause us no delay in the future. He had discovered a patent and infallible way of getting through. This sounded like a rather bold assertion, but as we'll be seeing later, he was as good as his word. Our worst troubles would be up in the westerlies, where we should this time be exposed to the unpleasant possibility of having to beat. The difference in longitude between the Bay of Wales and Hobart is nearly 50 degrees. If we could have sailed off this distance in longitude in the latitudes where we were then, and were a degree of longitude as only about 13 nautical miles, it would all have been done in the twinkling. But the mighty mountain ranges of North Victoria land were decisive obstacle. We should first have to follow a northerly course until we had rounded the Antarctic continent's northern outpost, Gapadere, and the Balony Islands to the north of it. Not till then would the way be open for us to work to the west, but then we should be in a region where in all probability the wind would be dead against us and has to tacking with the fram. No, thank you. Every single man on board knew enough of the conditions to be well aware of what awaited us. And it is equally certain that the thoughts of all were centered upon how we might conquer our coming difficulties in the best and quickest way. It was the one great common object that still bound and would continue to bind us together in our joint efforts. Among the items of news that we had just received from the outer world was the message that the Australian Antarctic expedition under Dr. Douglas Mawson would be glad to take over some of our dogs if we had any to spare. The base of this expedition was Hobart, and as far as that went, this suited us very well. A chance that we were able to do our esteemed colleague this small service. On leaving the barrier, we could show a pack of 39 dogs, many of which had grown up during our year stay there, about half which had survived the whole trip from Norway, and 11 had been at the South Pole. It had been our intention only to keep a suitable number of the progenitors of a new pack for the approaching voyage in the Arctic Ocean, but Dr. Mawson's request caused us to take all 39 on board. Of these dogs, if nothing unforeseen happened, we should be able to make over 21 to him. When the last load was brought down, there was nothing to do but pull the dogs over the side, and then we were ready. It was quite curious to see how several of the old veterans seemed at home again on the Fram stack. Wistens' brave dog, the old Colonel, and his two adjunct and surgeon and arn, at once took possession of the places where they had stood for so many a long day on the voyage south, on the starboard side of the main masts. The two twins, Mylas and Ring, Helmer Hansen's special favorites, began their games away in the corner of the four-deck deport as though nothing had happened. To look at these two merry rascals, no one would have thought they had trotted at the head of the whole caravan, both to and from the pole. One solitary dog could be seen stalking about one million reserved in a continual uneasy search. This was the boss of John Lund's team. He was unaffected by any advances. No one could take the place of his fallen comrade and friend Frisjog, who had long ago found a grave in the stomachs of his companions many hundreds of miles across the barrier. No sooner was the last dog helped on board, and the two ice anchors released. Then the engine room telegraph rang, and the engine was at once set going to keep us from any closer contact with the ice foot and the Bay of Whales. Our farewell to this dug harbor took almost the form of a leap from one world to another. The fog hung over us as thick as gruel, concealing all the surrounding outlines behind his clammy curtain as we stood out. After a lapse of three or four hours, it lifted quite suddenly, but a stern of us, the bank of fog, still stood like a wall. Behind it, the panorama, which we knew, would have looked wonderful in clear weather, and which we should so gladly have let our eyes rest upon as long as we could, was entirely concealed. The same course we had steered when coming in a year before could safely be taken in the opposite direction, now we were going out. The outlines of the bay had remained absolutely unchanged during the year that had elapsed. Even the most projecting point of the wall on the west side of the bay, Cape Man's Head, stood serenely in its old place, and it looked as if it was in no particular hurry to remove itself. It will probably stay where it is for many a long day yet, for if any movement of the ice mass is taking place at the inner end of the bay, it is in any case very slight. Only in one respect did the condition of things different somewhat this year from the proceeding. Whereas in 1911, the greater part of the bay was free of sea ice as early as January 14. In 1912, there was no opening until about 14 days later. The ice sheet had stubbornly held on until the fresh northeasterly breeze that appeared on the very day the southern party returned had rapidly provided a channel of open water. The breaking up of the ice could not possibly have taken place at a more convenient moment. The breeze in question saved us a great deal, both in time and trouble. As the way to the place where the Fram lay before the ice broke up was about five times as long as the distance we now had to go. This difference of 14 days in the time of the disappearance of the ice in two summers showed us how lucky we had been to choose that particular year, 1911, for our landing here. The work which we carried out in three weeks in 1911, thanks to the early breaking up of the ice, would certainly have taken us double the time in 1912 and would have caused us far more difficulty and trouble. The thick ice that, as I have said, lay over the Bay of Whales when we left it, prevented us also from seeing what our friends the Japanese were doing. The Kayanan Maru had put to sea in company with the Fram during the Gale of January 27, and since that time we had seen nothing of them. Those members of the expedition who had been left behind in a tent on the edge of the barrier to the north of Framheim had also been very retiring of late. On the day we left the place, one of our own party had an interview with two of the foreigners. Prestud had gone to fetch the flag that had been set up on Cape Man's head as a signal to the Fram that all had returned. By the side of the flag, a tent had been put up, which was intended as a shelter for a lookout man in case the Fram had been delayed. When Prestud came up, he was no doubt rather surprised to find himself face to face with two sons of Nippon who were engaged in inspecting our tent and its contents, which, however, only consisted of a sleeping bag and a primus. The Japanese had opened the conversation with enthusiastic phrases about nice day and plenty ice. When our man had expressed his absolute agreement on these indisputable facts, he tried to get information on matters of more special interest. The two strangers told him that for the moment they were the only inhabitants of the tent out on the edge of the barrier. Two of their companions had gone on a tour into the barrier to make meteorological observations and were to be away about a week. The Kinian Maru had gone on another cruise in the direction of King Edward Land. As far as they knew, it was intended that the ship should be back before February 10, and that all of the members of the expedition should then go on board and sail to the north. Prestured had invited his two new acquaintances to visit us at Framheim the sooner the better. They delayed their coming too long, however, for us to be able to wait for them. If they have since been at Framheim, they will, at any rate, be able to bear witness that we did our best to make things comfortable for any successors. When the fog lifted, we found ourselves surrounded by open sea, practically free from ice on all sides. A blue-black sea with a heavy dark sky above it is usually not reckoned among the sights that delight the eye. To our organ's evasion, it was a real relief to come into surroundings where dark colors predominated. For months, we had been staring at a dazzling sea of white, where artificial means had constantly to be employed to protect the eyes against the excessive flood of light. As a rule, it was even necessary to limit the exposure of the pupils to a minimum and to draw the eyelids together. Now we could once more look upon the world with open eyes literally without winking. Even such a commonplace thing as this is an experience in one's life. Ross Sea showed itself again on its most favorable side. A catchpaw of southwest early wind enabled us to use