Read Ice Ship: The Epic Voyages of the Polar Adventurer Fram Online
Authors: Charles W. Johnson
Ice Ship: The Epic Voyages of the Polar Adventurer Fram (23 page)
It was ten o’clock when we first caught sight of the herd, and by eleven the misdeed was finished. How distressed I felt, as I stood there, looking on, that we should be obliged to do such a thing! I would rather hang a criminal, if such a thing fell to my lot, than shoot down a herd of defenseless animals, which had set themselves up as targets. . . . So, then, all the giants and defenders of the herd were fallen, and lay bleeding, with bursting eyes, in a steaming pool of blood; only a couple of young animals and five calves were left standing inside the square, which before had been so strong. They stood, trembling with fear, gazing at us out of their deep dark eyes. It was not so horrible at first, when the big bulls out in the square made their furious attacks on their assailants; but as they were shot down one by one, and only the young animals and calves were left standing alone in the middle of it, it was a dreadful sight to look on at. Round about them lay in heaps their friends and kin, while the blood spurted steaming from their gaping wounds. The nearest of the fallen animals lay so close up to the survivors that the latter could hardly move. Terror was plainly written in their beautiful beseeching eyes, and every limb shook with fear, but to attempt to flee from their comrades—no; rather would they fall. There lay 20 animals in a heap—horrible riches that we had acquired all in a few minutes.
The unnamed place became, unsurprisingly, “Musk-ox Fjord.” They shot and butchered so many animals there that, in addition to what they hauled back, they had to leave a huge, stacked-up pile of meat to be retrieved later, a “meatberg” Sverdrup called it. When all was said and done, from this and other hunting in the summer and fall, they had accumulated over a ton and a half of beef (ox, bear, walrus, and seal), more than one hundred hares, and a great variety of birds (ptarmigan, eider ducks, gulls, black guillemots, and others). “Almost a disconcerting supply of fresh food it was, and quite enough for the whole winter.”
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In the perpetual gloaming of November, through more challenging weather, over several trips they brought the meatberg load by load to the ship. When they and others returned from their outings, they joined those on board to continue preparations for winter and for the spring sledging trips to follow. The routines were now familiar. Sort and stock the incoming food. Cover the skylights with sailcloth and insulate them and the decks above the living spaces with piled-up snow. Make igloo kennels for the dogs out on the ice near the ship. Also on the ice build a blacksmith shop. Fix, and improve, the sledges. Tailor new clothes and camping equipment from hides and cloth. Experiment with innovations to make life easier, such as Olsen’s bicycle-wheel odometer for the sledges or quicker-to-heat cooking pots. Always, too, tend to needs of the
Fram
itself.
Amid all the activity, at times they would come to a standstill, awestruck by the unearthly, ungodly world in which they found themselves. Sverdrup wrote in
New Land
,
In the midst of all this work we did not forget the beauty of the Arctic night, which unfolded itself in all its most enchanting splendor just at this time, when the moon was at its full, and shed its glittering brilliance on the scene both night and day. A moonlight night up there in the north is something infatuating. The effects of light and shade are so sharp; the transition from black to white so abrupt while the snow and ice seem twice as white, the clefts and chasms twice as black. Skreia [Island] in particular was very imposing, with its black irregularities and perpendicular walls.
Life went on with its mix of routines and struggles in the dark, cold depths of December, January, and half of February, with the added burden of unexpected long illnesses to Lindstrøm (and a three-month hiatus in his desired cooking) and Simmons, a relapse of Hendriksen’s, and a serious injury to Raanes’s foot. In late February, with the return of the sun—its glowing light if not its full-bodied appearance in the sky and its spiritual uplift if not its bathing warmth—they stirred with the renewed energy and expectation that come with change. The ill ones had mostly healed. The sledging expeditions would soon be underway.
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NEW LAND, NEW DANGERS
O
tto Sverdrup’s plan was straightforward. As soon as feasible, the sledges would take to the ice foot in relays and, using the depots at Boat Fjord and Cape Storm, push westward to the end of Jones Sound, wherever and whatever it was, and then up the coast of Ellesmere. They would keep going as long as conditions permitted. Later, sometime in summer when the sledges could no longer run and the
Fram
was freed from Harbor Fjord, they would move the ship west to be closer to the future sledging activity that fall, into a suitable new winter harbor. By then, if all went well, they would have been able to piece together what the western side of Ellesmere really looked like and possibly reach where George Nares’s mapping of northern Ellesmere left off. After that, they would hustle out of that third winter harbor, before they were caught and forced to spend another one in the ice. Then they would go home.
