1912 (19 page)

On 19 October, Amundsen and his men left with fifty-two dogs pulling four sledges and enough supplies for sixty days. The conditions were now far warmer than September; typical daily minimum temperatures were reaching a relatively balmy -18° to -12°C—ideal for sledges. Because their runners were made using a metal alloy—confusingly called ‘German silver', despite
it containing no silver—the sledges did not stick to the surface ice. Metal running over ice at these temperatures generates sufficient friction to melt the surface crystals and form a thin film of liquid water, which serves as a lubricant. Too cold and the system falters, as the Cape Crozier effort had found.

Cherry-Garrard, on Scott's team, concluded years later that the most favourable surface for pulling sledges was at -9°C, and they would continue to work reasonably well down to -40°. Colder than this and the water molecules can still form on the surface of the snow crystals, but there are fewer of them and sledging becomes less efficient. Colder still and it is almost impossible. Amundsen was a master in this regard. The Norwegians averaged thirty-seven kilometres a day across the barrier using dogs. They would often cover this impressive distance in just five hours or so, giving the men plenty of time to pitch the tent and rest for the remaining part of the day before the next effort. Boredom was a common complaint.

Amundsen took no longitude sights during the journey, depending instead on a single longitude fix at Framheim and then sticking with latitude observations alone, noting the distances covered each day, courtesy of the sledgeometers. In the early twentieth century there were two schools of thought on how best to navigate off the map in Antarctica. Some, like Scott, felt precise measurements of both latitude and longitude were important if you were to claim a geographical first. But at high latitudes the meridians converge—so much so that a degree of longitude changes drastically across the globe; at the equator it is 111 kilometres, while at 86°S the difference shrinks to just six kilometres and at the pole, of course, it is nothing at all.

In a specially convened session of the RGS in 1910 the British geographer and surveyor Arthur Hinks had argued that it was not always necessary to pay much mind to longitude in southern-polar exploration. Unlike in the Arctic, where moving
sea ice can wreak havoc with bearings, in the south latitude could suffice: all you had to do was to measure the distance covered each day and keep to a bearing. The simplicity of this approach had impressed Amundsen.

Whichever way you decided to reach the pole, you needed a precious book called the
Nautical Almanac
. Amundsen had written to the British Admiralty to find out when it would be available, and was reassured to learn in July 1910 that the ‘almanac for years 1910–1913 inclusive will be ready and be on sale'—and then promptly forgot to take the 1912 issue to Antarctica. Still produced today by the UK Hydrographic Office, this formidable tome is full to the brim with columns of figures describing the angles of the sun and other stars, planets and phases of the moon, for different times of the day, at different latitudes. For Amundsen and his rivals in the south the almanac was a must: because of the round-the-clock summer light, the sun's reported movements were the only way to know precisely where you were.

As we saw with Scott and the mistimed chronometers, the most practical way to use the sun was to observe the time it reached the highest point in the sky, known as local noon, to fix your location on the ground. And for measuring local noon, the simplest method was the sextant: it required little training, only patience and a steady hand. The sextant was traditionally used on ships, but because of the difficulty of getting a clear line of sight on the skyline—for example, in mist or fog—it was often necessary to use an artificial horizon to get an accurate fix. In Antarctica the conditions are exacerbated by the lack of contrast between the snowy surface and the sky.

In 1912 artificial horizons were a small box filled with mercury; in these more enlightened days you have to use water—no use in freezing conditions—or motor oil as a substitute. A clear line of sight of the sun is taken; then the sextant's
index arm is used to measure the sun's angle in the sky, by looking at its reflection in the artificial horizon. To measure as precisely as possible, and to avoid being blinded, a combination of filters removes the worst of the glare and maintains a sharp image. Following this procedure every few minutes allows you to track the rise and fall of the sun across the sky.

Accurate chronometers were essential. Set to Greenwich Mean Time—commonly known today as Universal Mean Time—these watches played an important role in the calculation. The figures in the
Nautical Almanac
, in tandem with the user's notes on the angle and time of the sun at its highest point, allowed the latitude to be fixed to an accuracy of just a few minutes. It was remarkably effective, and far easier than the British-preferred method of setting up a heavy tripod and making the same measurements with a theodolite. But both approaches depended on the sun being visible.

When cloud obscured the sun, preventing sextant readings, compass readings could play an important role. They presented numerous problems at high latitudes but offered benefits to the explorer who knew what he was doing. Thanks to the efforts of David, Mawson and Mackay on Shackleton's
Nimrod
expedition, the position of the South Magnetic Pole was already reasonably well established. By taking the difference in the compass reading from true south, Amundsen could make the compass a valuable tool for following a particular direction during a day's march. Perversely, it meant heading north when going polewards.

As the team relentlessly forged their way across the ice a massive mountain range slowly came into view. It was the same one that in 1909 Shackleton had spotted extending from Victoria Land, but Amundsen and his team had come across it considerably further
southeast. The barrier was not going to rise steadily to the pole, as the Norwegian had originally hoped. Driving onwards they found a glacier that appeared to pour off the plateau, through the mountains—which Amundsen named the Queen Maud Range, in honour of his monarch. He named the ice stream after one of the expedition's major patrons, Axel Heiberg, a Norwegian industrialist, and took his sledges and dogs up it.

