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Title: Farthest North, Vol. I

Author: Fridtjof Nansen

Contributor: Otto Neumann Sverdrup

Release date: October 7, 2009 [eBook #30197]
Most recently updated: October 24, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FARTHEST
NORTH, VOL. I ***

Farthest North
Being the Record of a Voyage of

Exploration of the Ship “Fram”

1893–96 and of a Fifteen Months’

Sleigh Journey by Dr. Nansen and

Lieut. Johansen

By Dr. Fridtjof Nansen
With an Appendix by Otto Sverdrup Captain of

the Fram

About 120 Full-page and Numerous Text
Illustrations 16 Colored Plates in Facsimile from
Dr. Nansen’s Own Sketches, Etched Portrait,
and Photogravures
In two volumes
Vol. I.
New York and London
Harper & Brothers Publishers

Copyright, 1897, by Harper & Brothers.

All rights reserved.

TO
HER
WHO CHRISTENED THE SHIP
AND
HAD THE COURAGE TO REMAIN BEHIND

Contents of Vol. I.
Chap. Page
I. Introduction 1
II. Preparations and Equipment 54
III. The Start 81
IV. Farewell To Norway 104
V. Voyage Through the Kara Sea 146
VI. The Winter Night 237
VII. The Spring and Summer of 1894 442
VIII. Second Autumn in the Ice 525

Illustrations in Vol. I.
Page.
Fridtjof Nansen Etched Frontispiece
Colin Archer 58
Design of the “Fram” 61
Sigurd Scott-Hansen 85
Adolf Juell 89
The “Fram” leaving Bergen 93
Otto Sverdrup 99
First drift-ice (July 28, 1893) 107
The new church and the old church at Khabarova 116
Peter Henriksen 119
Our trial trip with the dogs 127
Evening scene at Khabarova 131
O. Christofersen and A. Trontheim 135
Landing on Yalmal 148
The plain of Yalmal 150
In the Kara Sea 152
The “Fram” in the Kara Sea 155
Ostrova Kamenni (Rocky Island), off the coast of Siberia 158
Theodor C. Jacobsen, mate of the “Fram” 161
Henrik Blessing 167
A dead bear on Reindeer Island (August 21, 1893) 172
“We first tried to drag the bears” 173
Bernard Nordahl 177
Ivar Mogstad 185
Bernt Bentzen 193
Lars Pettersen 205
Anton Amundsen 213
Cape Chelyuskin, the Northernmost point of the Old World 218
On land East of Cape Chelyuskin (September 10, 1893) 219
A warm corner among the walruses, off East Taimur 223

The ice into which the “Fram” was frozen (September 25, 1893)
234
The smithy on the “Fram” 239
The thermometer house 244
Magnetic observations 247
A smoke in the galley of the “Fram” 250
“The saloon was converted into a reading-room” 252
Scott-Hansen and Johansen inspecting the barometers Facing p.
254
Dr. Blessing in his cabin 257
“I let loose some of the dogs” 263
The men who were afraid of frightening the bear. “Off steals Blessing
on tiptoe” 267
Dogs chained on the ice 272
We lay in open water 275
My first attempt at dog driving 289
A chronometer—observation with the theodolite Facing p. 314
A lively game of cards 318
“‘I took the lantern and gave him such a whack on the head with it’”
330
A nocturnal visitant 336
Sverdrup’s bear-trap (moonlight, December 20, 1893) 339
“He stared, hesitating, at the delicious morsel” 341
Promenade in times of peace with Sverdrup’s patent foot-gear 345
“Fram” fellows on the war-path: difference between the Sverdrup and
the Lapp foot-gear 346
“Fram” fellows still on the war-path 347
“It was strange once more to see the moonlight playing on the coal-
black waves” 351
A game of halma 355
First appearance of the sun 394
Diagrams of ice with layers 401
Johansen reading the anemometer 409
Two friends 418
Experiment in sledge sailing 421
At the coming of the Spring (March, 1894) 425

Returning home after sunset (March 31, 1894) 429
Observing the eclipse of the sun (April 6, 1894) 433
Tailpiece 441
Taking a sounding of 2058 fathoms 447
Home-sickness (June 16, 1894) 451
Sailing on the fresh-water pool (July 12, 1894) 454
Reading temperatures with lens Facing p. 456
Peter Henriksen in a brown study (July 6, 1894) 461
Taking water temperatures 466
Summer guests 469
Rhodos Tethia 473
Nansen takes a walk (July 6, 1894) 477
Our kennels (September 27, 1894) 480
The dogs basking in the sun (June 13, 1894) 482
The Seventeenth-of-May procession, 1894 485
The drift-ice in Summer (July 12, 1894) 487
A Summer scene (July 21, 1894) 493
The stern of the “Fram.” Johansen and “Sultan” (June 16, 1894)
499
Blessing goes off in search of algæ 503
A Summer evening (July 14, 1894) 505
Blessing fishing for algæ 507
Pressure-ridge on the port quarter of the “Fram” (July 1, 1894) 509
Skeletons of a kayak for one man (bamboo) and of a double kayak,
lying on a hand-sledge 511
A Summer evening (July 14, 1894) 519
Tailpiece 524
Pettersen after the explosion 529
Snow-shoe practice (September 28, 1894) 542
Return from a snow-shoe run (September 28, 1894) 544
Block of ice (September 28, 1894) 546
The waning day (October, 1894) 548
A snow-shoe excursion (October, 1894) 553
In line for the photographer 555
Deep-water temperature. “Up with the thermometer” (July 12, 1894)
559

On the after-deck of the “Fram” (October, 1894) 563
The return of snow-shoers Facing p. 566

Colored Plates in Vol. I.
Facing p.
I. Walruses killed off the East coast of the Taimur Peninsula
(September 12, 1893) 220
II. Sleepy and cross (September 12, 1893) 228
III. Sunset off the North coast of Asia, North of the mouth of the
Chatanga (September 12, 1893) 232
IV. Off the edge of the ice.—Gathering storm (September 14, 1893)
290
V. Evening among the drift-ice (September 22, 1893) 304
VI. At sunset (September 22, 1893) 324
VII. The waning polar day (September 22, 1893) 352
VIII. Moonlight (November 22, 1893) 576

Publisher’s Note
The Author had not originally contemplated the publication of the colored
sketches which are produced in this work. He has permitted their
reproduction because they may be useful as showing color effects in the
Arctic; but he wishes it understood that he claims no artistic merit for them.

Farthest North

Chapter I

Introduction
“A time will come in later years when the Ocean will unloose the bands
of things, when the immeasurable earth will lie open, when seafarers
will discover new countries, and Thule will no longer be the extreme
point among the lands.”—Seneca.

Unseen and untrodden under their spotless mantle of ice the rigid polar regions slept the
profound sleep of death from the earliest dawn of time. Wrapped in his white shroud, the
mighty giant stretched his clammy ice-limbs abroad, and dreamed his age-long dreams.

Ages passed—deep was the silence.

Then, in the dawn of history, far away in the south, the awakening spirit of man reared its
head on high and gazed over the earth. To the south it encountered warmth, to the north,
cold; and behind the boundaries of the unknown it placed in imagination the twin
kingdoms of consuming heat and of deadly cold.

But the limits of the unknown had to recede step by step before the ever-increasing
yearning after light and knowledge of the human mind, till they made a stand in the north
at the threshold of Nature’s great Ice Temple of the polar regions with their endless
silence.

Up to this point no insuperable obstacles had opposed the progress of the advancing hosts,
which confidently proceeded on their way. But here the ramparts of ice and the long
darkness of winter brought them to bay. Host after host marched on towards the north,
only to suffer defeat. Fresh ranks stood ever ready to advance over the bodies of their
predecessors. Shrouded in fog lay the mythic land of Nivlheim, where the “Rimturser”1
carried on their wild gambols.

Why did we continually return to the attack? There in the darkness and cold stood
Helheim, where the death-goddess held her sway; there lay Nåstrand, the shore of corpses.
Thither, where no living being could draw breath, thither troop after troop made its way.
To what end? Was it to bring home the dead, as did Hermod when he rode after Baldur?
No! It was simply to satisfy man’s thirst for knowledge. Nowhere, in truth, has knowledge
been purchased at greater cost of privation and suffering. But the spirit of mankind will
never rest till every spot of these regions has been trodden by the foot of man, till every
enigma has been solved.

Minute by minute, degree by degree, we have stolen forward, with painful effort. Slowly
the day has approached; even now we are but in its early dawn; darkness still broods over

vast tracts around the Pole.

Our ancestors, the old Vikings, were the first Arctic voyagers. It has been said that their
expeditions to the frozen sea were of no moment, as they have left no enduring marks
behind them. This, however, is scarcely correct. Just as surely as the whalers of our age, in
their persistent struggles with ice and sea, form our outposts of investigation up in the
north, so were the old Northmen, with Eric the Red, Leif, and others at their head, the
pioneers of the polar expeditions of future generations.

It should be borne in mind that as they were the first ocean navigators, so also were they
the first to combat with the ice. Long before other seafaring nations had ever ventured to
do more than hug the coast lines, our ancestors had traversed the open seas in all
directions, had discovered Iceland and Greenland, and had colonized them. At a later
period they discovered America, and did not shrink from making a straight course over the
Atlantic Ocean, from Greenland to Norway. Many and many a bout must they have had
with the ice along the coasts of Greenland in their open barks, and many a life must have
been lost.

And that which impelled them to undertake these expeditions was not the mere love of
adventure, though that is, indeed, one of the essential traits of our national character. It
was rather the necessity of discovering new countries for the many restless beings that
could find no room in Norway. Furthermore, they were stimulated by a real interest for
knowledge. Othar, who about 890 resided in England at Alfred’s Court, set out on an
errand of geographical investigation; or, as he says himself, “he felt an inspiration and a
desire to learn, to know, and to demonstrate how far the land stretched towards the north,
and if there were any regions inhabited by man northward beyond the desert waste.” He
lived in the northernmost part of Helgeland, probably at Bjarköi, and sailed round the
North Cape and eastward, even to the White Sea.

Adam of Bremen relates of Harald Hårdråde, “the experienced king of the Northmen,”
that he undertook a voyage out into the sea towards the north and “explored the expanse
of the northern ocean with his ships, but darkness spread over the verge where the world
falls away, and he put about barely in time to escape being swallowed in the vast abyss.”
This was Ginnungagap, the abyss at the world’s end. How far he went no one knows, but
at all events he deserves recognition as one of the first of the polar navigators that were
animated by pure love of knowledge. Naturally, these Northmen were not free from the
superstitious ideas about the polar regions prevalent in their times. There, indeed, they
placed their Ginnungagap, their Nivlheim, Helheim, and later on Trollebotn; but even
these mythical and poetical ideas contained so large a kernel of observation that our
fathers may be said to have possessed a remarkably clear conception of the true nature of
things. How soberly and correctly they observed may best be seen a couple of hundred
years later in Kongespeilet (“The Mirror of Kings”), the most scientific treatise of our
ancient literature, where it is said that “as soon as one has traversed the greater part of the

wild sea, one comes upon such a huge quantity of ice that nowhere in the whole world has
the like been known. Some of the ice is so flat that it looks as if it were frozen on the sea
itself; it is from 8 to 10 feet thick, and extends so far out into the sea that it would take a
journey of four or more days to reach the land over it. But this ice lies more to the
northeast or north, beyond the limits of the land, than to the south and southwest or
west....

“This ice is of a wonderful nature. It lies at times quite still, as one would expect, with
openings or large fjords in it; but sometimes its movement is so strong and rapid as to
equal that of a ship running before the wind, and it drifts against the wind as often as with
it.”

This is a conception all the more remarkable when viewed in the light of the crude ideas
entertained by the rest of the world at that period with regard to foreign climes.

The strength of our people now dwindled away, and centuries elapsed before explorers
once more sought the northern seas. Then it was other nations, especially the Dutch and
the English, that led the van. The sober observations of the old Northmen were forgotten,
and in their stead we meet with repeated instances of the attraction of mankind towards
the most fantastic ideas; a tendency of thought that found ample scope in the regions of
the north. When the cold proved not to be absolutely deadly, theories flew to the opposite
extreme, and marvellous were the erroneous ideas that sprang up and have held their own
down to the present day. Over and over again it has been the same—the most natural
explanation of phenomena is the very one that men have most shunned; and, if no middle
course was to be found, they have rushed to the wildest hypothesis. It is only thus that the
belief in an open polar sea could have arisen and held its ground. Though everywhere ice
was met with, people maintained that this open sea must lie behind the ice. Thus the belief
in an ice-free northeast and northwest passage to the wealth of Cathay or of India, first
propounded towards the close of the 15th century, cropped up again and again, only to be
again and again refuted. Since the ice barred the southern regions, the way must lie farther
north; and finally a passage over the Pole itself was sought for. Wild as these theories
were, they have worked for the benefit of mankind; for by their means our knowledge of
the earth has been widely extended. Hence we may see that no work done in the service of
investigation is ever lost, not even when carried out under false assumptions. England has
to thank these chimeras in no small degree for the fact that she has become the mightiest
seafaring nation of the world.

By many paths and by many means mankind has endeavored to penetrate this kingdom of
death. At first the attempt was made exclusively by sea. Ships were then ill adapted to
combat the ice, and people were loath to make the venture. The clinker-built pine and fir
barks of the old Northmen were no better fitted for the purpose than were the small
clumsy carvels of the first English and Dutch Arctic explorers. Little by little they learnt to

adapt their vessels to the conditions, and with ever-increasing daring they forced them in
among the dreaded floes.

But the uncivilized polar tribes, both those that inhabit the Siberian tundras and the
Eskimo of North America, had discovered, long before polar expeditions had begun,
another and a safer means of traversing these regions—to wit, the sledge, usually drawn
by dogs. It was in Siberia that this excellent method of locomotion was first applied to the
service of polar exploration. Already in the 17th and 18th centuries the Russians
undertook very extensive sledge journeys, and charted the whole of the Siberian coast
from the borders of Europe to Bering Strait. And they did not merely travel along the
coasts, but crossed the drift-ice itself to the New Siberian Islands, and even north of them.
Nowhere, perhaps, have travellers gone through so many sufferings, or evinced so much
endurance.

In America, too, the sledge was employed by Englishmen at an early date for the purpose
of exploring the shores of the Arctic seas. Sometimes the toboggan or Indian sledge was
used, sometimes that of the Eskimo. It was under the able leadership of M’Clintock that
sledge journeys attained their highest development. While the Russians had generally
travelled with a large number of dogs, and only a few men, the English employed many
more men on their expeditions, and their sledges were entirely, or for the most part, drawn
by the explorers themselves. Thus in the most energetic attempt ever made to reach high
latitudes, Albert Markham’s memorable march towards the north from the Alert’s winter
quarters, there were 33 men who had to draw the sledges, though there were plenty of
dogs on board the ship. It would appear, indeed, as if dogs were not held in great
estimation by the English.

The American traveller Peary has, however, adopted a totally different method of
travelling on the inland ice of Greenland, employing as few men and as many dogs as
possible. The great importance of dogs for sledge journeys was clear to me before I
undertook my Greenland expedition, and the reason I did not use them then was simply
that I was unable to procure any serviceable animals.2

A third method may yet be mentioned which has been employed in the Arctic regions—
namely, boats and sledges combined. It is said of the old Northmen in the Sagas and in the
Kongespeilet, that for days on end they had to drag their boats over the ice in the
Greenland sea, in order to reach land. The first in modern times to make use of this means
of travelling was Parry, who, in his memorable attempt to reach the Pole in 1827,
abandoned his ship and made his way over the drift-ice northward with boats, which he
dragged on sledges. He succeeded in attaining the highest latitude (82° 45′) that had yet
been reached; but here the current carried him to the south more quickly than he could
advance against it, and he was obliged to turn back.

Of later years this method of travelling has not been greatly employed in approaching the
Pole. It may, however, be mentioned that Markham took boats with him also on his sledge
expedition. Many expeditions have through sheer necessity accomplished long distances
over the drift-ice in this way, in order to reach home after having abandoned or lost their
ship. Especial mention may be made of the Austro-Hungarian Tegethoff expedition to
Franz Josef Land, and the ill-fated American Jeannette expedition.

It seems that but few have thought of following the example of the Eskimo—living as
they do, and, instead of heavy boats, taking light kayaks drawn by dogs. At all events, no
attempts have been made in this direction.

The methods of advance have been tested on four main routes: the Smith Sound route, the
sea route between Greenland and Spitzbergen, Franz Josef Land route, and the Bering
Strait route.

In later times, the point from which the Pole has been most frequently assailed is Smith
Sound, probably because American explorers had somewhat too hastily asserted that they
had there descried the open Polar Sea, extending indefinitely towards the north. Every
expedition was stopped, however, by immense masses of ice, which came drifting
southward, and piled themselves up against the coasts. The most important expedition by
this route was the English one conducted by Nares in 1875–76, the equipment of which
involved a vast expenditure. Markham, the next in command to Nares, reached the highest
latitude till then attained, 83° 20′, but at the cost of enormous exertion and loss; and Nares
was of opinion that the impossibility of reaching the Pole by this route was fully
demonstrated for all future ages.

During the stay of the Greely expedition (from 1881 to 1884) in this same region,
Lockwood attained a somewhat higher record, viz., 83° 24′, the most northerly point on
the globe that human feet had trodden previous to the expedition of which the present
work treats.

By way of the sea between Greenland and Spitzbergen, several attempts have been made
to penetrate the secrets of the domain of ice. In 1607 Henry Hudson endeavored to reach
the Pole along the east coast of Greenland, where he was in hopes of finding an open
basin and a waterway to the Pacific. His progress was, however, stayed at 73° north
latitude, at a point of the coast which he named “Hold with Hope.” The German
expedition under Koldeway (1869–70), which visited the same waters, reached by the aid
of sledges as far north as 77° north latitude. Owing to the enormous masses of ice which
the polar current sweeps southward along this coast, it is certainly one of the most
unfavorable routes for a polar expedition. A better route is that by Spitzbergen, which was
essayed by Hudson, when his progress was blocked off Greenland. Here he reached 80°
23′ north latitude. Thanks to the warm current that runs by the west coast of Spitzbergen
in a northerly direction, the sea is kept free from ice, and it is without comparison the

route by which one can the most safely and easily reach high latitudes in ice-free waters.
It was north of Spitzbergen that Edward Parry made his attempt in 1827, above alluded to.

Farther eastward the ice-conditions are less favorable, and therefore few polar expeditions
have directed their course through these regions. The original object of the Austro-
Hungarian expedition under Weyprecht and Payer (1872–74) was to seek for the Northeast
Passage; but at its first meeting with the ice it was set fast off the north point of Novaya
Zemlya, drifted northward, and discovered Franz Josef Land, whence Payer endeavored to
push forward to the north with sledges, reaching 82° 5′ north latitude on an island, which
he named Crown-Prince Rudolf’s Land. To the north of this he thought he could see an
extensive tract of land, lying in about 83° north latitude, which he called Petermann’s
Land. Franz Josef Land was afterwards twice visited by the English traveller Leigh Smith
in 1880 and 1881–82; and it is here that the English Jackson-Harmsworth expedition is at
present established.

The plan of the Danish expedition under Hovgaard was to push forward to the North Pole
from Cape Chelyuskin along the east coast of an extensive tract of land which Hovgaard
thought must lie to the east of Franz Josef Land. He got set fast in the ice, however, in the
Kara Sea, and remained the winter there, returning home the following year.

Only a few attempts have been made through Bering Strait. The first was Cook’s, in 1776;
the last the Jeannette expedition (1879–81), under De Long, a lieutenant in the American
navy. Scarcely anywhere have polar travellers been so hopelessly blocked by ice in
comparatively low latitudes. The last-named expedition, however, had a most important
bearing upon my own. As De Long himself says in a letter to James Gordon Bennett, who
supplied the funds for the expedition, he was of opinion that there were three routes to
choose from—Smith Sound, the east coast of Greenland, or Bering Strait; but he put most
faith in the last, and this was ultimately selected. His main reason for this choice was his
belief in a Japanese current running north through Bering Strait and onward along the east
coast of Wrangel Land, which was believed to extend far to the north. It was urged that the
warm water of this current would open a way along that coast, possibly up to the Pole.
The experience of whalers showed that whenever their vessels were set fast in the ice here
they drifted northwards; hence it was concluded that the current generally set in that
direction. “This will help explorers,” says De Long, “to reach high latitudes, but at the
same time will make it more difficult for them to come back.” The truth of these words he
himself was to learn by bitter experience.

The Jeannette stuck fast in the ice on September 6th, 1879, in 71° 35′ north latitude and
175° 6′ east longitude, southeast of Wrangel Land—which, however, proved to be a small
island—and drifted with the ice in a west-northwesterly direction for two years, when it
foundered, June 12th, 1881, north of the New Siberian Islands, in 77° 15′ north latitude
and 154° 59′ east longitude.

Everywhere, then, has the ice stopped the progress of mankind towards the north. In two
cases only have ice-bound vessels drifted in a northerly direction—in the case of the
Tegethoff and the Jeannette—while most of the others have been carried away from their
goal by masses of ice drifting southward.

On reading the history of Arctic explorations, it early occurred to me that it would be very
difficult to wrest the secrets from these unknown regions of ice by adopting the routes and
the methods hitherto employed. But where did the proper route lie?

It was in the autumn of 1884 that I happened to see an article by Professor Mohn in the
Norwegian Morgenblad, in which it was stated that sundry articles which must have come
from the Jeannette had been found on the southwest coast of Greenland. He conjectured
that they must have drifted on a floe right across the Polar Sea. It immediately occurred to
me that here lay the route ready to hand. If a floe could drift right across the unknown
region, that drift might also be enlisted in the service of exploration—and my plan was
laid. Some years, however, elapsed before, in February, 1890, after my return from my
Greenland expedition, I at last propounded the idea in an address before the Christiania
Geographical Society. As this address plays an important part in the history of the
expedition, I shall reproduce its principal features, as printed in the March number of
Naturen, 1891.

After giving a brief sketch of the different polar expeditions of former years, I go on to
say: “The results of these numerous attempts, as I have pointed out, seem somewhat
discouraging. They appear to show plainly enough that it is impossible to sail to the Pole
by any route whatever; for everywhere the ice has proved an impenetrable barrier, and has
stayed the progress of invaders on the threshold of the unknown regions.

“To drag boats over the uneven drift-ice, which moreover is constantly moving under the
influence of the current and wind, is an equally great difficulty. The ice lays such
obstacles in the way that any one who has ever attempted to traverse it will not hesitate to
declare it well-nigh impossible to advance in this manner with the equipment and
provisions requisite for such an undertaking.”

Had we been able to advance over land, I said, that would have been the most certain
route; in that case the Pole could have been reached “in one summer by Norwegian snow-
shoe runners.” But there is every reason to doubt the existence of any such land.
Greenland, I considered, did not extend farther than the most northerly known point of its
west coast. “It is not probable that Franz Josef Land reaches to the Pole; from all we can
learn it forms a group of islands separated from each other by deep sounds, and it appears
improbable that any large continuous track of land is to be found there.

“Some people are perhaps of opinion that one ought to defer the examination of regions
like those around the Pole, beset, as they are, with so many difficulties, till new means of

transport have been discovered. I have heard it intimated that one fine day we shall be
able to reach the Pole by a balloon, and that it is only waste of time to seek to get there
before that day comes. It need scarcely be shown that this line of reasoning is untenable.
Even if one could really suppose that in the near or distant future this frequently mooted
idea of travelling to the Pole in an air-ship would be realized, such an expedition, however
interesting it might be in certain respects, would be far from yielding the scientific results
of expeditions carried out in the manner here indicated. Scientific results of importance in
all branches of research can be attained only by persistent observations during a
lengthened sojourn in these regions, while those of a balloon expedition cannot but be of a
transitory nature.

“We must, then, endeavor to ascertain if there are not other routes—and I believe there
are. I believe that if we pay attention to the actually existent forces of nature, and seek to
work with and not against them, we shall thus find the safest and easiest method of
reaching the Pole. It is useless, as previous expeditions have done, to work against the
current; we should see if there is not a current we can work with. The Jeannette expedition
is the only one, in my opinion, that started on the right track, though it may have been
unwittingly and unwillingly.

“The Jeannette drifted for two years in the ice, from Wrangel Land to the New Siberian
Islands. Three years after she foundered to the north of these islands there was found
frozen into the drift-ice, in the neighborhood of Julianehaab, on the southwest coast of
Greenland, a number of articles which appeared, from sundry indubitable marks, to
proceed from the sunken vessel. These articles were first discovered by the Eskimo, and
were afterwards collected by Mr. Lytzen, Colonial Manager at Julianehaab, who has given
a list of them in the Danish Geographical Journal for 1885. Among them the following
may especially be mentioned:

“1. A list of provisions, signed by De Long, the commander of the Jeannette.
“2. A MS. list of the Jeannette’s boats.
“3. A pair of oilskin breeches marked ‘Louis Noros,’ the name of one of the
Jeannette’s crew, who was saved.
“4. The peak of a cap on which, according to Lytzen’s statement, was written F. C.
Lindemann. The name of one of the crew of the Jeannette, who was also saved, was
F. C. Nindemann. This may either have been a clerical error on Lytzen’s part or a
misprint in the Danish journal.

“In America, when it was reported that these articles had been found, people were very
sceptical, and doubts of their genuineness were expressed in the American newspapers.
The facts, however, can scarcely be sheer inventions; and it may therefore be safely
assumed that an ice-floe bearing these articles from the Jeannette had drifted from the
place where it sank to Julianehaab.

“By what route did this ice-floe reach the west coast of Greenland?

“Professor Mohn, in a lecture before the Scientific Society of Christiania, in November,
1894, showed that it could have come by no other way than across the Pole.3

“It cannot possibly have come through Smith Sound, as the current there passes along the
western side of Baffin’s Bay, and it would thus have been conveyed to Baffin’s Land or
Labrador, and not to the west coast of Greenland. The current flows along this coast in a
northerly direction, and is a continuation of the Greenland polar current, which comes
along the east coast of Greenland, takes a bend round Cape Farewell, and passes upward
along the west coast.

“It is by this current only that the floe could have come.

“But the question now arises: What route did it take from the New Siberian Islands in
order to reach the east coast of Greenland?

“It is conceivable that it might have drifted along the north coast of Siberia, south of Franz
Josef Land, up through the sound between Franz Josef Land and Spitzbergen, or even to
the south of Spitzbergen, and might after that have got into the polar current which flows
along Greenland. If, however, we study the directions of the currents in these regions so
far as they are at present ascertained, it will be found that this is extremely improbable,
not to say impossible.”

Having shown that this is evident from the Tegethoff drift and from many other
circumstances, I proceeded:

“The distance from the New Siberian Islands to the 80th degree of latitude on the east
coast of Greenland is 1360 miles, and the distance from the last-named place to
Julianehaab 1540 miles, making together a distance of 2900 miles. This distance was
traversed by the floe in 1100 days, which gives a speed of 2.6 miles per day of 24 hours.
The time during which the relics drifted after having reached the 80th degree of latitude,
till they arrived at Julianehaab, can be calculated with tolerable precision, as the speed of
the above-named current along the east coast of Greenland is well known. It may be
assumed that it took at least 400 days to accomplish this distance; there remain, then,
about 700 days as the longest time the drifting articles can have taken from the New
Siberian Islands to the 80th degree of latitude. Supposing that they took the shortest route
—i. e., across the Pole—this computation gives a speed of about 2 miles in 24 hours. On
the other hand, supposing they went by the route south of Franz Josef Land, and south of
Spitzbergen, they must have drifted at much higher speed. Two miles in the 24 hours,
however, coincides most remarkably with the rate at which the Jeannette drifted during
the last months of her voyage, from January 1 to June 12, 1881. In this time she drifted at
an average rate of a little over 2 miles in the 24 hours. If, however, the average speed of

the whole of the Jeannette’s drifting be taken, it will be found to be only 1 mile in the 24
hours.

“But are there no other evidences of a current flowing across the North Pole from Bering
Sea on the one side to the Atlantic Ocean on the other?

“Yes, there are.

“Dr. Rink received from a Greenlander at Godthaab a remarkable piece of wood which
had been found among the drift-timber on the coast. It is one of the ‘throwing sticks’
which the Eskimo use in hurling their bird-darts, but altogether unlike those used by the
Eskimo on the west coast of Greenland. Dr. Rink conjectured that it possibly proceeded
from the Eskimo on the east coast of Greenland.

“From later inquiries,4 however, it appeared that it must have come from the coast of
Alaska in the neighborhood of Bering Strait, as that is the only place where ‘throwing
sticks’ of a similar form are used. It was even ornamented with Chinese glass beads,
exactly similar to those which the Alaskan Eskimo obtain by barter from Asiatic tribes,
and use for the decoration of their ‘throwing sticks.’

“We may, therefore, with confidence assert that this piece of wood was carried from the
west coast of Alaska over to Greenland by a current the whole course of which we do not
know, but which may be assumed to flow very near the North Pole, or at some place
between it and Franz Josef Land.

“There are, moreover, still further proofs that such a current exists. As is well known, no
trees grow in Greenland that can be used for making boats, sledges, or other appliances.
The driftwood that is carried down by the polar current along the east coast of Greenland
and up the west coast is, therefore, essential to the existence of the Greenland Eskimo. But
whence does this timber come?

“Here our inquiries again carry us to lands on the other side of the Pole. I have myself had
an opportunity of examining large quantities of driftwood both on the west coast and on
the east coast of Greenland. I have, moreover, found pieces drifting in the sea off the east
coast, and, like earlier travellers, have arrived at the conclusion that much the greater part
of it can only have come from Siberia, while a smaller portion may possibly have come
from America. For amongst it are to be found fir, Siberian larch, and other kinds of wood
peculiar to the north, which could scarcely have come from any other quarter. Interesting
in this respect are the discoveries that have been made on the east coast of Greenland by
the second German Polar Expedition. Out of twenty-five pieces of driftwood, seventeen
were Siberian larch, five Norwegian fir (probably Picea obovata), two a kind of alder
(Alnus incana?), and one a poplar (Populus tremula? the common aspen), all of which are
trees found in Siberia.

“By way of supplement to these observations on the Greenland side, it may be mentioned
that the Jeannette expedition frequently found Siberian driftwood (fir and birch) between
the floes in the strong northerly current to the northward of the New Siberian Islands.

“Fortunately for the Eskimo, such large quantities of this driftwood come every year to the
coasts of Greenland that in my opinion one cannot but assume that they are conveyed
thither by a constantly flowing current, especially as the wood never appears to have been
very long in the sea—at all events, not without having been frozen in the ice.

“That this driftwood passes south of Franz Josef Land and Spitzbergen is quite as
unreasonable a theory as that the ice-floe with the relics from the Jeannette drifted by this
route. In further disproof of this assumption it may be stated that Siberian driftwood is
found north of Spitzbergen in the strong southerly current, against which Parry fought in
vain.

“It appears, therefore, that on these grounds also we cannot but admit the existence of a
current flowing across, or in close proximity to, the Pole.

“As an interesting fact in this connection, it may also be mentioned that the German
botanist Grisebach has shown that the Greenland flora includes a series of Siberian
vegetable forms that could scarcely have reached Greenland in any other way than by the
help of such a current conveying the seeds.

“On the drift-ice in Denmark Strait (between Iceland and Greenland) I have made
observations which tend to the conclusion that this ice too was of Siberian origin. For
instance, I found quantities of mud on it, which seemed to be of Siberian origin, or might
possibly have come from North American rivers. It is possible, however, to maintain that
this mud originates in the glacier rivers that flow from under the ice in the north of
Greenland, or in other unknown polar lands; so that this piece of evidence is of less
importance than those already named.

“Putting all this together, we seem driven to the conclusion that a current flows at some
point between the Pole and Franz Josef Land from the Siberian Arctic Sea to the east
coast of Greenland.

“That such must be the case we may also infer in another way. If we regard, for instance,
the polar current—that broad current which flows down from the unknown polar regions
between Spitzbergen and Greenland—and consider what an enormous mass of water it
carries along, it must seem self-evident that this cannot come from a circumscribed and
small basin, but must needs be gathered from distant sources, the more so as the Polar Sea
(so far as we know it) is remarkably shallow everywhere to the north of the European,
Asiatic, and American coasts. The polar current is no doubt fed by that branch of the Gulf
Stream which makes its way up the west side of Spitzbergen; but this small stream is far

from being sufficient, and the main body of its water must be derived from farther
northward.

“It is probable that the polar current stretches its suckers, as it were, to the coast of Siberia
and Bering Strait, and draws its supplies from these distant regions. The water it carries
off is replaced partly through the warm current before mentioned which makes its way
through Bering Strait, and partly by that branch of the Gulf Stream which, passing by the
north of Norway, bends eastward towards Novaya Zemlya, and of which a great portion
unquestionably continues its course along the north coast of this island into the Siberian
Arctic Sea. That a current coming from the south takes this direction—at all events, in
some measure—appears probable from the well-known fact that in the northern
hemisphere the rotation of the earth tends to compel a northward-flowing current, whether
of water or of air, to assume an easterly course. The earth’s rotation may also cause a
southward-flowing stream, like the polar current, to direct its course westward to the east
coast of Greenland.

“But even if these currents flowing in the polar basin did not exist, I am still of opinion
that in some other way a body of water must collect in it, sufficient to form a polar
current. In the first place, there are the North European, the Siberian, and North American
rivers debouching into the Arctic Sea, to supply this water. The fluvial basin of these
rivers is very considerable, comprising a large portion of Northern Europe, almost the
whole of Northern Asia or Siberia down to the Altai Mountains and Lake Baikal, together
with the principal part of Alaska and British North America. All these added together form
no unimportant portion of the earth, and the rainfall of these countries is enormous. It is
not conceivable that the Arctic Sea of itself could contribute anything of importance to
this rainfall; for, in the first place, it is for the most part covered with drift-ice, from which
the evaporation is but trifling; and, in the next place, the comparatively low temperature in
these regions prevents any considerable evaporation taking place even from open surfaces
of water. The moisture that produces this rainfall must consequently in a great measure
come from elsewhere, principally from the Atlantic and Pacific oceans, and the amount of
water which thereby feeds the Arctic Sea must be very considerable. If we possessed
sufficient knowledge of the rainfall in the different localities it might be exactly
calculated.5

“The importance of this augmentation appears even greater when we consider that the
polar basin is comparatively small, and, as has been already remarked, very shallow; its
greatest known depth being from 60 to 80 fathoms.

“But there is still another factor that must help to increase the quantity of water in the
polar basin, and that is its own rainfall. Weyprecht has already pointed out the probability
that the large influx of warm, moist atmosphere from the south, attracted by the constant
low atmospheric pressure in the polar regions, must engender so large a rainfall as to
augment considerably the amount of water in the Polar Sea. Moreover, the fact that the

polar basin receives large supplies of fresh water is proved by the small amount of salt in
the water of the polar current.

“From all these considerations it appears unquestionable that the sea around the Pole is
fed with considerable quantities of water, partly fresh, as we have just seen, partly salt, as
we indicated further back, proceeding from the different ocean currents. It thus becomes
inevitable, according to the law of equilibrium, that these masses of water should seek
such an outlet as we find in the Greenland polar current.

“Let us now inquire whether further reasons can be found to show why this current flows
exactly in the given direction.

“If we examine the ocean soundings, we at once find a conclusive reason why the main
outlet must lie between Spitzbergen and Greenland. The sea here, so far as we know it, is
at all points very deep; there is, indeed, a channel of as much as 2500 fathoms depth;
while south of Spitzbergen and Franz Josef Land it is remarkably shallow—not more than
160 fathoms. As has been stated, a current passes northward through Bering Strait and
Smith Sound, and the sounds between the islands north of America, though here, indeed,
there is a southward current, are far too small and narrow to form adequate outlets for the
mass of water of which we are speaking. There is, therefore, no other assumption left than
that this mass of water must find its outlet by the route actually followed by the polar
current. The channel discovered by the Jeannette expedition between Wrangel Land and
the New Siberian Islands may here be mentioned as a notable fact. It extended in a
northerly direction, and was at some points more than 80 fathoms deep, while at the sides
the soundings ran only to 40 or 50 fathoms. It is by no means impossible that this channel
may be a continuation of the channel between Spitzbergen and Greenland,6 in which case
it would certainly influence, if not actually determine, the direction of the main current.

“If we examine the conditions of wind and atmospheric pressure over the Polar Sea, as far
as they are known, it would appear that they must tend to produce a current across the
Pole in the direction indicated. From the Atlantic to the south of Spitzbergen and Franz
Josef Land a belt of low atmospheric pressure (minimum belt) extends into the Siberian
Arctic Sea. In accordance with well-known laws, the wind must have a preponderating
direction from west to east on the south side of this belt, and this would promote an
eastward-flowing current along the north coast of Siberia, such as has been found to exist
there.7 The winds on the north side of the minimum belt must, however, blow mainly in a
direction from east to west, and will consequently produce a westerly current, passing
across the Pole towards the Greenland Sea, exactly as we have seen to be the case.

“It thus appears that, from whatever side we consider this question, even apart from the
specially cogent evidences above cited, we cannot escape the conclusion that a current
passes across or very near to the Pole into the sea between Greenland and Spitzbergen.

“This being so, it seems to me that the plain thing for us to do is to make our way into the
current on that side of the Pole where it flows northward, and by its help to penetrate into
those regions which all who have hitherto worked against it have sought in vain to reach.

“My plan is, briefly, as follows: I propose to have a ship built as small and as strong as
possible—just big enough to contain supplies of coals and provisions for twelve men for
five years. A ship of about 170 tons (gross) will probably suffice. Its engine should be
powerful enough to give a speed of 6 knots; but in addition it must also be fully rigged for
sailing.

“The main point in this vessel is that it be built on such principles as to enable it to
withstand the pressure of the ice. The sides must slope sufficiently to prevent the ice,
when it presses together, from getting firm hold of the hull, as was the case with the
Jeannette and other vessels. Instead of nipping the ship, the ice must raise it up out of the
water. No very new departure in construction is likely to be needed, for the Jeannette,
notwithstanding her preposterous build, was able to hold out against the ice pressure for
about two years. That a vessel can easily be built on such lines as to fulfil these
requirements no one will question who has seen a ship nipped by the ice. For the same
reason, too, the ship ought to be a small one; for, besides being thus easier to manœuvre in
the ice, it will be more readily lifted by the pressure of the ice, not to mention that it will
be easier to give it the requisite strength. It must, of course, be built of picked materials. A
ship of the form and size here indicated will not be a good or comfortable sea-boat, but
that is of minor importance in waters filled with ice such as we are here speaking of. It is
true that it would have to travel a long distance over the open sea before it would get so
far, but it would not be so bad a sea-boat as to be unable to get along, even though sea-
sick passengers might have to offer sacrifices to the gods of the sea.

“With such a ship and a crew of ten, or at the most twelve, able-bodied and carefully
picked men, with a full equipment for five years, in every respect as good as modern
appliances permit of, I am of opinion that the undertaking would be well secured against
risk. With this ship we should sail up through Bering Strait and westward along the north
coast of Siberia towards the New Siberian Islands8 as early in the summer as the ice
would permit.

“Arrived at the New Siberian Islands, it will be advisable to employ the time to the best
advantage in examining the conditions of currents and ice, and to wait for the most
opportune moment to advance as far as possible in ice-free water, which, judging by the
accounts of the ice conditions north of Bering Strait given by American whalers, will
probably be in August or the beginning of September.