It was a straightforward plan, yes, but freighted with big
what ifs
. What if they could not get through or around the end of Jones Sound? What if the way north were impassible? What if they could not find enough game to keep them going or restock the
Fram
for next winter? What if the weather or the ice made travel impossible? What if, without a doctor to diagnose illnesses, they lost more men from an already-reduced force? What if the dogs died in an epidemic, as had Robert Peary’s? What if the ice did not relent and free the
Fram
from winter harbor this year, or the next, or ever? Sverdrup weighed all the risks, as he had in Smith Sound. This time, it was not retreat but “gå fram.” Fridtjof Nansen would have been proud.
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The first party of four (Gunnar Isachsen, Edvard Bay, Per Schei, and Rudolf Stolz) left on February 23 to take supplies to the last outpost and continue on to check on conditions further west. However, they found that bears had made a mess at the outpost, tearing the tent to shreds, eating the dog food, and scattering
other supplies hither and yon. Also, bad ice and pressure ridges stopped them, so they returned to the ship.
FIGURE 64
After the second winter. Sitting, from left: Hendriksen, Nødtvedt, Sverdrup, Baumann, Bay, Lindstrøm, Isachsen, and Raanes. Standing, from left: Stolz, Olsen, Simmons, Fosheim, and Hassel. Schei probably took the picture; Svendsen and Braskerud by this time had died.
Because the last outpost was such a critical staging area, Sverdrup wanted it guarded continually for the duration of spring sledging, though it meant one less man for the journeys. Amiable Bay volunteered for the job, even though it meant he would be there alone for up to three months. They named his new home after the invaders who destroyed it, Bjørnborg (Bear Fort), and he its commandant, in charge of no one but himself. On March 7, Sverdrup, Bay, and Ivar Fosheim left the
Fram
for Bjørnborg and there put up a new tent, stocked it, and made it as comfortable as possible inside with bearskins and cloth. Sverdrup and Fosheim then departed, to see what lay ahead in the west.
The going was tough over pressure ridges, so they stuck mostly to the smoother ice foot (a belt or strip of ice formed between high and low tide line along the shore) until, after about twelve miles, they reached a narrow fjord cutting due north (later named Goose Fjord). They passed a steep-walled, mile-wide isthmus to another fjord (later, Walrus Fjord). Crossing this, they suddenly saw a different scene.
The entire ice-covered sound, pressure ridges and all, was moving west, carried by strong, underlying currents. So they knew they must be close to where Jones Sound pinched down to a strait between Ellesmere and whatever lay to the southwest. In the west, the sky was dark, the so-called water sky, indicating open water. Climbing a rocky slope for a better view, they could see the high-cliff coast of Ellesmere curving north, with a channel between it and land to the southwest, presumably an island or islands just emerging through the fog. In the channel, great jagged slabs of ice tumbled along in the powerful currents, caught, spun, and grinding in whirlpools as they went.
FIGURE 65
Zoologist Edvard Bay looking out from “Bear Fort” at western Jones Sound. He was alone for weeks on end there, guarding against bears and foxes the important food depot for later sledge trips.
This was what they had come to see, the farthest extent of Ellesmere to the west, but it was not exactly what they had hoped for later traveling. The cliffs plunged straight down to the water. The strait, of unknown length, with its swift tidal currents and roiling ice, would be impossible for sledging or boating. Since the mountains inland were impassable, this would be the only way north, sticking to the narrow ice foot pressed up against the cliffs, and praying for better options ahead. They would come to know this passageway in all its fearsomeness and give it a name that, according to Sverdrup, barely did it justice: Hell Gate.
When everyone (except Bay) was back at the ship, plans for the spring sledging trips took shape, in a rather complicated choreography, to transfer supplies
to Bear Fort as support for teams exploring western Jones Sound, Hell Gate, and territory beyond it to the north.
After a week or more of feverish preparation, they all left on schedule, a forerunning support party on March 17 and the others on March 20. In all, nine men departed, with fifty-five dogs pulling nine sledges, each loaded with almost seven hundred pounds of food, clothing, and other necessities. This time only four men stayed behind—cook Adolf Henrik Lindstrøm, the two engineers (Karl Olsen and Jacob Nødtvedt), and botanist Herman Georg Simmons—along with the rest of the dogs. Simmons moved from a berth and work space in the forecabin to ones in the aft, so all would be in one place and the forecabin would not have to be heated—and the poor lone scientist would have more companionship than just his books and herbarium of pressed, dried plants.