the sails so that after a lapse of two days, we were already about 200 miles from the barrier. Modest as this distance may be in itself when seen on the chart, it looked quite imposing in our eyes. It must be remembered that, with the means of transport we had employed on land, it cost us many a hard days march to cover a distance of 200 geographical miles. Nielsen had marked on the chart the limits of the belt of drift ice during the three passages the Fram had already made. The supposition that an available opening is always to be found in the neighborhood of the 150th meridian appears to be confirmed. The slight changes in the position of the channel were only caused, according to Nielsen's experiences, by variations in the direction of the wind. He had found that it always answered his purpose to turn and try to windward if the pack showed signs of being close. This mode of procedure naturally had the effect of making the course somewhat crooked, but to make up for this, it always resulted in his finding open water. On this trip, we reached the edge of the pack ice three days after leaving the barrier. The position of the belt proved to be very nearly the same as on previous passages. After we had held our course for some hours, however, the ice became so thick that it looked badly for our further progress. Now was the time to try Nielsen's method. The wind, which, by the way, was quite light, came about due west, and accordingly the helm was put to starboard and the bow turned to the west. For a good while, we even steered true south, but proved that this fairly long turn had not been made in vain. After we had worked our way to windward for a few hours, we found openings in numbers. If we had held our course as we began, it is not at all impossible that we should have been delayed for a long time with a free passage a few miles away. After having accomplished this first long term, we escaped having to make any more in future. The ice continued slack on on February 6. The rapidly increasing swell told us we had done with the Antarctic drift ice for good. I doubt if we saw a single seal during our passage through the ice belt this time. And if we had seen any, we should scarcely have allowed time for shooting them. There was plenty of good food both for men and dogs this time without our having recourse to seal beef. For the dogs, we had brought all our remaining store of the excellent dogs, Pemekin, and that was not a little. Besides this, we had a good lot of dried fish. They had fish and Pemekin on alternate days. On this diet, the animals kept in such splendid condition that, when on arrival at Hobart, they had shed most of their rough winter coats. They looked as if they had been in clover for a year. For the nine of us who had just joined the ship, our comrades on board had brought all the way from Buenos Aires several fat pigs that were now living in luxury in their pen on the afterdeck. In addition to these, three fine sheep scarcasses hung in the workroom. It needs scarcely be said that we were fully capable of appreciating these unexpected luxuries. Seal beef, no doubt, had done excellent service. But this did not prevent roast mutton and pork being a welcome change, especially as they came as a complete surprise. I hardly think one of us had counted on the possibility of getting fresh meat before we were back again in civilization. On her arrival at the Bay of Whales, there were 11 men on board the Fram, all included, instead of Kuchten and Nodved, who had gone home from Buenos Aires. While the ship was there in the autumn of 1911, three new men were engaged, namely Halverson, Olsen, and Steller. The two first named were from Bergen. Steller was a German who had lived several years in Norway and talked Norwegian like a native. All three were remarkably efficient and friendly men. It was a pleasure to have any dealing with them. I venture to think that they too found themselves at home in our company. They were really only engaged until the Fram called at the first port, but they stayed on board all the way to Buenos Aires, and will certainly go with us further still. When the short party came on board, Lieutenant Prestrud took up his old position as first officer. The others began duty at once. All told, we were now 20 men on board. And after the Fram had sailed for a year rather shorthanded, she could now be said to have a full crew again. On this voyage, we had no special work outside the usual sea routine. And so long as the weather was fair, we had thus a comparatively quiet life on board. But the hours of watch on deck passed quickly enough, I expect. There was material and plenty for many a long chat now. If we, who came from land, showed a high degree of curiosity about what had been going on in the world, the Sea Party were at least as eager to have full information of every detail of our year-long stay on the barrier. One must almost have experienced something similar oneself to be able to form an idea of the hail of questions that has showered upon one on such an occasion. What we land-lovers had to relate has been given an outline in the preceding chapters. Of the news we heard from outside, perhaps nothing interested had asked so much as the story about how the change in the plan of the expedition had been received at home and abroad. It must have been at least a week before there was any noticeable ebb in the flood of questions and answers. That week went by quickly, perhaps more quickly than we really cared for since it proved that the Fram was not really able to keep pace with time. The weather remained quite well behaved, but not exactly in the way we washed. We had reckoned that the southeast early and easterly winds so frequent around Framheim would also show themselves out in the Ross Sea, but they entirely forgot to do so. We had little wind, and when there was any, it was, as a rule, a slant from the north always enough to delay our honest old ship. It was impossible to take any observations for the first eight days this guy was continuously overcast. If one occasionally asked the skipper about her position, he usually replied that the only thing that could be said for certain was that we were in the Ross Sea. On February 7, however, according to a fairly good noon observation, we were well to the north of Cape Adair, and therefore beyond the limits of the Antarctic continent. On the way northward, we passed Cape Adair at a distance hardly greater than could have been covered with a good day sailing. But our desire of making this detour had to give way to the chief consideration northward, northward as quickly as possible. There is usually plenty of wind in the neighborhood of bold promontories, and Cape Adair is no exception in this respect. It is well known as the center of bad weather. Nor did we slip by without getting the taste of this, but it could not have been more welcome, as it happened the wind was going the same direction as ourselves. Two days of fresh southeast wind took us comparatively quickly past the Balinese islands, and on February 9, we could congratulate ourselves on being well out of the South Frigid Zone. It was with joy that we had crossed the Antarctic Circle over a year ago going south. Perhaps we rejoiced no less in crossing it this time in the opposite direction. In the bustle of getting away from our winter quarters, there had been no time for any celebration of the fortunate reunion of the land and sea parties. As this occasion for festivity had been let slip, we had to look out for another, and we agreed that the day of our passage from the frigid to the temperate zone afforded a very good excuse. The pre-arranged part of the program was extremely simple. An extra cup of coffee, duly accompanied by punch and cigars, and some music on the gramophone. Our worthy gramophone could not offer anything that had the interest of novelty to S-9, who had wintered at Frannheim. We knew the whole repertoire pretty well by heart, but the well-known melodies awakened memories of many a pleasant Saturday evening around the toddy table in our cozy winter home down at the head of the Bay of Whales. Memories which we need not be ashamed of recalling. On board the Fram, gramophone music had not been heard since Christmas Eve, 1910, and the members of the sea party were glad enough to encore more than one number. Outside the limits of the program, we were treated to an extra number by a singer who imitated the gramophone and utilizing a big megaphone to make up for the deficiencies of his voice, according to his own statement. He hid behind the curtain of Captain Nilsen's cabin and through the megaphone came a diddy intended to describe life on the barrier from his humorous side. It was completely successful