“When the right time has arrived, then we shall plough our way in amongst the ice as far
as we can. We may venture to conclude from the experience of the Jeannette expedition
that we should thus be able to reach a point north of the most northerly of the New

Siberian Islands. De Long notes in his journal that while the expedition was drifting in the
ice north of Bennett Island they saw all around them a dark ‘water-sky’—that is to say, a
sky which gives a dark reflection of open water—indicating such a sea as would be, at all
events, to some extent navigable by a strong ice-ship. Next, it must be borne in mind that
the whole Jeannette expedition travelled in boats, partly in open water, from Bennett
Island to the Siberian coast, where, as we know, the majority of them met with a
lamentable end. Nordenskiöld advanced no farther northward than to the southernmost of
the islands mentioned (at the end of August) but here he found the water everywhere open.

“It is, therefore, probable that we may be able to push our way up past the New Siberian
Islands, and that accomplished we shall be right in the current which carried the Jeannette.
The thing will then be simply to force our way northward till we are set fast.9

“Next we must choose a fitting place and moor the ship firmly between suitable ice-floes,
and then let the ice screw itself together as much as it likes—the more the better. The ship
will simply be hoisted up and will ride safely and firmly. It is possible it may heel over to
a certain extent under this pressure; but that will scarcely be of much importance. ...
Henceforth the current will be our motive power, while our ship, no longer a means of
transport, will become a barrack, and we shall have ample time for scientific observations.

“In this manner the expedition will, as above indicated, probably drift across the Pole, and
onward to the sea between Greenland and Spitzbergen. And when we get down to the 80th
degree of latitude, or even sooner, if it is summer, there is every likelihood of our getting
the ship free and being able to sail home. Should she, however, be lost before this—which
is certainly possible, though, as I think, very unlikely if she is constructed in the way
above described—the expedition will not, therefore, be a failure, for our homeward course
must in any case follow the polar current on to the North Atlantic basin; there is plenty of
ice to drift on, and of this means of locomotion we have already had experience. If the
Jeannette expedition had had sufficient provisions, and had remained on the ice-floe on
which the relics were ultimately found, the result would doubtless have been very
different from what it was. Our ship cannot possibly founder under the ice-pressure so
quickly but that there would be time enough to remove, with all our equipment and
provisions, to a substantial ice-floe, which we should have selected beforehand in view of
such a contingency. Here the tents, which we should take with us to meet this contingency,
would be pitched. In order to preserve our provisions and other equipments, we should not
place them all together on one spot, but should distribute them over the ice, laying them
on rafts of planks and beams which we should have built on it. This will obviate the
possibility of any of our equipments sinking, even should the floe on which they are break
up. The crew of the Hansa, who drifted for more than half a year along the east coast of
Greenland, in this way lost a great quantity of their supplies.

“For the success of such an expedition two things only are required, viz., good clothing
and plenty of food, and these we can take care to have with us. We should thus be able to

remain as safely on our ice-floe as in our ship, and should advance just as well towards the
Greenland Sea. The only difference would be that on our arrival there, instead of
proceeding by ship, we must take to our boats, which would convey us just as safely to the
nearest harbor.

“Thus it seems to me there is an overwhelming probability that such an expedition would
be successful. Many people, however, will certainly urge: ‘In all currents there are eddies
and backwaters; suppose, then, you get into one of these, or perhaps stumble on an
unknown land up by the Pole and remain lying fast there, how will you extricate
yourselves?’ To this I would merely reply, as concerns the backwater, that we must get out
of it just as surely as we got into it, and that we shall have provisions for five years. And
as regards the other possibility, we should hail such an occurrence with delight, for no
spot on earth could well be found of greater scientific interest. On this newly discovered
land we should make as many observations as possible. Should time wear on and find us
still unable to get our ship into the set of the current again, there would be nothing for it
but to abandon her, and with our boats and necessary stores to search for the nearest
current, in order to drift in the manner before mentioned.

“How long may we suppose such a voyage to occupy? As we have already seen, the relics
of the Jeannette expedition at most took two years to drift along the same course down to
the 80th degree of latitude, where we may, with tolerable certainty, count upon getting
loose. This would correspond to a rate of about two miles per day of twenty-four hours.

“We may therefore not unreasonably calculate on reaching this point in the course of two
years; and it is also possible that the ship might be set free in a higher latitude than is here
contemplated. Five years’ provisions must therefore be regarded as ample.

“But is not the cold in winter in these regions so severe that life will be impossible? There
is no probability of this. We can even say with tolerable certainty that at the Pole itself it is
not so cold in winter as it is (for example) in the north of Siberia, an inhabited region, or
on the northern part of the west coast of Greenland, which is also inhabited.
Meteorologists have calculated that the mean temperature at the Pole in January is about
-33° Fahr. (-36° C), while, for example, in Yakutsk it is -43° Fahr. (-42° C), and in
Verkhoyansk -54° Fahr. (-48° C.). We should remember that the Pole is probably covered
with sea, radiation from which is considerably less than from large land surfaces, such as
the plains of North Asia. The polar region has, therefore, in all probability a marine
climate with comparatively mild winters, but, by way of a set-off, with cold summers.

“The cold in these regions cannot, then, be any direct obstacle. One difficulty, however,
which many former expeditions have had to contend against, and which must not be
overlooked here, is scurvy. During a sojourn of any long duration in so cold a climate this
malady will unquestionably show itself unless one is able to obtain fresh provisions. I
think, however, it may be safely assumed that the very various and nutritious foods now

available in the form of hermetically closed preparations of different kinds, together with
the scientific knowledge we now possess of the food-stuffs necessary for bodily health,
will enable us to hold this danger at a distance. Nor do I think that there will be an entire
absence of fresh provisions in the waters we shall travel through. Polar bears and seals we
may safely calculate on finding far to the north, if not up to the very Pole. It may be
mentioned also that the sea must certainly contain quantities of small animals that might
serve as food in case of necessity.

“It will be seen that whatever difficulties may be suggested as possible, they are not so
great but that they can be surmounted by means of a careful equipment, a fortunate
selection of the members of the expedition, and judicious leadership; so that good results
may be hoped for. We may reckon on getting out into the sea between Greenland and
Spitzbergen as surely as we can reckon on getting into the Jeannette current off the New
Siberian Islands.

“But if this Jeannette current does not pass right across the Pole? If, for instance, it passes
between the Pole and Franz Josef Land, as above intimated? What will the expedition do
in that case to reach the earth’s axis? Yes, this may seem to be the Achilles’ heel of the
undertaking; for should the ship be carried past the Pole at more than one degree’s
distance it may then appear extremely imprudent and unsafe to abandon it in mid-current
and face such a long sledge-journey over uneven sea-ice, which itself is drifting. Even if
one reached the Pole it would be very uncertain whether one could find the ship again on
returning. ... I am, however, of opinion that this is of small import: it is not to seek for the
exact mathematical point that forms the northern extremity of the earth’s axis that we set
out, for to reach this point is intrinsically of small moment. Our object is to investigate the
great unknown region that surrounds the Pole, and these investigations will be equally
important, from a scientific point of view, whether the expedition passes over the polar
point itself or at some distance from it.”

In this lecture I had submitted the most important data on which my plan was founded; but
in the following years I continued to study the conditions of the northern waters, and
received ever fresh proofs that my surmise of a drift right across the Polar Sea was
correct. In a lecture delivered before the Geographical Society in Christiania, on
September 28, 1892, I alluded to some of these inquiries.10 I laid stress on the fact that on
considering the thickness and extent of the drift-ice in the seas on both sides of the Pole,
one cannot but be struck by the fact that while the ice on the Asiatic side, north of the
Siberian coast, is comparatively thin (the ice in which the Jeannette drifted was, as a rule,
not more than from 7 to 10 feet thick), that on the other side, which comes drifting from
the north in the sea between Greenland and Spitzbergen, is remarkably massive, and this,
notwithstanding that the sea north of Siberia is one of the coldest tracts on the earth. This,
I suggested, could be explained only on the assumption that the ice is constantly drifting
from the Siberian coast, and that, while passing through the unknown and cold sea there is

time for it to attain its enormous thickness, partly by freezing, partly by the constant
packing that takes place as the floes screw themselves together.

I further mentioned in the same lecture that the mud found on this drift-ice seemed to
point to a Siberian origin. I did not at the time attach great importance to this fact, but on a
further examination of the deposits I had collected during my Greenland expedition it
appeared that it could scarcely come from anywhere else but Siberia. On investigating its
mineralogical composition, Dr. Törnebohm, of Stockholm, came to the conclusion that the
greater part of it must be Siberian river mud. He found about twenty different minerals in
it. “This quantity of dissimilar constituent mineral parts appears to me,” he says, “to point
to the fact that they take their origin from a very extensive tract of land, and one’s
thoughts naturally turn to Siberia.” Moreover, more than half of this mud deposit
consisted of humus, or boggy soil. More interesting, however, than the actual mud deposit
were the diatoms found in it, which were examined by Professor Cleve, of Upsala, who
says: “These diatoms are decidedly marine (i.e., take their origin from salt-water), with
some few fresh-water forms which the wind has carried from land. The diatomous flora in
this dust is quite peculiar, and unlike what I have found in many thousands of other
specimens, with one exception, with which it shows the most complete conformity—
namely, a specimen which was collected by Kellman during the Vega expedition on an
ice-floe off Cape Wankarem, near Bering Strait. Species and varieties were perfectly
identical in both specimens.” Cleve was able to distinguish sixteen species of diatoms. All
these appear also in the dust from Cape Wankarem, and twelve of them have been found
at that place alone, and nowhere else in all the world. This was a notable coincidence
between two such remote points, and Cleve is certainly right in saying: “It is, indeed, quite
remarkable that the diatomous flora on the ice-floes off Bering Strait and on the east coast
of Greenland should so completely resemble each other, and should be so utterly unlike all
others; it points to an open connection between the seas east of Greenland and north of
Asia.” “Through this open connection,” I continued in my address, “drift-ice is, therefore,
yearly transported across the unknown Polar Sea. On this same drift-ice, and by the same
route, it must be no less possible to transport an expedition.”

When this plan was propounded it certainly met with approval in various quarters,
especially here at home. Thus it was vigorously supported by Professor Mohn, who,
indeed, by his explanation of the drift of the Jeannette relics, had given the original
impulse to it. But as might be expected, it met with opposition in the main, especially
from abroad, while most of the polar travellers and Arctic authorities declared, more or
less openly, that it was sheer madness. The year before we set out, in November, 1892, I
laid it before the Geographical Society in London in a lecture at which the principal Arctic
travellers of England were present. After the lecture a discussion took place,11 which
plainly showed how greatly I was at variance with the generally accepted opinions as to
the conditions in the interior of the Polar Sea, the principles of ice navigation, and the
methods that a polar expedition ought to pursue. The eminent Arctic traveller, Admiral Sir

Leopold M’Clintock, opened the discussion with the remark: “I think I may say this is the
most adventurous programme ever brought under the notice of the Royal Geographical
Society.” He allowed that the facts spoke in favor of the correctness of my theories, but
was in a high degree doubtful whether my plan could be realized. He was especially of
opinion that the danger of being crushed in the ice was too great. A ship could, no doubt,
be built that would be strong enough to resist the ice pressure in summer; but should it be
exposed to this pressure in the winter months, when the ice resembled a mountain frozen
fast to the ship’s side, he thought that the possibility of being forced up on the surface of
the ice was very remote. He firmly believed, as did the majority of the others, that there
was no probability of ever seeing the Fram again when once she had given herself over to
the pitiless polar ice, and concluded by saying, “I wish the doctor full and speedy success.
But it will be a great relief to his many friends in England when he returns, and more
particularly to those who have had experience of the dangers at all times inseparable from
ice navigation, even in regions not quite so far north.”

Admiral Sir George Nares said:

“The adopted Arctic axioms for successfully navigating an icy region are that it is
absolutely necessary to keep close to a coast line, and that the farther we advance from
civilization, the more desirable it is to insure a reasonably safe line of retreat. Totally
disregarding these, the ruling principle of the voyage is that the vessel—on which, if the
voyage is in any way successful, the sole future hope of the party will depend—is to be
pushed deliberately into the pack-ice. Thus, her commander—in lieu of retaining any
power over her future movements—will be forced to submit to be drifted helplessly about
in agreement with the natural movements of the ice in which he is imprisoned. Supposing
the sea currents are as stated, the time calculated as necessary to drift with the pack across
the polar area is several years, during which time, unless new lands are met with, the ice
near the vessel will certainly never be quiet and the ship herself never free from the
danger of being crushed by ice presses. To guard against this the vessel is said to be
unusually strong, and of a special form to enable her to rise when the ice presses against
her sides. This idea is no novelty whatever; but when once frozen into the polar pack the
form of the vessel goes for nothing. She is hermetically sealed to, and forms a part of, the
ice block surrounding her. The form of the ship is for all practical purposes the form of the
block of ice in which she is frozen. This is a matter of the first importance, for there is no
record of a vessel frozen into the polar pack having been disconnected from the ice, and
so rendered capable of rising under pressure as a separate body detached from the ice
block, even in the height of summer. In the event of the destruction of the vessel, the boats
—necessarily fully stored, not only for the retreat, but for continuing the voyage—are to
be available. This is well in theory, but extremely difficult to arrange for in practice.
Preparation to abandon the vessel is the one thing that gives us the most anxiety. To place
boats, etc., on the ice, packed ready for use, involves the danger of being separated from
them by a movement of the ice, or of losing them altogether should a sudden opening

occur. If we merely have everything handy for heaving over the side, the emergency may
be so sudden that we have not time to save anything...”

As regards the assumed drift of the polar ice, Nares expressed himself on the whole at
variance with me. He insisted that the drift was essentially determined by the prevailing
winds:

“As to the probable direction of the drift, the Fram, starting from near the mouth of the
Lena River, may expect to meet the main pack not farther north than about latitude 76°
30′. I doubt her getting farther north before she is beset, but taking an extreme case, and
giving her 60 miles more, she will then only be in the same latitude as Cape Chelyuskin,
730 miles from the Pole, and about 600 miles from my supposed limit of the effective
homeward-carrying ocean current. After a close study of all the information we possess, I
think the wind will be more likely to drift her towards the west than towards the east. With
an ice-encumbered sea north of her, and more open water or newly made ice to the
southward, the chances are small for a northerly drift, at all events, at first, and afterwards
I know of no natural forces that will carry the vessel in any reasonable time much farther
from the Siberian coast than the Jeannette was carried, and during the whole of this time,
unless protected by newly discovered lands, she will be to all intents and purposes
immovably sealed up in the pack, and exposed to its well-known dangers. There is no
doubt that there is an ocean connection across the area proposed to be explored.”

In one point, however, Nares was able to declare himself in agreement with me. It was the
idea “that the principal aim of all such voyages is to explore the unknown polar regions,
not to reach exactly that mathematical point in which the axis of our globe has its northern
termination.”12

Sir Allen Young says, among other things: “Dr. Nansen assumes the blank space around
the axis of the earth to be a pool of water or ice; I think the great danger to contend with
will be the land in nearly every direction near the Pole. Most previous navigators seem to
have continued seeing land again and again farther and farther north. These Jeannette
relics may have drifted through narrow channels, and thus finally arrived at their
destination, and, I think, it would be an extremely dangerous thing for the ship to drift
through them, where she might impinge upon the land, and be kept for years.”

With regard to the ship’s form, Sir Allen Young says: “I do not think the form of the ship
is any great point, for, when a ship is fairly nipped, the question is if there is any swell or
movement of the ice to lift the ship. If there is no swell the ice must go through her,
whatever material she is made of.”

One or two authorities, however, expressed themselves in favor of my plan. One was the
Arctic traveller, Sir E. Inglefield, another Captain (now Admiral) Wharton, Director of the
Hydrographic Department of England.

In a letter to the Geographical Society, Admiral Sir George H. Richards says, on the
occasion of my address: “I regret to have to speak discouragingly of this project, but I
think that any one who can speak with authority ought to speak plainly where so much
may be at stake.”

With regard to the currents, he says: “I believe there is a constant outflow (I prefer this
word to current) from the north, in consequence of the displacement of the water from the
region of the Pole by the ice-cap which covers it, intensified in its density by the
enormous weight of snow accumulated on its surface.” This outflow takes place on all
sides, he thinks, from the polar basin, but should be most pronounced in the tract between
the western end of the Parry Islands and Spitzbergen; and with this outflow all previous
expeditions have had to contend. He does not appear to make any exception as to the
Tegethoff or Jeannette, and can find no reason “for believing that a current sets north over
the Pole from the New Siberian Islands, which Dr. Nansen hopes for and believes in. ... It
is my opinion that when really within what may be called the inner circle, say about 78° of
latitude, there is little current of any kind that would influence a ship in the close ice that
must be expected; it is when we get outside this circle—round the corners, as it were—
into the straight wide channels, where the ice is loose, that we are really affected by its
influence, and here the ice gets naturally thinner, and more decayed in autumn, and less
dangerous to a ship. Within the inner circle probably not much of the ice escapes; it
becomes older and heavier every year, and in all probability completely blocks the
navigation of ships entirely. This is the kind of ice which was brought to Nares’s winter
quarters at the head of Smith Sound in about 82° 30′ north; and this is the ice which
Markham struggled against in his sledge journey, and against which no human power
could prevail.”

He attached “no real importance” to the Jeannette relics. “If found in Greenland, they may
well have drifted down on a floe from the neighborhood of Smith Sound, from some of
the American expeditions which went to Greely’s rescue.” “It may also well be that some
of De Long’s printed or written documents in regard to his equipment may have been
taken out by these expeditions, and the same may apply to the other articles.” He does not,
however, expressly say whether there was any indication of such having been the case.

In a similar letter to the Geographical Society the renowned botanist Sir Joseph Hooker
says: “Dr. Nansen’s project is a wide departure from any hitherto put in practice for the
purpose of polar discovery, and it demands the closest scrutiny both on this account, and
because it is one involving the greatest peril...

“From my experience of three seasons in the Antarctic regions I do not think that a ship,
of whatever build, could long resist destruction if committed to the movements of the
pack in the polar regions. One built as strongly as the Fram would no doubt resist great
pressures in the open pack, but not any pressure or repeated pressures, and still less the
thrust of the pack if driven with or by it against land. The lines of the Fram might be of

service so long as she was on an even keel or in ice of no great height above the water-
line; but amongst floes and bergs, or when thrown on her beam-ends, they would avail her
nothing.”

If the Fram were to drift towards the Greenland coast or the American polar islands he is
of opinion that, supposing a landing could be effected, there would be no probability at all
of salvation. Assuming that a landing could be effected, it must be on an inhospitable and
probably ice-bound coast, or on the mountainous ice of a palæocrystic sea. With a
certainly enfeebled, and probably reduced ship’s company, there could, in such a case, be
no prospect of reaching succor. Putting aside the possibility of scurvy (against which there
is no certain prophylactic), have the depressing influence on the minds of the crew
resulting from long confinement in very close quarters during many months of darkness,
extreme cold, inaction, ennui, constant peril, and the haunting uncertainty as to the future,
been sufficiently taken into account? Perfunctory duties and occupations do not avert the
effects of these conditions; they hardly mitigate them, and have been known to aggravate
them. I do not consider the attainment of Dr. Nansen’s object by the means at his disposal
to be impossible; but I do consider that the success of such an enterprise would not justify
the exposure of valuable lives for its attainment.

In America, General Greely, the leader of the ill-fated expedition generally known by his
name (1881–84), wrote an article in The Forum (August, 1891), in which he says, among
other things: “It strikes me as almost incredible that the plan here advanced by Dr. Nansen
should receive encouragement or support. It seems to me to be based on fallacious ideas
as to physical conditions within the polar regions, and to foreshadow, if attempted, barren
results, apart from the suffering and death among its members. Dr. Nansen, so far as I
know, has had no Arctic service; his crossing of Greenland, however difficult, is no more
polar work than the scaling of Mount St. Elias. It is doubtful if any hydrographer would
treat seriously his theory of polar currents, or if any Arctic traveller would indorse the
whole scheme. There are perhaps a dozen men whose Arctic service has been such that the
positive support of this plan by even a respectable minority would entitle it to
consideration and confidence. These men are: Admiral M’Clintock, Richards, Collinson,
and Nares, and Captain Markham of the Royal Navy, Sir Allen Young and Leigh-Smith of
England, Koldewey of Germany, Payer of Austria, Nordenskiöld of Sweden, and Melville
in our own country. I have no hesitation in asserting that no two of these believe in the
possibility of Nansen’s first proposition—to build a vessel capable of living or navigating
in a heavy Arctic pack, into which it is proposed to put his ship. The second proposition is
even more hazardous, involving as it does a drift of more than 2000 miles in a straight line
through an unknown region, during which the party in its voyage (lasting two or more
years, we are told) would take only boats along, encamp on an iceberg, and live there
while floating across.”

After this General Greely proceeds to prove the falsity of all my assumptions. Respecting
the objects from the Jeannette, he says plainly that he does not believe in them. “Probably

some drift articles were found,” he says, “and it would seem more reasonable to trace
them to the Porteus, which was wrecked in Smith Sound, about 1000 miles north of
Julianehaab... It is further important to note that, if the articles were really from the
Jeannette, the nearest route would have been, not across the North Pole along the east
coast of Greenland, but down Kennedy Channel and by way of Smith Sound and Baffin’s
Bay, as was suggested, as to drift from the Porteus.”

We could not possibly get near the Pole itself by a long distance, says Greely, as “we
know almost as well as if we had seen it that there is in the unknown regions an extensive
land which is the birthplace of the flat-topped icebergs or the palæocrystic ice.” In this
glacier-covered land, which he is of opinion must be over 300 miles in diameter, and
which sends out icebergs to Greenland as well as to Franz Josef Land,13 the Pole itself
must be situated.

“As to the indestructible ship,” he says, “it is certainly a most desirable thing for Dr.
Nansen.” His meaning, however, is that it cannot be built. “Dr. Nansen appears to believe
that the question of building on such lines as will give the ship the greatest power of
resistance to the pressure of the ice-floe has not been thoroughly and satisfactorily solved,
although hundreds of thousands of dollars have been spent for this end by the seal and
whaling companies of Scotland and Newfoundland.” As an authority he quotes Melville,
and says “every Arctic navigator of experience agrees with Melville’s dictum that even if
built solid a vessel could not withstand the ice-pressure of the heavy polar pack.” To my
assertion that the ice along the “Siberian coast is comparatively thin, 7 to 10 feet,” he
again quotes Melville, who speaks of ice “50 feet high, etc.” (something we did not
discover, by-the-way, during the whole of our voyage).

After giving still more conclusive proofs that the Fram must inevitably go to the bottom
as soon as it should be exposed to the pressure of the ice, he goes on to refer to the
impossibility of drifting in the ice with boats. And he concludes his article with the remark
that “Arctic exploration is sufficiently credited with rashness and danger in its legitimate
and sanctioned methods, without bearing the burden of Dr. Nansen’s illogical scheme of
self-destruction.”

From an article Greely wrote after our return home, in Harper’s Weekly for September
19th, 1896, he appears to have come to the conclusion that the Jeannette relics were
genuine and that the assumption of their drift may have been correct, mentioning
“Melville, Dall, and others” as not believing in them. He allows also that my scheme has
been carried out in spite of what he had said. This time he concludes the article as follows:
“In contrasting the expeditions of De Long and Nansen, it is necessary to allude to the
single blemish that mars the otherwise magnificent career of Nansen, who deliberately
quitted his comrades on the ice-beset ship hundreds of miles from any known land, with
the intention of not returning, but, in his own reported words, ‘to go to Spitzbergen, where
he felt certain to find a ship,’ 600 miles away. De Long and Ambler had such a sense of

honor that they sacrificed their lives rather than separate themselves from a dying man,
whom their presence could not save. It passes comprehension how Nansen could have
thus deviated from the most sacred duty devolving on the commander of a naval
expedition. The safe return of brave Captain Sverdrup with the Fram does not excuse
Nansen. Sverdrup’s consistency, courage, and skill in holding fast to the Fram and
bringing his comrades back to Norway will win for him, in the minds of many, laurels
even brighter than those of his able and accomplished chief.”

One of the few who publicly gave to my plan the support of his scientific authority was
Professor Supan, the well-known editor of Petermann’s Mitteilungen. In an article in this
journal for 1891 (p. 191), he not only spoke warmly in its favor, but supported it with new
suggestions. His view was that what he terms the Arctic “wind-shed” probably for the
greater part of the year divides the unknown polar basin into two parts. In the eastern part
the prevailing winds blow towards the Bering Sea, while those of the western part blow
towards the Atlantic. He thought that, as a rule, this “wind-shed” must lie near the Bering
Sea, and that the prevailing winds in the tracts we purposed traversing would thus favor
our drift. Our experience bore out Professor Supan’s theory in a remarkable degree.

1 Frost-giants.
2 First Crossing of Greenland, Vol. I., p. 30.
3 Mr. Lytzen, of Julianehaab, afterwards contributed an article to the Geografisk Tidsskrift (8th Vol., 1885–86, pp.
49–51, Copenhagen), in which he expressed himself, so far at least as I understand him, in the same sense, and,
remarkably enough, suggested that this circumstance might possibly be found to have an important bearing on Arctic
exploration. He says: “It will therefore be seen that polar explorers who seek to advance towards the Pole from the
Siberian Sea will probably at one place or another be hemmed in by the ice, but these masses of ice will be carried by
the current along the Greenland coast. It is not, therefore, altogether impossible that, if the ship of such an expedition is
able to survive the pressure of the masses of ice for any length of time, it will arrive safely at South Greenland; but in
that case it must be prepared to spend several years on the way.”
4 See on this point Dr. Y. Nielsen, in Forhandlinger i Videnskabsselskabet i Christiania. Meeting held June 11, 1886.
5 Since writing the above I have tried to make such a calculation, and have come to the conclusion that the aggregate
rainfall is not so large as I had at first supposed. See my paper in The Norwegian Geographical Society’s Annual, III.,
1891–92, p. 95; and The Geographical Journal, London, 1893, p. 5.
6 The discovery during our expedition of a great depth in the polar basin renders it highly probable that this
assumption is correct.

7 The experience of our expedition, however, does not point to any such eastward-flowing current along the Siberian
coast.
8 I first thought of choosing the route through Bering Strait, because I imagined that I could reach the New Siberian
Islands safer and earlier in the year from that side. On further investigation I found that this was doubtful, and I decided
on the shorter route through the Kara Sea and north of Cape Cheliuskin.

9 As subsequently stated in my lecture in London (Geographical Society’s Journal, p. 18), I purposed to go north
along the west coast of the New Siberian Islands, as I thought that the warm water coming from the Lena would keep
the sea open here.

10 See the Society’s Annual, III., 1892, p. 91.
11 Both my lecture and the discussion are printed in The Geographical Journal, London, 1893, Vol. I., pp. 1–32.

12 After our return home, Admiral Nares, in the most chivalrous fashion, sent me a letter of congratulation, in which
he said that the Fram’s remarkable voyage over the Polar Sea proved that my theory was correct and his scepticism
unfounded.
13 With reference to his statement that Leigh-Smith had observed such icebergs on the northwest coast of Franz Josef
Land, it may be remarked that no human being has ever been there.

Chapter II

Preparations and Equipment
Foolhardy as the scheme appeared to some, it received powerful support from the
Norwegian Government and the King of Norway. A bill was laid before the Storthing for a
grant of £11,250 (200,000 kroner), or two-thirds of the estimated cost. The remaining
third I hoped to be able to raise from private sources, as I had already received promises
of support from many quarters.

On June 30, 1890, the amount demanded was voted by the Storthing, which thereby
expressed its wish that the expedition should be a Norwegian one. In January, 1891, Mr.
Thomas Fearnley, Consul Axel Heiberg, and Mr. Ellef Ringnes set to work to collect the
further sum required, and in a few days the amount was subscribed.

His Majesty King Oscar gave £1125 (20,000 kroner), while private individuals in Norway
gave as follows:

£ s. d.
Consul Axel Heiberg 562 10 0
Ditto (later) 393 15 0
Mr. Anton Chr. Houen 1125 0 0
Mr. A. Dick, Hövik 281 5 0
Ditto (later) 393 15 0
Mr. Thomas Fearnley (merchant) 281 5 0
Ditto (later) 56 5 0
Messrs. Ringnes & Co. (brewers) 281 5 0
Ditto (later) 56 5 0
Mr. A. S. Kjösterud (merchant), Drammen 281 5 0
Ditto (later) 56 5 0
Mr. E. Sundt (merchant), Bergen 281 5 0
Consul Westye Egeberg 562 10 0
Mr. Halver Schou 281 5 0
Baron Harald Wedel Jarlsberg and C. Iövenskiold, Minister of State 562 10 0
Consul Nicolay H. Knudtzon, Christiansund 281 5 0

Among foreign contributors may be mentioned the Royal Geographical Society of
London, which showed its sympathy with the undertaking by subscribing £300 sterling.

Baron Oscar Dickson provided at his own cost the electric installation (dynamo
accumulators, and conductors).

As the work of equipment proceeded, it appeared that the first estimate was not sufficient.
This was especially due to the ship, which was estimated to cost £8437 10s. (150,000
kroner), but which came to nearly double that sum. Where so much was at stake, I did not
think it right to study the cost too much, if it seemed that a little extra outlay could insure
the successful result of the expedition. The three gentlemen who had taken the lead in the
first collection, Mr. Thomas Fearnley, Consul Axel Heiberg, and Mr. Ellef Ringnes,
undertook at my request to constitute themselves the committee of the expedition and to
take charge of its pecuniary affairs. In order to cover a portion of the deficiency, they,
together with certain members of the Council of the Geographical Society, set on foot
another private subscription all over the country, while the same society at a later period
headed a national subscription. By these means about £956 5s. was collected in all. I had
further to petition the Norwegian Storthing for an additional sum of £4500, when our
national assembly again gave proof of its sympathy with the undertaking by granting the
amount named (June 9, 1890).

Finally Consul Axel Heiberg and Mr. Dick subscribed an additional £337 10s. each, while
I myself made up the deficiency that still remained on the eve of our departure.

Statement of Accounts of the Expedition on its Setting Out, 1893.

Income.
Kroner ore.
State Grant 280,000 0
H.M. The King, and original private subscribers 105,000 0
Private subscription of the Geographical Society 12,781 23
National subscription 2,287 23
Interest accrued 9,729 78
Guaranteed by private individuals 5,400 0
Deficit covered by A. Heiberg and A. Dick 12,000 0
Ditto F. Nansen 5,400 0
Geographical Society, London (£300) ...
H. Simon, Manchester (£100) ...
A Norwegian in Riga (1000 roubles) and others . 9,278 62
Total 444,339 361
Expenditure.
Kroner ore.

Wages account 46,440 0
Life insurance premiums of married participators 5,361 90
Instruments account 12,978 68
Ship account 271,927 8
Provisions account 39,172 98
Expenses account 10,612 38
Equipment account 57,846 34
Total 444,339 36

It will be evident from the plan above expounded that the most important point in the
equipment of our expedition was the building of the ship that was to carry us through the
dreaded ice regions. The construction of this vessel was accordingly carried out with
greater care, probably, than has been devoted to any ship that has hitherto ploughed the
Arctic waters. I found in the well-known shipbuilder, Colin Archer, a man who thoroughly
understood the task I set him, and who concentrated all his skill, foresight, and rare
thoroughness upon the work. We must gratefully recognize that the success of the
expedition was in no small degree due to this man.

Colin Archer

If we turn our attention to the long list of former expeditions and to their equipments, it
cannot but strike us that scarcely a single vessel had been built specially for the purpose—
in fact, the majority of explorers have not even provided themselves with vessels which
were originally intended for ice navigation. This is the more surprising when we
remember the sums of money that have been lavished on the equipment of some of these
expeditions. The fact is, they have generally been in such a hurry to set out that there has
been no time to devote to a more careful equipment. In many cases, indeed, preparations
were not begun until a few months before the expedition sailed. The present expedition,
however, could not be equipped in so short a time, and if the voyage itself took three
years, the preparations took no less time, while the scheme was conceived thrice three
years earlier.

Plan after plan did Archer make of the projected ship; one model after another was
prepared and abandoned.

Fresh improvements were constantly being suggested. The form were finally adhered to
may seem to many people by no means beautiful; but that it is well adapted to the ends in
view I think our expedition has fully proved. What was especially aimed at was, as
mentioned on page 29, to give the ship such sides that it could readily be hoisted up
during ice-pressure without being crushed between the floes. Greely, Nares, etc., etc., are
certainly right in saying that this is nothing new. I relied here simply on the sad
experiences of earlier expeditions. What, however, may be said to be new is the fact that
we not only realized that the ship ought to have such a form, but that we gave it that form,
as well as the necessary strength for resisting great ice-pressure, and that this was the
guiding idea in the whole work of construction. Colin Archer is quite right in what he says
in an article in the Norsk Tidsskrift for Sövæsen, 1892: “When one bears in mind what is,
so to speak, the fundamental idea of Dr. Nansen’s plan in his North Pole Expedition ... it
will readily be seen that a ship which is to be built with exclusive regard to its suitability
for this object must differ essentially from any other previously known vessel....

“In the construction of the ship two points must be especially studied: (1) that the shape of
the hull be such as to offer as small a vulnerable target as possible to the attacks of the ice;
and (2) that it be built so solidly as to be able to withstand the greatest possible pressure
from without in any direction whatsoever.”

And thus she was built, more attention being paid to making her a safe and warm
stronghold while drifting in the ice than to endowing her with speed or good sailing
qualities.

Designs for the “Fram”

Fig. 1. Longitudinal section.

Fig. 2. Plan.

Fig. 3. Transverse section
amidships.

Fig. 4. Transverse section at the
engine-room.

rb Rudder-well. sb Propeller-well. S Saloon. s Sofas in saloon. b Table in saloon. Svk Sverdrup’s cabin. Bk
Blessing’s cabin. 4k Four-berth cabins. Hk Scott-Hansen’s cabin. nk Nansen’s cabin. c Way down to engine-
room. R Engine-room. M Engine. kj Boiler. g Companions leading from saloon. K Cook’s galley. B Chart-
room. h Work-room. dy Place for the dynamo. d Main-hatch. e Long boats. i Main-hold. l Under-hold. f
Fore-hatch. n Fore-hold. o Under fore-hold. p Pawl-bit. 1 Foremast. 2 Mainmast. 3 Mizzenmast.

As above stated, our aim was to make the ship as small as possible. The reason of this was
that a small ship is, of course, lighter than a large one, and can be made stronger in
proportion to her weight. A small ship, too, is better adapted for navigation among the ice;
it is easier to handle her in critical moments, and to find a safe berth for her between the
packing ice-floes. I was of opinion that a vessel of 170 tons register would suffice, but the
Fram is considerably larger, 402 tons gross and 307 tons net. It was also our aim to build a
short vessel, which could thread her way easily among the floes, especially as great length
would have been a source of weakness when ice-pressure set in. But in order that such a
ship, which has, moreover, very sloping sides, shall possess the necessary carrying
capacity, she must be broad; and her breadth is, in fact, about a third of her length.
Another point of importance was to make the sides as smooth as possible, without
projecting edges, while plane surfaces were as much as possible avoided in the
neighborhood of the most vulnerable points, and the hull assumed a plump and rounded
form. Bow, stern, and keel—all were rounded off so that the ice should not be able to get a
grip of her anywhere. For this reason, too, the keel was sunk in the planking, so that
barely three inches protruded, and its edges were rounded. The object was that “the whole
craft should be able to slip like an eel out of the embraces of the ice.”

The hull was made pointed fore and aft, and somewhat resembles a pilot-boat, minus the
keel and the sharp garboard strakes. Both ends were made specially strong. The stem
consists of three stout oak beams, one inside the other, forming an aggregate thickness of

4 feet (1.25 m.) of solid oak; inside the stem are fitted solid breasthooks of oak and iron to
bind the ship’s sides together, and from these breasthooks stays are placed against the
pawl-bit. The bow is protected by an iron stem, and across it are fitted transverse bars
which run some small distance backwards on either side, as is usual in sealers.

The stern is of a special and somewhat particular construction. On either side of the rudder
and propeller posts—which are sided 24 inches (65 cm.)—is fitted a stout oak counter-
timber following the curvature of the stern right up to the upper deck, and forming, so to
speak, a double stern-post. The planking is carried outside these timbers, and the stern
protected by heavy iron plates wrought outside the planking.

Between these two counter-timbers there is a well for the screw, and also one for the
rudder, through which they can both be hoisted up on deck. It is usual in sealers to have
the screw arranged in this way, so that it can easily be replaced by a spare screw should it
be broken by the ice. But such an arrangement is not usual in the case of the rudder, and,
while with our small crew, and with the help of the capstan, we could hoist the rudder on
deck in a few minutes in case of any sudden ice-pressure or the like, I have known it take
sealers with a crew of over 60 men several hours, or even a whole day, to ship a fresh
rudder.

The stern is, on the whole, the Achilles’ heel of ships in the Polar Seas; here the ice can
easily inflict great damage, for instance, by breaking the rudder. To guard against this
danger, our rudder was placed so low down as not to be visible above water, so that if a
floe should strike the vessel aft, it would break its force against the strong stern-part, and
could hardly touch the rudder itself. As a matter of fact, notwithstanding the violent
pressures we met with, we never suffered any injury in this respect.

Everything was of course done to make the sides of the ship as strong as possible. The
frame timbers were of choice Italian oak that had originally been intended for the
Norwegian navy, and had lain under cover at Horten for 30 years. They were all grown to
shape, and 10–11 inches thick. The frames were built in two courses or tiers, closely
wrought together, and connected by bolts, some of which were riveted. Over each joint
flat iron bands were placed. The frames were about 21 inches (56 cm.) wide, and were
placed close together, with only about an inch or an inch and a half between; and these
interstices were filled with pitch and sawdust mixed, from the keel to a little distance
above the water-line, in order to keep the ship moderately water-tight, even should the
outer skin be chafed through.

The outside planking consists of three layers. The inner one is of oak, 3 inches thick,
fastened with spikes and carefully calked; outside this another oak sheathing, 4 inches
thick, fastened with through bolts and calked; and outside these comes the ice-skin of
greenheart, which like the other planking runs right down to the keel. At the water-line it
is 6 inches thick, gradually diminishing towards the bottom to 3 inches. It is fastened with

nails and jagged bolts, and not with through bolts; so that if the ice had stripped off the
whole of the ice sheathing the hull of the ship would not have suffered any great damage.
The lining inside the frame timbers is of pitch-pine planks, some 4, some 8 inches thick; it
was also carefully calked once or twice.

The total thickness of the ship’s sides is, therefore, from 24 to 28 inches of solid water-
tight wood. It will readily be understood that such a ship’s side, with its rounded form,
would of itself offer a very good resistance to the ice; but to make it still stronger the
inside was shored up in every possible way, so that the hold looks like a cobweb of balks,
stanchions, and braces. In the first place, there are two rows of beams, the upper deck and
between decks, principally of solid oak, partly also of pitch pine; and all of these are
further connected with each other, as well as with the sides of the ship, by numerous
supports. The accompanying diagrams will show how they are arranged. The diagonal
stays are, of course, placed as nearly as possible at right angles to the sides of the ship, so
as to strengthen them against external pressure and to distribute its force. The vertical
stanchions between both tiers of beams and between the lower beams and keelson are
admirably adapted for this latter object. All are connected together with strong knees and
iron fastenings, so that the whole becomes, as it were, a single coherent mass. It should be
borne in mind that, while in former expeditions it was thought sufficient to give a couple
of beams amidships some extra strengthening, every single cross beam in the Fram was
stayed in the manner described and depicted.