As they went they made continual weather observations and mapped the land: peaks, glaciers and ice tongues were discovered and recorded. Amundsen also sketched the skyline. These unpublished pencil drawings of the mountain route are housed in the National Library Archive in Oslo, and are evidence of a man acutely aware that he was exploring new terrain, searching for recognisable features that would bring him and his team safely home.

At 85°S the men still had forty-two dogs and had decided to take all of them up to the plateau. Near the top they killed twenty-four, nicknaming the spot Butcher's Shop, and fed the surviving dogs the meat, storing the leftovers. Scott's troublesome ponies had needed their own feedstock; these dogs could feed on one another.

The Norwegians pushed on, but in the rush the expedition crampons were accidentally left at the site of the slaughter. The omission was not spotted until the team faced crossing an area of heavily crevassed ice that became known as the Devil's Ballroom. Amundsen weighed up whether to go back to retrieve them. It was tempting to return: the crampons would make travelling easier. But the estimated time lost was a price Amundsen was not prepared to pay. They struggled on over the ice as best they could, dogs and men regularly falling into crevasses. Lives were nearly lost in the desperate bid to reach the pole. The travelling eventually became easier, though the temperature was now routinely -20°C.

Now the hypsometer—about which Amundsen had contacted Shackleton's office—came into its own. The Norwegian leader needed to know when he had reached the plateau itself. This piece of kit was invaluable: so important, in fact, that Amundsen took four thermometers in case of breakages. On 6 December, at 88°S, the team took the boiling-point temperature and found they were around 3300 metres above sea level: ‘Are we now on the final high plateau?' Amundsen wrote in his diary. ‘I think so.' They were no longer climbing the Axel Heiberg Glacier and were through the fractured ice—they had reached the Antarctic Plateau.

In polar environments the body quickly becomes dehydrated. Amundsen's men were now frequently complaining of feeling parched during their travels, as well as suffering from headaches and breathlessness brought on by altitude sickness. For the men on the plateau, the effects were exacerbated by the thinner air at that elevation, increasing metabolic and respiration rates. The dry air and increased body temperature in Antarctica means your body sweats more profusely when doing any arduous work; even driving a sledge can become thirsty work. During breaks you have to drink considerable amounts of liquid. And yet eating snow can be fatal: it is not possible to digest enough to meet the body's daily water needs without dangerously lowering its core temperature. Fortunately, the Norwegians had enough fuel to melt snow and drink their fill.

But they were suffering. Three of the men, including Amundsen, had frostbitten faces, with ‘sores, inflammation and scabs all down the left side', while the dogs were becoming increasingly threatening. Amundsen considered them
‘dangerous enemies when one leaves the sledges…although strangely enough they haven't tried anything'.

On 7 December they were getting close and the sun's angle in the sky was becoming ever more critical to their enterprise. It was five days since their last sighting: ‘It took time for “Her Ladyship” to show herself,' Amundsen wrote in his diary. ‘But finally she came, not in all her glory, but modestly and sedate… We took a bearing, we made no mistake, and the result was exactly 88°16'; a wonderful triumph, after a march of 1½° in thick fog and snow drift.' They were close to their goal.

The team passed Shackleton's record furthest south on 8 December. Emboldened, and aided by good weather, the Norwegians reached the pole area just six days later and made camp. It was mid-December, close to the summer solstice. The sun's position in the sky was still increasing slightly, though not obviously to the naked eye. Keen to avoid controversy, Amundsen surveyed the area until he was satisfied they could prove their success. The team was split in two, Amundsen making observations with his sextant over twenty-four hours while another group drove 18.5 kilometres out from where the observations were being made, effectively boxing the pole in. They wanted to avoid the debacle of Cook and Peary in the north, and ensure everyone could testify to the readings made.

Their final latitude was recorded as 89°59'S. Those present countersigned the entry for the day, testifying to the measurements and agreeing they had claimed the South Geographic Pole. Contrary to the Norwegian explorer's diary entry, the men reached the pole on 14 December 1911. Just as Phileas Fogg gained a day during his journey around the world, so Amundsen had crossed the dateline sailing to Antarctica and thus was a day off in his log.

‘It is quite interesting to see the sun wander round the sky at the same height day and night,' Amundsen wrote in his diary
on reaching the pole. ‘I think we are the first to see this strange sight.' Regardless of what he had publicly stated, Amundsen does not seem to have believed that Cook, let alone Peary, had made it to the North Geographic Pole.

The Norwegians erected a tent, which they called Polheim, to mark their visit, and left in it some spare gear and, in anticipation of the imminent British arrival, a short letter to King Haakon. Amundsen requested Scott deliver the latter, in case anything should happen to the Norwegian party on the return journey. The letter, with the dark expedition logo of the
Fram
in the top left-hand corner, is preserved today in the National Library Archive in Oslo.