and we again had a laugh that did us good. Performances of this kind, of course, only have a value to those who have taken part in or are acquainted with the events to which they refer. In case any outsider may be interested in seeing what our entertainment was like, a few of the verses are given here. Must be remarked that the author composed his production in the supposition that we would be able to meet by Christmas and he therefore proposed that for the moment we should imagine ourselves to be celebrating that festival. We made no difficulty about the seating to his request. Well, here we are assembled to jollity once more, some from off the ocean and the rest from off the shore. A year has passed since last we met and all are safe and sound. Then let us banish all our cares and join our hands all round. Christmas, happy Christmas. Let us pass the flowing bowl, fill your glasses all and let's make sales a wee bit full. For all I'll say is this, that it's in his country's cause. If he staggers just a little, it is in his country's cause. Now you sailor boy, you'll hear about the time we have gone through. The winter, while it wasn't long, we had so much to do. There was digging, snow and sleeping. You can bet we're good at that. And eating too, no wonder we're all a little fat. We had hotcakes for our breakfast and hematech each day. Mutton pies, ragouts and curries, for that is Winston's way. But all I'll say is this, that it was in our country's cause. If we stuffed ourselves with danies, it was in our country's cause. September came and off we went. That trip was pretty tough. Our campuses all went on strike. They thought it cold enough. The brandy and the captain's flask froze to a lump of ice. We all agreed both men and dogs, such weather wasn't nice. So back we went to Framhein to thaw our heels and toes. It could not be quite healthy when our feet and fingers froze. But all I say is this, that it was in our country's cause. And we did not mind a frostbite when it was in our country's cause. The sun came up and warmed us then the little day by day. Five men went out again and toiled along the southern way. This time they conquered snow and ice and all the world may hear that Norway's flag flies at the pole. Now boys are ringing cheer for him who led them forward through the mountains and the plain up to the goal they aimed at and safely back again. But all I'll say is this, that it was in his country's cause. If he went through and won the fall, it was in his country's cause. It could soon be noticed one way or another that we had reached the latitudes where existence took a very different aspect from what we had been accustomed to south of the 66th parallel. One welcome change was the rise in temperature. The mercury now climbed well above freezing point and those individuals on board who were still more or less clad in skins shed the last remnants of their polar guard for a lighter and more convenient costume. Those who waited longest before making the change were the ones who belonged to the short party. The numerous people who imagined that a long stay in the polar regions makes a man less susceptible of cold than other mortals are completely mistaken. The direct opposite is more likely to be the case. A man who stays sometime in a place where the everyday temperature is down in the fifties below zero or more than that will not trouble himself greatly about the cold so long as he has good and serviceable skin clothing. Let the same man rigged out in civilized clothes be suddenly put down in the streets of Christianity on a winter day with 30 or 35 degrees of frost and the poor fellow's teeth will chatter till they fall out of his mouth. The fact is that on a polar trip one defends oneself effectively against the cold when one comes back and has to go about with the protection afforded by an overcoat, a stiff collar, and a hard hat, well, then one feels it. A less welcome consequence of the difference in latitude was the darkening of the nights. It may be admitted that continual daylight would be unpleasant in the long run ashore but a bored ship in everlasting day would certainly be preferred if such a thing could be had. Even if we might now consider that we had done with the principal mass of Antarctic ice, we still had to reckon with its disagreeable outpost, the icebergs. It has already been remarked that a practiced lookout man can see the blink on one of the larger bergs a long way off in the dark but one that is a question of one of the smaller masses of ice, of which only an inconsiderable part rises above the surface. There is no such brightness and therefore no warning. A little lump like this is just as dangerous as a big berg. You run the same risks in a possible collision of knocking a hole in the boughs or carrying away the rigging. In these transitional regions where the temperature of the water is always very low, the thermometer is a very doubtful guide. The waters in which we were sailing are not yet so well known as to exclude the possibility of meeting with land. Captain Colbeck, who commanded one of the relief ships sent south during Scott's first expedition, came quite unexpectedly upon a little island to the east of Cape Adair. This island was afterwards named after Captain Scott. When Captain Colbeck made his discovery, he was about on the course that has usually been taken by ships whose destination was within the limits of the Ross Sea. There is still a possibility that in going out of one's course voluntarily or involuntarily, one may find more groups of islands in that part. On the current charts of the South Pacific, there are marked several archipelagos and islands, the position of which is not a little doubtful. One of these, Emerald Island, is charted as lying almost directly in the course we had to follow to read Hobart. Captain Davis, who took Shackleton's ship, the Ninrod, home to England in 1909, sailed, however, right over the point where Emerald Island should be found according to the chart without seeing anything of it. If it exists at all, it is at any rate incorrectly charted. In order to avoid its vicinity, and still more in order to get as far as possible to the west before we came into the westerly belt properly, we pressed on as much as we could for one hard week, or perhaps near two. But a continual Northwest wind seemed for a long time to leave us only two disagreeable possibilities, either of drifting to the eastward or finding ourselves down in the drift ice to the north of Wilkesland. Those weeks were a very severe trial of patience to the many on board who were burning with eagerness to get ashore with our news and perhaps to hear some in return. When the first three weeks of February were passed, we were not much more than halfway. With anything like favorable conditions, we ought to have arrived by that time. The optimists always consoled us by saying that sooner or later they would be a change for the better and at last it came. A good spell of favorable wind took us at a bound well to the westward, both of the doubtful Emerald Island and of the authentic Macquarie group to the north of it. It may be mentioned in passing that at the time we went by, the most southerly wireless telegraphy station in the world was located on one of the Macquarie Islands. The installation belonged to Dr. Mawson's Antarctic expedition. Dr. Mawson also took with him apparatus for installing the station on the Antarctic continent itself, but so far as is known, no connection was accomplished the first year. During this fortunate run, we had come so far to the west that our course to Hobart was rapidly approaching through north. On the other hand, we should have liked to be able to take advantage of the prevailing winds, the westerlies. These vary little from one year to another, and we found them much the same as we had been accustomed to before. Frequent stiff breezes from the northwest, which generally held for about 12 hours, and then veered to the west or southwest. So long as the northwester was blowing, there was nothing to do but lie to with short and sail. When the change of wind came, we made a few hours progress in the right direction. And this way we crept step by step northward to our destination. It was slow enough, no doubt, but every day the line of our course on the chart grew a little longer, and towards the end of February, the distance between us and the southern point of Tasmania had shrunk to very modest dimensions. With a constant heavy westerly swell in the fram, light as she now was surpassed herself in rolling, and that is indeed saying a great deal. This rolling brought us a little damage to the rigging, the gaff of the mainsail braking. However, that affair did not stop us long. The