In the engine-room there was, of course, no space for supports in the middle, but in their
place two stay ends were fixed on either side. The beams of the lower deck were placed a
little under the water-line, where the ice pressure would be severest. In the after-hold these
beams had to be raised a little to give room for the engine. The upper deck aft, therefore,
was somewhat higher than the main deck, and the ship had a poop or half-deck, under
which were the cabins for all the members of the expedition, and also the cooking-galley.
Strong iron riders were worked in for the whole length of the ship in the spaces between
the beams, extending in one length from the clamp under the upper deck nearly to the
keelson. The keelson was in two tiers and about 31 inches (80 cm.) high, save in the
engine-room, where the height of the room only allows one tier. The keel consists of two
heavy American elm logs 14 inches square; but, as has been mentioned, so built in that
only 3 inches protrude below the outer planking. The sides of the hull are rounded
downward to the keel, so that a transverse section at the midship frame reminds one
forcibly of half a cocoanut cut in two. The higher the ship is lifted out of the water, the
heavier does she, of course, become, and the greater her pressure on the ice, but for the
above reason the easier also does it become for the ice to lift. To obviate much heeling, in
case the hull should be lifted very high, the bottom was made flat, and this proved to be an
excellent idea. I endeavored to determine experimentally the friction of ice against wood,
and taking into account the strength of the ship, and the angle of her sides with the surface
of the water, I came to the conclusion that her strength must be many times sufficient to

withstand the pressure necessary to lift her. This calculation was amply borne out by
experience.

The principal dimensions of the ship were as follows: Length of keel, 102 feet; length of
water-line, 113 feet; length from stem to stern on deck, 128 feet; extreme breadth, 36 feet;
breadth of water-line, exclusive of ice-skin, 34 feet; depth, 17 feet; draught of water with
light cargo, 12½ feet; displacement with light cargo, 530 tons; with heavy cargo the
draught is over 15 feet and the displacement is 800 tons; there is a freeboard of about 3
feet 6 inches. The hull, with boilers filled, was calculated to weigh about 420 tons, and
with 800 tons displacement there should, therefore, be spare carrying power for coal and
other cargo to the amount of 380 tons. Thus, in addition to the requisite provisions for
dogs and men for more than five years, we could carry coal for four months’ steaming at
full speed, which was more than sufficient for such an expedition as this.

As regards the rigging, the most important object was to have it as simple and as strong as
possible, and at the same time so contrived as to offer the least possible resistance to the
wind while the ship was under steam. With our small crew it was, moreover, of the last
importance that it should be easy to work from deck. For this reason the Fram was rigged
as a three-masted fore-and-aft schooner. Several of our old Arctic skippers disapproved of
this arrangement. They had always been used to sail with square-rigged ships, and, with
the conservatism peculiar to their class, were of opinion that what they had used was the
only thing that could be used in the ice. However, the rig we chose was unquestionably the
best for our purpose. In addition to the ordinary fore-and-aft sails we had two movable
yards on the foremast for a square foresail and topsail. As the yards were attached to a
sliding truss they could easily be hauled down when not in use. The ship’s lower masts
were tolerably high and massive. The mainmast was about 80 feet high, the maintopmast
was 50 feet high, and the crow’s-nest on the top was about 102 feet (32 m.) above the
water. It was important to have this as high as possible, so as to have a more extended
view when it came to picking our way through the ice. The aggregate sail area was about
6000 square feet.

The ship’s engine, a triple expansion, was made with particular care. The work was done
at the Akers Mechanical Factory, and Engineer Norbeck deserves especial credit for its
construction. With his quick insight he foresaw the various possibilities that might occur,
and took precautions against them. The triple-expansion system was chosen as being the
most economical in the consumption of coal; but as it might happen that one or other of
the cylinders should get out of order, it was arranged, by means of separate pipes, that any
of the cylinders could be cut off, and thus the other two, or, at a pinch, even one alone,
could be used. In this way the engine, by the mere turning of a cock or two, could be
changed at will into a compound high-pressure or low-pressure engine. Although nothing
ever went wrong with any of the cylinders, this arrangement was frequently used with
advantage. By using the engine as a compound one, we could, for instance, give the Fram
greater speed for a short time, and when occasion demanded we often took this means of

forcing our way through the ice. The engine was of 220 indicated horse-power, and we
could in calm weather with a light cargo attain a speed of 6 or 7 knots.

The propellers, of which we had two in reserve, were two-bladed, and made of cast-iron;
but we never used either the spare propellers or a spare rudder which we had with us.

Our quarters lay, as before mentioned, abaft under the half-deck, and were arranged so
that the saloon, which formed our dining-room and drawing-room, was in the middle,
surrounded on all sides by the sleeping-cabins. These consisted of four state-rooms with
one berth apiece and two with four berths. The object of this arrangement was to protect
the saloon from external cold; but, further, the ceiling, floors, and walls were covered with
several thick coatings of non-conducting material, the surface layer, in touch with the heat
of the cabin, consisting of air-tight linoleum, to prevent the warm, damp air from
penetrating to the other side and depositing moisture, which would soon turn to ice. The
sides of the ship were lined with tarred felt, then came a space with cork padding, next a
deal panelling, then a thick layer of felt, next air-tight linoleum, and last of all an inner
panelling. The ceiling of the saloon and cabins consisted of many different layers: air, felt,
deal panelling, reindeer-hair stuffing, deal panelling, linoleum, air and deal panelling,
which, with the 4-inch deck planks, gave a total thickness of about 15 inches. To form the
floor of the saloon, cork padding, 6 or 7 inches thick, was laid on the deck planks, on this
a thick wooden floor, and above all linoleum. The skylight which was most exposed to the
cold was protected by three panes of glass, one within the other, and in various other
ways. One of the greatest difficulties of life on board ship which former Arctic expeditions
had had to contend with was that moisture collecting on the cold outside walls either froze
at once or ran down in streams into the berths and on to the floor. Thus it was not unusual
to find the mattresses converted into more or less solid masses of ice. We, however, by
these arrangements, entirely avoided such an unpleasant state of things, and when the fire
was lighted in the saloon there was not a trace of moisture on the walls, even in the
sleeping-cabins. In front of the saloon lay the cook’s galley, on either side of which was a
companion leading to the deck.

As a protection against the cold, each of these companion-ways was fitted with four small
solid doors consisting of several layers of wood with felt between, all of which had to be
passed through on going out. And the more completely to exclude the cold air the
thresholds of the doors were made more than ordinarily high. On the half-deck over the
cook’s galley, between the mainmast and the funnel, was a chart-room facing the bow, and
a smaller work-room abaft.

In order to secure the safety of the ship in case of a leak, the hold was divided into three
compartments by water-tight bulkheads. Besides the usual pumps, we had a powerful
centrifugal pump driven by the engine, which could be connected with each of the three
compartments. It may be mentioned as an improvement on former expeditions that the
Fram was furnished with an electric light installation. The dynamo was to be driven by

the engine while we were under steam; while the intention was to drive it partly by means
of the wind, partly by hand power, during our sojourn in the ice. For this purpose we took
a windmill with us, and also a “horse-mill” to be worked by ourselves. I had anticipated
that this latter might have been useful in giving us exercise in the long polar night. We
found, however, that there were plenty of other things to do, and we never used it; on the
other hand, the windmill proved extremely serviceable. For illumination when we might
not have enough power to produce electric light, we took with us about 16 tons of
petroleum, which was also intended for cooking purposes and for warming the cabins.
This petroleum, as well as 20 tons of common kerosene,2 intended to be used along with
coal in the boiler, was stored in massive iron tanks, eight of which were in the hold, and
one on deck. In all, the ship had eight boats, two of which were especially large, 29 feet
long and 9 feet wide. These were intended for use in case the ship should, after all, be lost,
the idea being that we should live in them while drifting in the ice. They were large
enough to accommodate the whole ship’s company with provisions for many months.
Then there were four smaller boats of the form sealers generally use. They were
exceedingly strong and lightly built, two of oak and two of elm. The seventh boat was a
small pram, and the eighth a launch with a petroleum engine, which, however, was not
very serviceable, and caused us a great deal of trouble.

As I shall have frequent occasion later on to speak of other details of our equipment, I
shall content myself here with mentioning a few of the most important.

Special attention was, of course, devoted to our commissariat with a view to obviating the
danger of scurvy and other ailments. The principle on which I acted in the choice of
provisions was to combine variety with wholesomeness. Every single article of food was
chemically analyzed before being adopted, and great care was taken that it should be
properly packed. Such articles, even, as bread, dried vegetables, etc., etc., were soldered
down in tins as a protection against damp.

A good library was of great importance to an expedition like ours, and thanks to
publishers and friends, both in our own and in other countries, we were very well supplied
in this respect.

The instruments for taking scientific observations of course formed an important part of
our equipment, and special care was bestowed upon them. In addition to the collection of
instruments I had used on my Greenland expedition, a great many new ones were
provided, and no pains were spared to get them as good and complete as possible. For
meteorological observations, in addition to the ordinary thermometers, barometers,
aneroids, psychrometers, hygrometers, anemometers, etc., etc., self-registering
instruments were also taken. Of special importance were a self-registering aneroid
barometer (barograph) and a pair of self-registering thermometers (thermographs). For
astronomical observations we had a large theodolite and two smaller ones, intended for
use on sledge expeditions, together with several sextants of different sizes. We had,

moreover, four ship’s chronometers and several pocket-chronometers. For magnetic
observations, for taking the declination, inclination, and intensity (both horizontal and
total intensity) we had a complete set of instruments. Among others may be mentioned a
spectroscope especially adapted for the northern lights, an electroscope for determining
the amount of electricity in the air, photographic apparatuses, of which we had seven,
large and small, and a photographometer for making charts. I considered a pendulum
apparatus with its adjuncts to be of special importance to enable us to make pendulum
experiments in the far north. To do this, however, land was necessary, and, as we did not
find any, this instrument unfortunately did not come into use. For hydrographic
observations we took a full equipment of water-samplers, deep-water thermometers, etc.
To ascertain the saltness of the water, we had, in addition to the ordinary areometers, an
electric apparatus specially constructed by Mr. Thornöe. Altogether, our scientific
equipment was especially excellent, thanks in great measure to the obliging assistance
rendered me by many men of science. I would take this opportunity of tendering my
special thanks to Professor Mohn, who, besides seeing to the meteorological instruments,
helped me in many other ways with his valuable advice; to Professor Geelmuyden, who
undertook the supervision of the astronomical instruments; to Dr. Neumeyer, of Hamburg,
who took charge of the magnetic equipment; and to Professor Otto Petterson, of
Stockholm, and Mr. Thornöe, of Christiania, both of whom superintended the
hydrographic department. Of no less importance were the physiologico-medicinal
preparations, to which Professor Torup devoted particular care.

As it might be of the utmost importance in several contingencies to have good sledge-
dogs, I applied to my friend, Baron Edward von Toll, of St. Petersburg, and asked him
whether it was possible to procure serviceable animals from Siberia.3 With great courtesy
Von Toll replied that he thought he himself could arrange this for me, as he was just on the
point of undertaking his second scientific expedition to Siberia and the New Siberian
Islands. He proposed to send the dogs to Khabarova, on Yugor Strait. On his journey
through Tiumen in January, 1893, by the help of an English merchant named Wardroper,
who resided there, he engaged Alexander Ivanovitch Trontheim to undertake the purchase
of thirty Ostiak dogs and their conveyance to Yugor Strait. But Von Toll was not content
with this. Mr. Nikolai Kelch having offered to bear the expense, my friend procured the
East Siberian dogs, which are acknowledged to be better draught dogs than those of West
Siberia (Ostiak dogs), and Johan Torgersen, a Norwegian, undertook to deliver them at the
mouth of the Olenek, where it was arranged that we should touch.

Von Toll, moreover, thought it would be important to establish some depots of provisions
on the New Siberian Islands, in case the Fram should meet with disaster and the
expedition should be obliged to return home that way. On Von Toll’s mentioning this,
Kelch at once expressed himself willing to bear the cost, as he wished us in that event to
meet with Siberian hospitality even on the New Siberian Islands. As it was difficult to find
trustworthy agents to carry out a task involving so much responsibility, Von Toll

determined to establish the depots himself, and in May, 1893, he set out on an adventurous
and highly interesting journey from the mainland over the ice to the New Siberian Islands,
where, besides laying down three depots for us,4 he made some very important geological
researches.

Another important matter, I thought, was to have a cargo of coal sent out as far as possible
on our route, so that when we broke off all connection with the rest of the world we
should have on board the Fram as much coal as she could carry. I therefore joyfully
accepted an offer from an Englishman, who was to accompany us with his steam-yacht to
Novaya Zemlya or the Kara Sea and give us 100 tons of coal on parting company. As our
departure was drawing nigh I learnt, however, that other arrangements had been made. It
being now too late to take any other measures, I chartered the sloop Urania, of
Brönösund, in Nordland, to bring a cargo of coals to Khabarova, on the Yugor Strait.

No sooner did the plan of my expedition become known than petitions poured in by the
hundred from all quarters of the earth—from Europe, America, Australia—from persons
who wished to take part in it, in spite of the many warning voices that had been raised. It
was no easy thing to choose among all the brave men who applied. As a matter of course,
it was absolutely essential that every man should be strong and healthy, and not one was
finally accepted till he had been carefully examined by Professor Hialmar Heiberg, of
Christiania.

The following is a list of the members of the expedition:

Otto Neumann Sverdrup, commander of the Fram, was born in Bindal, in Helgeland,
1855. At the age of seventeen he went to sea, passed his mate’s examination in 1878, and
for some years was captain of a ship. In 1888–89 he took part in the Greenland expedition.
As soon as he heard of the plan of the polar expedition he expressed his desire to
accompany it, and I knew that I could not place the Fram in better hands. He is married,
and has one child.

Sigurd Scott-Hansen, first lieutenant in the navy, undertook the management of the
meteorological, astronomical, and magnetic observations. He was born in Christiania in
1868. After passing through the naval school at Horten, he became an officer in 1889, and
first lieutenant in 1892. He is a son of Andreas Hansen, parish priest in Christiania.

Henrik Greve Blessing, doctor and botanist to the expedition, was born in Drammen in
1866, where his father was at that time a clergyman. He became a student in 1885, and
graduated in medicine in the spring of 1893.

Theodore Claudius Jacobsen, mate of the Fram, was born at Tromsö in 1855, where his
father was a ship’s captain, afterwards harbor-master and head pilot. At the age of fifteen
he went to sea, and passed his mate’s examination four years later. He spent two years in

New Zealand, and from 1886–90 he went on voyages to the Arctic Sea as skipper of a
Tromsö sloop. He is married, and has one child.

Anton Amundsen, chief engineer of the Fram, was born at Horten in 1853. In 1884 he
passed his technical examination, and soon afterwards his engineer’s examination. For
twenty-five years he has been in the navy, where he attained the rank of chief engineer. He
is married, and has six children.

Adolf Juell, steward and cook of the Fram, was born in the parish of Skåtö, near Kragerö,
in 1860. His father, Claus Nielsen, was a farmer and ship-owner. In 1879 he passed his
mate’s examination, and has been captain of a ship many years. He is married, and has
four children.

Lars Pettersen, second engineer of the Fram, was born in 1860, at Borre, near
Landskrona, in Sweden, of Norwegian parents. He is a fully qualified smith and
machinist, in which capacity he has served in the Norwegian navy for several years. Is
married, and has children.

Frederik Hjalmar Johansen, lieutenant in the Reserve, was born at Skien in 1867, and
matriculated at the University in 1886. In 1891–92 he went to the Military School and
became a supernumerary officer. He was so eager to take part in the expedition that, as no
other post could be found for him, he accepted that of stoker.

Peter Leonard Henriksen, harpooner, was born in Balsfjord, near Tromsö, in 1859. From
childhood he has been a sailor, and from fourteen years old has gone on voyages to the
Arctic Sea as harpooner and skipper. In 1888 he was shipwrecked off Novaya Zemlya in
the sloop Enigheden, from Christiansund. He is married, and has four children.

Bernhard Nordahl was born in Christiania in 1862. At the age of fourteen he entered the
navy, and advanced to be a gunner. Subsequently he has done a little of everything, and,
among other things, has worked as an electrical engineer. He had charge of the dynamo
and electric installation on board, acted, moreover, as stoker, and for a time assisted in the
meteorological observations. He is married, and has five children.

Ivar Otto Irgens Mogstad was born at Aure, in Nordmöre, in 1856. In 1877 passed his
examination as first assistant, and from 1882 onward was one of the head keepers at the
Gaustad Lunatic Asylum.

Bernt Bentzen, born in 1860, went to sea for several years. In 1890 he passed his mate’s
examination, since which he has sailed as mate in several voyages to the Arctic Sea. We
engaged him at Tromsö, just as we were starting. It was 8.30 when he came on board to
speak to me, and at 10 o’clock the Fram set sail.

1 Nearly £25,000.

2 This oil, by means of a specially constructed steam-jet apparatus, was injected into the furnaces in the form of a
fine spray, where it burned in a very economical and saving manner, giving forth a great amount of heat. The apparatus
was one which has been applied to locomotives in England, whence it was procured. It appeared, however, that it tended
to overheat the boiler at one particular point, where it made a dent, so that we soon abandoned this method of firing.
3 I had thought of procuring dogs from the Eskimo of Greenland and Hudson Bay, but there proved to be insuperable
difficulties in the way of getting them conveyed from there.
4 These depots were arranged most carefully, and every precaution so well taken that we certainly should not have
suffered from famine had we gone there. In the northernmost depot at Stan Durnova on the west coast of Kotelnoi, at
75° 37′ N. L., we should have found provisions for a week; with these we could easily have made our way 65 miles
southward along the coast to the second depot at Urassalach, where, in a house built by Baron Von Toll in 1886, we
should have found provisions for a whole month. Lastly, a third depot in a house on the south side of Little Liakhoff
Island, with provisions for two months, would have enabled us to reach the mainland with ease.

Chapter III

The Start
“So travel I north to the gloomy abode
That the sun never shines on—
There is no day.”

It was midsummer day. A dull, gloomy day; and with it came the inevitable leave-taking.
The door closed behind me. For the last time I left my home and went alone down the
garden to the beach, where the Fram’s little petroleum launch pitilessly awaited me.
Behind me lay all I held dear in life. And what before me? How many years would pass
ere I should see it all again? What would I not have given at that moment to be able to
turn back; but up at the window little Liv was sitting clapping her hands. Happy child,
little do you know what life is—how strangely mingled and how full of change. Like an
arrow the little boat sped over Lysaker Bay, bearing me on the first stage of a journey on
which life itself, if not more, was staked.

At last everything was in readiness. The hour had arrived towards which the persevering
labor of years had been incessantly bent, and with it the feeling that, everything being
provided and completed, responsibility might be thrown aside and the weary brain at last
find rest. The Fram lies yonder at Pepperviken, impatiently panting and waiting for the
signal, when the launch comes puffing past Dyna and runs alongside. The deck is closely
packed with people come to bid a last farewell, and now all must leave the ship. Then the
Fram weighs anchor, and, heavily laden and moving slowly, makes the tour of the little
creek. The quays are black with crowds of people waving their hats and handkerchiefs.
But silently and quietly the Fram heads towards the fjord, steers slowly past Bygdö and
Dyna out on her unknown path, while little nimble craft, steamers, and pleasure-boats
swarm around her. Peaceful and snug lay the villas along the shore behind their veils of
foliage, just as they ever seemed of old. Ah, “fair is the woodland slope, and never did it
look fairer!” Long, long, will it be before we shall plough these well-known waters again.

And now a last farewell to home. Yonder it lies on the point—the fjord sparkling in front,
pine and fir woods around, a little smiling meadow-land and long wood-clad ridges
behind. Through the glass one could descry a summer-clad figure by the bench under the
fir-tree....

It was the darkest hour of the whole journey.

And now out into the fjord. It was rainy weather, and a feeling of melancholy seemed to
brood over the familiar landscape with all its memories.

It was not until noon next day (June 25th) that the Fram glided into the bay by Rækvik,
Archer’s shipyard, near Laurvik, where her cradle stood, and where many a golden dream
had been dreamt of her victorious career. Here we were to take the two long-boats on
board and have them set up on their davits, and there were several other things to be
shipped. It took the whole day and a good part of the next before all was completed.
About three o’clock on the 26th we bade farewell to Rækvik and made a bend into
Laurvik Bay, in order to stand out to sea by Frederiksværn. Archer himself had to take the
wheel and steer his child this last bit before leaving the ship. And then came the farewell
hand-shake; but few words were spoken, and they got into the boat, he, my brothers, and a
friend, while the Fram glided ahead with her heavy motion, and the bonds that united us
were severed. It was sad and strange to see this last relic of home in that little skiff on the
wide blue surface, Anker’s cutter behind, and Laurvik farther in the distance. I almost
think a tear glittered on that fine old face as he stood erect in the boat and shouted a
farewell to us and to the Fram. Do you think he does not love the vessel? That he believes
in her I know well. So we gave him the first salute from the Fram’s guns—a worthier
inauguration they could not well have had.

Full speed ahead, and in the calm, bright summer weather, while the setting sun shed his
beams over the land, the Fram stood out towards the blue sea, to get its first roll in the
long, heaving swell. They stood up in the boat and watched us for long.

Sigurd Scott-Hansen

(From a photograph taken in December, 1893)

We bore along the coast in good weather, past Christiansand. The next evening, June 27th,
we were off the Naze. I sat up and chatted with Scott-Hansen till late in the night. He
acted as captain on the trip from Christiania to Trondhjem, where Sverdrup was to join,
after having accompanied his family to Steenkiær. As we sat there in the chart-house and
let the hours slip by while we pushed on in the ever-increasing swell, all at once a sea
burst open the door and poured in. We rushed out on deck. The ship rolled like a log, the
seas broke in over the rails on both sides, and one by one up came all the crew. I feared
most lest the slender davits which supported the long-boats should give way, and the boats
themselves should go overboard, perhaps carrying away with them a lot of the rigging.
Then twenty-five empty paraffin casks which were lashed on deck broke loose, washed
backward and forward, and gradually filled with water; so that the outlook was not
altogether agreeable. But it was worst of all when the piles of reserve timber, spars, and
planks began the same dance, and threatened to break the props under the boats. It was an

anxious hour. Sea-sick, I stood on the bridge, occupying myself in alternately making
libations to Neptune and trembling for the safety of the boats and the men, who were
trying to make snug what they could forward on deck. I often saw only a hotch-potch of
sea, drifting planks, arms, legs, and empty barrels. Now a green sea poured over us and
knocked a man off his legs so that the water deluged him; now I saw the lads jumping
over hurtling spars and barrels, so as not to get their feet crushed between them. There
was not a dry thread on them. Juell, who lay asleep in the “Grand Hotel,” as we called one
of the long-boats, awoke to hear the sea roaring under him like a cataract. I met him at the
cabin door as he came running down. It was no longer safe there, he thought; best to save
one’s rags—he had a bundle under his arm. Then he set off forward to secure his sea-
chest, which was floating about on the fore-deck, and dragged it hurriedly aft, while one
heavy sea after another swept over him. Once the Fram buried her bows and shipped a sea
over the forecastle. There was one fellow clinging to the anchor-davits over the frothing
water. It was poor Juell again. We were hard put to it to secure our goods and chattels. We
had to throw all our good paraffin casks overboard, and one prime timber balk after
another went the same way, while I stood and watched them sadly as they floated off. The
rest of the deck cargo was shifted aft on to the half-deck. I am afraid the shares in the
expedition stood rather low at this moment. Then all at once, when things were about at
their worst with us, we sighted a bark looming out of the fog ahead. There it lay with
royals and all sails set, as snugly and peacefully as if nothing were the matter, rocking
gently on the sea. It made one feel almost savage to look at it. Visions of the Flying
Dutchman and other devilry flashed through my mind.

Terrible disaster in the cook’s galley! Mogstad goes in and sees the whole wall sprinkled
over with dark-red stains—rushes off to Nordahl, and says he believes Juell has shot
himself through despair at the insufferable heat he complains so about. “Great revolver
disaster on board the Fram!...” On close inspection, however, the stains appeared to
proceed from a box of chocolate that had upset in the cupboard.

Owing to the fog we dared not go too near land, so kept out to sea, till at last, towards
morning, the fog lifted somewhat, and the pilot found his bearings between Farsund and
Hummerdus. We put into Lister Fjord, intending to anchor there and get into better sea
trim; but as the weather improved we went on our way. It was not till the afternoon that
we steered into Ekersund, owing to thick weather and a stiff breeze, and anchored in
Hovland’s Bay, where our pilot, Hovland,1 lived. Next morning the boat davits, etc., were
put in good working order. The Fram, however, was too heavily laden to be at all easy in a
seaway; but this we could not alter. What we had we must keep, and if we only got
everything on deck shipshape and properly lashed, the sea could not do us much harm,
however rough it might be; for we knew well enough that ship and rigging would hold
out.

Adolf Juell

(From a photograph taken in December, 1893)

It was late in the evening of the last day of June when we rounded Kvarven and stood in
for Bergen in the gloom of the sullen night. Next morning when I came on deck Vågen lay
clear and bright in the sun, all the ships being gayly decked out with bunting from topmost
to deck. The sun was holding high festival in the sky—Ulriken, Flöiren, and Lövstakken
sparkled and glittered, and greeted me as of old. It is a marvellous place, that old
Hanseatic town!

In the evening I was to give a lecture, but arrived half an hour too late. For just as I was
dressing to go a number of bills poured in, and if I was to leave the town as a solvent man
I must needs pay them, and so the public perforce had to wait. But the worst of it was that
the saloon was full of those everlastingly inquisitive tourists. I could hear a whole
company of them besieging my cabin door while I was dressing, declaring “they must
shake hands with the doctor!”2 One of them actually peeped in through the ventilator at

me, my secretary told me afterwards. A nice sight she must have seen, the lovely creature!
Report says she drew her head back very quickly. Indeed, at every place where we put in
we were looked on somewhat as wild animals in a menagerie. For they peeped
unceremoniously at us in our berths as if we had been bears and lions in a den, and we
could hear them loudly disputing among themselves as to who was who, and whether
those nearest and dearest to us whose portraits hung on the walls could be called pretty or
not. When I had finished my toilette I opened the door cautiously and made a rush through
the gaping company. “There he is—there he is!”3 they called to each other as they
tumbled up the steps after me. It was no use; I was on the quay and in the carriage long
before they had reached the deck.

At 8 o’clock there was a great banquet, many fine speeches, good fare and excellent wine,
pretty ladies, music, and dancing till far into the night.

Next morning at 11 o’clock—it was Sunday—in bright, sunshiny weather, we stood
northward over Bergen Fjord, many friends accompanying us. It was a lovely, never-to-
be-forgotten summer day. In Herlö Fjord, right out by the skerries, they parted from us,
amid wavings of hats and pocket-handkerchiefs; we could see the little harbor boat for a
long while with its black cloud of smoke on the sparkling surface of the water. Outside,
the sea rolled in the hazy sunlight; and within lay the flat Mangerland, full of memories
for me of zoological investigations in fair weather and foul, years and years ago. Here it
was that one of Norway’s most famous naturalists, a lonely pastor far removed from the
outer world, made his great discoveries. Here I myself first groped my way along the
narrow path of zoological research.

The “Fram” leaving Bergen

(From a photograph)

It was a wondrous evening. The lingering flush of vanished day suffused the northern sky,
while the moon hung large and round over the mountains behind us. Ahead lay Alden and
Kinn, like a fairyland rising up from the sea. Tired as I was, I could not seek my berth; I
must drink in all this loveliness in deep refreshing draughts. It was like balm to the soul
after all the turmoil and friction with crowds of strangers.

So we went on our way, mostly in fair weather, occasionally in fog and rain, through
sounds and between islands, northward along the coast of Norway. A glorious land—I
wonder if another fairway like this is to be found the whole world over? Those never-to-
be-forgotten mornings, when nature wakens to life, wreaths of mist glittering like silver
over the mountains, their tops soaring above the mist like islands of the sea! Then the day
gleaming over the dazzling white snow-peaks! And the evenings, and the sunsets with the
pale moon overhead, white mountains and islands lay hushed and dreamlike as a youthful
longing! Here and there past homely little havens with houses around them set in smiling
green trees! Ah! those snug homes in the lee of the skerries awake a longing for life and
warmth in the breast. You may shrug your shoulders as much as you like at the beauties of
nature, but it is a fine thing for a people to have a fair land, be it never so poor. Never did
this seem clearer to me than now when I was leaving it.

Every now and then a hurrah from land—at one time from a troop of children, at another
from grown-up people, but mostly from wondering peasants who gaze long at the strange-
looking ship and muse over its enigmatic destination. And men and women on board
sloops and ten-oared boats stand up in their red shirts that glow in the sunlight, and rest on
their oars to look at us. Steamboats crowded with people came out from the towns we
passed to greet us, and bid us God-speed on our way with music, songs, and cannon
salutes. The great tourist steamboats dipped flags to us and fired salutes, and the smaller
craft did the same. It is embarrassing and oppressive to be the object of homage like this
before anything has been accomplished. There is an old saying:

“At eve the day shall be praised,
The wife when she is burnt,
The sword when tried,
The woman when married,
The ice when passed over,
Ale when drunk.”

Most touching was the interest and sympathy with which these poor fisher-folk and
peasants greeted us. It often set me wondering. I felt they followed us with fervent
eagerness. I remember one day—it was north in Helgeland—an old woman was standing
waving and waving to us on a bare crag. Her cottage lay some distance inland. “I wonder
if it can really be us she is waving to,” I said to the pilot, who was standing beside me.
“You may be sure it is,” was the answer. “But how can she know who we are?” “Oh! they
know all about the Fram up here, in every cabin, and they will be on the lookout for you
as you come back, I can tell you,” he answered. Aye, truly, it is a responsible task we are
undertaking, when the whole nation are with us like this. What if the thing should turn out
a huge disappointment!

In the evening I would sit and look around—lonely huts lay scattered here and there on
points and islets. Here the Norwegian people wear out their lives in the struggle with the
rocks, in the struggle with the sea; and it is this people that is sending us out into the great
hazardous unknown; the very folk who stand there in their fishing-boats and look
wonderingly after the Fram as she slowly and heavily steams along on her northward
course. Many of them wave their sou’-westers and shout “Hurrah!” Others have barely
time to gape at us in wonderment. In on the point are a troop of women waving and
shouting; outside a few boats with ladies in light summer-dresses, and gentlemen at the
oars entertaining them with small-talk as they wave their parasols and pocket-
handkerchiefs. Yes; it is they who are sending us out. It is not a cheering thought. Not one
of them, probably, knows what they are paying their money for. Maybe they have heard it
is a glorious enterprise; but why? To what end? Are we not defrauding them? But their
eyes are riveted on the ship, and perhaps there dawns before their minds a momentary
vision of a new and inconceivable world, with aspirations after a something of which they
know naught.... And here on board are men who are leaving wife and children behind

them. How sad has been the separation! what longing, what yearning, await them in the
coming years! And it is not for profit they do it. For honor and glory then? These may be
scant enough. It is the same thirst for achievement, the same craving to get beyond the
limits of the known, which inspired this people in the Saga times that is stirring in them
again to-day. In spite of all our toil for subsistence, in spite of all our “peasant politics,”
sheer utilitarianism is perhaps not so dominant among us, after all.

As time was precious I did not, as originally intended, put in at Trondhjem, but stopped at
Beian, where Sverdrup joined us. Here Professor Brögger also came on board, to
accompany us as far as Tromsö.

Here, too, our doctor received three monstrous chests with the medicine supply, a gift
from Apothecary Bruun, of Trondhjem.

Otto Sverdrup

(From a photograph taken in 1895)

And so on towards the north, along the lovely coast of Nordland. We stopped at one or
two places to take dried fish on board as provision for the dogs. Past Torghatten, the Seven
Sisters, and Hestemanden; past Lovunen and Trænen, far out yonder in the sea; past
Lofoten and all the other lovely places—each bold gigantic form wilder and more
beautiful than the last. It is unique—a fairyland—a land of dreams. We felt afraid to go on
too fast, for fear of missing something.

On July 12th we arrived at Tromsö, where we were to take in coal and other things, such
as reindeer cloaks, “komager” (a sort of Lapp moccasin), Finn shoes, “senne” grass, dried
reindeer flesh, etc., etc., all of which had been procured by that indefatigable friend of the
expedition, Advocate Mack. Tromsö gave us a cold reception—a northwesterly gale, with
driving snow and sleet. Mountains, plains, and house-roofs were all covered with snow
down to the water’s edge. It was the very bitterest July day I ever experienced. The people
there said they could not remember such a July. Perhaps they were afraid the place would
come into disrepute, for in a town where they hold snow-shoe races on Midsummer Day
one may be prepared for anything in the way of weather.

In Tromsö the next day a new member of the expedition was engaged, Bernt Bentzen—a
stout fellow to look at. He originally intended accompanying us only as far as Yugor
Strait, but as a matter of fact he went the whole voyage with us, and proved a great
acquisition, being not only a capital seaman, but a cheerful and amusing comrade.

After a stay of two days we again set out. On the night of the 16th, east of the North Cape
or Magerö, we met with such a nasty sea, and shipped so much water on deck, that we put
into Kjöllefjord to adjust our cargo better by shifting the coal and making a few other
changes. We worked at this the whole of two days, and made everything clear for the
voyage to Novaya Zemlya. I had at first thought of taking on board a fresh supply of coal
at Vardö, but as we were already deeply laden, and the Urania was to meet us at Yugor
Strait with coal, we thought it best to be contented with what we had already got on board,
as we might expect bad weather in crossing the White Sea and Barents Sea. At ten o’clock
in the evening we weighed anchor, and reached Vardö next evening, where we met with a
magnificent reception. There was a band of music on the pier, the fjord teemed with boats,
flags waved on every hand, and salutes were fired. The people had been waiting for us
ever since the previous evening, we were told—some of them, indeed, coming from Vadsö
—and they had seized the opportunity to get up a subscription to provide a big drum for
the town band, the “North Pole.” And here we were entertained at a sumptuous banquet,
with speeches, and champagne flowing in streams, ere we bade Norway our last farewell.

The last thing that had now to be done for the Fram was to have her bottom cleaned of
mussels and weeds, so that she might be able to make the best speed possible. This work
was done by divers, who were readily placed at our service by the local inspector of the
Government Harbor Department.

But our own bodies also claimed one last civilized feast of purification before entering on
a life of savagery. The bath-house of the town is a small timber building. The bath-room
itself is low, and provided with shelves where you lie down and are parboiled with hot
steam, which is constantly kept up by water being thrown on the glowing hot stones of an
awful oven, worthy of hell itself; while all the time young quæn (lasses) flog you with
birch twigs. After that you are rubbed down, washed, and dried delightfully—everything
being well managed, clean, and comfortable. I wonder whether old Father Mahomet has
set up a bath like this in his paradise.

1 Both Hovland, who piloted us from Christiania to Bergen, and Johan Hågensen, who took us from Bergen to Vardö,
were most kindly placed at the disposal of the expedition by the Nordenfjeldske Steamship Company, of Trondhjem.
2 English in the original.

3 English in the original.

Chapter IV

Farewell to Norway
I felt in a strange mood as I sat up the last night writing letters and telegrams. We had
bidden farewell to our excellent pilot, Johan Hågensen, who had piloted us from Bergen,
and now we were only the thirteen members of the expedition, together with my
secretary, Christofersen, who had accompanied us so far, and was to go on with us as far
as Yugor Strait. Everything was so calm and still, save for the scraping of the pen that
was sending off a farewell to friends at home.

All the men were asleep below.

The last telegram was written, and I sent my secretary ashore with it. It was 3 o’clock in
the morning when he returned, and I called Sverdrup up, and one or two others. We
weighed anchor, and stood out of the harbor in the silence of the morning. The town still
lay wrapped in sleep; everything looked so peaceful and lovely all around, with the
exception of a little stir of awakening toil on board one single steamer in the harbor. A
sleepy fisherman stuck his head up out of the half-deck of his ten-oared boat, and stared
at us as we steamed past the breakwater; and on the revenue cutter outside there was a
man fishing in that early morning light.

This last impression of Norway was just the right one for us to carry away with us. Such
beneficent peace and calm; such a rest for the thoughts; no hubbub and turmoil of people
with their hurrahs and salutes. The masts in the harbor, the house-roofs, and chimneys
stood out against the cool morning sky. Just then the sun broke through the mist and
smiled over the shore—rugged, bare, and weather-worn in the hazy morning, but still
lovely—dotted here and there with tiny houses and boats, and all Norway lay behind
it....

While the Fram was slowly and quietly working her way out to sea, towards our distant
goal, I stood and watched the land gradually fading away on the horizon. I wonder what
will happen to her and to us before we again see Norway rising up over the sea?

But a fog soon came on and obscured everything.

And through fog, nothing but fog, we steamed away for four days without stopping,
until, when I came on deck on the morning of the 25th of July, behold clear weather! The
sun was shining in a cloudless sky, the bright blue sea was heaving with a gentle swell.
Again it was good to be a living being, and to drink in the peacefulness of the sea in long
draughts. Towards noon we sighted Goose Land on Novaya Zemlya, and stood in
towards it. Guns and cartridges were got ready, and we looked forward with joyful

anticipation to roast goose and other game; but we had gone but a short distance when
the gray woolly fog from the southeast came up and enveloped us. Again we were shut
off from the world around us. It was scarcely prudent to make for land, so we set our
course eastward towards Yugor Strait; but a head-wind soon compelled us to beat up
under steam and sail, which we went on doing for a couple of days, plunged in a world
of fog. Ugh! that endless, stubborn fog of the Arctic Sea! When it lowers its curtain, and
shuts out the blue above and the blue below, and everything becomes a damp gray mist,
day in and day out, then all the vigor and elasticity of the soul is needed to save one from
being stifled in its clammy embrace. Fog, and nothing but fog, wherever we turn our
eyes. It condenses on the rigging and drips down on every tiniest spot on deck. It lodges
on your clothes, and finally wets you through and through. It settles down on the mind
and spirits, and everything becomes one uniform gray.

First drift-ice. July 28, 1893

(By Otto Sinding)

On the evening of July 27th, while still fog-bound, we quite unexpectedly met with ice;
a mere strip, indeed, which we easily passed through, but it boded ill. In the night we
met with more—a broader strip this time, which also we passed through. But next
morning I was called up with the information that there was thick, old ice ahead. Well, if
ice difficulties were to begin so soon, it would be a bad lookout indeed. Such are the

chill surprises that the Arctic Sea has more than enough of. I dressed and was up in the
crow’s-nest in a twinkling. The ice lay extended everywhere, as far as the eye could
reach through the fog, which had lifted a little. There was no small quantity of ice, but it
was tolerably open, and there was nothing for it but to be true to our watchword and “gå
fram”—push onward. For a good while we picked our way. But now it began to lie
closer, with large floes every here and there, and at the same time the fog grew denser,
and we could not see our way at all. To go ahead in difficult ice and in a fog is not very
prudent, for it is impossible to tell just where you are going, and you are apt to be set fast
before you know where you are. So we had to stop and wait. But still the fog grew ever
denser, while the ice did the same. Our hopes meanwhile rose and fell, but mostly the
latter, I think. To encounter so much ice already in these waters, where at this time of
year the sea is, as a rule, quite free from it, boded anything but good. Already at Tromsö
and Vardö we had heard bad news; the White Sea, they said, had only been clear of ice a
very short time, and a boat that had tried to reach Yugor Strait had had to turn back
because of the ice. Neither were our anticipations of the Kara Sea altogether cheerful.
What might we not expect there? For the Urania, with our coals, too, this ice was a bad
business; for it would be unable to make its way through unless it had found navigable
water farther south along the Russian coast.

Just as our prospects were at their darkest, and we were preparing to seek a way back out
of the ice, which kept getting ever denser, the joyful tidings came that the fog was
lifting, and that clear water was visible ahead to the east on the other side of the ice.
After forcing our way ahead for some hours between the heavy floes, we were once
more in open water. This first bout with the ice, however, showed us plainly what an
excellent ice-boat the Fram was. It was a royal pleasure to work her ahead through
difficult ice. She twisted and turned “like a ball on a platter.” No channel between the
floes so winding and awkward but she could get through it. But it is hard work for the
helmsman. “Hard astarboard! Hard aport! Steady! Hard astarboard again!” goes on
incessantly without so much as a breathing-space. And he rattles the wheel round, the
sweat pours off him, and round it goes again like a spinning-wheel. And the ship swings
round and wriggles her way forward among the floes without touching, if there is only
just an opening wide enough for her to slip through; and where there is none she drives
full tilt at the ice, with her heavy plunge, runs her sloping bows up on it, treads it under
her, and bursts the floes asunder. And how strong she is too! Even when she goes full
speed at a floe, not a creak, not a sound, is to be heard in her; if she gives a little shake it
is all she does.

