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258 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 1912
Victory awaits him who has everything in order—luck, people call it. Defeat is certain for him who has neglected to the necessary precautions in time; this is called bad luck.The heroic age of polar exploration is defined by ambition, privation, bad luck compounded by bad planning, sometimes eating shoe leather, cannibalism, or worse, death, and hubris…lots of hubris. For those interested in these stories, hardship, tragedy and the quest to overcome the elements in pursuit of geographic glory tend to translate into more interesting stories. Names like John Franklin, Horace Greeley, S.A. Andrée and, to some extent, Fridtjof Nansen and Ernest Shackleton still resonate because they are associated with great sacrifices, incredible feats of accomplishment and heroic failures. The notable exceptions to the rule were the multiple expeditions of William Parry and Roald Amundsen. Parry, whose ship-based wintering in the Canadian Arctic was relatively trouble free as he established long-held records in the early 19th century of furthest west and north in the Northwest Passage, lacked the ability to promote himself. Being a good soldier in service of his country was quite enough for him. He was no Robert Scott who, along with his companions died a glorious death on their return as runners-up in the race to the South Pole. Nor was Amundsen, whose successful 1903-06 expedition to conquer the Northwest Passage while spending two winters beset by ice as he learned how to live successfully in polar regions learning from his Inuit hosts. His expedition accomplished the first-ever navigation of the Northwest Passage. As Roland Huntford made clear in his brilliant comparative biography, much of Scott's mystique is built on propagandistic editing of his story and, ironically, rests in large part on the fact that Amundsen, the winner, made it look too easy, an unforgivable sin for Edwardians who wanted to believe a heroic story, regardless if it is was honest and truthful. And while Amundsen’s account certainly was churned out quickly—it was published before Scott’s fate was known—it is an astonishingly honest, matter-of-fact account that would still provide relevant lessons for any modern-day amateur trekker or professional explorer.
Lieutenant Gjertsen, who had a pronounced aptitude both for drawing teeth and amputating legs, went through a “lightening course” at the hospital and the dental hospital. He clearly showed that much may be learnt in a short time by giving one’s mind to it. With surprising rapidity and apparent confidence Lieutenant Gjertsen disposed of the most complicated cases—whether invariably to the patient’s advantage is another question, which I shall leave undecided. He drew teeth with a dexterity that strongly reminded one of the conjurer’s art; one moment he showed an empty pair of forceps, the next there was a big molar in their grip. The yells one heard while the operation was in progress seemed to indicate that it was not entirely painless.He had a shelter made that would serve as the base on the Barrier for the nine of the shore party. It was put together while still in Norway, taken apart with each piece numbered, and then rebuilt on the Barrier. In addition to the dogs and sledges, the most important equipment was a relatively new Norwegian invention, skis, or as the plural was used then, ski. Previous British expeditions had tried ski, but lack of familiarity, training and a penchant to glorify the “nobility” of man-hauling all added up to a willful, sometimes deadly, ignorance, one that left Amundsen baffled, “However much we may learn from Scott’s and Shackleton’s narratives, it was difficult for us to understand their statements that the use of ski on the Barrier was not a success…we for forced to the opposite conclusion, that ski were the only means to employ.” While Scott and Shackleton trudged along with their men dragging heavy sleds, step-by-step, Amundsen’s team spread the weight out with sledges pulled by dogs and ski that moved along at a gliding pace, with greater speed and more efficient use of precious calories and resources. But Amundsen was not perfect, as he finally admitted in his trek south. For all his preparation, he overlooked the most obvious piece of equipment, “For we may just as well confess it: we had forgotten to bring out a tool which is a commonplace necessity on a Polar expedition—namely, a snow-shovel.” Does it get any funnier?
Our object was to reach the Pole—everything else was secondary.Other than things needed for the survival of his men, everything related to the expedition had a tactical, unsentimental, utilitarian purpose. The dogs were arguably the best example of this mindset. On the one hand, he and his men were devoted to their care, gave each one a name, and were very observant about their habits, temperament and care. For example, as they reached the depot at 82° southward to lay depot, Amundsen expressed regret for how his driven attitude hand affected the dogs, “This is the only dark memory of my stay in the South—the over-taxing of these fine animals—I had asked more of them than they were capable of doing.” Based on the reports of Scott’s and Shackleton’s expeditions, Amundsen inferred they would reach a mountain range that would have to be navigated to get up to the plateau where the pole was located. A part of the plan was to kill and butcher many of the dogs once they reached the plateau. Otherwise they would have had too many dogs for the final push and the journey back to Framheim. Fresh meat also meant there would be fresh food for men and the remaining dogs—who would eat every part of their former comrades, teeth included—to stave off scurvy. It is a bit disconcerting to read about their admiration of the dogs, to admire their sadness about unexpected deaths, mostly from the sense of duty even as their bodies were failing, and then note, “…but the thought of fresh dog cutlets that awaited us when we got to the top made our mouths water.” But not all were deserving of respect. When, on the return from the pole, one of the dogs, Svartflekken, broke down on the return from the pole, a characteristically honest Amundsen admits the dog was a “[b]ad character. If a man, he would have ended up in penal servitude.” The dog “was comparatively fat, and was consumed with evident satisfaction.”