broken spar was quickly replaced by a spare gaff. Our hopes of arriving before the end of February came to naught, and a quarter of March went by before our voyage was at an end. On the afternoon of March 4, we had our first glimpse of land, but as the weather was by no means clear, and we had not been able to determine our longitude with certainty for two days, we were uncertain which point of Tasmania we had before us. To explain the situation, a short description of the coastline is necessary. The southern angle of Tasmania runs out in three promontories. Off the eastern most of these, and only divided from it by a very narrow channel, lies a steep and apparently inaccessible island called Tasman Island. It is, however, accessible for, on the top of it, 900 feet above the sea stands a lighthouse. The middle promontory is called Tasman Head, and between this and the eastern one we have Storm Bay, which forms the approach to Hobart. There, then, lay our course. The question was, which of the three heads we had sighted? This was difficult, or rather impossible, to decide, so indistinct was the outline of the land in the misty air. It was also entirely unknown to us as not one of us had ever been in this corner of the world. When darkness came on, a heavy rain set in, and without being able to see anything at all, we lay there feeling our way all night. With the appearance of daylight, a fresh southwest wind came and swept away most of the rain so that we could again make out the land. We decided that what we saw was the middle promontory, Tasman Head, and Galey set our course into Storm Bay, as we thought. With the rapidly strengthening breeze, we went spinningly, and the possibility of reaching Hobart in a few hours began to appear as a dead certainty. With this comfortable feeling, we had just sat down to the breakfast table in the fourth saloon when the door was pulled open with what seemed unnecessary violence, and the face of the officer of the watch appeared in the doorway. We're on the wrong side of the head, was the sinister message, and the face disappeared. Goodbye to our pleasant plans, goodbye to our breakfast. All hands went on deck at once, and it was seen only too well that the melancholy information was correct. We had made a mistake in the thick rain. The wind that had now increased to a stiff breeze had chased the rain clouds from the top of the hills, and on the point we had taken for Tasman Head, we now saw the lighthouse. It was therefore Tasman Island, and instead of being in Storm Bay, we were out in the open Pacific, far to Leeward of the infamous headland. There was nothing to be done but beat and attempt to work our way back to Windward, although we knew it would be practically labor in vain. The breeze increased to a gale, and instead of making any headway, we had every prospect of drifting well to Leeward. That was the usual result of trying to beat with the Fram. Rather annoyed though we were, we set to work to do what could be done, and with every square foot of canvas at the Fram pitched on our way close hauled. To begin with, it looked as if we held our own more or less, but as the distance from land increased and the wind got more force, our bearing soon showed us that we were going the way the hen kicks. About midday, we went about and stood in towards land again, immediately after came a violent squall which tore the outer jib to ribbons. With that, we were also obliged to take in the mainsail, otherwise it would pretty soon have been caught aback, and there would have been further damage to the rigging. With the remaining sails, any further attempt was useless. There was nothing left but to get as close under the lee of land as we could, and try with the help of the engine to hold our own till the weather moderated. How it blew that afternoon. One guest after another came dancing down the slopes of the hills and tore at the rigging until the whole vessel shook. The feeling on board was, as might be expected, somewhat sultry and found an outlet in various expressions, the reverse of gentle. Wind, weather, fate, and life in general were invigged against, but this availed little. The peninsula that separated us from Storm Bay still lay there firm and immovable, and the gale went on as if it was in no hurry to let us get round. The whole day went by, and the greater part of the night without any change taking place. Not until the morning of the sixth did our prospects begin to improve. The wind became lighter and went more to the south. That was, of course, the way we had to go, but by hugging the shore, where we had perfectly smooth water, we succeeded in working our way down to Tasman Island before darkness fell. The night brought a calm, and that gave us our chance. The engine worked furiously, and a slight favorable current contributed to set us on our way. By dawn of the seventh, we were far up Storm Bay and could at last consider ourselves masters of the situation. It was a sunny day, and our faces shone in rivalry with the sun. All traces of the last two days' annoyances had vanished, and soon the frown, too, began to shine. The white paint on deck had a thorough overhauling with soap and water and strong solution. The ripple on was again as fresh as one knew. When this had been seen, too, the outward appearance of the men also began to undergo a striking change. The Iceland jackets and blanket costumes from Horton gave way to shore clothes of the most buried cut hauled out after a two-year's rest. Razors and scissors had made a rich harvest, and sailmaker Ron's fashionable Burberry caps figured on most heads. Even Lindstrom, who up to date had held the position among the land party of being its heaviest, fattest, and blackest member, showed unmistakable signs of having been in close contact with water. Meanwhile, we were nearing a pilot station and a bustling little motor-launch swung alongside. Want to pilot, Captain? One positively started at the sound of the first new human voice. Communication with the outer world was again established. The pilot, a brisk, good-humored old man, looked about to him in surprise when he came up onto our deck. I would never have imagined things were so clean and bright on board a polar ship, he said, nor should I thought from the look of you that you would come from Antarctica. You look as though you had had nothing but a good time. We could assure him of that, but as to the rest, it was not our intention just yet to allow ourselves to be pumped, and the old man could see that. He had no objection to our pumping him, though he had no very great store of news to give us. He had heard nothing of the Terra Nova. On the other hand, he was able to tell us that Dr. Masonship, the Aurora, commanded by Captain Davis, might be expected at Hobart any day. They had been looking out for the Fram since the beginning of February and had given us up long ago. That was a surprise, anyhow. Our guest evidently had no desire to make acquaintance with our cuisine. At any case, he very energetically declined our invitation to breakfast. Presumably, he was afraid of being treated to dog's flesh for similar original dishes. On the other hand, he showed great appreciation of our Norwegian tobacco. He had his handbag pretty nearly full when he left us. Hobart town lies on the bank of the Durwent River, which runs into Storm Bay. The surroundings are beautiful and the soil evidently extremely fertile, but woods and fields were almost burn up our arrival. A prolonged drought had prevailed and made an end to all green things. To our eyes it was, however, an unmixed delight to look upon meadows and woods, even if their colors were not absolutely fresh. We were not very difficult to please on that score. The harbor of Hobart is an almost ideal one, large and remarkably well protected. As we approached the town, the usual procession of harbormaster, doctor, and custom house officers came aboard. The doctor soon saw that there was no work for his department, and the custom house of officers were easily convinced that we had no contra-bound goods. The anchor was dropped and we were free to land. I took my cablegram and accompanied the harbormaster ashore. End of Section 29, and of Volume 2, Chapter 14, Northward. Recording by Tom Crawford, California, USA, August 2008. Section 30 of the South Pole. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The South Pole by Ruernd Amundsen. Translation by A.G. Carter. Section 30, Volume 2, Chapter 15, The Eastern Sledge Journey, Part 1, by Lieutenant K. Prestred. On October 20, 1911, the Southern Party started on their long journey. The departure took place without much ceremony and with the smallest possible expenditure of words. A hearty grasp of the hand serves the purpose quite as well on such occasions. I accompanied them to the place we called the starting point on the south side of the bay. After a final good luck to our chief and comrades as sincere wishes I could have ever bestowed upon anyone, I sent them a graft to caravan and very soon after it was out of sight. These fellows went southward at a great pace. Helmer Hansen's quick-footed team leading as usual. There I stood, utterly alone, and I cannot deny that I was afraid to some what mixed feelings. When should we see these five again, who had just disappeared from view on the boundless plain and in what conditions? What sort of report would they bring of the result? There was plenty of room for guesses here, an abundant opportunity for weighing every possibility, good and bad, but there was very little to be gained by indulging in speculations of that sort. The immediate facts first claimed attention. One fact, amongst others, was that Framheim was a good three miles away. Another was that the cinematograph apparatus weighed a good many pounds and a third that Lindstrom would be mightily put out if I arrived too late for dinner. Our chef insisted on a high standard of punctuality in the matter of mealtimes. Homeward, then, at the best speed possible. The speed, however, was not particularly good, and I began to prepare for the consequences of a long delay. On the other side of the bay, I could just make out a little black speck that seemed to be in motion towards me. I thought at first it was a seal, but fortunately, and turned out to be Jorgen Stuberhoud, with six dogs in the sled. This was quite encouraging. In the first place, I should get rid of my unmanageable burden, and in the second, I might expect to get on faster. Stuberhoud's team consisted, however, of four intractable puppies besides Puss and another coarser of similar breed. The result was that our pace was a modest one and our course anything but straight, so that we arrived at Framheim two hours after the time appointed for dinner. Those who know anything of Master Lindstrom and his disposition will easily be able from this explanation to form an idea of his state of mind at the moment when we entered the door. Yes, he was undoubtedly angry, but we were at least equally hungry, and if anything can soften the heart of a Norwegian caterer, it is a ravenous appetite and those he has to feed provided, of course, that he have enough to offer them. And Lindstrom's supplies were practically unlimited. I remember that dinner well. At the same table, eight of us had sat for so many months, there were now only three left, Johansson, Stuberhoud, and I. We had more room, it is true, but that gain was a poor satisfaction. We missed those who had gone very badly and our thoughts were always following them. The first thing we discussed on this occasion was how many miles they might be expected to do that day, nor was this the last dispute we had on the same theme. During the weeks and months that followed, it was constantly to the fore and gave plenty of material for conversation when we had exhausted our own concerns. As regards these ladders, my instructions were, one, to go to King Edward VII land and there carry out what exploration time and circumstances might permit. Two, to survey and map the Bay of Whales and its immediate surroundings. Three, as far as possible to keep the station at Franheim in order, in case we might have to spend another winter there. As regards time, my orders were to be back at Franheim before we could reasonably expect the arrival of the Fram. This was and would necessarily remain somewhat uncertain. No doubt we all had a great idea of the Fram's capability for keeping time and Lieutenant Nielsen had announced his intention of being back by Christmas or the New Year, but nevertheless years, a long time, and there were many miles in a trip around the world. If we assumed that no mishap had occurred to the Fram and that she had left Buenos Aires at the time fixed in the plan, October 1, 1911, she would in all probability be able to arrive at the Bay of Whales around the middle of January, 1912. On the basis of this calculation, we decided, if possible, to get this led journey to King Edward's land then before Christmas while the surveying work around the Bay would have to be postponed to the first half of January, 1912. I thought, however, seeing the advantages of working while the Bay was still frozen over, that it would pay to devote a few days immediately following the departure of the Southern Party to the preparatory work of measuring, but this did not pay at all. We had reckoned without the weather and in consequences were well taken in. When one thinks that over afterwards, it seems reasonable enough that the final victory of mild weather over the remains of the Antarctic winter cannot be accomplished without serious disturbances of the atmospheric conditions. The expulsion of one evil has to be affected by the help of another and the weather was bad with the vengeance. During the two weeks that followed October at 20, there were only three or four days that offered any chance of working with the theodolite and plane table. We managed to get a baseline measured 1,000 meters long and to lay out the greater part of the east side of the Bay as well as the most prominent points around the camp, but one had positively to snatch one's opportunities by stealth and every excursion ended regularly in bringing the instruments home well covered with snow. If the bad weather thus put hindrances in the way of the work we were anxious to do, it made up for it by providing us with a lot of extra work which we could very well have done without. There was incessant shoveling of snow to keep any sort of passage open to the four dog tents that were so outstanding as well as to our own underground dwelling over which the snow covering had been growing constantly higher. The fairly high wall that we had originally built on the east side of the entrance door was now entirely buried in the snow drift. It had given us good protection. Now the drift had unimpeded access and the opening like the descent into a cellar that led down to the door was filled up in the course of a few hours when the wind was in the right quarter. Winston shook his head when we sometimes asked him how we would get on by himself if the weather continued in this way. So long as there's nothing but snow in the way, I'll manage to get out, said he. One day he came and told us that he could no longer get it to coal and on further investigation it looked rather difficult. The roof of the place where the coal was stored had yielded to the pressure of the mass of snow and the whole edifice had collapsed. There was nothing to be done but to set to work at once and after a great deal of hard labor we got the remainder of the precious fuel moved into the long snow tunnel that led from the house to the coal store. With that our black diamonds were in safety for the time being. This job made us about as black as the diamonds. When we came in the cook as it happened had just been doing a big wash on his own account a comparatively rare event and it was surprised on both sides. The cook was as much taken aback at seeing us so black as we were at seeing him so clean. All the snow shoveling that resulted from the continued bad weather in conjunction with the necessary preparations for the sled journey gave us plenty of occupation but I will venture to say that none of us would care to go through those days again. We were delayed in our real work and delay which is unpleasant enough under any circumstances was all the more unwelcome down here where time is so precious. As we only had two sledges on which to transport supplies for three men and 16 dogs besides all our outfit and as on the journey back we would have no depots to fall back on the duration of the journey could not be much extended beyond six weeks. In order to be back again by Christmas we had therefore to leave before the middle of November. It would do no harm however to be off before this and as soon as November arrived we took the first opportunity of disappearing. On account of getting on the right course we preferred that the start should take place in clear weather. The fact was that we were obliged to go around by the depot at 80 South as King Edward Land lies to the east or rather northeast of Franheim. This was a considerable detour. It had to be made because in September we had left at this depot all the packed sledging provisions a great deal of our personal equipment and finally some of the necessary instruments. On the way to the depot about 30 geographical miles south of Framheim we had the nasty crevasse surface that had been met with for the