On Saturday, July 29th, we again headed eastward towards Yugor Strait as fast as sails
and steam could take us. We had open sea ahead, the weather was fine and the wind fair.
Next morning we came under the south side of Dolgoi or Langöia, as the Norwegian
whalers call it, where we had to stand to the northward. On reaching the north of the
island we again bore eastward. Here I descried from the crow’s-nest, as far as I could

make out, several islands which are not given on the charts. They lay a little to the east
of Langöia.

It was now pretty clear that the Urania had not made her way through the ice. While we
were sitting in the saloon in the forenoon, talking about it, a cry was heard from deck
that the sloop was in sight. It was joyful news, but the joy was of no long duration. The
next moment we heard she had a crow’s-nest on her mast, so she was doubtless a sealer.
When she sighted us she bore off to the south, probably fearing that we were a Russian
war-ship or something equally bad. So, as we had no particular interest in her, we let her
go on her way in peace.

Later in the day we neared Yugor Strait. We kept a sharp lookout for land ahead, but
none could be seen. Hour after hour passed as we glided onward at good speed, but still
no land. Certainly it would not be high land, but nevertheless this was strange. Yes—
there it lies, like a low shadow over the horizon, on the port bow. It is land—it is Vaigats
Island. Soon we sight more of it—abaft the beam; then, too, the mainland on the south
side of the strait. More and more of it comes in sight—it increases rapidly. All low and
level land, no heights, no variety, no apparent opening for the strait ahead. Thence it
stretches away to the north and south in a soft low curve. This is the threshold of Asia’s
boundless plains, so different from all we have been used to.

We now glided into the strait, with its low rocky shores on either side. The strata of the
rocks lie endways, and are crumpled and broken, but on the surface everything is level
and smooth. No one who travels over the flat green plains and tundras would have any
idea of the mysteries and upheavals that lie hidden beneath the sward. Here once upon a
time were mountains and valleys, now all worn away and washed out.

We looked out for Khabarova. On the north side of the sound there was a mark; a
shipwrecked sloop lay on the shore; it was a Norwegian sealer. The wreck of a smaller
vessel lay by its side. On the south side was a flag-staff, and on it a red flag; Khabarova
must then lie behind it. At last one or two buildings or shanties appeared behind a
promontory, and soon the whole place lay exposed to view, consisting of tents and a few
houses. On a little jutting-out point close by us was a large red building, with white door-
frames, of a very homelike appearance. It was indeed a Norwegian warehouse which
Sibiriakoff had imported from Finmarken. But here the water was shallow, and we had
to proceed carefully for fear of running aground. We kept heaving the lead incessantly—
we had 5 fathoms of water, and then 4, then not much more than we needed, and then it
shelved to a little over 3 fathoms. This was rather too close work, so we stood out again
a bit to wait till we got a little nearer the place before drawing in to the shore.

A boat was now seen slowly approaching from the land. A man of middle height, with an
open, kindly face and reddish beard, came on board. He might have been a Norwegian

from his appearance. I went to meet him, and asked him in German if he was Trontheim.
Yes, he was. After him there came a number of strange figures clad in heavy robes of
reindeer-skin, which nearly touched the deck. On their heads they wore peculiar
“bashlyk”-like caps of reincalf-skin, beneath which strongly marked bearded faces
showed forth, such as might well have belonged to old Norwegian Vikings. The whole
scene, indeed, called up in my mind a picture of the Viking Age, of expeditions to
Gardarike and Bjarmeland. They were fine, stalwart-looking fellows, these Russian
traders, who barter with the natives, giving them brandy in exchange for bearskins,
sealskins, and other valuables, and who, when once they have a hold on a man, keep him
in such a state of dependence that he can scarcely call his soul his own. “Es ist eine alte
Geschichte, doch wird sie immer neu.” Soon, too, the Samoyedes came flocking on
board, pleasant-featured people of the broad Asiatic type. Of course it was only the men
who came.

The first question I asked Trontheim was about the ice. He replied that Yugor Strait had
been open a long while, and that he had been expecting our arrival every day since then
with ever-increasing anxiety. The natives and the Russians had begun to jeer at him as
time went on, and no Fram was to be seen; but now he had his revenge and was all
sunshine. He thought the state of the ice in the Kara Sea would be favorable; some
Samoyedes had said so, who had been seal-hunting near the eastern entrance of the Strait
a day or two previously. This was not very much to build upon, certainly, but still
sufficient to make us regret that we had not got there before. Then we spoke of the
Urania, of which no one, of course, had seen anything. No ship had put in there for
some time, except the sealing sloop we had passed in the morning.

Next we inquired about the dogs, and learned that everything was all right with them. To
make sure, Trontheim had purchased forty dogs, though I had only asked for thirty. Five
of these, from various mishaps, had died during their journey—one had been bitten to
death, two had got hung fast and had been strangled while passing through a forest, etc.,
etc. One, moreover, had been taken ill a few days before, and was still on the sick list;
but the remaining thirty-four were in good condition: we could hear them howling and
barking. During this conversation we had come as near to Khabarova as we dared
venture, and at seven in the evening cast anchor in about 3 fathoms of water.

Over the supper-table Trontheim told us his adventures. On the way from Sopva and
Ural to the Pechora he heard that there was a dog epidemic in that locality; consequently
he did not think it advisable to go to the Pechora as he had intended, but laid his course
instead direct from Ural to Yugor Strait. Towards the end of the journey the snow had
disappeared, and, in company with a reindeer caravan, he drove on with his dogs over
the bare plain, stocks and stones and all, using the sledges none the less. The Samoyedes
and natives of Northern Siberia have no vehicles but sledges. The summer sledge is
somewhat higher than the winter sledge, in order that it may not hang fast upon stones

and stumps. As may be supposed, however, summer sledging is anything but smooth
work.

The new church and the old church at Khabarova

(From a Photograph)

After supper we went ashore, and were soon on the flat beach of Khabarova, the
Russians and Samoyedes regarding us with the utmost curiosity. The first objects to
attract our attention were the two churches—an old venerable-looking wooden shed, of
an oblong rectangular form, and an octagonal pavilion, not unlike many summer-houses
or garden pavilions that I have seen at home. How far the divergence between the two
forms of religion was indicated in the two mathematical figures I am unable to say. It
might be that the simplicity of the old faith was expressed in the simple, four-sided
building, while the rites and ceremonies of the other were typified in the octagonal form,
with its double number of corners to stumble against. Then we must go and see the
monastery—“Skit,” as it was called—where the six monks had lived, or rather died,
from what people said was scurvy, probably helped out by alcohol. It lay over against the
new church, and resembled an ordinary low Russian timber-house. The priest and his
assistants were living there now, and had asked Trontheim to take up his quarters with
them. Trontheim, therefore, invited us in, and we soon found ourselves in a couple of
comfortable log-built rooms with open fireplaces like our Norwegian “peis.”

After this we proceeded to the dog-camp, which was situated on a plain at some distance
from the houses and tents. As we approached it the howling and barking kept getting
worse and worse. When a short distance off we were surprised to see a Norwegian flag
on the top of a pole. Trontheim’s face beamed with joy as our eyes fell on it. It was, he
said, under the same flag as our expedition that his had been undertaken. There stood the
dogs tied up, making a deafening clamor. Many of them appeared to be well-bred
animals—long-haired, snow-white, with up-standing ears and pointed muzzles. With
their gentle, good-natured looking faces they at once ingratiated themselves in our
affections. Some of them more resembled a fox, and had shorter coats, while others were
black or spotted. Evidently they were of different races, and some of them betrayed by
their drooping ears a strong admixture of European blood. After having duly admired the
ravenous way in which they swallowed raw fish (gwiniad), not without a good deal of
snarling and wrangling, we took a walk inland to a lake close by in search of game; but
we only found an Arctic gull with its brood. A channel had been dug from this lake to
convey drinking-water to Khabarova. According to what Trontheim told us, this was the
work of the monks—about the only work, probably, they had ever taken in hand. The
soil here was a soft clay, and the channel was narrow and shallow, like a roadside ditch
or gutter; the work could not have been very arduous. On the hill above the lake stood
the flagstaff which we had noticed on our arrival. It had been erected by the excellent
Trontheim to bid us welcome, and on the flag itself, as I afterwards discovered by
chance, was the word “Vorwärts.” Trontheim had been told that was the name of our
ship, so he was not a little disappointed when he came on board to find it was Fram
instead. I consoled him, however, by telling him they both meant the same thing, and
that his welcome was just as well meant, whether written in German or Norwegian.
Trontheim told me afterwards that he was by descent a Norwegian, his father having
been a ship’s captain from Trondhjem, and his mother an Esthonian, settled at Riga. His
father had been much at sea, and had died early, so the son had not learnt Norwegian.

Peter Henriksen

(From a photograph taken in 1895)

Naturally our first and foremost object was to learn all we could about the ice in the
Arctic Sea. We had determined to push on as soon as possible; but we must have the
boiler put in order first, while sundry pipes and valves in the engine wanted seeing to. As
it would take several days to do this, Sverdrup, Peter Henriksen, and I set out next
morning in our little petroleum launch to the eastern opening of the Yugor Strait, to see
with our own eyes what might be the condition of the ice to the eastward. It was 28
miles thither. A quantity of ice was drifting through the strait from the east, and, as there
was a northerly breeze, we at once turned our course northward to get under the lee of
the north shore, where the water was more open. I had the rather thankless task of acting
as helmsman and engineer at one and the same time. The boat went on like a little hero
and made about six knots. Everything looked bright. But, alas! good fortune seldom lasts

long, especially when one has to do with petroleum launches. A defect in the circulation-
pump soon stopped the engine, and we could only go for short distances at a time, till we
reached the north shore, where, after two hours’ hard work, I got the engines so far in
order as to be able to continue our journey to the northeast through the sound between
the drifting floes. We got on pretty well, except for an interruption every now and then
when the engine took it into its head to come to a standstill. It caused a good deal of
merriment when the stalwart Peter turned the crank to set her off again and the engine
gave a start so as nearly to pull his arms out of joint and upset him head over heels in the
boat. Every now and then a flock of long-tailed duck (Harelda glacialis) or other birds
came whizzing by us, one or two of them invariably falling to our guns.

We had kept along the Vaigats shore, but now crossed over towards the south side of the
strait. When about the middle of the channel I was startled by all at once seeing the
bottom grow light under us, and had nearly run the boat on a shoal of which no one
knew anything. There was scarcely more than two or three feet of water, and the current
ran over it like a rapid river. Shoals and sunken rocks abound there on every hand,
especially on the south side of the strait, and it required great care to navigate a vessel
through it. Near the eastern mouth of the strait we put into a little creek, dragged the boat
up on the beach, and then, taking our guns, made for some high-lying land we had
noticed. We tramped along over the same undulating plain-land with low ridges, as we
had seen everywhere round the Yugor Strait. A brownish-green carpet of moss and grass
spread over the plain, bestrewn with flowers of rare beauty. During the long, cold
Siberian winter the snow lies in a thick mass over the tundra; but no sooner does the sun
get the better of it than hosts of tiny northern flowers burst their way up through the fast-
disappearing coating of snow and open their modest calices, blushing in the radiant
summer day that bathes the plain in its splendor. Saxifrages with large blooms, pale-
yellow mountain poppies (Papaver nudicaule) stand in bright clusters, and here and
there with bluish forget-me-nots and white cloud-berry flowers; in some boggy hollows
the cotton-grass spreads its wavy down carpet, while in other spots small forests of
bluebells softly tingle in the wind on their upright stalks. These flowers are not at all
brilliant specimens, being in most cases not more than a couple of inches high, but they
are all the more exquisite on that account, and in such surroundings their beauty is
singularly attractive. While the eye vainly seeks for a resting-place over the boundless
plain, these modest blooms smile at you and take the fancy captive.

And over these mighty tundra-plains of Asia, stretching infinitely onward from one sky-
line to the other, the nomad wanders with his reindeer herds, a glorious, free life! Where
he wills he pitches his tent, his reindeer around him; and at his will again he goes on his
way. I almost envied him. He has no goal to struggle towards, no anxieties to endure—
he has merely to live! I wellnigh wished that I could live his peaceful life, with wife and
child, on these boundless, open plains, unfettered, happy.

After we had proceeded a short distance, we became aware of a white object sitting on a
stone heap beneath a little ridge, and soon noticed more in other directions. They looked
quite ghostly as they sat there silent and motionless. With the help of my field-glass I
discovered that they were snow-owls. We set out after them, but they took care to keep
out of the range of a fowling-piece. Sverdrup, however, shot one or two with his rifle.
There was a great number of them; I could count as many as eight or ten at once. They
sat motionless on tussocks of grass or stones, watching, no doubt, for lemmings, of
which, judging from their tracks, there must have been quantities. We, however, did not
see any.

From the tops of the ridges we could see over the Kara Sea to the northeast. Everywhere
ice could be descried through the telescope, far on the horizon—ice, too, that seemed
tolerably close and massive. But between it and the coast there was open water,
stretching, like a wide channel, as far as the eye could reach to the southeast. This was
all we could make out, but it was in reality all we wanted. There seemed to be no doubt
that we could make our way forward, and, well satisfied, we returned to our boat. Here
we lighted a fire of driftwood, and made some glorious coffee.

As the coffee-kettle was singing over a splendid fire, and we stretched ourselves at full
length on the slope by its side and smoked a quiet pipe, Sverdrup made himself
thoroughly comfortable, and told us one story after another. However gloomy a country
might look, however desolate, if only there were plenty of driftwood on the beach, so
that one could make a right good fire, the bigger the better, then his eyes would glisten
with delight—that land was his El Dorado. So from that time forth he conceived a high
opinion of the Siberian coast—a right good place for wintering, he called it.

On our way back we ran at full speed on to a sunken rock. After a bump or two the boat
slid over it; but just as she was slipping off on the other side the propeller struck on the
rock, so that the stern gave a bound into the air while the engine whizzed round at a
tearing rate. It all happened in a second, before I had time to stop her. Unluckily one
screw blade was broken off, but we drove ahead with the other as best we could. Our
progress was certainly rather uneven, but for all that we managed to get on somehow.

Towards morning we drew near the Fram, passing two Samoyedes, who had drawn their
boat up on an ice-floe and were looking out for seals. I wonder what they thought when
they saw our tiny boat shoot by them without steam, sails, or oars. We, at all events,
looked down on these “poor savages” with the self-satisfied compassion of Europeans,
as, comfortably seated, we dashed past them.

But pride comes before a fall! We had not gone far when—whir, whir, whir—a fearful
racket! bits of broken steel springs whizzed past my ears, and the whole machine came
to a dead stop. It was not to be moved either forward or backward. The vibration of the

one-bladed propeller had brought the lead line little by little within the range of the fly-
wheel, and all at once the whole line was drawn into the machinery, and got so
dreadfully entangled in it that we had to take the whole thing to pieces to get it clear
once more. So we had to endure the humiliation of rowing back to our proud ship, for
whose flesh-pots we had long been anhungered.

The net result of the day was: tolerably good news about the Kara Sea; forty birds,
principally geese and long-tailed ducks; one seal; and a disabled boat. Amundsen and I,
however, soon put this in complete repair again—but in so doing I fear I forfeited
forever and a day the esteem of the Russians and Samoyedes in these parts. Some of
them had been on board in the morning and seen me hard at work in the boat in my shirt-
sleeves, face and bare arms dirty with oil and other messes. They went on shore
afterwards to Trontheim, and said that I could not possibly be a great person, slaving
away like any other workman on board, and looking worse than a common rough.
Trontheim, unfortunately, knew of nothing that could be said in my excuse; there is no
fighting against facts.

In the evening some of us went on shore to try the dogs. Trontheim picked out ten of
them and harnessed them to a Samoyede sledge. No sooner were we ready and I had
taken my seat than the team caught sight of a wretched strange dog that had come near,
and off dashed dogs, sledge, and my valuable person after the poor creature. There was a
tremendous uproar; all the ten tumbled over each other like wild wolves, biting and
tearing wherever they could catch hold; blood ran in streams, and the culprit howled
pitiably, while Trontheim tore round like a madman, striking right and left with his long
switch. Samoyedes and Russians came screaming from all sides. I sat passively on the
sledge in the middle of it all, dumb with fright, and it was ever so long before it occurred
to me that there was perhaps something for me too to do. With a horrible yell I flung
myself on some of the worst fighters, got hold of them by the neck, and managed to give
the culprit time to get away.

Our trial trip with the dogs

(By Otto Sinding, from a Photograph)

Our team had got badly mixed up during the battle, and it took some time to disentangle
them. At last everything was once more ready for the start. Trontheim cracked his whip,
and called, “Pr-r-r-r, pr-r-r-r,” and off we went at a wild gallop, over grass, clay, and
stones, until it seemed as if they were going to carry us right across the lagoon at the
mouth of the river. I kicked and pulled in with all my might, but was dragged along, and
it was all that Trontheim and I with our united strength could do to stop them just as they
were going into the water, although we shouted “Sass, sass,” so that it echoed over the
whole of Khabarova. But at last we got our team turned in another direction, and off we
set again merrily at such a pace that I had enough to do to hold on. It was an
extraordinary summer ride; and it gave us a high opinion of the dogs’ strength, seeing
how easily they drew two men over this, to put it mildly, bad sledding ground. We went
on board again well satisfied, also the richer by a new experience, having learnt that dog-
driving, at any rate to begin with, requires much patience.

Siberian dog-harness is remarkably primitive. A thick rope or a strap of sail-cloth passes
round the animal’s back and belly. This is held in its place above by a piece of cord
attached to the collar. The single trace is fastened under the belly, goes back between the
legs, and must often plague the animal. I was unpleasantly surprised when I noticed that,
with four exceptions, all the dogs were castrated, and this surprise I did not conceal. But
Trontheim on his side was at least equally astonished, and informed me that in Siberia
castrated dogs are considered the best.1 This was a disappointment to me, as I had
reckoned on my canine family increasing on the way. For the present I should just have
to trust to the four “whole” dogs and “Kvik,” the bitch I had brought with me from
home.

Next day, August 1st, there was a great religious festival in Khabarova, that of St. Elias.
Samoyedes from far and near had come in with their reindeer teams to celebrate the day
by going to church and then getting roaring drunk. We were in need of men in the
morning to help in filling the boiler with fresh water and the tank with drinking-water,
but on account of this festival it was difficult to get hold of any at all. At last, by dint of
promising sufficient reward, Trontheim succeeded in collecting some poor fellows who
had not money enough to drink themselves as drunk as the day required of them. I was
on shore in the morning, partly to arrange about the provision of water, partly to collect
fossils, in which the rock here abounds, especially one rock below Sibiriakoff’s
warehouse. I also took a walk up the hill to the west, to Trontheim’s flag-staff, and
looked out to sea in that direction after the Urania. But there was nothing to be seen
except an unbroken sea-line. Loaded with my find I returned to Khabarova, where I, of
course, took advantage of the opportunity to see something of the festival.

From early morning the women had been dressed in their finest clothes—brilliant colors,
skirts with many tucks, and great colored bows at the end of plaits of hair which hung far
down their backs. Before service an old Samoyede and a comely young girl led out a

lean reindeer which was to be offered to the church—to the old church, that is to say.
Even up here, as already mentioned, religious differences have found their way. Nearly
all the Samoyedes of these parts belong to the old faith and attend the old church. But
they go occasionally to the new one too; as far as I could make out, so as not to offend
the priest and Sibiriakoff—or perhaps to be surer of heaven? From what I got out of
Trontheim on the subject, the chief difference between the two religions lies in the way
they make the sign of the cross, or something of that sort. To-day was high festival in
both churches. All the Samoyedes first paid a short visit to the new church and then
immediately streamed over into the old one. The old church was for the moment without
a priest, but to-day they had clubbed together and offered the priest of the new church
two roubles to hold a service in the old one too. After careful consideration, he agreed,
and in all his priestly pomp crossed the old threshold. The air inside was so bad that I
could not stand it for more than two minutes, so I now made my way on board again.

During the afternoon the howling and screaming began, and increased as time went on.
We did not need to be told that the serious part of the festival had now begun. Some of
the Samoyedes tore about over the plain with their reindeer teams like furious animals.
They could not sit on their sledges, but lay on them, or were dragged behind them,
howling. Some of my comrades went on shore, and brought back anything but an
edifying account of the state of things. Every single man and woman appeared to be
drunk, reeling about the place. One young Samoyede in particular had made an
ineffaceable impression on them. He mounted a sledge, lashed at the reindeer, and drove
“amuck” in among the tents, over the tied-up dogs, foxes, and whatever came in his way;
he himself fell off the sledge, was caught in the reins, and dragged behind, shrieking,
through sand and clay. Good St. Elias must be much flattered by such homage. Towards
morning the howling gradually died away, and the whole town slept the loathsome sleep
of the drunkard.

Evening scene at Khabarova

(By Otto Sinding, from a Photograph)

There was not a man to be got to help with our coal-shifting next day. Most of them slept
all day after the orgie of the night. We had just to do without help; but we had not
finished by evening, and I began to be impatient to get away. Precious time was passing;
I had long ago given up the Urania. We did not really need more coal. The wind had
been favorable for several days. It was a south wind, which was certainly blowing the ice
to the northward in the Kara Sea. Sverdrup was now positive that we should be able to
sail in open water all the way to the New Siberian Islands, so it was his opinion that
there was no hurry for the present. But hope is a frail reed to lean on, and my
expectations were not quite so bright; so I hurried things on, to get away as soon as
possible.

At the supper-table this evening King Oscar’s gold medal of merit was solemnly
presented to Trontheim, in recognition of the great care with which he had executed his

difficult commission, and the valuable assistance thereby rendered to the expedition. His
honest face beamed at the sight of the beautiful medal and the bright ribbon.

Next day, August 3d, we were at last ready for a start, and the 34 dogs were brought on
board in the afternoon, with great noise and confusion. They were all tied up on the deck
forward, and began by providing more musical entertainment than we desired. By
evening the hour had come. We got up steam—everything was ready. But such a thick
fog had set in that we could not see the land. Now came the moment when our last
friend, Christofersen, was to leave the ship. We supplied him with the barest sufficiency
of provisions and some Ringnes’s ale. While this was being done, last lines were added
in feverish eagerness to the letters home. Then came a last hand-clasp; Christofersen and
Trontheim got into the boat, and had soon disappeared in the fog. With them went our
last post; our last link with home was broken. We were alone in the mist on the sea. It
was not likely that any message from us would reach the world before we ourselves
brought the news of our success or defeat. How much anxiety were those at home to
suffer between now and then! It is true we might possibly be able to send letters home
from the mouth of the Olenek, where, according to the agreement with Baron Toll, we
were to call in for another supply of dogs; but I did not consider this probable. It was far
on in the summer, and I had an instinctive feeling that the state of the ice was not so
favorable as I could have wished it to be.

Trontheim’s Narrative

Alexander Ivanovitch Trontheim has himself given an account, in the Tobolsk official
newspaper, of his long and difficult journey with our dogs. The account was written by
A. Kryloff from Trontheim’s story. The following is a short résumé:

After having made the contract with Baron Toll, Trontheim was on January 28th
(January 16th by Russian reckoning) already at Berezoff, where there was then a Yassak-
meeting,2 and consequently a great assembly of Ostiaks and Samoyedes. Trontheim
made use of this opportunity and bought 33 (this ought probably to be 40) choice sledge
dogs. These he conveyed to the little country town of Muzhi, where he made
preparations for the “very long journey,” passing the time in this way till April 16th. By
this date he had prepared 300 pud (about 9600 lbs.) of dog provender, consisting chiefly
of dried fish. For 300 roubles he engaged a Syriane, named Terentieff, with a reindeer
herd of 450, to convey him, his dogs, and baggage to Yugor Strait. For three months
these two with their caravan—reindeer, drivers, dogs, women, and children—travelled
through the barren tracts of northern Siberia. At first their route lay through the Ural

Mountains. “It was more a sort of nomadic life than a journey. They did not go straight
on towards their destination, but wandered over wide tracts of country, stopping
wherever it was suitable for the reindeer, and where they found lichen. From the little
town of Muzhi the expedition passed up the Voikara River to its sources; and here began
the ascent of the Ural Mountains by the Pass of Kjaila (Kjola). In their crossing of the
chain they tried to skirt along the foot of the mountains, climbing as little as possible....

O. Christofersen and A. Trontheim

(From a photograph)

“They noticed one marked contrast between the mountains in the northern and those in
the southern part of the Ural chain. In the south the snow melts quickly in the lower
regions and remains lying on the tops. Here (in the northern Ural), on the contrary, the
mountain-tops are free from snow before the sun’s rays penetrate into the valleys and
melt it there. In some valleys, especially those closed by mountains to the south, and
more exposed to north winds, the snow lies the whole summer. When they had got
across the Ural Mountains they first followed the course of the River Lemva, then
crossed it, and now followed a whole system of small rivers, for which even the natives
have no names. At last, on May 4th, the expedition reached the River Ussa, on the banks
of which lay the hut of the Syriane Nikitsa.” This was “the one inhabited spot in this
enormous tract of country,” and here they stopped two weeks to rest the reindeer and get
provender for them. “The country lying between the sources of the Voikara and the Ussa
is wooded in every direction.” “Between the River Ussa and the River Vorkuta, and even
beyond that, Trontheim and his company travelled through quite luxuriant wood. In the
middle of May, as the caravan approached the tundra region, the wood got thinner and
thinner, and by May 27th it was nothing but scattered underwood. After this came quite
small bushes and weeds, and then at last the interminable tundra came in sight. Not to be
without fuel on the tundra, they felled some dead trees and other wood—eight sledge
loads. The day after they got out on the tundra (May 29th) the caravan set off at full
speed, the Syrianes being anxious to get quickly past a place where a whole herd of
reindeer had perished some years before. The reindeer-drivers take good note of such
places, and do everything possible to avoid them, as the animals may easily be infected
by gnawing the bones of their dead comrades. God help the herd that this happens to!
The disease passes rapidly from animal to animal, and scores may die of it in a day.3

“In this region there are many bogs; the low land forms one continuous morass.
Sometimes we had to walk up to the waist in water; thus on June 5th we splashed about
the whole day in water, in constant fear of the dogs catching cold. On the 6th a strong
northeast wind blew, and at night the cold was so severe that two reindeer-calves were
frozen to death; and besides this two grown ones were carried off by wolves.”

The caravan had often to cross rapid rivers, where it was sometimes very difficult to find
a ford. They were frequently obliged to construct a bridge with the help of tent-poles and
sometimes blocks of ice, and it occasionally took them a whole day to get across. By
degrees their supply of wood was used up, and it was difficult to get food cooked. Few
bushes were to be found. On June 17th they met a Syriane reindeer driver and trader;
from him they bought two bottles of wine (brandy) at 70 kopecks each. “It was, as is
customary, a very friendly encounter, and ended with treatings on both sides. One can
see a long way on the tundra; the Syriane’s keen eye detects another herd, or smoke from
inhabited tents, 10 versts off; and a nomad who has discovered the presence of another
human being 10 or 12 versts off never lets slip the opportunity of visiting him in his
camp, having a talk, and being regaled with tea, or, in preference, brandy. The day after,

June 18th, some Samoyedes, who had heard of the caravan, came on four sledges to the
camp. They were entertained with tea. The conversation, carried on in Samoyede, was
about the health of the reindeer, our journey, and the way to Yugor Strait. When the
scanty news of the tundra had been well discussed they took their departure.”

By the end of June, when they had got through all the ramifications of the Little Ural
Mountains, the time was drawing near when, according to his agreement, Trontheim was
due at Yugor Strait. He was obliged to hasten the rate of travelling, which was not an
easy matter, with more than 40 sledges and 450 reindeer, not counting the calves. He,
therefore, determined to divide the caravan into two parts, leave the women, children,
and domestic animals behind, and push forward without any baggage, except the
necessary food. So, on June 28th, “thirty sledges, tents, etc., were left with the women
and children, who were to live their nomadic life as best they could. The male Syrianes
took ten sledges and went on with Trontheim.” At last, on July 9th, after more
wanderings, they saw the sea from a “high hill,” and next day they reached Khabarova,
where Trontheim learned that no steamer had arrived yet in Yugor Strait, nor had any sail
been seen. At this time the whole shore of Yugor Strait and all the sea within sight was
covered with ice, driven there by northerly winds. The sea was not quite open till July
22d. Trontheim passed the time while he was waiting for the Fram in hunting and
making excursions with his dogs, which were in excellent condition. He was often in the
Sibiriakoff colony, a meeting-place for the Samoyedes of the district, who come here in
considerable numbers to dispose of their wares. And it was a melancholy phase of life he
saw here in this little “world-forsaken” colony. “Every summer two or three merchants
or peasant traders, generally from Pustozersk, come for the purpose of bartering with the
Samoyedes, and sometimes the Syrianes, too, for their wares—bearskins, blubber, and
sealskins, reindeer-skins, and such like—giving in exchange tea, sugar, flour, household
utensils, etc. No transaction takes place without the drinking of brandy, for which the
Samoyede has an insatiable craving. When the trader has succeeded in making a poor
wretch quite tipsy, he fleeces him, and buys all he wants at some ridiculous price—the
result of the transaction generally being that the Samoyede is in debt to his ‘benefactor.’
All the traders that come to the colony bring brandy, and one great drinking-bout goes on
all the summer. You can tell where much business is done by the number of brandy casks
in the trader’s booth. There is no police inspection, and it would be difficult to organize
anything of the kind. As soon as there is snow enough for the sledges, the merchants’
reindeer caravans start from the colony on their homeward journey, loaded with empty
brandy casks and with the proceeds of this one-sided bartering.

“On July 30th [this ought to be 29th] Trontheim saw from the shore, first, smoke, and
soon after a steamer. There could be no doubt of its being the Fram. He went out in a
little Samoyede boat to meet her, and called out in Russian that he wanted to be taken on
board. From the steamer they called back, asking who he was, and when they heard his
name he was hauled up. On deck he met Nansen himself, in a greasy working-jacket. He

is still quite a young man, of middle height....” Here follows a flattering description of
the leader of the expedition, and the state of matters on board. “It is evident,” he then
goes on, “that we have here one family, united and inspired by one idea, for the carrying
out of which all labor devotedly. The hard and dirty work on board is fairly divided, no
difference being made between the common sailor and the captain, or even the chief of
the expedition. The doctor, too, takes his share in the general work, and this community
of labor is a close bond between all on board. The existence of such relations among the
ship’s company made a very favorable impression on Trontheim, and this most of all (in
his opinion) justified the hope that in difficult crises the expedition would be able to hold
its own.

“A. I. Trontheim was on board the Fram every day, breakfasting and dining there. From
what he relates, the ship must be admirably built, leaving nothing whatever to be desired.
The cabins are roomy, and comfortably fitted up; there is an excellent library, containing
the classics of European literature; various musical instruments, from a beautiful grand-
piano4 to flutes and guitars; then chess, draughts, etc.—all for the recreation of the
company.”

Here follows a description of the Fram, her general equipments, and commissariat. It
seems to have made a great impression on him that we had no wine (brandy) on board.
“I was told,” he exclaims, “that only among the medicine stores have they some 20 or 30
bottles of the best cognac—pure, highly rectified spirit. It is Nansen’s opinion that
brandy-drinking in these northern regions is injurious, and may, if indulged in on such a
difficult and dangerous voyage, have very serious consequences; he has therefore
considered it expedient to supply its place by fruit and various sorts of sweets, of which
there are large supplies on board.” “In harbor the crew spent most of the day together; in
spite of community of work, each individual’s duties are fixed down to the minutest
detail. They all sit down to meals together, with the exception of the acting cook, whose
duty they take by turns. Health and good spirits are to be read on every face; Nansen’s
immovable faith in a successful and happy issue to their expedition inspires the whole
crew with courage and confidence.

“On August 3d they shifted coal on board the Fram from the ship’s hold down to the
stoke-hold (coal bunkers). All the members of the expedition took part in this work,
Nansen at their head, and they worked unitedly and cheerfully. This same day Nansen
and his companions tried the dogs on shore. Eight [this should be ten] were harnessed to
a sledge on which three persons took their places. Nansen expressed his satisfaction with
the dogs, and thanked Trontheim for the good selection he had made, and for the
excellent condition the animals were in. When the dogs were taken over and brought on
board,5 Trontheim applied to Nansen for a certificate of the exact and scrupulous way in
which he had fulfilled his contract. Nansen’s answer was: ‘No; a certificate is not
enough. Your duty has been done with absolute conscientiousness, and you have thereby

rendered a great service to the expedition. I am commissioned to present you with a gold
medal from our king in recognition of the great help you have given us.’ With these
words Nansen handed to Trontheim a very large gold medal with a crown on it. On the
obverse is the following inscription: ‘Oscar II., King of Norway and Sweden. For the
Welfare of the Brother-Nations.’ And on the reverse: ‘Reward for valuable service, A. I.
Trontheim.’ Along with this Nansen also gave Trontheim a written testimonial as to the
admirable manner in which he had carried out his commission, mentioning that for this
he had been rewarded with a medal.

“Nansen determined to weigh anchor during the night of this same day,6 and set sail on
his long voyage without waiting for the coal sloop Urania, which he thought must have
been delayed by the ice. In the evening Trontheim took leave of the whole party, with
hearty wishes for the success of the expedition. Along with him Herr Ole Christofersen,
correspondent of one of the chief London newspapers,7 left the ship. He had
accompanied Nansen from Vardö. At parting, Nansen gave them a plentiful supply of
provisions, Christofersen and Trontheim having to await the arrival of the Urania, as
they were to go home by her. Precisely at 12 o’clock on the night between August 4th
and 5th the signal for starting was given, and the Fram stood out to sea.”

On August 7th the Urania at last arrived. As I had supposed, she had been stopped by
ice, but had at last got out of it uninjured. Christofersen and Trontheim were able to sail
for home in her on the 11th, and reached Vardö on the 22d, food having been very scarce
during the last part of the time. The ship, which had left her home port, Brönö, in May,
was not provided for so long a voyage, and these last days they lived chiefly on dry
biscuits, water, and—weevils.

1 The ordinary male dog is liable to get inflammation of the scrotum from the friction of the trace.
2 Yassak is a tax paid in fur by the Siberians.
3 This disease is probably anthrax, or something of the same nature
4 By this he probably means our organ. Our other musical instruments were as follows: An accordion, belonging to
the ship, and a flute, violin, and several Jew’s-harps, belonging to one of the ship’s company.
5 It will be observed that there is some slip of memory here—it was the evening before.
6 It was, in fact, the day after.
7 I do not believe that Christofersen ever in his life had anything to do with a London newspaper.

Chapter V

Voyage through the Kara Sea
It was well into the night, after Christofersen and Trontheim had left us, before we could
get away. The channel was too dangerous for us to risk it in the thick fog. But it cleared a
little, and the petroleum launch was got ready; I had determined to go on ahead with it
and take soundings. We started about midnight. Hansen stood in the bow with the lead-
line. First we bore over towards the point of Vaigats to the northwest, as Palander
directs, then on through the strait, keeping to the Vaigats side. The fog was often so thick
that it was with difficulty we could catch a glimpse of the Fram, which followed close
behind us, and on board the Fram they could not see our boat. But so long as we had
enough water, and so long as we saw that they were keeping to the right course behind
us, we went ahead. Soon the fog cleared again a little. But the depth was not quite
satisfactory; we had been having steadily 4½ to 5 fathoms; then it dropped to 4, and then
to 3½. This was too little. We turned and signalled to the Fram to stop. Then we held
farther out from land and got into deeper water, so that the Fram could come on again at
full speed.

From time to time our petroleum engine took to its old tricks and stopped. I had to pour
in more oil to set it going again, and as I was standing doing this the boat gave a lurch,
so that a little oil was spilt and took fire. The burning oil ran over the bottom of the boat,
where a good deal had been spilt already. In an instant the whole stern was in a blaze,
and my clothes, which were sprinkled with oil, caught fire. I had to rush to the bow, and
for a moment the situation was a critical one, especially as a big pail that was standing
full of oil also took fire. As soon as I had stopped the burning of my clothes I rushed aft
again, seized the pail, and poured the flaming oil into the sea, burning my fingers badly.
At once the whole surface of the water round was in flames. Then I got hold of the baler,
and baled water into the boat as hard as I could, and soon the worst was over. Things had
looked anything but well from the Fram, however, and they were standing by with ropes
and buoys to throw to us.

Soon we were out of Yugor Strait. There was now so little fog that the low land round us
was visible, and we could also see a little way out to sea, and, in the distance, all drift-
ice. At 4 o’clock in the morning (August 4th) we glided past Sokolii, or Hawk Island,
out into the dreaded Kara Sea.

Now our fate was to be decided. I had always said that if we could get safely across the
Kara Sea and past Cape Cheliuskin, the worst would be over. Our prospects were not
bad—an open passage to the east, along the land, as far as we could see from the
masthead.

Landing on Yalmal

(By Otto Sinding, from a Photograph)

An hour and a half later we were at the edge of the ice. It was so close that there was no
use in attempting to go on through it. To the northwest it seemed much looser, and there
was a good deal of blue in the atmosphere at the horizon there.1 We kept southeast along
the land through broken ice, but in the course of the day went further out to sea, the
blueness of the atmosphere to the east and northeast promising more open water in that
direction. However, about 3 P.M. the ice became so close that I thought it best to get
back into the open channel along the land. It was certainly possible that we might have
forced our way through the ice in the sea here, but also possible that we might have
stuck fast, and it was too early to run this risk.

Next morning (August 5th), being then off the coast near to the mouth of the River Kara,
we steered across towards Yalmal. We soon had that low land in sight, but in the
afternoon we got into fog and close ice. Next day it was no better, and we made fast to a
great ice-block which was lying stranded off the Yalmal coast.

In the evening some of us went on shore. The water was so shallow that our boat stuck
fast a good way from the beach, and we had to wade. It was a perfectly flat, smooth
sand-beach, covered by the sea at full tide, and beyond that a steep sand-bank, 30 to 40
feet, in some places probably 60 feet, high.

The plain of Yalmal

(By Otto Sinding, from a Photograph)

We wandered about a little. Flat, bare country on every hand. Any driftwood we saw was
buried in the sand and soaking wet. Not a bird to be seen except one or two snipe. We
came to a lake, and out of the fog in front of me I heard the cry of a loon, but saw no
living creature. Our view was blocked by a wall of fog whichever way we turned. There
were plenty of reindeer tracks, but of course they were only those of the Samoyedes’
tame reindeer. This is the land of the Samoyedes—and oh but it is desolate and
mournful! The only one of us that bagged anything was the botanist. Beautiful flowers
smiled to us here and there among the sand-mounds—the one message from a brighter
world in this land of fogs. We went far in over the flats, but came only to sheets of water,
with low spits running out into them, and ridges between. We often heard the cry of
loons on the water, but could never catch sight of one. All these lakelets were of a
remarkable, exactly circular conformation, with steep banks all round, just as if each had
dug out a hole for itself in the sandy plain.

With the oars of our boat and a large tarpaulin we had made a sort of tent. We were lucky
enough to find a little dry wood, and soon the tent was filled with the fragrant odor of
hot coffee. When we had eaten and drunk and our pipes were lit, Johansen, in spite of
fatigue and a full meal, surprised us by turning one somersault after another on the
heavy, damp sand in front of the tent in his long military cloak and sea-boots half full of
water.