Flying along when they had good ice, picking their way through the bad, the main sledgers made the seventy-five miles to Bear Fort in two days, arriving in the early morning when the commandant and support party were still sleeping. The next day, after redistributing the supplies and enjoying an evening of good feast and company, the parties took off for the west, leaving Bay once again on his own. They passed Goose Fjord and stopped at the next to hunt walruses (hence its name, Walrus Fjord), where they camped and ate their fill of the fresh meat, stuffing the rest among the shore-side rocks as a makeshift, intermediate depot (and “a bait for bears”). With their bellies packed, men and dogs went on the next day, toward Hell Gate.
As they feared, it was tough going there, so much so that Sverdrup thought of giving up. Hell Gate was a chaotic jumble of ice pressed right against sheer cliffs. Above them, there was only a narrow ice foot, while seaward the waters sped by, churning and whirling with chunks of ice. The only possible way north was along the ice foot. To get to it they had to cut through the pressure ice with picks and spades. In places the ice foot itself had been swept away by landslides or covered with snow slides, so again they hacked and shoveled to clear a path. At critical bottlenecks or precipices they had to unhitch the dogs and haul the heavy loads themselves. At one point a sledge broke loose and slid down the icy slope to the water’s edge, where, by good fortune, it lodged instead of careening off into the water. To retrieve it, they belayed a man down to the sledge and item by essential item hauled the goods up, then the sledge, and then the man.
Luck also played a part. Once, during the rare stretch when they could speed along, a team of six dogs, sledge, and driver disappeared into a twelve-foot deep
hole concealed by snow. Two other teams, right on its heels, took the plunge, so now eighteen dogs, three sledges, and three drivers were all heaped on each other, buried by the resulting cave-in of snow. When dug out by the others, all men and dogs were uninjured, miraculously, and all sledges intact.
FIGURE 66
Harbor Fjord, May 27, 1900. Fire! While many of the men were away on sledging trips, the
Fram
caught fire from flying stove sparks and was almost engulfed before it was put out with buckets of water drawn from springtime pools next to the ship. Fire, not ice, was almost its undoing. This is a later painted rendition by Otto Sinding, as everyone was too busy putting out the fire to take pictures.
Much to their relief, Hell Gate eventually widened, with currents diminishing, and they were able to move down from the ice foot to the smoother sea ice to keep going north. By evening they had come to what they named “Land’s End,” where the coast of Ellesmere turned northeastward. Across Hell Gate, the land (a presumed island) veered off to the west. Before them spread a wide and open bay, with floes, bergs, polynias (open patches), and islands in the distance. Just beyond Land’s End they camped for the night, at newly named “Fourth Camp,” and continued the next morning. It was now March 27, a week after they left the
Fram
.
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May 27, a day of soaking mist and raining needles of ice and slow but steady progress for the travelers, would be quite different for those on the
Fram
. Theirs was one of smoke and fire and panic and near catastrophe.
It was noon. Simmons was walking topside, “deep in thought,” when he noticed the big canvas awning over the deck was smoldering, apparently set by sparks from the galley stovepipe. The other eight men on board (the supply party
had returned by then), rushing up to his alarm, arrived as the furled mainsail burst into flames. Just as quickly the fire sped down through the awning to the deck, to a stack of dry wood and fifteen kayaks, whose skins had been waterproofed with highly flammable paraffin. The kayaks caught fire, engulfed in a billowing cloud of smoke. The fire spread up the mainmast, burning the rope running tackle as it went. The deck became hotter and hotter. On deck not far from the fire were cases of gunpowder and a fifty-gallon tank of fuel alcohol. If the flames reached these, they would explode and destroy the
Fram
in one great cataclysm. The men were able to drag the powder cases to safety but could not reach the tank of fuel. Fortunately, it was spring and pools of water had formed around the ship from which the men feverishly scooped bucket after bucket, passed them up, and threw them, “hissing and steaming,” on the deck.
They managed to extinguish the fire within half an hour. Despite the intense heat, the fuel tank had held, though the sides had buckled. Among the losses were all the kayaks, many skis, lumber, the main boom and gaff, the mainsail, its running rigging and some blocks, and many prepared skins of musk ox and polar bear. All these could be replaced or repaired, thanks to the well-stocked supplies, and most important, the hull, decks, and mainmast had escaped serious damage. In a few words in
New Land
, Sverdrup summarized their relief: “The
Fram
, our only bit of Norway up there in all that solitude, was saved.”
All thanks to a cogitating botanist who was just out to get some air, a man used to noticing little things. Could it be in gratitude to him that Sverdrup later named the huge peninsula—bounded by Goose Fjord and Hell Gate all the way to Fourth Camp—“Simmons Peninsula,” where they had been when the fire broke out? It would certainly be recognition well placed, for where would they all be if it were not for Simmons and his discerning eye?