first time on the third depot journey in the autumn of 1911 in the month of April. At that time we came upon it all together unawares and it was somewhat remarkable that we escaped from it with the loss of two dogs. This broken surface lay in a depression about a mile to the west of the route originally marked out but however it may have been it seems ever since that time to have exercised an irresistible attraction. On our first attempt to go south in September 1911 we came right into the middle of it in spite of the fact that it was then perfectly clear. I afterwards heard that in spite of all their efforts the southern party on their last trip landed in this dangerous region and that one man had a very narrow escape of falling in with dogs and sledge. I had no wish to expose myself to the risk of such accidents at any rate while we were on familiar ground. This would have been a bad beginning to my first independent piece of work as a polar explorer. A day or two of fine weather to begin with would enable us to follow the line originally marked out and thus keep safe ground under our feet until the ugly place was passed. In the opening days of November the weather continued to improve somewhat. In any case there was not the continual driving snow. Lindstrom asked us before we left to bring up a sufficient quantity of seals to save him that work as long as possible. The supply we had had during the winter was almost exhausted. There was only a certain amount of blubber left. We thought it only fair to accede to his waste as it is an awkward business to transport those heavy beasts alone, especially when one has only a pack of unbroken puppies to drive. We afterwards heard that Lindstrom had some amusing experiences with him during the time he was left alone. Leaving the transport out of the question, this seal hunting is a very tame sport. An old arctic hand or an eskimo would certainly be astounded to see the plastic column with which the Antarctic seal allows itself to be shot and cut up. To them Antarctica would appear as a fairy land made real, a land flowing with milk and honey where seas are to be found in quantities and the difficulty of getting at them is reduced to nil. The fact is that these animals have once for all acquired the conviction that they are beyond the reach of any danger so long as they keep on land or on the ice. There they have never been attacked and they are quite incapable of grasping the possibility of attack. Their natural enemies are in the water and these enemies are not to be trifled with. That can clearly be seen from the gaping wounds that are often found on the seals' bodies. To avoid the attacks of these enemies, the seals have only to get to the ice where for generations they have been accustomed to bask in the sun undisturbed without other neighbors than to them perfectly harmless penguins and scua gulls. The sudden appearance of a man on the scene will therefore at first have very little effect on an Antarctic seal. One can go right up to it without it's doing anything but stirring with eyes that reflect a perfectly hopeless failure to comprehend the seriousness of the situation. It is only when one touches them with a ski pole or something of the sort that they begin to fear danger. If the stirring up has continued in a rather more pointed fashion, the seal soon shows the most manifest signs of terror. It groans, roars, and at the same time makes an attempt to get away from its unwelcome visitor but it seldom removes itself many yards at a time for the motions of seals are just as clumsy and slow on land as they are active and swift in the water. When it is crawled with great pains to a little distance, there is no sign that the interruption has made any lasting impression on it. It looks more as if it took it all in as an unpleasant dream or nightmare which would then be best to sweep off as soon as possible. If one shoots a single seal, this may happen without those lying around so much as raising their heads. Indeed, we could open and cut up a seal right before the noses of its companions without this making the slightest impression on them. At the beginning of November, the seals begin to have their young. As far as we could make out, the females kept out of water for several days without taking any food until the young one was big enough to be able to go to sea. Otherwise it did not seem that the mothers cared very much for their little ones. Some, it is true, made some sort of attempt to protect their offspring if they were disturbed, but the majority simply left their young ones in the lurch. As far as we were concerned, we left the females and their young as much as possible in peace. We killed two or three newborn seals to get their skins for our collection. It was another matter for the dogs. With them, seal hunting was far too favorite to sport for the opportunity to be neglected. Against a full grown seal, however, they could do nothing. Its body offered no particularly vulnerable spots and the thick, tight-fitting skin was too much even for the dog's teeth. Yet most the rascals could accomplish was to annoy and torment the object of their attack. It was quite another matter when the young ones began to arrive. Among this small gain, the enterprising hunters could easily satisfy their inborn craving for murder for the scoundrels killed only for the sake of killing. They were not at all hungry as they had as much food as they liked. Of course, we did all we could to put a stop to this state of things. And as long as there were several of us at the hut, we saw that the whole pack was tied up. But when Lindstrom was left by himself, he could not manage to hold them fast. His tents were altogether snowed under in the weather that prevailed on the seaboard in December. There were not many dogs left in his charge, but I am afraid those few wrought great havoc among the young seals out in the ice of the bay. The foremothers could hardly have done anything against a lot of dogs, even if they had been more courageous. Their enemies were too active. For them, it was the work of a moment to snatch the young one from the side of its mother and then they were able to take the poor thing's life undisturbed. Unfortunately, there were no seal efforts in the neighborhood of Farnheim. These, which are far quicker in their movements than the Wendell seal and are moreover furnished with a formidable set of teeth would certainly have made the four-footed seal hunters more careful in their behavior. After we had brought up to the house enough seal carcasses to keep the 10 or 12 dogs that would be left supplied for a good while and had cut up a sufficient quantity for our own use on the way to 80 South, we took the first opportunity of getting away. Before I pass on to give an account of our trip, I wish to say a few words about my companions, Johansson and Stuberhood. It goes without saying that it gave me, as a beginner, a great feeling of security to have with me such a man as Johansson, who possessed many years' experience of all that pertains to sludging expeditions. And as regards Stuberhood, I could not have wished for a better traveling companion than him, either a first-rate fellow, steady and efficient in word and deed. As it turns out, we were not to encounter very many difficulties, but one never escaped scot-free on a sludge journey in these regions. I owe my comrades thanks for the way in which they both did their best to smooth our path. Johansson and Stuberhood drove their dog teams. I myself acted as forerunner. The drivers had seven dogs apiece. We took so many because we were not quite sure of what the animals we had were fit for. As was right and proper, the Southern Party had picked out the best. Among those at our disposal, there were several that had previously shown signs of being rather quickly tired. True, this happened under very severe conditions. As it turns out, our dogs exceeded all our expectations in the easier conditions of work that prevailed during the summer. On the first part of the way, as far as the depot in 80 South, the loads were quite modest. Besides the tent, the sleeping bags, our personal outfit and instruments, we had only provisions for eight days seal flesh for the dogs and tin food for ourselves. Our real supplies were to be taken from the depot where there was enough of everything. On November 8th, we left Franheim where in future Lindstrom was to reside as monarch of all he surveyed. The weather was as fine as could be waste. I was out with a cinematograph apparatus in order if possible to immortalize the start. To complete the series of pictures, Lindstrom was to take the forerunner, who was now, be it said, a good deal behind those he was supposed to be leading. With