By 6.30 next morning we were on board again. The fog had cleared, but the ice, which
lay drifting backward and forward according to the set of the tide, looked as close as
ever towards the north. During the morning we had a visit from a boat with two stalwart
Samoyedes, who were well received and treated to food and tobacco. They gave us to
understand that they were living in a tent some distance inland and farther north.
Presently they went off again, enriched with gifts. These were the last human beings we
met.

Next day the ice was still close, and, as there was nothing else to be done, some of us
went ashore again in the afternoon, partly to see more of this little-known coast, and
partly, if possible, to find the Samoyedes’ camp, and get hold of some skins and reindeer
flesh. It is a strange, flat country. Nothing but sand, sand everywhere. Still flatter, still
more desolate than the country about Yugor Strait, with a still wider horizon. Over the
plain lay a green carpet of grass and moss, here and there spoiled by the wind having
torn it up and swept sand over it. But trudge as we might, and search as we might, we
found no Samoyede camp. We saw three men in the far distance, but they went off as
fast as they could the moment they caught sight of us. There was little game—just a few
ptarmigan, golden plovers, and long-tailed ducks. Our chief gain was another collection
of plants, and a few geological and geographical notes. Our observations showed that the
land at this place was charted not less than half a degree or 36 to 38 minutes too far west.

In the Kara Sea

It was not till next forenoon (August 9th) that we went on board again. The ice to the
north now seemed to be rather looser, and at 8 P.M. we at last began once more to make
our way north. We found ice that was easy to get through, and held on our course until,
three days later, we got into open water. On Sunday, August 18th, we stood out into the

open Kara Sea, past the north point of Yalmal and Bieloi-Ostrov (White Island). There
was no ice to be seen in any direction. During the days that followed we had constant
strong east winds, often increasing to half a gale. We kept on tacking to make our way
eastward, but the broad and keelless Fram can hardly be called a good “beater”; we
made too much leeway, and our progress was correspondingly slow. In the journal there
is a constantly recurring entry of “Head-wind,” “Head-wind.” The monotony was
extreme; but as they may be of interest as relating to the navigation of this sea, I shall
give the most important items of the journal, especially those regarding the state of the
ice.

On Monday, August 14th, we beat with only sail against a strong wind. Single pieces of
ice were seen during the middle watch, but after that there was none within sight.

Tuesday, August 15th. The wind slackened in the middle watch; we took in sail and got
up steam. At 5 in the morning we steamed away east over a sea perfectly clear of ice; but
after mid-day the wind began to freshen again from E.N.E., and we had to beat with
steam and sail. Single floes of ice were seen during the evening and night.

Wednesday, August 16th. As the Kara Sea seemed so extraordinarily free from ice, and
as a heavy sea was running from the northeast, we decided to hold north as far as we
could, even if it should be to the Einsamkeit (Lonely) Island. But about half-past three in
the afternoon we had a strip of close ice ahead, so that we had to turn. Stiff breeze and
sea. Kept on beating east along the edge of the ice. Almost lost the petroleum launch in
the evening. The waves were constantly breaking into it and filling it, the gunwale was
burst in at two places, and the heavy davits it hung on were twisted as if they had been
copper wires. Only just in the nick of time, with the waves washing over us, some of us
managed to get it lashed to the side of the ship. There seemed to be some fatality about
this boat.

Thursday, August 17th. Still beating eastward under sail and steam through scattered ice,
and along a margin of fixed ice. Still blowing hard, with a heavy sea as soon as we
headed a little out from the ice.

The “Fram” in the Kara Sea

(By Otto Sinding)

Friday, August 18th. Continued storm. Stood southeast. At 4.30 A.M., Sverdrup, who
had gone up into the crow’s-nest to look out for bears and walrus on the ice-floes, saw
land to the south of us. At 10 A.M. I went up to look at it—we were then probably not
more than 10 miles away from it. It was low land, seemingly of the same formation as
Yalmal, with steep sand-banks, and grass-grown above. The sea grew shallower as we
neared it. Not far from us, small icebergs lay aground. The lead showed steadily less and
less water; by 11.30 A.M. there were only some 8 fathoms; then, to our surprise, the
bottom suddenly fell to 20 fathoms, and after that we found steadily increasing depth.
Between the land and the blocks of stranded ice on our lee there appeared to be a
channel with rather deeper water and not so much ice aground in it. It seemed difficult to
conceive that there should be undiscovered land here, where both Nordenskiöld and
Edward Johansen, and possibly several Russians, had passed without seeing anything.
Our observations, however, were incontestable, and we immediately named the land
Sverdrup’s Island, after its discoverer.

As there was still a great deal of ice to windward, we continued our southwesterly
course, keeping as close to the wind as possible. The weather was clear, and at 8 o’clock
we sighted the mainland, with Dickson’s Island ahead. It had been our intention to run in

and anchor here, in order to put letters for home under a cairn, Captain Wiggins having
promised to pick them up on his way to the Yenisei. But in the meantime the wind had
fallen: it was a favorable chance, and time was precious. So we gave up sending our
post, and continued our course along the coast.

Ostrova Kamenni (Rocky Island), off the coast of Siberia

The country here was quite different from Yalmal. Though not very high, it was a hilly
country, with patches and even large drifts of snow here and there, some of them lying
close down by the shore. Next morning I sighted the southernmost of the Kamenni
Islands. We took a tack in under it to see if there were animals of any kind, but could
catch sight of none. The island rose evenly from the sea at all points, with steep shores.
They consisted for the most part of rock, which was partly solid, partly broken up by the
action of the weather into heaps of stones. It appeared to be a stratified rock, with
strongly marked oblique strata. The island was also covered with quantities of gravel,
sometimes mixed with larger stones; the whole of the northern point seemed to be a sand
heap, with steep sand-banks towards the shore. The most noticeable feature of the island
was its marked shore-lines. Near the top there was a specially pronounced one, which
was like a sharp ledge on the west and north sides, and stretched across the island like a
dark band. Nearer the beach were several other distinct ones. In form they all resembled
the upper one with its steep ledges, and had evidently been formed in the same way—by
the action of the sea, and more especially of the ice. Like the upper one, they also were
most marked on the west and north sides of the island, which are those facing most to
the open sea.

To the student of the history of the earth these marks of the former level of the sea are of
great interest, showing as they do that the land has risen or the sea sunk since the time
they were formed. Like Scandinavia, the whole of the north coast of Siberia has
undergone these changes of level since the Great Ice Age.

It was strange that we saw none of the islands which, according to Nordenskiöld’s map,
stretch in a line to the northeast from Kamenni Islands. On the other hand, I took the
bearings of one or two other islands lying almost due east, and next morning we passed a
small island farther north.

We saw few birds in this neighborhood—only a few flocks of geese, some Arctic gulls
(Lestris parasitica and L. buffonii), and a few sea-gulls and tern.

On Sunday, August 20th, we had, for us, uncommonly fine weather—blue sea, brilliant
sunshine, and light wind, still from the northeast. In the afternoon we ran in to the
Kjellman Islands. These we could recognize from their position on Nordenskiöld’s map,
but south of them we found many unknown ones. They all had smoothly rounded forms,
these Kjellman Islands, like rocks that have been ground smooth by the glaciers of the
Ice Age. The Fram anchored on the north side of the largest of them, and while the
boiler was being refitted, some of us went ashore in the evening for some shooting. We
had not left the ship when the mate, from the crow’s-nest, caught sight of reindeer. At
once we were all agog; every one wanted to go ashore, and the mate was quite beside
himself with the hunter’s fever, his eyes as big as saucers, and his hands trembling as
though he were drunk. Not until we were in the boat had we time to look seriously for
the mate’s reindeer. We looked in vain—not a living thing was to be seen in any
direction. Yes—when we were close inshore we at last descried a large flock of geese
waddling upward from the beach. We were base enough to let a conjecture escape us that
these were the mate’s reindeer—a suspicion which he at first rejected with contempt.
Gradually, however, his confidence oozed away. But it is possible to do an injustice even
to a mate. The first thing I saw when I sprang ashore was old reindeer tracks. The mate
had now the laugh on his side, ran from track to track, and swore that it was reindeer he
had seen.

When we got up on to the first height we saw several reindeer on flat ground to the south
of us; but, the wind being from the north, we had to go back and make our way south
along the shore till we got to leeward of them. The only one who did not approve of this
plan was the mate, who was in a state of feverish eagerness to rush

straight at some reindeer he thought he had seen to the east, which, of course, was an
absolutely certain way to clear the field of every one of them. He asked and received
permission to remain behind with Hansen, who was to take a magnetic observation; but
had to promise not to move till he got the order.

Theodor C. Jacobsen, mate of the “Fram”

(From a Photograph, December 11, 1893)

On the way along the shore we passed one great flock of geese after another; they
stretched their necks and waddled aside a little until we were quite near, and only then
took flight; but we had no time to waste on such small game. A little farther on we
caught sight of one or two reindeer we had not noticed before. We could easily have
stalked them, but were afraid of getting to windward of the others, which were farther
south. At last we got to leeward of these latter also, but they were grazing on flat ground,
and it was anything but easy to stalk them—not a hillock, not a stone to hide behind. The
only thing was to form a long line, advance as best we could, and, if possible, outflank
them. In the meantime we had caught sight of another herd of reindeer farther to the
north, but suddenly, to our astonishment, saw them tear off across the plain eastward, in
all probability startled by the mate, who had not been able to keep quiet any longer.

A little to the north of the reindeer nearest us there was a hollow, opening from the shore,
from which it seemed that it might be possible to get a shot at them. I went back to try
this, while the others kept their places in the line. As I went down again towards the
shore I had the sea before me, quiet and beautiful. The sun had gone down behind it not
long before, and the sky was glowing in the clear, light night. I had to stand still for a
minute. In the midst of all this beauty, man was doing the work of a beast of prey! At this
moment I saw to the north a dark speck move down the height where the mate and
Hansen ought to be. It divided into two, and the one moved east, just to the windward of
the animals I was to stalk. They would get the scent immediately and be off. There was
nothing for it but to hurry on, while I rained anything but good wishes on these fellows’
heads. The gully was not so deep as I had expected. Its sides were just high enough to
hide me when I crept on all fours. In the middle were large stones and clayey gravel,
with a little runnel soaking through them. The reindeer were still grazing quietly, only
now and then raising their heads to look round. My “cover” got lower and lower, and to
the north I heard the mate. He would presently succeed in setting off my game. It was
imperative to get on quickly, but there was no longer cover enough for me to advance on
hands and knees. My only chance was to wriggle forward like a snake on my stomach.
But in this soft clay—in the bed of the stream? Yes—meat is too precious on board, and
the beast of prey is too strong in a man. My clothes must be sacrificed; on I crept on my
stomach through the mud. But soon there was hardly cover enough even for this. I
squeezed myself flat among the stones and ploughed forward like a drain-cutting
machine. And I did make way, if not quickly and comfortably, still surely.

All this time the sky was turning darker and darker red behind me, and it was getting
more and more difficult to use the sights of my gun, not to mention the trouble I had in
keeping the clay from them and from the muzzle. The reindeer still grazed quietly on.
When they raised their heads to look round I had to lie as quiet as a mouse, feeling the
water trickling gently under my stomach; when they began to nibble the moss again, off
I went through the mud. Presently I made the disagreeable discovery that they were
moving away from me about as fast as I could move forward, and I had to redouble my
exertions. But the darkness was getting worse and worse, and I had the mate to the north
of me, and presently he would start them off. The outlook was anything but bright either
morally or physically. The hollow was getting shallower and shallower, so that I was
hardly covered at all. I squeezed myself still deeper into the mud. A turn in the ground
helped me forward to the next little height; and now they were right in front of me,
within what I should have called easy range if it had been daylight. I tried to take aim,
but could not see the bead on my gun.

Man’s fate is sometimes hard to bear. My clothes were dripping with wet clay, and after
what seemed to me most meritorious exertions, here I was at the goal, unable to take
advantage of my position. But now the reindeer moved down into a small depression. I
crept forward a little way farther as quickly as I could. I was in a splendid position, so

far as I could tell in the dark, but I could not see the bead any better than before. It was
impossible to get nearer, for there was only a smooth slope between us. There was no
sense in thinking of waiting for light to shoot by. It was now midnight, and I had that
terrible mate to the north of me; besides, the wind was not to be trusted. I held the rifle
up against the sky to see the bead clearly, and then lowered it on the reindeer. I did this
once, twice, thrice. The bead was still far from clear; but, all the same, I thought I might
hit, and pulled the trigger. The two deer gave a sudden start, looked round in
astonishment, and bolted off a little way south. There they stood still again, and at this
moment were joined by a third deer, which had been standing rather farther north. I fired
off all the cartridges in the magazine, and all to the same good purpose. The creatures
started and moved off a little at each shot, and then trotted farther south. Presently they
made another halt, to take a long careful look at me; and I dashed off westward, as hard
as I could run, to turn them. Now they were off straight in the direction where some of
my comrades ought to be. I expected every moment to hear shots and see one or two of
the animals fall; but away they ambled southward, quite unchecked. At last, far to the
south, crack went a rifle. I could see by the smoke that it was at too long a range; so in
high dudgeon I shouldered my rifle and lounged in the direction of the shot. It was
pleasant to see such a good result for all one’s trouble.

No one was to be seen anywhere. At length I met Sverdrup; it was he who had fired.
Soon Blessing joined us, but all the others had long since left their posts. While Blessing
went back to the boat and his botanizing box, Sverdrup and I went on to try our luck
once more. A little farther south we came to a valley stretching right across the island.
On the farther side of it we saw a man standing on a hillock, and not far from him a herd
of five or six reindeer. As it never occurred to us to doubt that the man was in the act of
stalking these, we avoided going in that direction, and soon he and his reindeer
disappeared to the west. I heard afterwards that he had never seen the deer. As it was
evident that when the reindeer to the south of us were startled they would have to come
back across this valley, and as the island at this part was so narrow that we commanded
the whole of it, we determined to take up our posts here and wait. We accordingly got in
the lee of some great boulders, out of the wind. In front of Sverdrup was a large flock of
geese, near the mouth of the stream, close down by the shore. They kept up an incessant
gabble, and the temptation to have a shot at them was very great; but, considering the
reindeer, we thought it best to leave them in peace. They gabbled and waddled away
down through the mud and soon took wing.

Henrik Blessing

(From a photograph taken in 1895)

The time seemed long. At first we listened with all our ears—the reindeer must come
very soon—and our eyes wandered incessantly backward and forward along the slope on
the other side of the valley. But no reindeer came, and soon we were having a struggle to
keep our eyes open and our heads up—we had not had much sleep the last few days.
They must be coming! We shook ourselves awake, and gave another look along the
bank, till again the eyes softly closed and the heads began to nod, while the chill wind
blew through our wet clothes, and I shivered with cold. This sort of thing went on for an
hour or two, until the sport began to pall on me, and I scrambled from my shelter along
towards Sverdrup, who was enjoying it about as much as I was. We climbed the slope on
the other side of the valley, and were hardly at the top before we saw the horns of six

splendid reindeer on a height in front of us. They were restless, scenting westward,
trotting round in a circle, and then sniffing again. They could not have noticed us as yet,
as the wind was blowing at right angles to the line between them and us. We stood a long
time watching their manœuvres, and waiting their choice of a direction, but they had
apparently great difficulty in making it. At last off they swung south and east, and off we
went southeast as hard as we could go, to get across their course before they got scent of
us. Sverdrup had got well ahead, and I saw him rushing across a flat piece of ground:
presently he would be at the right place to meet them. I stopped, to be in readiness to cut
them off on the other side if they should face about and make off northward again. There
were six splendid animals, a big buck in front. They were heading straight for Sverdrup,
who was now crouching down on the slope. I expected every moment to see the
foremost fall. A shot rang out! Round wheeled the whole flock like lightning, and back
they came at a gallop. It was my turn now to run with all my might, and off I went over
the stones, down towards the valley we had come from. I only stopped once or twice to
take breath, and to make sure that the animals were coming in the direction I had
reckoned on—then off again. We were getting near each other now; they were coming
on just where I had calculated; the thing now was to be in time for them. I made my long
legs go their fastest over the boulders, and took leaps from stone to stone that would
have surprised myself at a more sober moment. More than once my foot slipped, and I
went down head first among the boulders, gun and all. But the wild beast in me had the
upper hand now. The passion of the chase vibrated through every fibre of my body.

We reached the slant of the valley almost at the same time—a leap or two to get up on
some big boulders, and the moment had come—I must shoot, though the shot was a long
one. When the smoke cleared away I saw the big buck trailing a broken hind-leg. When
their leader stopped, the whole flock turned and ran in a ring round the poor animal.
They could not understand what was happening, and strayed about wildly with the balls
whistling round them. Then off they went down the side of the valley again, leaving
another of their number behind with a broken leg. I tore after them, across the valley and
up the other side, in the hope of getting another shot, but gave that up and turned back to
make sure of the two wounded ones. At the bottom of the valley stood one of the victims
awaiting its fate. It looked imploringly at me, and then, just as I was going forward to
shoot it, made off much quicker than I could have thought it possible for an animal on
three legs to go. Sure of my shot, of course I missed; and now began a chase, which
ended in the poor beast, blocked in every other direction, rushing down towards the sea
and wading into a small lagoon on the shore, whence I feared it might get right out into
the sea. At last it got its quietus there in the water. The other one was not far off, and a
ball soon put an end to its sufferings also. As I was proceeding to rip it up, Henriksen
and Johansen appeared; they had just shot a bear a little farther south.

A dead bear on Reindeer Island (August 21, 1893)

(From a Photograph)

After disembowelling the reindeer, we went towards the boat again, meeting Sverdrup
on the way. It was now well on in the morning, and as I considered that we had already
spent too much time here, I was impatient to push northward. While Sverdrup and some
of the others went on board to get ready for the start, the rest of us rowed south to fetch
our two reindeer and our bear. A strong breeze had begun to blow from the northeast,
and as it would be hard work for us to row back against it, I had asked Sverdrup to come
and meet us with the Fram, if the soundings permitted of his doing so. We saw quantities
of seal and white fish along the shore, but we had not time to go after them; all we
wanted now was to get south, and in the first place to pick up the bear. When we came
near the place where we expected to find it, we did see a large white heap resembling a
bear lying on the ground, and I was sure it must be the dead one, but Henriksen
maintained that it was not. We went ashore and approached it, as it lay motionless on a
grassy bank. I still felt a strong suspicion that it had already had all the shot it wanted.
We drew nearer and nearer, but it gave no sign of life. I looked into Henriksen’s honest
face, to make sure that they were not playing a trick on me; but he was staring fixedly at
the bear. As I looked, two shots went off, and to my astonishment the great creature
bounded into the air, still dazed with sleep. Poor beast! it was a harsh awakening.
Another shot, and it fell lifeless.

“We first tried to drag the bears”

(By A. Eiebakke, from a Photograph)

We first tried to drag the bears down to the boat, but they were too heavy for us; and we
now had a hard piece of work skinning and cutting them up, and carrying down all we
wanted. But, bad as it was, trudging through the soft clay with heavy quarters of bear on
our backs, there was worse awaiting us on the beach. The tide had risen, and at the same
time the waves had got larger and swamped the boat, and were now breaking over it.
Guns and ammunition were soaking in the water; bits of bread, our only provision,
floated round, and the butter-dish lay at the bottom, with no butter in it. It required no
small exertion to get the boat drawn up out of this heavy surf and emptied of water.
Luckily, it had received no injury, as the beach was of a soft sand; but the sand had
penetrated with the water everywhere, even into the most delicate parts of the locks of
our rifles. But worst of all was the loss of our provisions, for now we were ravenously
hungry. We had to make the best of a bad business, and eat pieces of bread soaked in
sea-water and flavored with several varieties of dirt. On this occasion, too, I lost my
sketch-book, with some sketches that were of value to me.

It was no easy task to get our heavy game into the boat with these big waves breaking on
the flat beach. We had to keep the boat outside the surf, and haul both skins and flesh on
board with a line; a good deal of water came with them, but there was no help for it. And
then we had to row north along the shore against the wind and sea as hard as we could. It
was very tough work. The wind had increased, and it was all we could do to make
headway against it. Seals were diving round us, white whales coming and going, but we
had no eyes for them now. Suddenly Henriksen called out that there was a bear on the

point in front. I turned round, and there stood a beautiful white fellow rummaging
among the flotsam on the beach. As we had no time to shoot it, we rowed on, and it went
slowly in front of us northward along the shore. At last, with great exertions, we reached
the bay where we were to put in for the reindeer. The bear was there before us. It had not
seen the boat hitherto; but now it got scent of us, and came nearer. It was a tempting
shot. I had my finger on the trigger several times, but did not draw it. After all, we had
no use for the animal; it was quite as much as we could do to stow away what we had
already. It made a beautiful target of itself by getting up on a stone to have a better scent,
and looked about, and, after a careful survey, it turned round and set off inland at an easy
trot.

The surf was by this time still heavier. It was a flat, shallow shore, and the waves broke a
good way out from land. We rowed in till the boat touched ground and the breakers
began to wash over us. The only way of getting ashore was to jump into the sea and
wade. But getting the reindeer on board was another matter. There was no better landing-
place farther north, and hard as it was to give up the excellent meat after all our trouble,
it seemed to me there was nothing else for it, and we rowed off towards our ship.

It was the hardest row I ever had a hand in. It went pretty well to begin with; we had the
current with us, and got quickly out from land; but presently the wind rose, the current
slackened, and wave after wave broke over us. After incredible toil we had at last only a
short way to go. I cheered up the good fellows as best I could, reminding them of the
smoking hot tea that awaited them after a few more tough pulls, and picturing all the
good things in store for them. We really were all pretty well done up now, but we still
took a good grip of the oars, soaking wet as we were from the sea constantly breaking
over us, for of course none of us had thought of such things as oilskins in yesterday’s
beautiful weather. But we soon saw that with all our pulling and toiling the boat was
making no headway whatever. Apart from the wind and the sea we had the current dead
against us here; all our exertions were of no avail. We pulled till our finger-tips felt as if
they were bursting; but the most we could manage was to keep the boat where it was; if
we slackened an instant it drifted back. I tried to encourage my comrades: “Now we
made a little way! It was just strength that was needed!” But all to no purpose. The wind
whistled round our ears, and the spray dashed over us. It was maddening to be so near
the ship that it seemed as if we could almost reach out to her, and yet feel that it was
impossible to get on any farther. We had to go in under the land again, where we had the
current with us, and here we did succeed in making a little progress. We rowed hard till
we were about abreast of the ship; then we once more tried to sheer across to her, but no
sooner did we get into the current again than it mercilessly drove us back. Beaten again!
And again we tried the same manœuvre with the same result. Now we saw them
lowering a buoy from the ship—if we could only reach it we were saved; but we did not
reach it. They were not exactly blessings that we poured on those on board. Why the
deuce could they not bear down to us when they saw the straits we were in; or why, at

any rate, could they not ease up the anchor, and let the ship drift a little in our direction?
They saw how little was needed to enable us to reach them. Perhaps they had their
reasons.

Bernard Nordahl

(From a photograph taken in December, 1893)

We would make our last desperate attempt. We went at it with a will. Every muscle was
strained to the utmost—it was only the buoy we had to reach this time. But to our rage
we now saw the buoy being hauled up. We rowed a little way on, to the windward of the
Fram, and then tried again to sheer over. This time we got nearer her than we had ever
been before; but we were disappointed in still seeing no buoy, and none was thrown
over; there was not even a man to be seen on deck. We roared like madmen for a buoy—
we had no strength left for another attempt. It was not a pleasing prospect to have to drift
back, and go ashore again in our wet clothes—we would get on board! Once more we

yelled like wild Indians, and now they came rushing aft and threw out the buoy in our
direction. One more cry to my mates that we must put our last strength into the work.
There were only a few boat lengths to cover; we bent to our oars with a will. Now there
were three boat lengths. Another desperate spurt. Now there were two and a half boat
lengths—presently two—then only one! A few more frantic pulls, and there was a little
less. “Now, boys, one or two more hard pulls and it’s over! Hard! hard!! Keep to it! Now
another! Don’t give up! One more! There, we have it!!!” And one joyful sigh of relief
passed round the boat. “Keep the oars going or the rope will break. Row, boys!” And
row we did, and soon they had hauled us alongside of the Fram. Not till we were lying
there getting our bearskins and flesh hauled on board did we really know what we had
had to fight against. The current was running along the side of the ship like a rapid river.
At last we were actually on board. It was evening by this time, and it was splendid to get
some good hot food and then stretch one’s limbs in a comfortable dry berth. There is a
satisfaction in feeling that one has exerted one’s self to some purpose. Here was the net
result of four-and-twenty hours’ hard toil: we had shot two reindeer which we did not
get, got two bears that we had no use for, and had totally ruined one suit of clothes. Two
washings had not the smallest effect upon them, and they hung on deck to air for the rest
of this trip.

I slept badly that night, for this is what I find in my diary: “Got on board after what I
think was the hardest row I ever had. Slept well for a little, but am now lying tossing
about in my berth, unable to sleep. Is it the coffee I drank after supper? or the cold tea I
drank when I awoke with a burning thirst? I shut my eyes and try again time after time,
but to no purpose. And now memory’s airy visions steal softly over my soul. Gleam after
gleam breaks through the mist. I see before me sunlit landscapes—smiling fields and
meadows, green, leafy trees and woods, and blue mountain ridges. The singing of the
steam in the boiler-pipe turns to bell-ringing—church bells—ringing in Sabbath peace
over Vestre-Aker on this beautiful summer morning. I am walking with father along the
avenue of small birch-trees that mother planted, up towards the church, which lies on the
height before us, pointing up into the blue sky and sending its call far over the country-
side. From up there you can see a long way. Næsodden looks quite close in the clear air,
especially on an autumn morning. And we give a quiet Sunday greeting to the people
that drive past us, all going our way. What a look of Sunday happiness dwells on their
faces!

“I did not think it all so delightful then, and would much rather have run off to the woods
with my bow and arrow after squirrels—but now—how fair, how wonderfully beautiful
that sunlit picture seems to me! The feeling of peace and happiness that even then no
doubt made its impression, though only a passing one, comes back now with redoubled
strength, and all nature seems one mighty, thrilling song of praise! Is it because of the
contrast with this poor, barren, sunless land of mists—without a tree, without a bush—
nothing but stones and clay? No peace in it either—nothing but an endless struggle to

get north, always north, without a moment’s delay. Oh, how one yearns for a little
careless happiness!”

Next day we were again ready to sail, and I tried to force the Fram on under steam
against wind and current. But the current ran strong as a river, and we had to be specially
careful with the helm; if we gave her the least thing too much she would take a sheer,
and we knew there were shallows and rocks on all sides. We kept the lead going
constantly. For a time all went well, and we made way slowly, but suddenly she took a
sheer and refused to obey her helm. She went off to starboard. The lead indicated
shallow water. The same moment came the order, “Let go the anchor!” And to the
bottom it went with a rush and a clank. There we lay with 4 fathoms of water under the
stern and 9 fathoms in front at the anchor. We were not a moment too soon. We got the
Fram’s head straight to the wind, and tried again, time after time, but always with the
same result. The attempt had to be given up. There was still the possibility of making our
way out of the sound to leeward of the land, but the water got quickly shallow there, and
we might come on rocks at any moment. We could have gone on in front with the boat
and sounded, but I had already had more than enough of rowing in that current. For the
present we must stay where we were and anoint ourselves with the ointment called
Patience, a medicament of which every polar expedition ought to lay in a large supply.
We hoped on for a change, but the current remained as it was, and the wind certainly did
not decrease. I was in despair at having to lie here for nothing but this cursed current,
with open sea outside, perhaps as far as Cape Chelyuskin, that eternal cape, whose name
had been sounding in my ears for the last three weeks.

When I came on deck next morning (August 23d) winter had come. There was white
snow on the deck, and on every little projection of the rigging where it had found shelter
from the wind; white snow on the land, and white snow floating through the air. Oh, how
the snow refreshes one’s soul, and drives away all the gloom and sadness from this
sullen land of fogs! Look at it scattered so delicately, as if by a loving hand, over the
stones and the grass-flats on shore! But wind and current are much as they were, and
during the day the wind blows up to a regular storm, howling and rattling in the Fram’s
rigging.

The following day (August 24th) I had quite made up my mind that we must get out
some way or other. When I came on deck in the morning the wind had gone down
considerably, and the current was not so strong. A boat would almost be able to row
against it; anyhow one could be eased away by a line from the stern, and keep on taking
soundings there, while we “kedged” the Fram with her anchor just clear of the bottom.
But before having recourse to this last expedient I would make another attempt to go
against the wind and the current. The engineers were ordered to put on as much pressure
of steam as they dared, and the Fram was urged on at her top speed. Our surprise was
not small when we saw that we were making way, and even at a tolerable rate. Soon we

were out of the sound or “Knipa” (nipper) as we christened it, and could beat out to sea
with steam and sail. Of course, we had, as usual, contrary wind and thick weather. There
is ample space between every little bit of sunshine in these quarters.

Next day we kept on beating northward between the edge of the ice and the land. The
open channel was broad to begin with, but farther north it became so narrow that we
could often see the coast when we put about at the edge of the ice. At this time we
passed many unknown islands and groups of islands. There was evidently plenty of
occupation here, for any one who could spare the time, in making a chart of the coast.
Our voyage had another aim, and all that we could do was to make a few occasional
measurements of the same nature as Nordenskiöld had made before us.

Ivar Mogstad

(From a photograph taken in 1894)

On August 25th I noted in my diary that in the afternoon we had seven islands in sight.
They were higher than those we had seen before, and consisted of precipitous hills.
There were also small glaciers or snow-fields, and the rock formation showed clear
traces of erosion by ice or snow, this being especially the case on the largest island,
where there were even small valleys, partially filled with snow.

This is the record of August 26th: “Many new islands in various directions. There are
here,” the diary continues, “any number of unknown islands, so many that one’s head
gets confused in trying to keep account of them all. In the morning we passed a very
rocky one, and beyond it I saw two others. After them land or islands farther to the north
and still more to the northeast. We had to go out of our course in the afternoon, because
we dared not pass between two large islands on account of possible shoals. The islands
were round in form, like those we had seen farther back, but were of a good height. Now
we held east again, with four biggish islands and two islets in the offing. On our other
side we presently had a line of flat islands with steep shores. The channel was far from
safe here. In the evening we suddenly noticed large stones standing up above the water
among some ice-floes close on our port bow, and on our starboard beam was a shoal
with stranded ice-floes. We sounded, but found over 21 fathoms of water.”

I think this will suffice to give an idea of the nature of this coast. Its belt of skerries,
though it certainly cannot be classed with the Norwegian one, is yet of the kind that it
would be difficult to find except off glacier-formed coasts. This tends to strengthen the
opinion I had formed of there having been a glacial period in the earlier history of this
part of the world also. Of the coast itself, we unfortunately saw too little at any distance
from which we could get an accurate idea of its formation and nature. We could not keep
near land, partly because of the thick weather, and partly because of the number of
islands. The little I did see was enough to give me the conviction that the actual coast
line differs essentially from the one we know from maps; it is much more winding and
indented than it is shown to be. I even several times thought that I saw the openings into
deep fjords, and more than once the suspicion occurred to me that this was a typical fjord
country we were sailing past, in spite of the hills being comparatively low and rounded.
In this supposition I was to be confirmed by our experiences farther north.

Our record of August 27th reads as follows: “Steamed among a variety of small islands
and islets. Thick fog in the morning. At 12 noon we saw a small island right ahead, and
therefore changed our course and went north. We were soon close to the ice, and after 3
in the afternoon held northeast along its edge. Sighted land when the fog cleared a little,
and were about a mile off it at 7 P.M.”

It was the same striated, rounded land, covered with clay and large and small stones
strewn over moss and grass flats. Before us we saw points and headlands, with islands
outside, and sounds and fjords between; but it was all locked up in ice, and we could not

see far for the fog. There was that strange Arctic hush and misty light over everything—
that grayish-white light caused by the reflection from the ice being cast high into the air
against masses of vapor, the dark land offering a wonderful contrast. We were not sure
whether this was the land near Taimur Sound or that by Cape Palander, but were agreed
that in any case it would be best to hold a northerly course, so as to keep clear of
Almquist’s Islands, which Nordenskiöld marks on his map as lying off Taimur Island. If
we shaped our course for one watch north, or north to west, we should be safe after that,
and be able again to hold farther east. But we miscalculated, after all. At midnight we
turned northeastward, and at 4 A.M. (August 28th) land appeared out of the fog about
half a mile off. It seemed to Sverdrup, who was on deck, the highest that we had seen
since we left Norway. He consequently took it to be the mainland, and wished to keep
well outside of it, but was obliged to turn from this course because of ice. We held to the
W.S.W., and it was not till 9 A.M. that we rounded the western point of a large island and
could steer north again. East of us were many islands or points with solid ice between
them, and we followed the edge of the ice. All the morning we went north along the land
against a strong current. There seemed to be no end to this land. Its discrepancy with
every known map grew more and more remarkable, and I was in no slight dilemma. We
had for long been far to the north of the most northern island indicated by
Nordenskiöld.2 My diary this day tells of great uncertainty. “This land (or these islands,
or whatever it is) goes confoundedly far north. If it is a group of islands they are
tolerably large ones. It has often the appearance of connected land, with fjords and
points; but the weather is too thick for us to get a proper view. ... Can this that we are
now coasting along be the Taimur’s Island of the Russian maps (or more precisely,
Lapteff’s map), and is it separated from the mainland by the broad strait indicated by
him, while Nordenskiöld’s Taimur Island is what Lapteff has mapped as a projecting
tongue of land? This supposition would explain everything, and our observations would
also fit in with it. Is it possible that Nordenskiöld found this strait, and took it for Taimur
Strait, while in reality it was a new one; and that he saw Almquist’s Islands, but had no
suspicion that Taimur Island lay to the outside of them? The difficulty about this
explanation is that the Russian maps mark no islands round Taimur Island. It is
inconceivable that any one should have travelled all about here in sledges without seeing
all these small islands that lie scattered around.3

“In the afternoon the water-gauge of the boiler got choked up; we had to stop to have it
repaired, and therefore made fast to the edge of the ice. We spent the time in taking in
drinking-water. We found a pool on the ice, so small that we thought it would only do to
begin with; but it evidently had a “subterranean” communication with other fresh-water
ponds on the floe. To our astonishment it proved inexhaustible, however much we
scooped. In the evening we stood in to the head of an ice bay, which opened out opposite
the most northern island we then had in sight. There was no passage beyond. The broken
drift-ice lay packed so close in on the unbroken land-ice that it was impossible to tell

where the one ended and the other began. We could see islands still farther to the
northeast. From the atmosphere it seemed as if there might also be open water in that
direction. To the north it all looked very close, but to the west there was an open
waterway as far as one could see from the masthead. I was in some doubt as to what
should be done. There was an open channel for a short way up past the north point of the
nearest island, but farther to the east the ice seemed to be close. It might be possible to
force our way through there, but it was just as likely that we should be frozen in; so I
thought it most judicious to go back and make another attempt between these islands and
that mainland which I had some difficulty in believing that Sverdrup had seen in the
morning.

“Thursday, August 20th. Still foggy weather. New islands were observed on the way
back. Sverdrup’s high land did not come to much. It turned out to be an island, and that a
low one. It is wonderful the way things loom up in the fog. This reminded me of the
story of the pilot at home in the Dröbak Channel. He suddenly saw land right in front,
and gave the order, ‘Full speed astern!’ Then they approached carefully and found that it
was half a baling-can floating in the water.”

After passing a great number of new islands we got into open water off Taimur Island,
and steamed in still weather through the sound to the northeast. At 5 in the afternoon I
saw from the crow’s-nest thick ice ahead, which blocked farther progress. It stretched
from Taimur Island right across to the islands south of it. On the ice bearded seals
(Phoca barbata) were to be seen in all directions, and we saw one walrus. We
approached the ice to make fast to it, but the Fram had got into dead-water, and made
hardly any way, in spite of the engine going full pressure. It was such slow work that I
thought I would row ahead to shoot seal. In the meantime the Fram advanced slowly to
the edge of the ice with her machinery still going at full speed.

Bernt Bentzen

(From a photograph taken in December, 1893)

For the moment we had simply to give up all thoughts of getting on. It was most likely,
indeed, that only a few miles of solid ice lay between us and the probably open Taimur
Sea; but to break through this ice was an impossibility. It was too thick, and there were
no openings in it. Nordenskiöld had steamed through here earlier in the year (August 18,
1878) without the slightest hinderance,4 and here, perhaps, our hopes, for this year at any
rate, were to be wrecked. It was not possible that the ice should melt before winter set in
in earnest. The only thing to save us would be a proper storm from the southwest. Our
other slight hope lay in the possibility that Nordenskiöld’s Taimur Sound farther south
might be open, and that we might manage to get the Fram through there, in spite of
Nordenskiöld having said distinctly “that it is too shallow to allow of the passage of
vessels of any size.”

After having been out in the kayak and boat and shot some seals, we went on to anchor
in a bay that lay rather farther south, where it seemed as if there would be a little shelter
in case of a storm. We wanted now to have a thorough cleaning out of the boiler, a very
necessary operation. It took us more than one watch to steam a distance we could have
rowed in half an hour or less. We could hardly get on at all for the dead-water, and we
swept the whole sea along with us. It is a peculiar phenomenon, this dead-water. We had
at present a better opportunity of studying it than we desired. It occurs where a surface
layer of fresh water rests upon the salt water of the sea, and this fresh water is carried
along with the ship, gliding on the heavier sea beneath as if on a fixed foundation. The
difference between the two strata was in this case so great that, while we had drinking-
water on the surface, the water we got from the bottom cock of the engine-room was far
too salt to be used for the boiler. Dead-water manifests itself in the form of larger or
smaller ripples or waves stretching across the wake, the one behind the other, arising
sometimes as far forward as almost amidships. We made loops in our course, turned
sometimes right round, tried all sorts of antics to get clear of it, but to very little purpose.
The moment the engine stopped it seemed as if the ship were sucked back. In spite of the
Fram’s weight and the momentum she usually has, we could in the present instance go at
full speed till within a fathom or two of the edge of the ice, and hardly feel a shock when
she touched.

Just as we were approaching we saw a fox jumping backward and forward on the ice,
taking the most wonderful leaps and enjoying life. Sverdrup sent a ball from the
forecastle which put an end to it on the spot.

About midday two bears were seen on land, but they disappeared before we got in to
shoot them.

The number of seals to be seen in every direction was something extraordinary, and it
seemed to me that this would be an uncommonly good hunting-ground. The flocks I saw
this first day on the ice reminded me of the crested-seal hunting-grounds on the west
coast of Greenland.

This experience of ours may appear to contrast strangely with that of the Vega
expedition. Nordenskiöld writes of this sea, comparing it with the sea to the north and
east of Spitzbergen: “Another striking difference is the scarcity of warm-blooded
animals in this region as yet unvisited by the hunter. We had not seen a single bird in the
whole course of the day, a thing that had never before happened to me on a summer
voyage in the Arctic regions, and we had hardly seen a seal.” The fact that they had not
seen a seal is simply enough explained by the absence of ice. From my impression of it,
the region must, on the contrary, abound in seals. Nordenskiöld himself says that
“numbers of seals, both Phoca barbata and Phoca hispida, were to be seen” on the ice in
Taimur Strait.

So this was all the progress we had made up to the end of August. On August 18, 1878,
Nordenskiöld had passed through this sound, and on the 19th and 20th passed Cape
Chelyuskin, but here was an impenetrable mass of ice frozen on to the land lying in our
way at the end of the month. The prospect was anything but cheering. Were the many
prophets of evil—there is never any scarcity of them—to prove right even at this early
stage of the undertaking? No! The Taimur Strait must be attempted, and should this
attempt fail another last one should be made outside all the islands again. Possibly the
ice masses out there might in the meantime have drifted and left an open way. We could
not stop here.

September came in with a still, melancholy snowfall, and this desolate land, with its low,
rounded heights, soon lay under a deep covering. It did not add to our cheerfulness to see
winter thus gently and noiselessly ushered in after an all too short summer.

On September 2d the boiler was ready at last, was filled with fresh water from the sea
surface, and we prepared to start. While this preparation was going on Sverdrup and I
went ashore to have a look after reindeer. The snow was lying thick, and if it had not
been so wet we could have used our snow-shoes. As it was, we tramped about in the
heavy slush without them, and without seeing so much as the track of a beast of any
kind. A forlorn land, indeed! Most of the birds of passage had already taken their way
south; we had met small flocks of them at sea. They were collecting for the great flight
to the sunshine, and we, poor souls, could not help wishing that it were possible to send
news and greeting with them. A few solitary Arctic and ordinary gulls were our only
company now. One day I found a belated straggler of a goose sitting on the edge of the
ice.

We steamed south in the evening, but still followed by the dead-water. According to
Nordenskiöld’s map, it was only about 20 miles to Taimur Strait, but we were the whole
night doing this distance. Our speed was reduced to about a fifth part of what it would
otherwise have been. At 6 A.M. (September 3d) we got in among some thin ice that
scraped the dead-water off us. The change was noticeable at once. As the Fram cut into
the ice crust she gave a sort of spring forward, and, after this, went on at her ordinary
speed; and henceforth we had very little more trouble with dead-water.

We found what, according to the map, was Taimur Strait entirely blocked with ice, and
we held farther south, to see if we could not come upon some other strait or passage. It
was not an easy matter finding our way by the map. We had not seen Hovgaard’s Islands,
marked as lying north of the entrance to Taimur Strait; yet the weather was so beautifully
clear that it seemed unlikely they could have escaped us if they lay where
Nordenskiöld’s sketch-map places them. On the other hand, we saw several islands in
the offing. These, however, lay so far out that it is not probable that Nordenskiöld saw
them, as the weather was thick when he was here; and, besides, it is impossible that

islands lying many miles out at sea could have been mapped as close to land, with only a
narrow sound separating them from it. Farther south we found a narrow open strait or
fjord, which we steamed into, in order if possible to get some better idea of the lay of the
land. I sat up in the crow’s-nest, hoping for a general clearing up of matters; but the
prospect of this seemed to recede farther and farther. What we now had to the north of
us, and what I had taken to be a projection of the mainland, proved to be an island; but
the fjord wound on farther inland. Now it got narrower—presently it widened out again.
The mystery thickened. Could this be Taimur Strait, after all? A dead calm on the sea.
Fog everywhere over the land. It was wellnigh impossible to distinguish the smooth
surface of the water from the ice, and the ice from the snow-covered land. Everything is
so strangely still and dead. The sea rises and falls with each twist of the fjord through the
silent land of mists. Now we have open water ahead, now more ice, and it is impossible
to make sure which it is. Is this Taimur Strait? Are we getting through? A whole year is
at stake! ... No! here we stop—nothing but ice ahead. No! it is only smooth water with
the snowy land reflected in it. This must be Taimur Strait!

But now we had several large ice-floes ahead, and it was difficult to get on; so we
anchored at a point, in a good, safe harbor, to make a closer inspection. We now
discovered that it was a strong tidal current that was carrying the ice-floes with it, and
there could be no doubt that it was a strait we were lying in. I rowed out in the evening
to shoot some seals, taking for the purpose my most precious weapon, a double-barrelled
Express rifle, calibre 577. As we were in the act of taking a sealskin on board the boat
heeled over, I slipped, and my rifle fell into the sea—a sad accident. Peter Henriksen and
Bentzen, who were rowing me, took it so to heart that they could not speak for some
time. They declared that it would never do to leave the valuable gun lying there in 5
fathoms of water. So we rowed to the Fram for the necessary apparatus, and dragged the
spot for several hours, well on into the dark, gloomy night. While we were thus
employed a bearded seal circled round and round us, bobbing up its big startled face,
now on one side of us, now on the other, and always coming nearer; it was evidently
anxious to find out what our night work might be. Then it dived over and over again,
probably to see how the dragging was getting on. Was it afraid of our finding the rifle?
At last it became too intrusive. I took Peter’s rifle, and put a ball through its head; but it
sank before we could reach it, and we gave up the whole business in despair. The loss of
that rifle saved the life of many a seal; and, alas! it had cost me £28.

We took the boat again next day and rowed eastward, to find out if there really was a
passage for us through this strait. It had turned cold during the night and snow had
fallen, so the sea round the Fram was covered with tolerably thick snow-ice, and it cost
us a good deal of exertion to break through it into open water with the boat. I thought it
possible that the land farther in on the north side of the strait might be that in the
neighborhood of Actinia Bay, where the Vega had lain; but I sought in vain for the cairn
erected there by Nordenskiöld, and presently discovered to my astonishment that it was

only a small island, and that this island lay on the south side of the principal entrance to
Taimur Strait. The strait was very broad here, and I felt pretty certain that I saw where
the real Actinia Bay cut into the land far to the north.

We were hungry now, and were preparing to take a meal before we rowed on from the
island, when we discovered to our disappointment that the butter had been forgotten. We
crammed down the dry biscuits as best we could, and worked our jaws till they were stiff
on the pieces we managed to hack off a hard dried reindeer chine. When we were tired of
eating, though anything but satisfied, we set off, giving this point the name of “Cape
Butterless.” We rowed far in through the strait, and it seemed to us to be a good passage
for ships—8 or 9 fathoms right up to the shore. However, we were stopped by ice in the
evening, and as we ran the risk of being frozen in if we pushed on any farther I thought it
best to turn. We certainly ran no danger of starving, for we saw fresh tracks both of bears
and reindeer everywhere, and there were plenty of seals in the water; but I was afraid of
delaying the Fram, in view of the possibility of progress in another direction. So we
toiled back against a strong wind, not reaching the ship till next morning; and this was
none too early, for presently we were in the midst of a storm.

On the subject of the navigability of Taimur Strait, Nordenskiöld writes that, “according
to soundings made by Lieutenant Palander, it is obstructed by rocky shallows; and being
also full of strong currents, it is hardly advisable to sail through it—at least, until the
direction of these currents has been carefully investigated.” I have nothing particular to
add to this, except that, as already mentioned, the channel was clear as far as we
penetrated, and had the appearance of being practicable as far as I could see. I was,
therefore, determined that we would, if necessary, try to force our way through with the
Fram.

The 5th of September brought snow with a stiff breeze, which steadily grew stronger.
When it was rattling in the rigging in the evening we congratulated each other on being
safe on board—it would not have been an easy matter to row back to-day. But altogether
I was dissatisfied. There was some chance, indeed, that this wind might loosen the ice
farther north, and yesterday’s experiences had given me the hope of being able, in case
of necessity, to force a way through this strait; but now the wind was steadily driving
larger masses of ice in past us; and this approach of winter was alarming—it might quite
well be on us in earnest before any channel was opened. I tried to reconcile myself to the
idea of wintering in our present surroundings. I had already laid all the plans for the way
in which we were to occupy ourselves during the coming year. Besides an investigation
of this coast, which offered problems enough to solve, we were to explore the unknown
interior of the Taimur Peninsula right across to the mouth of the Chatanga. With our dogs
and snow-shoes we should be able to go far and wide; so the year would not be a lost
one as regarded geography and geology. But no! I could not reconcile myself to it! I
could not! A year of one’s life was a year; and our expedition promised to be a long one

at best. What tormented me most was the reflection that if the ice stopped us now we
could have no assurance that it would not do the same at the same time next year; it has
been observed so often that several bad ice-years come together, and this was evidently
none of the best. Though I would hardly confess the feeling of depression even to
myself, I must say that it was not on a bed of roses I lay these nights until sleep came
and carried me off into the land of forgetfulness.

Lars Pettersen

(From a photograph taken in 1895)

Wednesday, the 6th of September, was the anniversary of my wedding-day. I was
superstitious enough to feel when I awoke in the morning that this day would bring a
change, if one were coming at all. The storm had gone down a little, the sun peeped out,
and life seemed brighter. The wind quieted down altogether in the course of the
afternoon, the weather becoming calm and beautiful. The strait to the north of us, which

was blocked before with solid ice, had been swept open by the storm; but the strait to the
east, where we had been with the boat, was firmly blocked, and if we had not turned
when we did that evening we should have been there yet, and for no one knows how
long. It seemed to us not improbable that the ice between Cape Lapteff and Almquist’s
Islands might be broken up. We therefore got up steam and set off north about 6.30 P.M.
to try our fortune once more. I felt quite sure that the day would bring us luck. The
weather was still beautiful, and we were thoroughly enjoying the sunshine. It was such
an unusual thing that Nordahl, when he was working among the coals in the hold in the
afternoon, mistook a sunbeam falling through the hatch on the coal dust for a plank, and
leaned hard on it. He was not a little surprised when he fell right through it on to some
iron lumber.

It became more and more difficult to make anything of the land, and our observation for
latitude at noon did not help to clear up matters. It placed us at 76° 2′ north latitude, or
about 14 miles from what is marked as the mainland on Nordenskiöld’s or Bove’s map.
It was hardly to be expected that these should be correct, as the weather seems to have
been foggy the whole time the explorers were here.

Nor were we successful in finding Hovgaard’s Islands as we sailed north. When I
supposed that we were off them, just on the north side of the entrance to Taimur Strait, I
saw, to my surprise, a high mountain almost directly north of us, which seemed as if it
must be on the mainland. What could be the explanation of this? I began to have a
growing suspicion that this was a regular labyrinth of islands we had got into. We were
hoping to investigate and clear up the matter when thick weather, with sleet and rain,
most inconveniently came on, and we had to leave this problem for the future to solve.

The mist was thick, and soon the darkness of night was added to it, so that we could not
see land at any great distance. It might seem rather risky to push ahead now, but it was
an opportunity not to be lost. We slackened speed a little, and kept on along the coast all
night, in readiness to turn as soon as land was observed ahead. Satisfied that things were
in good hands, as it was Sverdrup’s watch, I lay down in my berth with a lighter mind
than I had had for long.

At 6 o’clock next morning (September 7th) Sverdrup roused me with the information
that we had passed Taimur Island, or Cape Lapteff, at 3 A.M., and were now at Taimur
Bay, but with close ice and an island ahead. It was possible that we might reach the
island, as a channel had just opened through the ice in that direction; but we were at
present in a tearing “whirlpool” current, and should be obliged to put back for the
moment. After breakfast I went up into the crow’s-nest. It was brilliant sunshine. I found
that Sverdrup’s island must be mainland, which, however, stretched remarkably far west
compared with that given on the maps. I could still see Taimur Island behind me, and the
most easterly of Almquist’s Islands lay gleaming in the sun to the north. It was a long,

sandy point that we had ahead, and I could follow the land in a southerly direction till it
disappeared on the horizon at the head of the bay in the south. Then there was a small
strip where no land, only open water, could be made out. After that the land emerged on
the west side of the bay, stretching towards Taimur Island. With its heights and round
knolls this land was essentially different from the low coast on the east side of the bay.

To the north of the point ahead of us I saw open water; there was some ice between us
and it, but the Fram forced her way through. When we got out, right off the point, I was
surprised to notice the sea suddenly covered with brown, clayey water. It could not be a
deep layer, for the track we left behind was quite clear. The clayey water seemed to be
skimmed to either side by the passage of the ship. I ordered soundings to be taken, and
found, as I expected, shallower water—first 8 fathoms, then 6½, then 5½. I stopped now,
and backed. Things looked very suspicious, and round us ice-floes lay stranded. There
was also a very strong current running northeast. Constantly sounding, we again went
slowly forward. Fortunately the lead went on showing 5 fathoms. Presently we got into
deeper water—6 fathoms, then 6½—and now we went on at full speed again. We were
soon out into the clear, blue water on the other side. There was quite a sharp boundary-
line between the brown surface water and the clear blue. The muddy water evidently
came from some river a little farther south.

From this point the land trended back in an easterly direction, and we held east and
northeast in the open water between it and the ice. In the afternoon this channel grew
very narrow, and we got right under the coast, where it again slopes north. We kept close
along it in a very narrow cut, with a depth of 6 to 8 fathoms, but in the evening had to
stop, as the ice lay packed close in to the shore ahead of us.

This land we had been coasting along bore a strong resemblance to Yalmal. The same
low plains, rising very little above the sea, and not visible at any great distance. It was
perhaps rather more undulating. At one or two places I even saw some ridges of a certain
elevation a little way inland. The shore the whole way seemed to be formed of strata of
sand and clay, the margin sloping steeply to the sea.

Many reindeer herds were to be seen on the plains, and next morning (September 8th) I
went on shore on a hunting expedition. Having shot one reindeer I was on my way
farther inland in search of more, when I made a surprising discovery, which attracted all
my attention and made me quite forget the errand I had come on. It was a large fjord
cutting its way in through the land to the north of me. I went as far as possible to find out
all I could about it, but did not manage to see the end of it. So far as I could see, it was a
fine broad sheet of water, stretching eastward to some blue mountains far, far inland,
which, at the extreme limit of my vision, seemed to slope down to the water. Beyond
them I could distinguish nothing. My imagination was fired, and for a moment it seemed
to me as if this might almost be a strait, stretching right across the land here, and making

an island of the Chelyuskin Peninsula. But probably it was only a river, which widened
out near its mouth into a broad lake, as several of the Siberian rivers do. All about the
clay plains I was tramping over, enormous erratic blocks, of various formations, lay
scattered. They can only have been brought here by the great glaciers of the Ice Age.
There was not much life to be seen. Besides reindeer there were just a few willow-
grouse, snow-buntings, and snipe; and I saw tracks of foxes and lemmings. This farthest
north part of Siberia is quite uninhabited, and has probably not been visited even by the
wandering nomads. However, I saw a circular moss-heap on a plain far inland, which
looked as if it might be the work of man’s hand. Perhaps, after all, some Samoyede had
been here collecting moss for his reindeer; but it must have been long ago; for the moss
looked quite black and rotten. The heap was quite possibly only one of Nature’s freaks—
she is often capricious.

What a constant alternation of light and shadow there is in this Arctic land. When I went
up to the crow’s-nest next morning (September 9th) I saw that the ice to the north had
loosened from the land, and I could trace a channel which might lead us northward into
open water. I at once gave the order to get up steam. The barometer was certainly low—
lower than we had ever had it yet; it was down to 733 mm.—the wind was blowing in
heavy squalls off the land, and in on the plains the gusts were whirling up clouds of sand
and dust.

Sverdrup thought it would be safer to stay where we were; but it would be too annoying
to miss this splendid opportunity; and the sunshine was so beautiful, and the sky so
smiling and reassuring. I gave orders to set sail, and soon we were pushing on northward
through the ice, under steam, and with every stitch of canvas that we could crowd on.
Cape Chelyuskin must be vanquished! Never had the Fram gone so fast; she made more
than 8 knots by the log; it seemed as though she knew how much depended on her
getting on. Soon we were through the ice, and had open water along the land as far as the
eye could reach. We passed point after point, discovering new fjords and islands on the
way, and soon I thought that I caught a glimpse through the large telescope of some
mountains far away north; they must be in the neighborhood of Cape Chelyuskin itself.

Anton Amundsen

(From a photograph taken in December, 1893)

The land along which we to-day coasted to the northward was quite low, some of it like
what I had seen on shore the previous day. At some distance from the low coast, fairly
high mountains or mountain chains were to be seen. Some of them seemed to consist of
horizontal sedimentary schist; they were flat-topped, with precipitous sides. Farther
inland the mountains were all white with snow. At one point it seemed as if the whole
range were covered with a sheet of ice, or great snow-field that spread itself down the
sides. At the edge of this sheet I could see projecting masses of rock, but all the inner
part was spotless white. It seemed almost too continuous and even to be new snow, and
looked like a permanent snow mantle.

Nordenskiöld’s map marks at this place, “high mountain chains inland”; and this agrees
with our observations, though I cannot assert that the mountains are of any considerable

height. But when, in agreement with earlier maps, he marks at the same place, “high,
rocky coast,” his terms are open to objection. The coast is, as already mentioned, quite
low, and consists, in great part at least, of layers of clay or loose earth. Nordenskiöld
either took this last description from the earlier, unreliable maps, or possibly allowed
himself to be misled by the fog which beset them during their voyage in these waters.

In the evening we were approaching the north end of the land, but the current, which we
had had with us earlier in the day, was now against us, and it seemed as if we were never
to get past an island that lay off the shore to the north of us. The mountain height which I
had seen at an earlier hour through the telescope lay here some way inland. It was flat on
the top, with precipitous sides, like those mountains last described. It seemed to be
sandstone or basaltic rock; only the horizontal strata of the ledges on its sides were not
visible. I calculated its height at 1000 to 1500 feet. Out at sea we saw several new
islands, the nearest of them being of some size.

The moment seemed to be at hand when we were at last to round that point which had
haunted us for so long—the second of the greatest difficulties I expected to have to
overcome on this expedition. I sat up in the crow’s-nest in the evening, looking out to the
north. The land was low and desolate. The sun had long since gone down behind the sea,
and the dreamy evening sky was yellow and gold. It was lonely and still up here, high
above the water. Only one star was to be seen. It stood straight above Cape Chelyuskin,
shining clearly and sadly in the pale sky. As we sailed on and got the cape more to the
east of us the star went with it; it was always there, straight above. I could not help
sitting watching it. It seemed to have some charm for me, and to bring such peace. Was it
my star? Was it the spirit of home following and smiling to me now? Many a thought it
brought to me as the Fram toiled on through the melancholy night, past the northernmost
point of the old world.

Towards morning we were off what we took to be actually the northern extremity. We
stood in near land, and at the change of the watch, exactly at 4 o’clock, our flags were
hoisted, and our three last cartridges sent a thundering salute over the sea. Almost at the
same moment the sun rose. Then our poetic doctor burst forth into the following
touching lines:

“Up go the flags, off goes the gun;
The clock strikes four—and lo, the sun!”

As the sun rose, the Chelyuskin troll, that had so long had us in his power, was banned.
We had escaped the danger of a winter’s imprisonment on this coast, and we saw the
way clear to our goal—the drift-ice to the north of the New Siberian Islands. In honor of
the occasion all hands were turned out, and punch, fruit, and cigars were served in the
festally lighted saloon. Something special in the way of a toast was expected on such an

occasion. I lifted my glass, and made the following speech: “Skoal, my lads, and be glad
we’ve passed Chelyuskin!” Then there was some organ-playing, during which I went up
into the crow’s-nest again, to have a last look at the land. I now saw that the height I had
noticed in the evening, which has already been described, lies on the west side of the
peninsula, while farther east a lower and more rounded height stretches southward. This
last must be the one mentioned by Nordenskiöld, and, according to his description, the
real north point must lie out beyond it; so that we were now off King Oscar’s Bay; but I
looked in vain through the telescope for Nordenskiöld’s cairn. I had the greatest
inclination to land, but did not think that we could spare the time. The bay, which was
clear of ice at the time of the Vega’s visit, was now closed in with thick winter ice, frozen
fast to the land.

Cape Chelyuskin, the Northernmost point of the Old World

We had an open channel before us; but we could see the edge of the drift-ice out at sea. A
little farther west we passed a couple of small islands, lying a short way from the coast.
We had to stop before noon at the northwestern corner of Chelyuskin, on account of the
drift-ice which seemed to reach right into the land before us. To judge by the dark air,
there was open water again on the other side of an island which lay ahead. We landed
and made sure that some straits or fjords on the inside of this island, to the south, were
quite closed with firm ice; and in the evening the Fram forced her way through the drift-
ice on the outside of it. We steamed and sailed southward along the coast all night,
making splendid way; when the wind was blowing stiffest we went at the rate of 9 knots.
We came upon ice every now and then, but got through it easily.

On land east of Cape Chelyuskin (September 10, 1893)

(By Otto Sinding, from a Photograph)

Towards morning (September 11th) we had high land ahead, and had to change our
course to due east, keeping to this all day. When I came on deck before noon I saw a fine
tract of hill country, with high summits and valleys between. It was the first view of the
sort since we had left Vardö, and, after the monotonous low land we had been coasting
along for months, it was refreshing to see such mountains again. They ended with a
precipitous descent to the east, and eastward from that extended a perfectly flat plain. In
the course of the day we quite lost sight of land, and strangely enough did not see it
again; nor did we see the Islands of St. Peter and St. Paul, though, according to the maps,
our course lay close past them.

Plate I.

Walruses Killed off the East Coast of the Taimyr Peninsula, 12th September 1893. Water-Colour Sketch.

Thursday, September 12th. Henriksen awoke me this morning at 6 with the information
that there were several walruses lying on a floe quite close to us. “By Jove!” Up I
jumped and had my clothes on in a trice. It was a lovely morning—fine, still weather;
the walruses’ guffaw sounded over to us along the clear ice surface. They were lying
crowded together on a floe a little to landward from us, blue mountains glittering behind
them in the sun. At last the harpoons were sharpened, guns and cartridges ready, and
Henriksen, Juell, and I set off. There seemed to be a slight breeze from the south, so we
rowed to the north side of the floe, to get to leeward of the animals. From time to time
their sentry raised his head, but apparently did not see us. We advanced slowly, and soon
we were so near that we had to row very cautiously. Juell kept us going, while Henriksen
was ready in the bow with a harpoon, and I behind him with a gun. The moment the
sentry raised his head the oars stopped, and we stood motionless; when he sunk it again,
a few more strokes brought us nearer.

Body to body they lay close-packed on a small floe, old and young ones mixed.
Enormous masses of flesh they were! Now and again one of the ladies fanned herself by
moving one of her flappers backward and forward over her body; then she lay quiet
again on her back or side. “Good gracious! what a lot of meat!” said Juell, who was
cook. More and more cautiously we drew near. While I sat ready with the gun,

Henriksen took a good grip of the harpoon shaft, and as the boat touched the floe he
rose, and off flew the harpoon. But it struck too high, glanced off the tough hide, and
skipped over the backs of the animals. Now there was a pretty to do! Ten or twelve great
weird faces glared upon us at once; the colossal creatures twisted themselves round with
incredible celerity, and came waddling with lifted heads and hollow bellowings to the
edge of the ice where we lay. It was undeniably an imposing sight; but I laid my gun to
my shoulder and fired at one of the biggest heads. The animal staggered, and then fell
head foremost into the water. Now a ball into another head; this creature fell too, but was
able to fling itself into the sea. And now the whole herd dashed in, and we as well as
they were hidden in spray. It had all happened in a few seconds. But up they came again
immediately round the boat, the one head bigger and uglier than the other, their young
ones close beside them. They stood up in the water, bellowed and roared till the air
trembled, threw themselves forward towards us, then rose up again, and new bellowings
filled the air. Then they rolled over and disappeared with a splash, then bobbed up again.
The water foamed and boiled for yards around—the ice-world that had been so still
before seemed in a moment to have been transformed into a raging bedlam. Any moment
we might expect to have a walrus tusk or two through the boat, or to be heaved up and
capsized. Something of this kind was the very least that could happen after such a
terrible commotion. But the hurly-burly went on and nothing came of it. I again picked
out my victims. They went on bellowing and grunting like the others, but with blood
streaming from their mouths and noses. Another ball, and one tumbled over and floated
on the water; now a ball to the second, and it did the same. Henriksen was ready with the
harpoons, and secured them both. One more was shot; but we had no more harpoons,
and had to strike a seal-hook into it to hold it up. The hook slipped, however, and the
animal sank before we could save it. While we were towing our booty to an ice-floe we
were still, for part of the time at least, surrounded by walruses; but there was no use in
shooting any more, for we had no means of carrying them off. The Fram presently came
up and took our two on board, and we were soon going ahead along the coast. We saw
many walruses in this part. We shot two others in the afternoon, and could have got
many more if we had had time to spare. It was in this same neighborhood that
Nordenskiöld also saw one or two small herds.

A warm corner among the walruses, off East Taimur

(By Otto Sinding)

We now continued our course, against a strong current, southward along the coast, past
the mouth of the Chatanga. This eastern part of the Taimur Peninsula is a comparatively
high, mountainous region, but with a lower level stretch between the mountains and the
sea—apparently the same kind of low land we had seen along the coast almost the whole
way. As the sea seemed to be tolerably open and free from ice, we made several attempts
to shorten our course by leaving the coast and striking across for the mouth of the
Olenek; but every time thick ice drove us back to our channel by the land.

On September 14th we were off the land lying between the Chatanga and the Anabara.
This also was fairly high, mountainous country, with a low strip by the sea. “In this
respect,” so I write in my diary, “this whole coast reminds one very much of Jæderen, in
Norway. But the mountains here are not so well separated, and are considerably lower
than those farther north. The sea is unpleasantly shallow; at one time during the night we
had only 4 fathoms, and were obliged to put back some distance. We have ice outside,
quite close; but yet there is a sufficient fairway to let us push on eastward.”

The following day we got into good, open water, but shallow—never more than 6 to 7
fathoms. We heard the roaring of waves to the east, so there must certainly be open water

in that direction, which indeed we had expected. It was plain that the Lena, with its
masses of warm water, was beginning to assert its influence. The sea here was browner,
and showed signs of some mixture of muddy river-water. It was also much less salt.

“It would be foolish,” I write in my diary for this day (September 15th), “to go in to the
Olenek, now that we are so late. Even if there were no danger from shoals, it would cost
us too much time—probably a year. Besides, it is by no means sure that the Fram can
get in there at all; it would be a very tiresome business if she went aground in these
waters. No doubt we should be very much the better of a few more dogs, but to lose a
year is too much; we shall rather head straight east for the New Siberian Islands, now
that there is a good opportunity, and really bright prospects.

“The ice here puzzles me a good deal. How in the world is it not swept northward by the
current, which, according to my calculations, ought to set north from this coast, and
which indeed we ourselves have felt. And it is such hard, thick ice—has the appearance
of being several years old. Does it come from the eastward, or does it lie and grind round
here in the sea between the ‘north-going’ current of the Lena and the Taimur Peninsula? I
cannot tell yet, but anyhow it is different from the thin, one-year-old ice we have seen
until now in the Kara Sea and west of Cape Chelyuskin.

“Saturday, September 16th. We are keeping a northwesterly course (by compass)
through open water, and have got pretty well north, but see no ice, and the air is dark to
the northward. Mild weather, and water comparatively warm, as high as 35° Fahr. We
have the current against us, and are always considerably west of our reckoning. Several
flocks of eider-duck were seen in the course of the day. We ought to have land to the
north of us; can it be that which is keeping back the ice?”

Next day we met ice, and had to hold a little to the south to keep clear of it; and I began
to fear that we should not be able to get as far as I had hoped. But in my notes for the
following day (Monday, September 18th) I read: “A splendid day. Shaped our course
northward, to the west of Bielkoff Island. Open sea; good wind from the west; good
progress. Weather clear, and we had a little sunshine in the afternoon. Now the decisive
moment approaches. At 12.15 shaped our course north to east (by compass). Now it is to
be proved if my theory, on which the whole expedition is based, is correct—if we are to
find a little north from here a north-flowing current. So far everything is better than I had
expected. We are in latitude 75½° N., and have still open water and dark sky to the north
and west. In the evening there was ice-light ahead and on the starboard bow. About
seven I thought that I could see ice, which, however, rose so regularly that it more
resembled land, but it was too dark to see distinctly. It seemed as if it might be Bielkoff
Island, and a big light spot farther to the east might even be the reflection from the snow-
covered Kotelnoi. I should have liked to run in here, partly to see a little of this
interesting island, and partly to inspect the stores which we knew had been deposited for

us here by the friendly care of Baron von Toll; but time was precious, and to the north
the sea seemed to lie open to us. Prospects were bright, and we sailed steadily
northward, wondering what the morrow would bring—disappointment or hope? If all
went well we should reach Sannikoff Land—that, as yet, untrodden ground.

“It was a strange feeling to be sailing away north in the dark night to unknown lands,
over an open, rolling sea, where no ship, no boat had been before. We might have been
hundreds of miles away in more southerly waters, the air was so mild for September in
this latitude.

Plate II.

Sleepy and Cross, 12th September 1893. Pastel Sketch.

“Tuesday, September 19th. I have never had such a splendid sail. On to the north,
steadily north, with a good wind, as fast as steam and sail can take us, and open sea mile
after mile, watch after watch, through these unknown regions, always clearer and clearer
of ice one might almost say! How long will this last? The eye always turns to the
northward as one paces the bridge. It is gazing into the future. But there is always the
same dark sky ahead, which means open sea. My plan was standing its test. It seemed as
if luck had been on our side ever since the 6th of September. We see ‘nothing but clean
water,’ as Henriksen answered from the crow’s-nest when I called up to him. When he
was standing at the wheel later in the morning, and I was on the bridge, he suddenly
said: ‘They little think at home in Norway just now that we are sailing straight for the

Pole in clear water.’ ‘No, they don’t believe we have got so far.’ And I shouldn’t have
believed it myself if any one had prophesied it to me a fortnight ago; but true it is. All
my reflections and inferences on the subject had led me to expect open water for a good
way farther north; but it is seldom that one’s inspirations turn out to be so correct. No
ice-light in any direction, not even now in the evening. We saw no land the whole day;
but we had fog and thick weather all morning and forenoon, so that we were still going
at half-speed, as we were afraid of coming suddenly on something. Now we are almost
in 77° north latitude. How long is it to go on? I have said all along that I should be glad
if we reached 78°; but Sverdrup is less easily satisfied; he says over 80°—perhaps 84°,
85°. He even talks seriously of the open Polar Sea, which he once read about; he always
comes back upon it, in spite of my laughing at him.

“I have almost to ask myself if this is not a dream. One must have gone against the
stream to know what it means to go with the stream. As it was on the Greenland
expedition, so it is here.

“‘Dort ward der Traum zur Wirklichkeit,
Hier wird die Wirklichkeit zum Traum!’

“Hardly any life visible here. Saw an auk or black guillemot to-day, and later a sea-gull
in the distance. When I was hauling up a bucket of water in the evening to wash the deck
I noticed that it was sparkling with phosphorescence. One could almost have imagined
one’s self to be in the south.

“Wednesday, September 20th. I have had a rough awakening from my dream. As I was
sitting at 11 A.M., looking at the map and thinking that my cup would soon be full—we
had almost reached 78°—there was a sudden luff, and I rushed out. Ahead of us lay the
edge of the ice, long and compact, shining through the fog. I had a strong inclination to
go eastward, on the possibility of there being land in that direction; but it looked as if the
ice extended farther south there, and there was the probability of being able to reach a
higher latitude if we kept west; so we headed that way. The sun broke through for a
moment just now, so we took an observation, which showed us to be in about 77° 44′
north latitude.”

We now held northwest along the edge of the ice. It seemed to me as if there might be
land at no great distance, we saw such a remarkable number of birds of various kinds. A
flock of snipe or wading birds met us, followed us for a time, and then took their way
south. They were probably on their passage from some land to the north of us. We could
see nothing, as the fog lay persistently over the ice. Again, later, we saw flocks of small
snipe, indicating the possible proximity of land. Next day the weather was clearer, but
still there was no land in sight. We were now a good way north of the spot where Baron

von Toll has mapped the south coast of Sannikoff Land, but in about the same longitude.
So it is probably only a small island, and in any case cannot extend far north.

On September 21st we had thick fog again, and when we had sailed north to the head of
a bay in the ice, and could get no farther, I decided to wait here for clear weather to see if
progress farther north were possible. I calculated that we were now in about 78½° north
latitude. We tried several times during the day to take soundings, but did not succeed in
reaching the bottom with 215 fathoms of line.

“To-day made the agreeable discovery that there are bugs on board. Must plan a
campaign against them.

“Friday, September 22d. Brilliant sunshine once again, and white dazzling ice ahead.
First we lay still in the fog because we could not see which way to go; now it is clear,
and we know just as little about it. It looks as if we were at the northern boundary of the
open water. To the west the ice appears to extend south again. To the north it is compact
and white—only a small open rift or pool every here and there; and the sky is whitish-
blue everywhere on the horizon. It is from the east we have just come, but there we
could see very little; and for want of anything better to do we shall make a short
excursion in that direction, on the possibility of finding openings in the ice. If there were
only time, what I should like would be to go east as far as Sannikoff Island, or, better
still, all the way to Bennet Land, to see what condition things are in there; but it is too
late now. The sea will soon be freezing, and we should run a great risk of being frozen in
at a disadvantageous point.”

Earlier Arctic explorers have considered it a necessity to keep near some coast. But this
was exactly what I wanted to avoid. It was the drift of the ice that I wished to get into,
and what I most feared was being blocked by land. It seemed as if we might do much
worse than give ourselves up to the ice where we were—especially as our excursion to
the east had proved that following the ice-edge in that direction would soon force us
south again. So in the meantime we made fast to a great ice-block, and prepared to clean
the boiler and shift coals. “We are lying in open water, with only a few large floes here
and there; but I have a presentiment that this is our winter harbor.

Plate III.

Sunset off the the North Coast of Asia, North of the Mouth of the Chatanga, 12th September 1893. Water-
Colour Sketch.

“Great bug war to-day. We play the big steam hose on mattresses, sofa-cushions—
everything that we think can possibly harbor the enemies. All clothes are put into a
barrel, which is hermetically closed, except where the hose is introduced. Then full
steam is set on. It whizzes and whistles inside, and a little forces its way through the
joints, and we think that the animals must be having a fine hot time of it. But suddenly
the barrel cracks, the steam rushes out, and the lid bursts off with a violent explosion,
and is flung far along the deck. I still hope that there has been a great slaughter, for these
are horrible enemies. Juell tried the old experiment of setting one on a piece of wood to
see if it would creep north. It would not move at all, so he took a blubber hook and hit it
to make it go; but it would do nothing but wriggle its head—the harder he hit the more it
wriggled. ‘Squash it, then,’ said Bentzen. And squashed it was.

“Friday, September 23d. We are still at the same moorings, working at the coal. An
unpleasant contrast—everything on board, men and dogs included, black and filthy, and
everything around white and bright in beautiful sunshine. It looks as if more ice were
driving in.

The ice into which the “Fram” was frozen (September 25, 1893)

(From a Photograph)

“Sunday, September 24th. Still coal-shifting. Fog in the morning, which cleared off as
the day went on, when we discovered that we were closely surrounded on all sides by
tolerably thick ice. Between the floes lies slush-ice, which will soon be quite firm. There
is an open pool to be seen to the north, but not a large one. From the crow’s-nest, with
the telescope, we can still descry the sea across the ice to the south. It looks as if we
were being shut in. Well, we must e’en bid the ice welcome. A dead region this; no life
in any direction, except a single seal (Phoca fœtida) in the water; and on the floe beside
us we can see a bear-track some days old. We again try to get soundings, but still find no
bottom; it is remarkable that there should be such depth here.”

Ugh! one can hardly imagine a dirtier, nastier job than a spell of coal-shifting on board.
It is a pity that such a useful thing as coal should be so black! What we are doing now is
only hoisting it from the hold and filling the bunkers with it; but every man on board
must help, and everything is in a mess. So many men must stand on the coal-heap in the
hold and fill the buckets, and so many hoist them. Jacobsen is specially good at this last
job; his strong arms pull up bucket after bucket as if they were as many boxes of
matches. The rest of us go backward and forward with the buckets between the main-
hatch and the half-deck, pouring the coal into the bunkers; and down below stands
Amundsen packing it, as black as he can be. Of course coal-dust is flying over the whole
deck; the dogs creep into corners, black and toussled; and we ourselves—well, we don’t
wear our best clothes on such days. We got some amusement out of the remarkable
appearance of our faces, with their dark complexions, black streaks at the most unlikely
places, and eyes and white teeth shining through the dirt. Any one happening to touch
the white wall below with his hand leaves a black five-fingered blot; and the doors have
a wealth of such mementos. The seats of the sofas must have their wrong sides turned
up, else they would bear lasting marks of another part of the body; and the table-cloth—

well, we fortunately do not possess such a thing. In short, coal-shifting is as dirty and
wretched an experience as one can well imagine in these bright and pure surroundings.
One good thing is that there is plenty of fresh water to wash with; we can find it in every
hollow on the floes, so there is some hope of our being clean again in time, and it is
possible that this may be our last coal-shifting.

“Monday, September 25th. Frozen in faster and faster! Beautiful, still weather; 13
degrees of frost last night. Winter is coming now. Had a visit from a bear, which was off
again before any one got a shot at it.”

1 There is a white reflection from white ice, so that the sky above fields of ice has a light or whitish appearance;
wherever there is open water it is blue or dark. In this way the Arctic navigator can judge by the appearance of the sky
what is the state of the sea at a considerable distance.
2 It is true that in his account of the voyage he expressly states that the continued very thick fog “prevented us from
doing more than mapping out most vaguely the islands among and past which the Vega sought her way.”
3 Later, when I had investigated the state of matters outside Nordenskiöld’s Taimur Island, it seemed to me that the
same remark applied here with even better reason, as no sledge expedition could go round the coast of this island
without seeing Almquist’s Islands, which lie so near, for instance, to Cape Lapteff, that they ought to be seen even in
very thick weather. It would be less excusable to omit marking these islands, which are much larger, than to omit the
small ones lying off the coast of the large island (or as I now consider it, group of large islands) we were at present
skirting.
4 In his account of his voyage Nordenskiöld writes as follows of the condition of this channel: “We were met by
only small quantities of that sort of ice which has a layer of fresh-water ice on the top of the salt, and we noticed that it
was all melting fjord or river ice. I hardly think that we came all day on a single piece of ice big enough to have cut up
a seal upon.”

Chapter VI

The Winter Night
It really looked as if we were now frozen in for good, and I did not expect to get the
Fram out of the ice till we were on the other side of the Pole, nearing the Atlantic Ocean.
Autumn was already well advanced; the sun stood lower in the heavens day by day, and
the temperature sank steadily. The long night of winter was approaching—that dreaded
night. There was nothing to be done except prepare ourselves for it, and by degrees we
converted our ship, as well as we could, into comfortable winter quarters; while at the
same time we took every precaution to assure her against the destructive influences of
cold, drift-ice, and the other forces of nature to which it was prophesied that we must
succumb. The rudder was hauled up, so that it might not be destroyed by the pressure of
the ice. We had intended to do the same with the screw; but as it, with its iron case,
would certainly help to strengthen the stern, and especially the rudder-stock, we let it
remain in its place. We had a good deal of work with the engine, too; each separate part
was taken out, oiled, and laid away for the winter; slide-valves, pistons, shafts, were
examined and thoroughly cleaned. All this was done with the very greatest care.
Amundsen looked after that engine as if it had been his own child; late and early he was
down tending it lovingly; and we used to tease him about it, to see the defiant look come
into his eyes and hear him say: “It’s all very well for you to talk, but there’s not such
another engine in the world, and it would be a sin and a shame not to take good care of
it.” Assuredly he left nothing undone. I don’t suppose a day passed, winter or summer,
all these three years, that he did not go down and caress it, and do something or other for
it.

We cleared up in the hold to make room for a joiner’s workshop down there; our
mechanical workshop we had in the engine-room. The smithy was at first on deck, and
afterwards on the ice; tinsmith’s work was done chiefly in the chart-room; shoemaker’s
and sailmaker’s, and various odd sorts of work, in the saloon. And all these occupations
were carried on with interest and activity during the rest of the expedition. There was
nothing, from the most delicate instruments down to wooden shoes and axe-handles, that
could not be made on board the Fram. When we were found to be short of sounding-
line, a grand rope-walk was constructed on the ice. It proved to be a very profitable
undertaking, and was well patronized.