all possible emphasis, I enjoined Lindstrom only to give the crank five or six turns and then started out to catch up with the drivers. When I had nearly reached the provision store, I pulled out struck by a sudden apprehension. Yes, I was right. On looking back, I discovered that incorrigible person was still hard at work with the crank as though he were going to be paid a pound for every yard of film showing the back view of the forerunner. By making threatening gestures with a ski pole, I stopped the two persistent cinematograph and then went on to join Stuberud, who was only a few yards ahead. Johansson had disappeared like a meteor. The last I saw of him was the soles of his shoes as he quite unexpectedly made an elegant backward somersault off the sledge when it was passing over a little unevenness by the provision store. The dogs, of course, made off at full speed and Johansson was after them like the wind. We all met again safe and sound at the ascent to the barrier. Here a proper order of march was formed and we proceeded southward. The barrier greeted us with a fresh south wind that now and then made an attempt to freeze the tip of one's nose. It did not succeed in this, but it delayed us a little. It does not take a great deal of wind on this level plane to diminish the rate of one's progress. But the sun shone too gaily that day to allow the trifle of wind to interfere very much with our enjoyment of life. The surface was so firm that there was hardly any sign of drift snow. As it was perfectly clear, the marked flags could be followed the whole time, thus assuring us that at any rate, the first day's march would be accomplished without any deviation from the right track. At five o'clock we camped and when we had fed the dogs and come into the tent, we could feel how much easier and pleasanter everything was at this season than on the former journeys in autumn and spring. We could move freely in a convenient costume if we wished there was nothing to prevent or performing all the work of the camp with bare hands and still preserving our fingertips unharmed. As I had no dog team to look after, I undertook the duty of attending to our own needs, that is to say, I acted as cook. This occupation was also considerably easier now than it had been when the temperature was below minus 60 degrees Fahrenheit. At that time it took half an hour to turn the snow and the cooker into water. Now it was done in 10 minutes and the cook ran no risk whatsoever of getting his fingers frozen in the process. Ever since we landed on the barrier in January, 1911, we had been expecting to hear a violin tanninade as the result of the movement of the mass of ice. We had now lived a whole winter at Franheim without having observed, as far as I know, the slightest sign of a sound. This was one of many indications that the ice around our winter quarters was not in motion at all. No one, I believe, had noticed anything of the expected noise on the sled journeys either, but at the place where we camped on the night of November 8th, we did hear it. There was a report about once in two minutes, not exactly loud, but still there it was. It sounded just as if there was a whole battery of small guns and action down in the depths below us. A few hundred yards to the west of the camp, there were a number of small hummocks which might indicate the presence of crevasses, but otherwise the surface looked safe enough. The small guns kept up a lively crackle all through the night and combined with a great deal of uproar among the dogs to shorten our sleep. But the first night of a sludge journey is almost always a bad one. Stuberud declared he could not close his eyes on account of that filthy row. He probably expected the ice to open and swallow him every time he heard it. The surface, however, held securely and returned out to the finest day one could wish to see. It did not require any very great strength of mind to get out of one sleeping bag now. The stockings that had been hung up in the evening could be put on again as dry as bone the sun had seen to that. Our ski boots were as soft as ever if there was not a sign of frost on them. It is quite curious to see the behavior of the dogs when the first head appears through the tent door in the morning. They greet their Lord and Master with the most unmistakable signs of joy, although, of course, they must know that his arrival will be followed by many hours of toil with perhaps a few doses of the whip thrown in. But from the moment he begins to handle the sludge, the dogs look as if they had no desire in the world but to get into the harness as soon as possible and start away. On days like this, their troubles would be few. With the light load and good going, we had no difficulty in covering 19 geographical miles in eight hours. Johansson's team was on my heels the whole time and Stuber-Rood's animals followed faithfully behind. From time to time, we saw sludge tracks quite plainly. We also kept the marked flags inside all day. In the temperatures we now had to deal with, our costume was comparatively light, certainly most lighter than most people imagine, for there is a kind of summer, even in Antarctica, even though the daily reading of the thermometer at this season would perhaps rather remind our friends at home of what they are accustomed to regard as winter. An undertaking of sludge journey, down there in autumn or spring, the most extraordinary precautions have to be taken to protect oneself against the cold. Skint clothing is then the only thing that is of any use, but at this time of year, when the sun is above the horizon for the whole 24 hours, one can go for a long time without being more heavily clad than a lumberman working in the woods. During the march, our clothing was usually the following. Two sets of woolen underwear, of which that nearest the skin was quite thin. Outside the shirt, we wore either an ordinary waistcoat or a comparatively light knitted woolen jersey. Outside, all that came our excellent Burberry clothes, trousers, and jacket. When it was calm with full sunshine, the Burberry jacket was too warm, we could then go all day in our shirt sleeves to be provided for emergencies. We all had our thinnest reindeer skin clothes with us, but so far as I know, these were never used except as pillows or mattresses. The subject of sleeping bags has no doubt been thoroughly threshed out on every polar expedition. I do not know how many times we discussed this question, nor can I remember the number of more or less successful patents that were the fruit of these discussions. In any case, one thing is certain that the inheritance of one man bags were in an overwhelming majority and no doubt rightly. As regards to man bags, it cannot be denied that they enable their occupants to keep warm longer, but it is always difficult to find room for two big men in one sack. And if the sack is to be used for sleeping in and one of the big men takes the snoring in the other's ears, the situation may become quite unendurable. And the temperatures we had on the summer journeys, there was no difficulty in keeping warm enough with the one man bags and they were used by all of us. On the first southern journey in September, Johansson and I used a double bag between us and the intense cold that prevailed at the time we managed to get through the night without freezing. But if the weather is so cold that one cannot keep warm in one's body and good roomy one man bags, then it is all together unfit for sledging journeys. November 10th, immediately after the start this morning, we tried how we could get on without a forerunner. As long as we were in the line of flags, this answered very well. The dogs galloped from one flag to another while I was able to adopt the easy method of holding on to stuberage sledge. About midday, we were abreast of the depression already mentioned where on the third depot journey last item we ran into a regular net of crevasses. This time we were aware of the danger and kept to the left, but at the last moment, the leading team ran out to the wrong side and we cut across the eastern part of the dangerous zone. Fortunately, it was taken at full gallop. It is quite possible that I inwardly waste we were all a few pounds lighter as our little caravan raced across those thin snow bridges through which could be seen the blue color of the ugly gulfs below. But after the lapse of a few long minutes, we could congratulate ourselves on getting over with our full numbers. Not for anything when I have gone that mile without ski on my feet, it would practically have been following in and going out. It is perhaps saying a great deal to claim that with ski on, one is absolutely secured against the dangers of these crevasses