The smithy on the “Fram”

(From a photograph)

Presently we began putting up the windmill which was to drive the dynamo and produce
the electric light. While the ship was going, the dynamo was driven by the engine, but
for a long time past we had had to be contented with petroleum lamps in our dark cabins.
The windmill was erected on the port side of the fore-deck, between the main-hatch and
the rail. It took several weeks to get this important appliance into working order.

As mentioned on page 71, we had also brought with us a “horse-mill” for driving the
dynamo. I had thought that it might be of service in giving us exercise whenever there
was no other physical work for us. But this time never came, and so the “horse-mill” was
never used. There was always something to occupy us; and it was not difficult to find
work for each man that gave him sufficient exercise, and so much distraction that the
time did not seem to him unbearably long.

There was the care of the ship and rigging, the inspection of sails, ropes, etc., etc.; there
were provisions of all kinds to be got out from the cases down in the hold, and handed
over to the cook; there was ice—good, pure, fresh-water ice—to be found and carried to
the galley to be melted for cooking, drinking, and washing water. Then, as already

mentioned, there was always something doing in the various workshops. Now “Smith
Lars” had to straighten the long-boat davits, which had been twisted by the waves in the
Kara Sea; now it was a hook, a knife, a bear-trap, or something else to be forged. The
tinsmith, again “Smith Lars,” had to solder together a great tin pail for the ice-melting in
the galley. The mechanician, Amundsen, would have an order for some instrument or
other—perhaps a new current-gauge. The watchmaker, Mogstad, would have a
thermograph to examine and clean, or a new spring to put into a watch. The sailmaker
might have an order for a quantity of dog-harness. Then each man had to be his own
shoemaker—make himself canvas boots with thick, warm, wooden soles, according to
Sverdrup’s newest pattern. Presently there would come an order to mechanician
Amundsen for a supply of new zinc music-sheets for the organ—these being a brand-
new invention of the leader of the expedition. The electrician would have to examine and
clean the accumulator batteries, which were in danger of freezing. When at last the
windmill was ready, it had to be attended to, turned according to the wind, etc. And
when the wind was too strong some one had to climb up and reef the mill sails, which
was not a pleasant occupation in this winter cold, and involved much breathing on
fingers and rubbing of the tip of the nose.

It happened now and then, too, that the ship required to be pumped. This became less
and less necessary as the water froze round her and in the interstices in her sides. The
pumps, therefore, were not touched from December, 1893, till July, 1895. The only
noticeable leakage during that time was in the engine-room, but it was nothing of any
consequence: just a few buckets of ice that had to be hewn away every month from the
bottom of the ship and hoisted up.

To these varied employments was presently added, as the most important of all, the
taking of scientific observations, which gave many of us constant occupation. Those that
involved the greatest labor were, of course, the meteorological observations, which were
taken every four hours day and night; indeed, for a considerable part of the time, every
two hours. They kept one man, sometimes two, at work all day. It was Hansen who had
the principal charge of this department, and his regular assistant until March, 1895, was
Johansen, whose place was then taken by Nordahl. The night observations were taken by
whoever was on watch. About every second day, when the weather was clear, Hansen
and his assistant took the astronomical observation which ascertained our position. This
was certainly the work which was followed with most interest by all the members of the
expedition; and it was not uncommon to see Hansen’s cabin, while he was making his
calculations, besieged with idle spectators, waiting to hear the result—whether we had
drifted north or south since the last observation, and how far. The state of feeling on
board very much depended on these results.

Hansen had also at stated periods to take observations to determine the magnetic
constant in this unknown region. These were carried on at first in a tent, specially

constructed for the purpose, which was soon erected on the ice; but later we built him a
large snow hut, as being both more suitable and more comfortable.

The thermometer house

(From a Photograph)

For the ship’s doctor there was less occupation. He looked long and vainly for patients,
and at last had to give it up and in despair take to doctoring the dogs. Once a month he
too had to make his scientific observations, which consisted in the weighing of each
man, and the counting of blood corpuscles, and estimating the amount of blood pigment,
in order to ascertain the number of red-blood corpuscles and the quantity of red coloring
matter (hæmoglobin) in the blood of each. This was also work that was watched with
anxious interest, as every man thought he could tell from the result obtained how long it
would be before scurvy overtook him.

Among our scientific pursuits may also be mentioned the determining of the temperature
of the water and of its degree of saltness at varying depths; the collection and
examination of such animals as are to be found in these northern seas; the ascertaining of
the amount of electricity in the air; the observation of the formation of the ice, its growth
and thickness, and of the temperature of the different layers of ice; the investigation of
the currents in the water under it, etc., etc. I had the main charge of this department.
There remains to be mentioned the regular observation of the aurora borealis, which we
had a splendid opportunity of studying. After I had gone on with it for some time,
Blessing undertook this part of my duties; and when I left the ship I made over to him all
the other observations that were under my charge. Not an inconsiderable item of our
scientific work were the soundings and dredgings. At the greater depths it was such an
undertaking that every one had to assist; and, from the way we were obliged to do it
later, one sounding sometimes gave occupation for several days.

One day differed very little from another on board, and the description of one is, in every
particular of any importance, a description of all.

We all turned out at eight, and breakfasted on hard bread (both rye and wheat), cheese
(Dutch-clove cheese, Cheddar, Gruyère, and Mysost, or goat’s-whey cheese, prepared
from dry powder), corned beef or corned mutton, luncheon ham or Chicago tinned
tongue or bacon, cod-caviare, anchovy roe; also oatmeal biscuits or English ship-biscuits
—with orange marmalade or Frame Food jelly. Three times a week we had fresh-baked
bread as well, and often cake of some kind. As for our beverages, we began by having
coffee and chocolate day about; but afterwards had coffee only two days a week, tea
two, and chocolate three.

Magnetic observations

(From a photograph)

After breakfast some men went to attend to the dogs—give them their food, which
consisted of half a stockfish or a couple of dog-biscuits each, let them loose, or do
whatever else there was to do for them. The others went all to their different tasks. Each
took his turn of a week in the galley—helping the cook to wash up, lay the table, and
wait. The cook himself had to arrange his bill of fare for dinner immediately after
breakfast, and to set about his preparations at once. Some of us would take a turn on the
floe to get some fresh air, and to examine the state of the ice, its pressure, etc. At 1
o’clock all were assembled for dinner, which generally consisted of three courses—soup,
meat, and dessert; or, soup, fish, and meat; or, fish, meat, and dessert; or sometimes only
fish and meat. With the meat we always had potatoes, and either green vegetables or
macaroni. I think we were all agreed that the fare was good; it would hardly have been
better at home; for some of us it would perhaps have been worse. And we looked like
fatted pigs; one or two even began to cultivate a double chin and a corporation. As a rule,
stories and jokes circulated at table along with the bock-beer.

A smoke in the galley of the “Fram”

Henriksen Sverdrup Blessing

After dinner the smokers of our company would march off, well fed and contented, into
the galley, which was smoking-room as well as kitchen, tobacco being tabooed in the
cabins except on festive occasions. Out there they had a good smoke and chat; many a
story was told, and not seldom some warm dispute arose. Afterwards came, for most of
us, a short siesta. Then each went to his work again until we were summoned to supper
at 6 o’clock, when the regulation day’s work was done. Supper was almost the same as
breakfast, except that tea was always the beverage. Afterwards there was again smoking
in the galley, while the saloon was transformed into a silent reading-room. Good use was
made of the valuable library presented to the expedition by generous publishers and
other friends. If the kind donors could have seen us away up there, sitting round the table
at night with heads buried in books or collections of illustrations, and could have
understood how invaluable these companions were to us, they would have felt rewarded
by the knowledge that they had conferred a real boon—that they had materially assisted
in making the Fram the little oasis that it was in this vast ice desert. About half-past
seven or eight cards or other games were brought out, and we played well on into the
night, seated in groups round the saloon table. One or other of us might go to the organ,
and, with the assistance of the crank-handle, perform some of our beautiful pieces, or
Johansen would bring out the accordion and play many a fine tune. His crowning efforts

were “Oh, Susanna!” and “Napoleon’s March Across the Alps in an Open Boat.” About
midnight we turned in, and then the night watch was set. Each man went on for an hour.
Their most trying work on watch seems to have been writing their diaries and looking
out, when the dogs barked, for any signs of bears at hand. Besides this, every two hours
or four hours the watch had to go aloft or on to the ice to take the meteorological
observations.

I believe I may safely say that on the whole the time passed pleasantly and
imperceptibly, and that we throve in virtue of the regular habits imposed upon us.

My notes from day to day will give the best idea of our life, in all its monotony. They are
not great events that are here recorded, but in their very bareness they give a true picture.
Such, and no other, was our life. I shall give some quotations direct from my diary:

“The saloon was converted into a reading-room”

“Tuesday, September 26th. Beautiful weather. The sun stands much lower now; it was 9°
above the horizon at midday. Winter is rapidly approaching; there are 14½° of frost this
evening, but we do not feel it cold. To-day’s observations unfortunately show no
particular drift northward; according to them we are still in 78° 50′ north latitude. I
wandered about over the floe towards evening. Nothing more wonderfully beautiful can
exist than the Arctic night. It is dreamland, painted in the imagination’s most delicate
tints; it is color etherealized. One shade melts into the other, so that you cannot tell
where one ends and the other begins, and yet they are all there. No forms—it is all faint,

dreamy color music, a far-away, long-drawn-out melody on muted strings. Is not all
life’s beauty high, and delicate, and pure like this night? Give it brighter colors, and it is
no longer so beautiful. The sky is like an enormous cupola, blue at the zenith, shading
down into green, and then into lilac and violet at the edges. Over the ice-fields there are
cold violet-blue shadows, with lighter pink tints where a ridge here and there catches the
last reflection of the vanished day. Up in the blue of the cupola shine the stars, speaking
peace, as they always do, those unchanging friends. In the south stands a large red-
yellow moon, encircled by a yellow ring and light golden clouds floating on the blue
background. Presently the aurora borealis shakes over the vault of heaven its veil of
glittering silver—changing now to yellow, now to green, now to red. It spreads, it
contracts again, in restless change; next it breaks into waving, many-folded bands of
shining silver, over which shoot billows of glittering rays, and then the glory vanishes.
Presently it shimmers in tongues of flame over the very zenith, and then again it shoots a
bright ray right up from the horizon, until the whole melts away in the moonlight, and it
is as though one heard the sigh of a departing spirit. Here and there are left a few waving
streamers of light, vague as a foreboding—they are the dust from the aurora’s glittering
cloak. But now it is growing again; new lightnings shoot up, and the endless game
begins afresh. And all the time this utter stillness, impressive as the symphony of
infinitude. I have never been able to grasp the fact that this earth will some day be spent
and desolate and empty. To what end, in that case, all this beauty, with not a creature to
rejoice in it? Now I begin to divine it. This is the coming earth—here are beauty and
death. But to what purpose? Ah, what is the purpose of all these spheres? Read the
answer, if you can, in the starry blue firmament.

“Wednesday, September 27th. Gray weather and strong wind from the south-southwest.
Nordahl, who is cook to-day, had to haul up some salt meat which, rolled in a sack, had
been steeping for two days in the sea. As soon as he got hold of it he called out,
horrified, that it was crawling with animals. He let go the sack and jumped away from it,
the animals scattering round in every direction. They proved to be sandhoppers, or
Amphipoda, which had eaten their way into the meat. There were pints of them, both
inside and outside of the sack. A pleasant discovery; there will be no need to starve when
such food is to be had by hanging a sack in the water.

“Bentzen is the wag of the party; he is always playing some practical joke. Just now one
of the men came rushing up and stood respectfully waiting for me to speak to him. It was
Bentzen that had told him I wanted him. It won’t be long before he has thought of some
new trick.

Scott-Hansen and Johansen inspecting the barometers

(From a photograph)

“Thursday, September 28th. Snowfall with wind. To-day the dogs’ hour of release has
come. Until now their life on board has been really a melancholy one. They have been
tied up ever since we left Khabarova. The stormy seas have broken over them, and they
have been rolled here and there in the water on the deck; they have half hanged
themselves in their leashes, howling miserably; they have had the hose played over them
every time the deck was washed; they have been sea-sick; in bad as in good weather they
have had to lie on the spot hard fate had chained them to, without more exercise than
going backward and forward the length of their chains. It is thus you are treated, you
splendid animals, who are to be our stay in the hour of need! When that time comes, you
will, for a while at least, have the place of honor. When they were let loose there was a
perfect storm of jubilation. They rolled in the snow, washed and rubbed themselves, and
rushed about the ice in wild joy, barking loudly. Our floe, a short time ago so lonesome
and forlorn, was quite a cheerful sight with this sudden population; the silence of ages
was broken.”

It was our intention after this to tie up the dogs on the ice.

“Friday, September 29th. Dr. Blessing’s birthday, in honor of which we of course had a
fête, our first great one on board. There was a double occasion for it. Our midday
observation showed us to be in latitude 79° 5′ north; so we had passed one more degree.
We had no fewer than five courses at dinner, and a more than usually elaborate concert
during the meal. Here follows a copy of the printed menu:

’FRAM’

Menu. September 29, 1893

Soupe à la julienne avec des macaroni-dumplings.
Potage de poison (sic) avec des pommes de terre.
Pudding de Nordahl.
Glacé du Greenland.
De la table bière de la Ringnæes.
Marmalade intacte.

MUSIC À DINÉ (sic)

1. Valse Myosotic.
2. Menuette de Don Juan de Mozart.
3. Les Troubadours.
4. College Hornpipe.
5. Die letzte Rose de Martha.
6. Ein flotter Studio Marsch de Phil. Farbach.
7. Valse de Lagune de Strauss.
8. Le Chanson du Nord (Du gamla, du friska....).
9. Hoch Habsburg Marsch de Kral.
10. Josse Karads Polska.
11. Vårt Land, vårt Land.
12. Le Chanson de Chaseuse.
13. Les Roses, Valse de Métra.
14. Fischers Hornpipe.
15. Traum-Valse de Millocher.
16. Hemlandssång. ‘A le misérable.’
17. Diamanten und Perlen.
18. Marsch de ‘Det lustiga Kriget.’
19. Valse de ‘Det lustiga Kriget.’
20. Prière du Freischütz.

I hope my readers will admit that this was quite a fine entertainment to be given in
latitude 79° north; but of such we had many on board the Fram at still higher latitudes.

Dr. Blessing in his cabin

(From a photograph)

“Coffee and sweets were served after dinner; and after a better supper than usual came
strawberry and lemon ice (alias granitta) and limejuice toddy, without alcohol. The
health of the hero of the day was first proposed ‘in a few well-chosen words’; and then
we drank a bumper to the seventy-ninth degree, which we were sure was only the first of
many degrees to be conquered in the same way.

“Saturday, September 30th. I am not satisfied that the Fram’s present position is a good
one for the winter. The great floe on the port side to which we are moored sends out an
ugly projection about amidships, which might give her a bad squeeze in case of the ice
packing. We therefore began to-day to warp her backward into better ice. It is by no
means quick work. The comparatively open channel around us is now covered with
tolerably thick ice, which has to be hewn and broken in pieces with axes, ice-staves, and
walrus-spears. Then the capstan is manned, and we heave her through the broken floe
foot by foot. The temperature this evening is -12.6° C. A wonderful sunset.

“Sunday, October 1st. Wind from the W.S.W. and weather mild. We are taking a day of
rest, which means eating, sleeping, smoking, and reading.

“Monday, October 2d. Warped the ship farther astern, until we found a good berth for
her out in the middle of the newly frozen pool. On the port side we have our big floe,
with the dogs’ camp—thirty-five black dogs tied up on the white ice. This floe turns a
low, and by no means threatening, edge towards us. We have good low ice on the
starboard too; and between the ship and the floes we have on both sides the newly frozen
surface ice, which has, in the process of warping, also got packed in under the ship’s
bottom, so that she lies in a good bed.

“As Sverdrup, Juell, and I were sitting in the chart-room in the afternoon, splicing rope
for the sounding-line, Peter1 rushed in shouting, ‘A bear! a bear!’ I snatched up my rifle
and tore out. ‘Where is it?’ ‘There, near the tent, on the starboard side; it came right up
to it, and had almost got hold of them!’

“And there it was, big and yellow, snuffing away at the tent gear. Hansen, Blessing, and
Johansen were running at the top of their speed towards the ship. On to the ice I jumped,
and off I went, broke through, stumbled, fell, and up again. The bear in the meantime
had done sniffing, and had probably determined that an iron spade, an ice-staff, an axe,
some tent-pegs, and a canvas tent were too indigestible food even for a bear’s stomach.
Anyhow, it was following with mighty strides in the track of the fugitives. It caught sight
of me and stopped, astonished, as if it were thinking, ‘What sort of insect can that be?’ I
went on to within easy range; it stood still, looking hard at me. At last it turned its head a
little, and I gave it a ball in the neck. Without moving a limb, it sank slowly to the ice. I
now let loose some of the dogs, to accustom them to this sort of sport, but they showed a
lamentable want of interest in it; and ‘Kvik,’ on whom all our hope in the matter of bear-
hunting rested, bristled up and approached the dead animal very slowly and carefully,
with her tail between her legs—a sorry spectacle.

“I must now give the story of the others who made the bear’s acquaintance first. Hansen
had to-day begun to set up his observatory tent a little ahead of the ship, on the starboard
bow. In the afternoon he got Blessing and Johansen to help him. While they were hard at
work they caught sight of the bear not far from them, just off the bow of the Fram.

“‘Hush! Keep quiet, in case we frighten him,’ says Hansen.

“‘Yes, yes!’ And they crouch together and look at him.

“‘I think I’d better try to slip on board and announce him,’ says Blessing.

“‘I think you should,’ says Hansen.

“And off steals Blessing on tiptoe, so as not to frighten the bear. By this time Bruin has
seen and scented them, and comes jogging along, following his nose, towards them.

“Hansen now began to get over his fear of startling him. The bear caught sight of
Blessing slinking off to the ship and set after him. Blessing also was now much less
concerned than he had been as to the bear’s nerves. He stopped, uncertain what to do;
but a moment’s reflection brought him to the conclusion that it was pleasanter to be three
than one just then, and he went back to the others faster than he had gone from them.
The bear followed at a good rate. Hansen did not like the look of things, and thought the
time had come to try a dodge he had seen recommended in a book. He raised himself to
his full height, flung his arms about, and yelled with all the power of his lungs, ably
assisted by the others. But the bear came on quite undisturbed. The situation was
becoming critical. Each snatched up his weapon—Hansen an ice-staff, Johansen an axe,
and Blessing nothing. They screamed with all their strength, ‘Bear! bear!’ and set off for
the ship as hard as they could tear. But the bear held on his steady course to the tent, and
examined everything there before (as we have seen) he went after them.

“It was a lean he-bear. The only thing that was found in its stomach when it was opened
was a piece of paper, with the names ‘Lütken and Mohn.’ This was the wrapping-paper
of a ‘ski’ light, and had been left by one of us somewhere on the ice. After this day some
of the members of the expedition would hardly leave the ship without being armed to the
teeth.

“I let loose some of the dogs”

“Wednesday, October 4th. Northwesterly wind yesterday and to-day. Yesterday we had
-16°, and to-day -14° C. I have worked all day at soundings and got to about 800
fathoms depth. The bottom samples consisted of a layer of gray clay 4 to 4½ inches
thick, and below that brown clay or mud. The temperature was, strangely enough, just
above freezing-point (+0.18° C.) at the bottom, and just below freezing-point (-0.4° C.)
75 fathoms up. This rather disposes of the story of a shallow polar basin and of the
extreme coldness of the water of the Arctic Ocean.

“While we were hauling up the line in the afternoon the ice cracked a little astern of the
Fram, and the crack increased in breadth so quickly that three of us, who had to go out
to save the ice-anchors, were obliged to make a bridge over it with a long board to get
back to the ship again. Later in the evening there was some packing in the ice, and
several new passages opened out behind this first one.

“Thursday, October 5th. As I was dressing this morning, just before breakfast, the mate
rushed down to tell me a bear was in sight. I was soon on deck and saw him coming

from the south, to the lee of us. He was still a good way off, but stopped and looked
about. Presently he lay down, and Henriksen and I started off across the ice, and were
lucky enough to send a bullet into his breast at about 310 yards, just as he was moving
off.

“We are making everything snug for the winter and for the ice-pressure. This afternoon
we took up the rudder. Beautiful weather, but cold, -18° C. at 8 P.M. The result of the
medical inspection to-day was the discovery that we still have bugs on board; and I do
not know what we are to do. We have no steam now, and must fix our hopes on the cold.

“I must confess that this discovery made me feel quite ill. If bugs got into our winter furs
the thing was hopeless. So the next day there was a regular feast of purification,
according to the most rigid antiseptic prescriptions. Each man had to deliver up his old
clothes, every stitch of them, wash himself, and dress in new ones from top to toe. All
the old clothes, fur rugs, and such things, were carefully carried up on to the deck, and
kept there the whole winter. This was more than even these animals could stand; 53° C.
of cold proved to be too much for them, and we saw no more of them. As the bug is
made to say in the popular rhyme:

“‘Put me in the boiling pot, and shut me down tight;
But don’t leave me out on a cold winter night!’

“Friday, October 6th. Cold, down to 11° below zero (Fahr.). To-day we have begun to rig
up the windmill. The ice has been packing to the north of the Fram’s stern. As the dogs
will freeze if they are kept tied up and get no exercise, we let them loose this afternoon,
and are going to try if we can leave them so. Of course they at once began to fight, and
some poor creatures limped away from the battle-field scratched and torn. But otherwise
great joy prevailed; they leaped, and ran, and rolled themselves in the snow. Brilliant
aurora in the evening.

The men who were afraid of frightening the bear. “Off steals Blessing on tiptoe”

(Drawn by A. Bloch)

“Saturday, October 7th. Still cold, with the same northerly wind we have had all these
last days. I am afraid we are drifting far south now. A few days ago we were, according
to the observations, in 78° 47′ north latitude. That was 16′ south in less than a week. This
is too much; but we must make it up again; we must get north. It means going away from
home now, but soon it will mean going nearer home. What depth of beauty, with an
undercurrent of endless sadness, there is in these dreamily glowing evenings! The
vanished sun has left its track of melancholy flame. Nature’s music, which fills all space,
is instinct with sorrow that all this beauty should be spread out day after day, week after
week, year after year, over a dead world. Why? Sunsets are always sad at home too. This
thought makes the sight seem doubly precious here and doubly sad. There is red burning
blood in the west against the cold snow—and to think that this is the sea, stiffened in
chains, in death, and that the sun will soon leave us, and we shall be in the dark alone!
‘And the earth was without form and void;’ is this the sea that is to come?

“Sunday, October 8th. Beautiful weather. Made a snow-shoe expedition westward, all
the dogs following. The running was a little spoiled by the brine, which soaks up through

the snow from the surface of the ice—flat, newly frozen ice, with older, uneven blocks
breaking through it. I seated myself on a snow hummock far away out; the dogs crowded
round to be patted. My eye wandered over the great snow plain, endless and solitary—
nothing but snow, snow everywhere.

“The observations to-day gave us an unpleasant surprise; we are now down in 78° 35′
north latitude; but there is a simple enough explanation of this when one thinks of all the
northerly and northwesterly wind we have had lately, with open water not far to the
south of us. As soon as everything is frozen we must go north again; there can be no
question of that; but none the less this state of matters is unpleasant. I find some comfort
in the fact that we have also drifted a little east, so that at all events we have kept with
the wind and are not drifting down westward.

“Monday, October 9th. I was feverish both during last night and to-day. Goodness knows
what is the meaning of such nonsense. When I was taking water samples in the morning
I discovered that the water-lifter suddenly stopped at the depth of a little less than 80
fathoms. It was really the bottom. So we have drifted south again to the shallow water.
We let the weight lie at the bottom for a little, and saw by the line that for the moment
we were drifting north. This was some small comfort, anyhow.

“All at once in the afternoon, as we were sitting idly chattering, a deafening noise began,
and the whole ship shook. This was the first ice-pressure. Every one rushed on deck to
look. The Fram behaved beautifully, as I had expected she would. On pushed the ice
with steady pressure, but down under us it had to go, and we were slowly lifted up.
These ‘squeezings’ continued off and on all the afternoon, and were sometimes so strong
that the Fram was lifted several feet; but then the ice could no longer bear her, and she
broke it below her. Towards evening the whole slackened again, till we lay in a good-
sized piece of open water, and had hurriedly to moor her to our old floe, or we should
have drifted off. There seems to be a good deal of movement in the ice here. Peter has
just been telling us that he hears the dull booming of strong pressures not far off.

“Tuesday, October 10th. The ice continues disturbed.

“Wednesday, October 11th. The bad news was brought this afternoon that ‘Job’ is dead,
torn in pieces by the other dogs. He was found a good way from the ship, ‘Old Suggen’
lying watching the corpse, so that no other dog could get to it. They are wretches, these
dogs; no day passes without a fight. In the day-time one of us is generally at hand to stop
it, but at night they seldom fail to tear and bite one of their comrades. Poor ‘Barabbas’ is
almost frightened out of his wits. He stays on board now, and dares not venture on the
ice, because he knows the other monsters would set on him. There is not a trace of
chivalry about these curs. When there is a fight, the whole pack rush like wild beasts on
the loser. But is it not, perhaps, the law of nature that the strong, and not the weak,

should be protected? Have not we human beings, perhaps, been trying to turn nature
topsy-turvy by protecting and doing our best to keep life in all the weak?

Dogs chained on the ice

“The ice is restless, and has pressed a good deal to-day again. It begins with a gentle
crack and moan along the side of the ship, which gradually sounds louder in every key.
Now it is a high plaintive tone, now it is a grumble, now it is a snarl, and the ship gives a
start up. The noise steadily grows till it is like all the pipes of an organ; the ship trembles
and shakes, and rises by fits and starts, or is sometimes gently lifted. There is a pleasant,
comfortable feeling in sitting listening to all this uproar and knowing the strength of our
ship. Many a one would have been crushed long ago. But outside the ice is ground
against our ship’s sides, the piles of broken-up floe are forced under her heavy,
invulnerable hull, and we lie as if in a bed. Soon the noise begins to die down; the ship
sinks into its old position again, and presently all is silent as before. In several places
round us the ice is piled up, at one spot to a considerable height. Towards evening there
was a slackening, and we lay again in a large, open pool.

“Thursday, October 12th. In the morning we and our floe were drifting on blue water in
the middle of a large, open lane, which stretched far to the north, and in the north the
atmosphere at the horizon was dark and blue. As far as we could see from the crow’s-
nest with the small field-glass, there was no end to the open water, with only single
pieces of ice sticking up in it here and there. These are extraordinary changes. I
wondered if we should prepare to go ahead. But they had long ago taken the machinery
to pieces for the winter, so that it would be a matter of time to get it ready for use again.

Perhaps it would be best to wait a little. Clear weather, with sunshine—a beautiful,
inspiriting winter day—but the same northerly wind. Took soundings, and found 50
fathoms of water (90 metres). We are drifting slowly southward. Towards evening the ice
packed together again with much force; but the Fram can hold her own. In the afternoon
I fished in a depth of about 27 fathoms (50 metres) with Murray’s silk net,2 and had a
good take, especially of small crustaceans (Copepoda, Ostracoda, Amphipoda, etc.) and
of a little Arctic worm (Spadella) that swims about in the sea. It is horribly difficult to
manage a little fishing here. No sooner have you found an opening to slip your tackle
through than it begins to close again, and you have to haul up as hard as you can, so as
not to get the line nipped and lose everything. It is a pity, for there are interesting hauls
to be made. One sees phosphorescence3 in the water here whenever there is the smallest
opening in the ice. There is by no means such a scarcity of animal life as one might
expect.

We lay in open water

(From a photograph)

“Friday, October 13th. Now we are in the very midst of what the prophets would have
had us dread so much. The ice is pressing and packing round us with a noise like
thunder. It is piling itself up into long walls, and heaps high enough to reach a good way
up the Fram’s rigging; in fact, it is trying its very utmost to grind the Fram into powder.
But here we sit quite tranquil, not even going up to look at all the hurly-burly, but just
chatting and laughing as usual. Last night there was tremendous pressure round our old
dog-floe. The ice had towered up higher than the highest point of the floe and hustled
down upon it. It had quite spoiled a well, where we till now had found good drinking-
water, filling it with brine. Furthermore, it had cast itself over our stern ice-anchor and
part of the steel cable which held it, burying them so effectually that we had afterwards
to cut the cable. Then it covered our planks and sledges, which stood on the ice. Before
long the dogs were in danger, and the watch had to turn out all hands to save them. At
last the floe split in two. This morning the ice was one scene of melancholy confusion,
gleaming in the most glorious sunshine. Piled up all round us were high, steep ice walls.
Strangely enough, we had lain on the very verge of the worst confusion, and had escaped
with the loss of an ice-anchor, a piece of steel cable, a few planks and other bits of wood,
and half of a Samoyede sledge, all of which might have been saved if we had looked
after them in time. But the men have grown so indifferent to the pressure now that they
do not even go up to look, let it thunder ever so hard. They feel that the ship can stand it,
and so long as that is the case there is nothing to hurt except the ice itself.

“In the morning the pressure slackened again, and we were soon lying in a large piece of
open water, as we did yesterday. To-day, again, this stretched far away towards the
northern horizon, where the same dark atmosphere indicated some extent of open water.
I now gave the order to put the engine together again; they told me it could be done in a
day and a half or at most two days. We must go north and see what there is up there. I
think it possible that it may be the boundary between the ice-drift the Jeannette was in
and the pack we are now drifting south with—or can it be land?

“We had kept company quite long enough with the old, now broken-up floe, so worked
ourselves a little way astern after dinner, as the ice was beginning to draw together.
Towards evening the pressure began again in earnest, and was especially bad round the
remains of our old floe, so that I believe we may congratulate ourselves on having left it.
It is evident that the pressure here stands in connection with, is perhaps caused by, the
tidal wave. It occurs with the greatest regularity. The ice slackens twice and packs twice
in 24 hours. The pressure has happened about 4, 5, and 6 o’clock in the morning, and
almost at exactly the same hour in the afternoon, and in between we have always lain for
some part of the time in open water. The very great pressure just now is probably due to
the spring-tide; we had new moon on the 9th, which was the first day of the pressure.
Then it was just after mid-day when we noticed it, but it has been later every day, and
now it is at 8 P.M.”

The theory of the ice-pressure being caused to a considerable extent by the tidal wave
has been advanced repeatedly by Arctic explorers. During the Fram’s drifting we had
better opportunity than most of them to study this phenomenon, and our experience
seems to leave no doubt that over a wide region the tide produces movement and
pressure of the ice. It occurs especially at the time of the spring-tides, and more at new
moon than at full moon. During the intervening periods there was, as a rule, little or no
trace of pressure. But these tidal pressures did not occur during the whole time of our
drifting. We noticed them especially the first autumn, while we were in the
neighborhood of the open sea north of Siberia, and the last year, when the Fram was
drawing near the open Atlantic Ocean; they were less noticeable while we were in the
polar basin. Pressure occurs here more irregularly, and is mainly caused by the wind
driving the ice. When one pictures to one’s self these enormous ice-masses, drifting in a
certain direction, suddenly meeting hinderances—for example, ice-masses drifting from
the opposite direction, owing to a change of wind in some more or less distant quarter—
it is easy to understand the tremendous pressure that must result.

Such an ice conflict is undeniably a stupendous spectacle. One feels one’s self to be in
the presence of titanic forces, and it is easy to understand how timid souls may be
overawed and feel as if nothing could stand before it. For when the packing begins in
earnest it seems as though there could be no spot on the earth’s surface left unshaken.
First you hear a sound like the thundering rumbling of an earthquake far away on the
great waste; then you hear it in several places, always coming nearer and nearer. The
silent ice world re-echoes with thunders; nature’s giants are awakening to the battle. The
ice cracks on every side of you, and begins to pile itself up; and all of a sudden you too
find yourself in the midst of the struggle. There are howlings and thunderings round you;
you feel the ice trembling, and hear it rumbling under your feet; there is no peace
anywhere. In the semi-darkness you can see it piling and tossing itself up into high
ridges nearer and nearer you—floes 10, 12, 15 feet thick, broken, and flung on the top of
each other as if they were feather-weights. They are quite near you now, and you jump
away to save your life. But the ice splits in front of you, a black gulf opens, and water
streams up. You turn in another direction, but there through the dark you can just see a
new ridge of moving ice-blocks coming towards you. You try another direction, but there
it is the same. All round there is thundering and roaring, as of some enormous waterfall,
with explosions like cannon salvoes. Still nearer you it comes. The floe you are standing
on gets smaller and smaller; water pours over it; there can be no escape except by
scrambling over the rolling ice-blocks to get to the other side of the pack. But now the
disturbance begins to calm down. The noise passes on, and is lost by degrees in the
distance.

This is what goes on away there in the north month after month and year after year. The
ice is split and piled up into mounds, which extend in every direction. If one could get a
bird’s-eye view of the ice-fields, they would seem to be cut up into squares or meshes by

a network of these packed ridges, or pressure-dikes, as we called them, because they
reminded us so much of snow-covered stone dikes at home, such as, in many parts of the
country, are used to enclose fields. At first sight these pressure-ridges appeared to be
scattered about in all possible directions, but on closer inspection I was sure that I
discovered certain directions which they tended to take, and especially that they were apt
to run at right angles to the course of the pressure which produced them. In the accounts
of Arctic expeditions one often reads descriptions of pressure-ridges or pressure-
hummocks as high as 50 feet. These are fairy tales. The authors of such fantastic
descriptions cannot have taken the trouble to measure. During the whole period of our
drifting and of our travels over the ice-fields in the far north I only once saw a hummock
of a greater height than 23 feet. Unfortunately, I had not the opportunity of measuring
this one, but I believe I may say with certainty that it was very nearly 30 feet high. All
the highest blocks I measured—and they were many—had a height of 18 to 23 feet; and
I can maintain with certainty that the packing of sea ice to a height of over 25 feet is a
very rare exception.4

“Saturday, October 14th. To-day we have got on the rudder; the engine is pretty well in
order, and we are clear to start north when the ice opens to-morrow morning. It is still
slackening and packing quite regularly twice a day, so that we can calculate on it
beforehand. To-day we had the same open channel to the north, and beyond it open sea
as far as our view extended. What can this mean? This evening the pressure has been
pretty violent. The floes were packed up against the Fram on the port side, and were
once or twice on the point of toppling over the rail. The ice, however, broke below; they
tumbled back again, and had to go under us after all. It is not thick ice, and cannot do
much damage; but the force is something enormous. On the masses come incessantly
without a pause; they look irresistible; but slowly and surely they are crushed against the
Fram’s sides. Now (8.30 P.M.) the pressure has at last stopped. Clear evening, sparkling
stars, and flaming northern lights.”

I had finished writing my diary, gone to bed, and was lying reading, in The Origin of
Species, about the struggle for existence, when I heard the dogs out on the ice making
more noise than usual. I called into the saloon that some one ought to go up and see if it
was bears they were barking at. Hansen went, and came back immediately, saying that
he believed he had seen some large animal out in the dark. “Go and shoot it, then.” That
he was quite ready to do, and went up again at once, accompanied by some of the others.
A shot went off on deck above my head, then another; shot followed shot, nine in all.
Johansen and Henriksen rushed down for more cartridges, and declared that the creature
was shot, it was roaring so horribly; but so far they had only indistinctly seen a large
grayish-white mass out there in the dark, moving about among the dogs. Now they were
going on to the ice after it. Four of them set off, and not far away they really did find a
dead bear, with marks of two shots. It was a young one. The old one must be at hand,
and the dogs were still barking loudly. Now they all felt sure that they had seen two

together, and that the other also must be badly wounded. Johansen and Henriksen heard
it groaning in the distance when they were out on the ice again afterwards to fetch a
knife they had left lying where the dead one had lain. The creature had been dragged on
board and skinned at once, before it had time to stiffen in the cold.

“Sunday, October 15th. To our surprise, the ice did not slacken away much during last
night after the violent pressure; and, what was worse, there was no indication of
slackening in the morning, now that we were quite ready to go. Slight signs of it showed
themselves a little later, upon which I gave orders to get up steam; and while this was
being done I took a stroll on the ice, to look for traces of yesterday evening. I found
tracks not only of the bear that had been killed and of a larger one that might be the
mother, but of a third, which must have been badly wounded, as it had sometimes
dragged itself on its hind quarters, and had left a broad track of blood. After following
the traces for a good way and discovering that I had no weapon to despatch the animal
with but my own fists, I thought it would be as well to return to the ship to get a gun and
companions who would help to drag the bear back. I had also some small hope that in
the meantime the ice might have slackened, so that, in place of going after game, we
might go north with the Fram. But no such luck! So I put on my snow-shoes and set off
after our bear, some of the dogs with me, and one or two men following. At some
distance we came to the place where it had spent the night—poor beast, a ghastly night!
Here I also saw tracks of the mother. One shudders to think of her watching over her
poor young one, which must have had its back shot through. Soon we came up to the
cripple, dragging itself away from us over the ice as best it could. Seeing no other way of
escape, it threw itself into a small water opening and dived time after time. While we
were putting a noose on a rope the dogs rushed round the hole as if they had gone mad,
and it was difficult to keep them from jumping into the water after the bear. At last we
were ready, and the next time the creature came up it got a noose round one paw and a
ball in the head. While the others drew it to the ship, I followed the mother’s tracks for
some way, but could not find her. I had soon to turn back to see if there was no prospect
of moving the Fram; but I found that the ice had packed together again a little at the very
time when we could generally calculate on its slackening. In the afternoon Hansen and I
went off once more after the bear. We saw, as I expected, that she had come back, and
had followed her daughter’s funeral procession for some way, but then she had gone off
east, and as it grew dark we lost her tracks in some newly packed ice. We have only one
matter for regret in connection with this bear episode, and that is the disappearance of
two dogs—‘Narrifas’ and ‘Fox.’ Probably they went off in terror on the first appearance
of the three bears. They may have been hurt, but I have seen nothing to suggest this. The
ice is quiet this evening also, only a little pressure about 7 o’clock.

“Monday, October 16th. Ice quiet and close. Observations on the 12th placed us in 78° 5′
north latitude. Steadily southward. This is almost depressing. The two runaways returned
this morning.

“Tuesday, October 17th. Continuous movement in the ice. It slackened a little again
during the night; some way off to starboard there was a large opening. Shortly after
midnight there was strong pressure, and between 11 and 12 A.M. came a tremendous
squeeze; since then it has slackened again a little.

“Wednesday, October 18th. When the meteorologist, Johansen, was on deck this
morning reading the thermometers, he noticed that the dogs, which are now tied up on
board, were barking loudly down at something on the ice. He bent over the rail astern,
near the rudder, and saw the back of a bear below him, close in at the ship’s side. Off he
went for a gun, and the animal fell with a couple of shots. We saw afterwards by its
tracks that it had inspected all the heaps of sweepings round the ship.

“A little later in the morning I went for a stroll on the ice. Hansen and Johansen were
busy with some magnetic observations to the south of the ship. It was beautiful sunshiny
weather. I was standing beside an open pool a little way ahead, examining the formation
and growth of the new ice, when I heard a gun go off on board. I turned, and just caught
a glimpse of a bear making off towards the hummocks. It was Henriksen who had seen it
from the deck coming marching towards the ship. When it was a few paces off it saw
Hansen and Johansen, and made straight for them. By this time Henriksen had got his
gun, but it missed fire several times. He has an unfortunate liking for smearing the lock
so well with vaseline that the spring works as if it lay in soft soap. At last it went off, and
the ball went through the bear’s back and breast in a slanting direction. The animal stood
up on its hind-legs, fought the air with its fore-paws, then flung itself forward and sprang
off, to fall after about 30 steps; the ball had grazed the heart. It was not till the shot went
off that Hansen saw the bear, and then he rushed up and put two revolver-balls into its
head. It was a large bear, the largest we had got yet.