present. If misfortunes are abroad, anything may happen, but it would require a very considerable amount of bad luck for man and ski to fall through. November 11, and weather like this going on the march is like going to a dance. Tent, sweeping bags and clothes keep soft and dry as a bone. The thermometer is about four degrees Fahrenheit. A fellow man suddenly put down in our midst from civilized surroundings would possibly shake his head at so many degrees of frost, but it must be remembered that we have long ago abandoned the ordinary ideas of civilized people as to what is it, indurable in the way of temperature. We are enthusiastic about the spring-like weather, especially when we remember what it was like down here two months ago, when the temperature showed minus 76 degrees Fahrenheit, and the rhyme hung an inch thick inside the tent, ready to drop on everything and everybody at the slightest movement. Now there is no rhyme to be seen. The sun clears it away. For now there is a sun, not the feeble imitation of one that stuck its red face above the northern horizon in August, but our good old acquaintance of lower latitudes with his wealth of light and warmth. After two hours march, we came in sight at 10 o'clock in the morning of the two snow huts that were built on the last trip. We made straight for them thinking that we might possibly find some trace of the Southern Party. So we did, but in a very different way from what we had expected. We were perhaps about a mile off when all three suddenly halted and stared at the huts. There are men, said Stuberd. At any rate there was something black that moved and after confused thoughts of Japanese Englishmen and the like had passed through our minds, we at last got out the glasses. It was not men, but a dog. Well, the presence of a live dog here, 75 miles up the barrier, was in itself a remarkable thing. It must, of course, be one of the Southern Party's dogs, but how the runaway had kept himself alive all that time was for the present and mystery. On coming to closer quarters, we soon found that it was one of Hansel's dogs, Perry by name. He was a little shy to begin with, but when he heard his name, he quickly understood that we were friends, come on a visit, and no longer hesitated to approach us. He was fat and round and evidently pleased to see us again. The hermit had lived on the lamentable remains of poor Sarah, whom we had been obliged to kill here in September. Sarah's lean and frozen body did not seem particularly adapted for making anyone fat, and yet our newly found friend Perry looks as if he had been feasting for weeks. Possibly he had begun by devouring Neptune, another of his companions, who had also given the Southern Party the slip on the way to the depot in A.D. South. However, this may be, Perry's rescuer came to an abrupt conclusion. Stuber took him and put him in his team. We had thought of reaching the depot before the close of day, and this we could easily have done if the good going had continued. But during the afternoon, the surface became so loose that the dog sank in up to their chests, and when at about six in the evening, the sledge meter showed 21 geographical miles. The animals were so down up that it was no use of going on. At 11 o'clock the next morning, November 12th, we reached the depot. Captain Amason had promised to leave a brief report when the Southern Party left there, and the first thing we did on arrival was, of course, to search for the document and the place agreed upon. There were not many words in the little slip of paper, but they gave us the welcome and the tolerance all well so far. We had expected that the Southern Party's dogs would have finished the greater part, if not the whole, of the seal meat that was laid down here in April, but fortunately this was not the case. There was a great quantity left so that we could give our own dogs a hearty feed with easy conscience. They had it too, and there was no trifling amount that they got through. The four days taught from Franheim had been enough to produce an unusual appetite. There was a puppy in Johansson's team that was exposed for the first time in his life to the fatigues of a sledge journey. This was a plucky little chap that went by the name of Lillagot. The sudden change from short commons to abundance was too much for his small stomach and the poor puppy lay shrieking in the snow most of the afternoon. We also looked after ourselves that day and had a good meal of fresh seal meat. After that we supplied ourselves from the large stores that lay here with the necessary provisions for the sledge journey of five weeks. Three cases of dog spemican, one case of men's spemican containing 90 rations, 20 pounds of dried milk, 55 pounds of oatmeal biscuits, and three tins of molded milk besides instruments, alpine rope, and clothing. The necessary quantity of chocolate had been brought with us from Franheim as there was none of this to spare out in the field. Our stock of paraffin was six gallons divided between two tanks, one on each sledge. Our cooking outfit was exactly the same as that used by the Southern Party. The instruments we carried were a theodolite, a hypsometer, two anorides, one of which was no longer than an ordinary watch, two thermometers, one chromometer watch, one ordinary watch, and one photographic camera, Kodak three by three inches, adapted for using either plates or films. We had three spools of film and one dozen plates. Our medical outfit was exceedingly simple and consisted of nothing but a box of laxity pills, three small rolls of gauze bandage, and a small pair of scissors, which also did duty for beard cutting. Both pills and gauze were untouched when we returned. It may therefore be safely said that our state of health during the journey was excellent. While the drivers were packing and lashing their loads, which now weighed nearly 600 pounds, I wrote a report to the chief and took an azimuth observation to discover the direction of our course. According to our instructions, we should really have taken a northeasterly course from here, but as our dog seemed to be capable of more and better work than we had expected, and as there was believed to be a possibility that bare land was to be found due east to the spot where we were, it was decided to make an attempt in that direction. Our old enemy, the fog had made its appearance in the course of the night and now hung gray and disgusting under the sky when we broke camp at the depot on the morning of November 13. However, it was not so bad as to prevent our following the flags that marked the depot on the east. My duty as forerunner was immediately found to be considerably lighter than before. With greatly increased weight behind them, the dogs had all they could do to follow if I went at an ordinary walking pace. At 11 a.m., we passed the easternmost flag at five geographical miles from the depot, and then we found ourselves on untrodden ground. A light southerly breeze appeared very opportunely and swept away the fog. The sun again shed its light over the barrier, which lay before us shining in level as we had been accustomed to see it. There was, however, one difference. With every mile we covered, there was the possibility of seeing something new. The going was excellent, although the surface was rather looser than one could have wished. The ski flew over it finally, of course, while the dog feet and sled runners sank in. I hope I shall never have to go here without ski that would be a terrible punishment, but with ski on one's feet and in such weather it was pure enjoyment. Meanwhile, the new sites we expected were slow and coming. We marched for four days due east without seeing a sign of change in the ground. There was the same undulating surface that we knew so well from previous expeditions. The readings of the hypsometer gave practically the same result day after day. The ascent we were looking for failed to appear. Stuberer, who for the first day or two after leaving the depot, had been constantly stretching himself on tiptoe and looking out for the mountaintop, finally gave in as his heartfelt conviction that this King Edward's land we were hunting for was only a confounded flyaway land which had nothing to do with reality. We others were not yet quite paired. I share this view for my part in any case. I was loath to give up the theory that assumed a southward continuation of King Edward's land along the 158th meridian. This theory had acquired a certain force during the winter and was mainly supported by the fact that on the second depot journey we had seen between the 81st and 82nd Farallels, some big pressure ridges which suggested the presence of bare land in a south easterly direction. End of section 30.