“About midday I was in the crow’s-nest. In spite of the clear weather I could not
discover land on any side. The opening far to the north has quite disappeared; but during
the night a large new one has formed quite close to us. It stretches both north and south,
and has now a covering of ice. The pressure is chiefly confined to the edges of this
opening, and can be traced in walls of packed ice as far as the horizon in both directions.
To the east the ice is quite unbroken and flat. We have lain just in the worst pressure.

“Thursday, October 19th. The ice again slackened a little last night. In the morning I
attempted a drive with six of the dogs. When I had managed to harness them to the
Samoyede sledge, had seated myself on it, and called ‘Pr-r-r-r, pr-r-r-r!’ they went off in
quite good style over the ice. But it was not long before we came to some high pack-ice
and had to turn. This was hardly done before they were off back to the ship at lightning
speed, and they were not to be got away from it again. Round and round it they went,
from refuse-heap to refuse-heap. If I started at the gangway on the starboard side, and
tried by thrashing them to drive them out over the ice, round the stern they flew to the

gangway on the port side. I tugged, swore, and tried everything I could think of, but all
to no purpose. I got out and tried to hold the sledge back, but was pulled off my feet, and
dragged merrily over the ice in my smooth sealskin breeches, on back, stomach, side—
just as it happened. When I managed to stop them at some pieces of pack-ice or a dust-
heap, round they went again to the starboard gangway, with me dangling behind,
swearing madly that I would break every bone in their bodies when I got at them. This
game went on till they probably tired of it, and thought they might as well go my way
for a change. So now they went off beautifully across the flat floe until I stopped for a
moment’s breathing space. But at the first movement I made in the sledge they were off
again, tearing wildly back the way we had come. I held on convulsively, pulled, raged,
and used the whip; but the more I lashed the faster they went on their own way. At last I
got them stopped by sticking my legs down into the snow between the sledge-shafts, and
driving a strong seal-hook into it as well. But while I was off my guard for a moment
they gave a tug. I lay with my hinder-part where my legs had been, and we went on at
lightning speed—that substantial part of my body leaving a deep track in the snow. This
sort of thing went on time after time. I lost the board I should have sat on, then the whip,
then my gloves, then my cap—these losses not improving my temper. Once or twice I
ran round in front of the dogs, and tried to force them to turn by lashing at them with the
whip. They jumped to both sides and only tore on the faster; the reins got twisted round
my ankles, and I was thrown flat on the sledge, and they went on more wildly than ever.
This was my first experience in dog driving on my own account, and I will not pretend
that I was proud of it. I inwardly congratulated myself that my feats had been
unobserved.

My first attempt at dog driving

(Drawn by A. Bloch)

“In the afternoon I examined the melted water of the newly formed brownish-red ice, of
which there is a good deal in the openings round us here. The microscope proved this
color to be produced by swarms of small organisms, chiefly plants—quantities of
diatomæ and some algæ, a few of them very peculiar in form.

“Saturday, October 21st. I have stayed in to-day because of an affection of the muscles,
or rheumatism, which I have had for some days on the right side of my body, and for
which the doctor is ‘massaging’ me, thereby greatly adding to my sufferings. Have I
really grown so old and palsied, or is the whole thing imagination? It is all I can do to
limp about; but I just wonder if I could not get up and run with the best of them if there
happened to be any great occasion for it: I almost believe I could. A nice Arctic hero of

32, lying here in my berth! Have had a good time reading home letters, dreaming myself
at home, dreaming of the home-coming—in how many years? Successful or
unsuccessful, what does that matter?

Plate IV.

Off the Edge of the Ice—Gathering Storm, 14th September 1893. Water-Colour Sketch.

“I had a sounding taken; it showed over 73 fathoms (135 m.), so we are in deeper water
again. The sounding-line indicated that we are drifting southwest. I do not understand
this steady drift southward. There has not been much wind either lately; there is certainly
a little from the north to-day, but not strong. What can be the reason of it? With all my
information, all my reasoning, all my putting of two and two together, I cannot account
for any south-going current here—there ought to be a north-going one. If the current
runs south here, how is that great open sea we steamed north across to be explained? and
the bay we ended in farthest north? These could only be produced by the north-going
current which I presupposed. The only thing which puts me out a bit is that west-going
current which we had against us during our whole voyage along the Siberian coast. We
are never going to be carried away south by the New Siberian Islands, and then west
along the coast of Siberia, and then north by Cape Chelyuskin, the very way we came!
That would be rather too much of a good thing—to say nothing of its being dead against
every calculation.

“Well, who cares? Somewhere we must go; we can’t stay here forever. ‘It will all come
right in the end,’ as the saying goes; but I wish we could get on a little faster wherever
we are going. On our Greenland expedition, too, we were carried south to begin with,
and that ended well.

“Sunday, October 22d. Henriksen took soundings this morning, and found 70 fathoms
(129 m.) of water. ‘If we are drifting at all,’ said he, ‘it is to the east; but there seems to
be almost no movement.’ No wind to-day. I am keeping in my den.

“Monday, October 23d. Still in the den. To-day, 5 fathoms shallower than yesterday. The
line points southwest, which means that we are drifting northeast-ward. Hansen has
reckoned out the observation for the 19th, and finds that we must have got 10 minutes
farther north, and must be in 78° 15′ N. lat. So at last, now that the wind has gone down,
the north-going current is making itself felt. Some channels have opened near us, one
along the side of the ship, and one ahead, near the old channel. Only slight signs of
pressure in the afternoon.

“Tuesday, October 24th. Between 4 and 5 A.M. there was strong pressure, and the Fram
was lifted up a little. It looks as if the pressure were going to begin again; we have
spring-tide with full moon. The ice opened so much this morning that the Fram was
afloat in her cutting; later on it closed again, and about 11 there was some strong
pressure; then came a quiet time; but in the afternoon the pressure began once more, and
was violent from 4 to 4.30. The Fram was shaken and lifted up; didn’t mind a bit. Peter
gave it as his opinion that the pressure was coming from the northeast, for he had heard
the noise approaching from that direction. Johansen let down the silk net for me about 11
fathoms. It was all he could do to get it up again in time, but it brought up a good catch.
Am still keeping in.

“Wednesday, October 25th. We had a horrible pressure last night. I awoke and felt the
Fram being lifted, shaken, and tossed about, and heard the loud cracking of the ice
breaking against her sides. After listening for a little while I fell asleep again, with a
snug feeling that it was good to be on board the Fram; it would be confoundedly
uncomfortable to have to be ready to turn out every time there was a little pressure, or to
have to go off with our bundles on our backs like the Tegethoff people.

“It is quickly getting darker. The sun stands lower and lower every time we see it; soon it
will disappear altogether, if it has not done so already. The long, dark winter is upon us,
and glad shall we be to see the spring; but nothing matters much if we could only begin
to move north. There is now southwesterly wind, and the windmill, which has been
ready for several days, has been tried at last and works splendidly. We have beautiful
electric light to-day, though the wind has not been especially strong (5–8 m. per second).
Electric lamps are a grand institution. What a strong influence light has on one’s spirits!

There was a noticeable brightening-up at the dinner-table to-day; the light acted on our
spirits like a draught of good wine. And how festive the saloon looks! We felt it quite a
great occasion—drank Oscar Dickson’s health, and voted him the best of good fellows.

“Wonderful moonshine this evening, light as day; and along with it aurora borealis,
yellow and strange in the white moonlight; a large ring round the moon—all this over
the great stretch of white, shining ice, here and there in our neighborhood piled up high
by the pressure. And in the midst of this silent silvery ice-world the windmill sweeps
round its dark wings against the deep-blue sky and the aurora. A strange contrast:
civilization making a sudden incursion into this frozen ghostly world.

“To-morrow is the Fram’s birthday. How many memories it recalls of the launch-day a
year ago!

“Thursday, October 26th. 54 fathoms (90 m.) of water when the soundings were taken
this morning. We are moving quickly north—due north—says Peter. It does look as if
things were going better. Great celebration of the day, beginning with target-shooting.
Then we had a splendid dinner of four courses, which put our digestive apparatus to a
severe test. The Fram’s health was drunk amidst great and stormy applause. The
proposer’s words were echoed by all hearts when he said that she was such an excellent
ship for our purpose that we could not imagine a better (great applause), and we
therefore wished her, and ourselves with her, long life (hear, hear!). After supper came
strawberry and lemon punch, and prizes were presented with much ceremony and a good
deal of fun; all being ‘taken off’ in turn in suitable mottoes, for the most part composed
by the ship’s doctor. There was a prize for each man. The first prize-taker was awarded
the wooden cross of the Order of the Fram, to wear suspended from his neck by a ribbon
of white tape; the last received a mirror, in which to see his fallen greatness. Smoking in
the saloon was allowed this evening, so now pipes, toddy, and an animated game of
whist ended a bright and successful holiday.

“Sitting here now alone, my thoughts involuntarily turn to the year that has gone since
we stood up there on the platform, and she threw the champagne against the bow, saying:
‘Fram is your name!’ and the strong, heavy hull began to glide so gently. I held her hand
tight; the tears came into eyes and throat, and one could not get out a word. The sturdy
hull dived into the glittering water; a sunny haze lay over the whole picture. Never shall
I forget the moment we stood there together, looking out over the scene. And to think of
all that has happened these four last months! Separated by sea and land and ice; coming
years, too, lying between us—it is all just the continuation of what happened that day.
But how long is it to last? I have such difficulty in feeling that I am not to see home
again soon. When I begin to reflect, I know that it may be long, but I will not believe it.

“To-day, moreover, we took solemn farewell of the sun. Half of its disk showed at noon
for the last time above the edge of the ice in the south, a flattened body, with a dull red
glow, but no heat. Now we are entering the night of winter. What is it bringing us?
Where shall we be when the sun returns? No one can tell. To console us for the loss of
the sun we have the most wonderful moonlight; the moon goes round the sky night and
day. There is, strange to say, little pressure just now; only an occasional slight squeeze.
But the ice often opens considerably; there are large pieces of water in several
directions; to-day there were some good-sized ones to the south.

“Friday, October 27th. The soundings this morning showed 52 fathoms (95 m.) of water.
According to observations taken yesterday afternoon, we are about 3′ farther north and a
little farther west than on the 19th. It is disgusting the way we are muddling about here.
We must have got into a hole where the ice grinds round and round, and can’t get farther.
And the time is passing all to no purpose; and goodness only knows how long this sort
of thing may go on. If only a good south wind would come and drive us north out of this
hobble! The boys have taken up the rudder again to-day. While they were working at this
in the afternoon, it suddenly grew as bright as day. A strange fireball crossed the sky in
the west—giving a bluish-white light, they said. Johansen ran down to the saloon to tell
Hansen and me; he said they could still see the bright trails it had left in its train. When
we got on deck we saw a bent bow of light in the Triangle, near Deneb. The meteor had
disappeared in the neighborhood of Epsilon Cygni (constellation Swan), but its light
remained for a long time floating in the air like glowing dust. No one had seen the actual
fire-ball, as they had all had their backs turned to it, and they could not say if it had
burst. This is the second great meteor of exceptional splendor that has appeared to us in
these regions. The ice has a curious inclination to slacken, without pressure having
occurred, and every now and then we find the ship floating in open water. This is the
case to-day.

“Saturday, October 28th. Nothing of any importance. Moonshine night and day. A glow
in the south from the sun.

“Sunday, October 29th. Peter shot a white fox this morning close in to the ship. For some
time lately we have been seeing fox-tracks in the mornings, and one Sunday Mogstad
saw the fox itself. It has, no doubt, been coming regularly to feed on the offal of the
bears. Shortly after the first one was shot another was seen; it came and smelt its dead
comrade, but soon set off again and disappeared. It is remarkable that there should be so
many foxes on this drift-ice so far from land. But, after all, it is not much more
surprising than my coming upon fox-tracks out on the ice between Jan Mayen and
Spitzbergen.

“Monday, October 30th. To-day the temperature has gone down to 18° below zero (-27°
C.). I took up the dredge I had put out yesterday. It brought up two pails of mud from the

bottom, and I have been busy all day washing this out in the saloon in a large bath, to get
the many animals contained in it. They were chiefly starfish, waving starfish, medusæ
(Astrophyton), sea-slugs, coral insects (Alcyonaria), worms, sponges, shell-fish, and
crustaceans; and were, of course, all carefully preserved in spirits.

“Tuesday, October 31st. Forty-nine fathoms (90 m.) of water to-day, and the current
driving us hard to the southwest. We have good wind for the mill now, and the electric
lamps burn all day. The arc lamp under the skylight makes us quite forget the want of
sun. Oh! light is a glorious thing, and life is fair in spite of all privations! This is
Sverdrup’s birthday, and we had revolver practice in the morning. Of course a
magnificent dinner of five courses—chicken soup, boiled mackerel, reindeer ribs with
baked cauliflower and potatoes, macaroni pudding, and stewed pears with milk—
Ringnes ale to wash it down.

“Thursday, November 2d. The temperature keeps at about 22° below zero (-30° C.) now;
but it does not feel very cold, the air is so still. We can see the aurora borealis in the
daytime too. I saw a very remarkable display of it about 3 this afternoon. On the
southwestern horizon lay the glow of the sun; in front of it light clouds were swept
together—like a cloud of dust rising above a distant troop of riders. Then dark streamers
of gauze seemed to stretch from the dust-cloud up over the sky, as if it came from the
sun, or perhaps rather as if the sun were sucking it in to itself from the whole sky. It was
only in the southwest that these streamers were dark; a little higher up, farther from the
sun-glow, they grew white and shining, like fine, glistening silver gauze. They spread
over the vault of heaven above us, and right away towards the north. They certainly
resembled aurora borealis; but perhaps they might be only light vapors hovering high up
in the sky and catching the sunlight? I stood long looking at them. They were singularly
still, but they were northern lights, changing gradually in the southwest into dark cloud-
streamers, and ending in the dust-cloud over the sun. Hansen saw them too, later, when it
was dark. There was no doubt of their nature. His impression was that the aurora borealis
spread from the sun over the whole vault of heaven like the stripes on the inner skin of
an orange.

“Sunday, November 5th. A great race on the ice was advertised for to-day. The course
was measured, marked off, and decorated with flags. The cook had prepared the prizes—
cakes, numbered, and properly graduated in size. The expectation was great; but it
turned out that, from excessive training during the few last days, the whole crew were so
stiff in the legs that they were not able to move. We got our prizes all the same. One man
was blindfolded, and he decided who was to have each cake as it was pointed at. This
just arrangement met with general approbation, and we all thought it a pleasanter way of
getting the prizes than running half a mile for them.

“So it is Sunday once more. How the days drag past! I work, read, think, and dream;
strum a little on the organ; go for a walk on the ice in the dark. Low on the horizon in the
southwest there is the flush of the sun—a dark fierce red, as if of blood aglow with all
life’s smouldering longings—low and far-off, like the dreamland of youth. Higher in the
sky it melts into orange, and that into green and pale blue; and then comes deep blue,
star-sown, and then infinite space, where no dawn will ever break. In the north are
quivering arches of faint aurora, trembling now like awakening longings, but presently,
as if at the touch of a magic wand, to storm as streams of light through the dark blue of
heaven—never at peace, restless as the very soul of man. I can sit and gaze and gaze, my
eyes entranced by the dream-glow yonder in the west, where the moon’s thin, pale, silver
sickle is dipping its point into the blood; and my soul is borne beyond the glow, to the
sun, so far off now—and to the home-coming! Our task accomplished, we are making
our way up the fjord as fast as sail and steam can carry us. On both sides of us the
homeland lies smiling in the sun; and then ... the sufferings of a thousand days and hours
melt into a moment’s inexpressible joy. Ugh! that was a bitter gust—I jump up and walk
on. What am I dreaming about! so far yet from the goal—hundreds and hundreds of
miles between us, ice and land and ice again. And we are drifting round and round in a
ring, bewildered, attaining nothing, only waiting, always waiting, for what?

“‘I dreamt I lay on a grassy bank,
And the sun shone warm and clear;
I wakened on a desert isle,
And the sky was black and drear.’

“One more look at the star of home, the one that stood that evening over Cape
Chelyuskin, and I creep on board, where the windmill is turning in the cold wind, and
the electric light is streaming out from the skylight upon the icy desolation of the Arctic
night.

“Wednesday, November 8th. The storm (which we had had the two previous days) is
quite gone down; not even enough breeze for the mill. We tried letting the dogs sleep on
the ice last night, instead of bringing them on board in the evening, as we have been
doing lately. The result was that another dog was torn to pieces during the night. It was
‘Ulabrand,’ the old brown, toothless fellow, that went this time. ‘Job’ and ‘Moses’ had
gone the same way before. Yesterday evening’s observations place us in 77° 43′ north
latitude and 138° 8′ east longitude. This is farther south than we have been yet. No help
for it; but it is a sorry state of matters; and that we are farther east than ever before is
only a poor consolation. It is new moon again, and we may therefore expect pressure; the
ice is, in fact, already moving; it began to split on Saturday, and has broken up more
each day. The channels have been of a good size, and the movement becomes more and
more perceptible. Yesterday there was slight pressure, and we noticed it again this

morning about 5 o’clock. To-day the ice by the ship has opened, and we are almost
afloat.

“Here I sit in the still winter night on the drifting ice-floe, and see only stars above me.
Far off I see the threads of life twisting themselves into the intricate web which stretches
unbroken from life’s sweet morning dawn to the eternal death-stillness of the ice.
Thought follows thought—you pick the whole to pieces, and it seems so small—but high
above all towers one form.... Why did you take this voyage?... Could I do otherwise? Can
the river arrest its course and run up hill? My plan has come to nothing. That palace of
theory which I reared, in pride and self-confidence, high above all silly objections has
fallen like a house of cards at the first breath of wind. Build up the most ingenious
theories and you may be sure of one thing—that fact will defy them all. Was I so very
sure? Yes, at times; but that was self-deception, intoxication. A secret doubt lurked
behind all the reasoning. It seemed as though the longer I defended my theory, the nearer
I came to doubting it. But no, there is no getting over the evidence of that Siberian drift-
wood.

“But if, after all, we are on the wrong track, what then? Only disappointed human hopes,
nothing more. And even if we perish, what will it matter in the endless cycles of
eternity?

“Thursday, November 9th. I took temperatures and sea-water samples to-day every 10
yards from the surface to the bottom, The depth was 9½ fathoms. An extraordinarily
even temperature of 30° Fahr. (-1.5 C.) through all the layers. I have noticed the same
thing before as far south as this. So it is only polar water here? There is not much
pressure; an inclination to it this morning, and a little at 8 o’clock this evening; also a
few squeezes later, when we were playing cards.

“Friday, November 10th. This morning made despairing examinations of yesterday’s
water samples with Thornöe’s electric apparatus. There must be absolute stillness on
board when this is going on. The men are all terrified, slip about on tiptoe, and talk in the
lowest possible whispers. But presently one begins to hammer at something on deck, and
another to file in the engine-room, when the chief’s commanding voice is at once heard
ordering silence. These examinations are made by means of a telephone, through which
a very faint noise is heard, which dies slowly away; the moment at which it stops must
be exactly ascertained.

“I find remarkably little salt all the way to the bottom in the water here; it must be mixed
with fresh water from the Siberian river.

“There was some pressure this morning, going on till nearly noon, and we heard the
noise of it in several directions. In the afternoon the ice was quite slack, with a large

opening alongside the port side of the ship. At half-past seven pretty strong pressure
began, the ice crashing and grinding along the ship’s side. About midnight the roar of
packing was heard to the south.

“Saturday, November 11th. There has been some pressure in the course of the day. The
newly formed ice is about 15 inches thick. It is hard on the top, but looser and porous
below. This particular piece of ice began to form upon a large opening in the night
between the 27th and 28th October, so it has frozen 15 inches in 15 days. I observed that
it froze 3 inches the first night, and 5 inches altogether during the three first nights; so
that it has taken 12 days to the last 10 inches.”

Even this small observation serves to show that the formation of ice goes on most easily
where the crust is thin, becoming more and more difficult as the thickness increases,
until at a certain thickness, as we observed later, it stops altogether. “It is curious that the
pressure has gone on almost all day—no slackening such as we have usually observed.”

Plate V.

Evening among the Drift-Ice, 22nd September 1893. Water-Colour Sketch.

“Sunday, November 19th. Our life has gone on its usual monotonous routine since the
11th. The wind has been steadily from the south all week, but to-day there is a little from
N.N.W. We have had pressure several times, and have heard sounds of it in the

southeast. Except for this, the ice has been unusually quiet, and it is closed in tightly
round the ship. Since the last strong pressure we have probably 10 to 20 feet of ice
packed in below us.5 Hansen to-day worked out an observation taken the day before
yesterday, and surprised us with the welcome intelligence that we have travelled 44′
north and a little east since the 8th. We are now in 78° 27′ north latitude, 139° 23′ east
longitude. This is farther east than we have been yet. For any sake, let us only keep on as
we are going!

“The Fram is a warm, cozy abode. Whether the thermometer stands at 22° above zero or
at 22° below it we have no fire in the stove. The ventilation is excellent, especially since
we rigged up the air sail, which sends a whole winter’s cold in through the ventilator; yet
in spite of this we sit here warm and comfortable, with only a lamp burning. I am
thinking of having the stove removed altogether; it is only in the way. At least, as far as
our protection from the winter cold is concerned, my calculations have turned out well.
Neither do we suffer much from damp. It does collect and drop a little from the roof in
one or two places, especially astern in the four-man cabins, but nothing in comparison
with what is common in other ships; and if we lighted the stove it would disappear
altogether. When I have burned a lamp for quite a short time in my cabin every trace of
damp is gone.6 These are extraordinary fellows for standing the cold. With the
thermometer at 22° below zero Bentzen goes up in his shirt and trousers to read the
thermometer on deck.

“Monday, November 27th. The prevailing wind has been southerly, with sometimes a
little east. The temperature still keeps between 13° and 22° below zero; in the hold it has
fallen to 12°.”

It has several times struck me that the streamers of the aurora borealis followed in the
direction of the wind, from the wind’s eye on the horizon. On Thursday morning, when
we had very slight northeasterly wind, I even ventured to prophesy, from the direction of
the streamers, that it would go round to the southeast, which it accordingly did. On the
whole there has been much less of the aurora borealis lately than at the beginning of our
drift. Still, though it may have been faint, there has been a little every day. To-night it is
very strong again. These last days the moon has sometimes had rings round it, with
mock-moons and axes, accompanied by rather strange phenomena. When the moon
stands so low that the ring touches the horizon, a bright field of light is formed where the
horizon cuts the ring. Similar expanses of light are also formed where the perpendicular
axis from the moon intersects the horizon. Faint rainbows are often to be seen in these
shining light-fields; yellow was generally the strongest tint nearest the horizon, passing
over into red, and then into blue. Similar colors could also be distinguished in the mock-
moons. Sometimes there are two large rings, the one outside the other, and then there
may be four mock-moons. I have also seen part of a new ring above the usual one,
meeting it at a tangent directly above the moon. As is well known, these various ring

formations round the sun, as well as round the moon, are produced by the refraction of
rays of light by minute ice crystals floating in the air.

“We looked for pressure with full moon and springtide on 23d of November; but then,
and for several days afterwards, the ice was quite quiet. On the afternoon of Saturday,
the 25th, however, its distant roar was heard from the south, and we have heard it from
the same direction every day since. This morning it was very loud, and came gradually
nearer. At 9 o’clock it was quite close to us, and this evening we hear it near us again. It
seems, however, as if we had now got out of the groove to which the pressure principally
confines itself. We were regularly in it before. The ice round us is perfectly quiet. The
probability is that the last severe pressure packed it very tight about us, and that the cold
since has frozen it into such a thick, strong mass that it offers great resistance, while the
weaker ice in other places yields to the pressure. The depth of the sea is increasing
steadily, and we are drifting north. This evening Hansen has worked out the observations
of the day before yesterday, and finds that we are in 79° 11′ north latitude. That is good,
and the way we ought to get on. It is the most northern point we have reached yet, and
to-day we are in all likelihood still farther north. We have made good way these last
days, and the increasing depth seems to indicate a happy change in the direction of our
drift. Have we, perhaps, really found the right road at last? We are drifting about 5′ a day.
The most satisfactory thing is that there has not been much wind lately, especially not
the last two days; yesterday it was only 1 metre per second; to-day is perfectly still, and
yet the depth has increased 21 fathoms (40 m.) in these two days. It seems as if there
were a northerly current, after all. No doubt many disappointments await us yet; but why
not rejoice while fortune smiles?

“Tuesday, November 28th. The disappointment lost no time in coming. There had been a
mistake either in the observation or in Hansen’s calculations. An altitude of Jupiter taken
yesterday evening shows us to be in 76° 36′ north latitude. The soundings to-day showed
74 fathoms (142 m.) of water, or about the same as yesterday, and the sounding-line
indicated a southwesterly drift. However anxious one is to take things philosophically,
one can’t help feeling a little depressed. I try to find solace in a book; absorb myself in
the learning of the Indians—their happy faith in transcendental powers, in the
supernatural faculties of the soul, and in a future life. Oh, if one could only get hold of a
little supernatural power now, and oblige the winds always to blow from the south!

“I went on deck this evening in rather a gloomy frame of mind, but was nailed to the
spot the moment I got outside. There is the supernatural for you—the northern lights
flashing in matchless power and beauty over the sky in all the colors of the rainbow!
Seldom or never have I seen the colors so brilliant. The prevailing one at first was
yellow, but that gradually flickered over into green, and then a sparkling ruby-red began
to show at the bottom of the rays on the under side of the arch, soon spreading over the
whole arch. And now from the far-away western horizon a fiery serpent writhed itself up

over the sky, shining brighter and brighter as it came. It split into three, all brilliantly
glittering. Then the colors changed. The serpent to the south turned almost ruby-red,
with spots of yellow; the one in the middle, yellow; and the one to the north, greenish
white. Sheaves of rays swept along the side of the serpents, driven through the ether-like
waves before a storm-wind. They sway backward and forward, now strong, now fainter
again. The serpents reached and passed the zenith. Though I was thinly dressed and
shivering with cold, I could not tear myself away till the spectacle was over, and only a
faintly glowing fiery serpent near the western horizon showed where it had begun. When
I came on deck later the masses of light had passed northward and spread themselves in
incomplete arches over the northern sky. If one wants to read mystic meanings into the
phenomena of nature, here, surely, is the opportunity.

“The observation this afternoon showed us to be in 78° 38′ 42″ north latitude. This is
anything but rapid progress.

“Wednesday, November 29th. Another dog has been bitten to death to-day—‘Fox,’ a
handsome, powerful animal. He was found lying dead and stiff on the ice at our stern
this evening when they went to bring the dogs in, ‘Suggen’ performing her usual duty of
watching the body. They are wretches, these dogs. But now I have given orders that
some one must always watch them when they are out on the ice.

“Thursday, November 30th. The lead showed a depth of exactly 83 fathoms (170 m.) to-
day, and it seemed by the line as if we were drifting northwest. We are almost certainly
farther north now; hopes are rising, and life is looking brighter again. My spirits are like
a pendulum, if one could imagine such an instrument giving all sorts of irregular swings
backward and forward. It is no good trying to take the thing philosophically; I cannot
deny that the question whether we are to return successful or unsuccessful affects me
very deeply. It is quite easy to convince myself with the most incontrovertible reasoning
that what really matters is to carry through the expedition, whether successfully or not,
and get safe home again. I could not but undertake it; for my plan was one that I felt
must succeed, and therefore it was my duty to try it. Well, if it does not succeed, is that
my affair? I have done my duty, done all that could be done, and can return home with
an easy conscience to the quiet happiness I have left behind. What can it matter whether
chance, or whatever name you like to give it, does or does not allow the plan to succeed
and make our names immortal? The worth of the plan is the same whether chance smiles
or frowns upon it. And as to immortality, happiness is all we want, and that is not to be
had here.

“I can say all this to myself a thousand times; I can bring myself to believe honestly that
it is all a matter of indifference to me; but none the less my spirits change like the clouds
of heaven according as the wind blows from this direction or from that, or the soundings
show the depth to be increasing or not, or the observations indicate a northerly or

southerly drift. When I think of the many that trust us, think of Norway, think of all the
friends that gave us their time, their faith, and their money, the wish comes that they may
not be disappointed, and I grow sombre when our progress is not what we expected it
would be. And she that gave most—does she deserve that her sacrifice should have been
made in vain? Ah, yes, we must and will succeed!

“Sunday, December 3d. Sunday again, with its feeling of peace, and its permission to
indulge in the narcotic of happy day-dreams, and let the hours go idly by without any
prickings of conscience.

“To-day the bottom was not reached with over 133 fathoms (250 m.) of line. There was a
northeasterly drift. Yesterday’s observation showed us to be in 78° 44′ north latitude, that
is 5′ farther north than on Tuesday. It is horribly slow; but it is forward, and forward we
must go; there can be no question of that.

“Tuesday, December 5th. This is the coldest day we have had yet, with the thermometer
31° below zero (-35.7° C.) and a biting wind from the E.S.E. Observation in the
afternoon shows 78° 50′ north latitude; that is 6′ farther north than on Saturday, or 2′ per
day. In the afternoon we had magnificent aurora borealis—glittering arches across the
whole vault of the sky from the east towards west; but when I was on deck this evening
the sky was overcast: only one star shone through the cloudy veil—the home star. How I
love it! It is the first thing my eye seeks, and it is always there, shining on our path. I feel
as if no ill could befall us as long as I see it there....

“Wednesday, December 6th. This afternoon the ice cracked abaft the starboard quarter;
this evening I see that the crack has opened. We may expect pressure now, as it is new
moon either to-day or to-morrow.”

“Thursday, December 7th. The ice pressed at the stern at 5 o’clock this morning for
about an hour. I lay in my berth and listened to it creaking and grinding and roaring.
There was slight pressure again in the afternoon; nothing to speak of. No slackening in
the forenoon.

“Friday, December 8th. Pressure from seven till eight this morning. As I was sitting
drawing in the afternoon I was startled by a sudden report or crash. It seemed to be
straight overhead, as if great masses of ice had fallen from the rigging on to the deck
above my cabin. Every one starts up and throws on some extra garment; those that are
taking an afternoon nap jump out of their berths right into the middle of the saloon,
calling out to know what has happened. Pettersen rushes up the companion-ladder in
such wild haste that he bursts open the door in the face of the mate, who is standing in
the passage holding back ‘Kvik,’ who has also started in fright from the bed in the chart-
room, where she is expecting her confinement. On deck we could discover nothing,

except that the ice was in motion, and seemed to be sinking slowly away from the ship.
Great piles had been packed up under the stern this morning and yesterday. The
explosion was probably caused by a violent pressure suddenly loosening all the ice along
the ship’s side, the ship at the same time taking a strong list to port. There was no
cracking of wood to be heard, so that, whatever it was, the Fram cannot have been
injured. But it was cold, and we crept down again.

“As we were sitting at supper about 6 o’clock, pressure suddenly began. The ice creaked
and roared so along the ship’s sides close by us that it was not possible to carry on any
connected conversation; we had to scream, and all agreed with Nordahl when he
remarked that it would be much pleasanter if the pressure would confine its operations to
the bow instead of coming bothering us here aft. Amidst the noise we caught every now
and again from the organ a note or two of Kjerulf’s melody—‘I could not sleep for the
nightingale’s voice.’ The hurly-burly outside lasted for about twenty minutes, and then
all was still.

A chronometer observation with the theodolite

Johansen Scott-Hansen

(From a photograph)

“Later in the evening Hansen came down to give notice of what really was a remarkable
appearance of aurora borealis. The deck was brightly illuminated by it, and reflections of
its light played all over the ice. The whole sky was ablaze with it, but it was brightest in
the south; high up in that direction glowed waving masses of fire. Later still Hansen

came again to say that now it was quite extraordinary. No words can depict the glory that
met our eyes. The glowing fire-masses had divided into glistening, many-colored bands,
which were writhing and twisting across the sky both in the south and north. The rays
sparkled with the purest, most crystalline rainbow colors, chiefly violet-red or carmine
and the clearest green. Most frequently the rays of the arch were red at the ends, and
changed higher up into sparkling green, which quite at the top turned darker and went
over into blue or violet before disappearing in the blue of the sky; or the rays in one and
the same arch might change from clear red to clear green, coming and going as if driven
by a storm. It was an endless phantasmagoria of sparkling color, surpassing anything that
one can dream. Sometimes the spectacle reached such a climax that one’s breath was
taken away; one felt that now something extraordinary must happen—at the very least
the sky must fall. But as one stands in breathless expectation, down the whole thing
trips, as if in a few quick, light scale-runs, into bare nothingness. There is something
most undramatic about such a dénouement, but it is all done with such confident
assurance that one cannot take it amiss; one feels one’s self in the presence of a master
who has the complete command of his instrument. With a single stroke of the bow he
descends lightly and elegantly from the height of passion into quiet, every-day strains,
only with a few more strokes to work himself up into passion again. It seems as if he
were trying to mock, to tease us. When we are on the point of going below, driven by 61
degrees of frost (-34.7 C.), such magnificent tones again vibrate over the strings that we
stay until noses and ears are frozen. For a finale, there is a wild display of fireworks in
every tint of flame—such a conflagration that one expects every minute to have it down
on the ice, because there is not room for it in the sky. But I can hold out no longer.
Thinly dressed, without a proper cap and without gloves, I have no feeling left in body
or limbs, and I crawl away below.

“Sunday, December 10th. Another peaceful Sunday. The motto for the day in the English
almanac is: ‘He is happy whose circumstances suit his temper: but he is more excellent
who can suit his temper to any circumstances’ (Hume). Very true, and exactly the
philosophy I am practising at this moment. I am lying on my berth in the light of the
electric lamp, eating cake and drinking beer while I am writing my journal; presently I
shall take a book and settle down to read and sleep. The arc lamp has shone like a sun to-
day over a happy company. We have no difficulty now in distinguishing hearts from
diamonds on our dirty cards. It is wonderful what an effect light has. I believe I am
becoming a fire-worshipper. It is strange enough that fire-worship should not exist in the
Arctic countries.

“‘For the sons of men
Fire is the best,
And the sight of the sun.’

“A newspaper appears on board now. Framsjaa7 (news of, or outlook from, the Fram) is
its name, and our doctor is its irresponsible editor. The first number was read aloud this
evening, and gave occasion for much merriment. Among its contents are:

A lively game of cards

(From a Photograph)

‘“Winter in the Ice

(Contribution to the Infant Framsjaa)
Far in the ice there lies a ship, boys,
Mast and sail ice to the very tip, boys;
But, perfectly clear,
If you listen you can hear,
There is life and fun on board that ship, boys.
What can it be?
Come along and see—
It is Nansen and his men that laugh, boys.

Nothing to be heard at night but glasses’ clink, boys,

Fall of greasy cards and counters’ chink, boys;
If he won’t “declare,”
Nordahl he will swear
Bentzen is stupid as an owl, boys.
Bentzen cool, boys,
Is not a fool, boys;
“You’re another!” quickly he replies, boys.

Among those sitting at the table, boys,
Is “Heika,”8 with his body big and stable, boys;
He and Lars, so keen,
It would almost seem
They would stake their lives if they were able, boys.
Amundsen, again,
Looks at these two men,
Shakes his head and sadly goes to bed, boys.9
Sverdrup, Blessing, Hansen, and our Mohn,10 boys,
Say of “marriage,” “This game is our own,” boys;
Soon for them, alas!
The happy hour is past;
And Hansen he says, “Come away, old Mohn!” boys.
“It is getting late,
And the stars won’t wait,
You and I must up and out alone,” boys.

The doctor here on board has nought to do, boys;
Not a man to test his skill among the crew, boys;
Well may he look blue,
There’s nought for him to do,
When every man is strong and hearty, too, boys.
“Now on the Fram,” boys,
He says “I am,” boys,
“Chief editor of newspaper for you!” boys.

“‘Warning!!!

“‘I think it is my duty to warn the public that a travelling watchmaker has been making the round of this
neighborhood lately, getting watches to repair, and not returning them to their owners. How long is this to
be allowed to go on under the eyes of the authorities?

“‘The watchmaker’s appearance is as follows: Middle height, fair, gray eyes, brown full beard, round
shoulders, and generally delicate-looking.

“‘A. Juell.11

“‘The person above notified was in our office yesterday, asking for work, and we consider it right to add
the following particulars as completing the description. He generally goes about with a pack of mongrel
curs at his heels; he chews tobacco, and of this his beard shows traces. This is all we have to say, as we did
not consider ourselves either entitled or called upon to put him under the microscope.

“‘Ed. Framsjaa.’

“Yesterday’s observation placed us in 79° 0′ north latitude, 139° 14′ east longitude. At
last, then, we have got as far north again as we were in the end of September, and now
the northerly drift seems to be steady: 10 minutes in 4 days.

“Monday, December 11th. This morning I took a long excursion to westward. It is hard
work struggling over the packed ice in the dark, something like scrambling about a
moraine of big boulders at night. Once I took a step in the air, fell forward, and bruised
my right knee. It is mild to-day, only 9½° below zero (-23° C.). This evening there was a
strange appearance of aurora borealis—white, shining clouds, which I thought at first
must be lit up by the moon, but there is no moon yet. They were light cumuli, or cirro-
cumuli, shifting into a brightly shining mackerel sky. I stood and watched them as long
as my thin clothing permitted, but there was no perceptible pulsation, no play of flame;
they sailed quietly on. The light seemed to be strongest in the southeast, where there
were also dark clouds to be seen. Hansen said that it moved over later into the northern
sky; clouds came and went, and for a time there were many white shining ones—‘white
as lambs,’ he called them—but no aurora played behind them.

“In this day’s meteorological journal I find noted for 4 P.M.: ‘Faint aurora borealis in the
north. Some distinct branchings or antlers (they are of ribbon crimped like blond) in
some diffused patches on the horizon in the N.N.E.’ In his aurora borealis journal
Hansen describes that of this evening as follows: ‘About 8 P.M. an aurora borealis arch
of light was observed, stretching from E.S.E. to N.W., through the zenith; diffused quiet
intensity 3–4 most intense in N.W. The arch spread at the zenith by a wave to the south.
At 10 o’clock there was a fainter aurora borealis in the southern sky; eight minutes later
it extended to the zenith, and two minutes after this there was a shining broad arch across
the zenith with intensity 6. Twelve seconds later flaming rays shot from the zenith in an
easterly direction. During the next half-hour there was constant aurora, chiefly in bands
across or near the zenith, or lower in the southern sky. The observation ended about
10.38. The intensity was then 2, the aurora diffused over the southern sky. There were
cumulus clouds of varying closeness all the time. They came up in the southeast at the
beginning of the observation, and disappeared towards the end of it; they were closest
about 10 minutes past 10. At the time that the broad shining arch through the zenith was
at its highest intensity the cumulus clouds in the northwest shone quite white, though we
were unable to detect any aurora borealis phenomena in this quarter. The reflection of
light on the ice-field was pretty strong at the same time. In the aurora borealis the
cumulus clouds appeared of a darker color, almost the gray of wool. The colors of the

aurora were yellowish, bluish white, milky blue—cold coloring.’ According to the
meteorological journal there was still aurora borealis in the southern sky at midnight.

“Tuesday, December 12th. Had a long walk southeast this morning. The ice is in much
the same condition there as it is to the west, packed or pressed up into mounds, with flat
floes between. This evening the dogs suddenly began to make a great commotion on
deck. We were all deep in cards, some playing whist, others ‘marriage.’ I had no shoes
on, so said that some one else must go up and see what was the matter. Mogstad went.
The noise grew worse and worse. Presently Mogstad came down and said that all the
dogs that could get at the rail were up on it, barking out into the dark towards the north.
He was sure there must be an animal of some sort there, but perhaps it was only a fox,
for he thought he had heard the bark of a fox far in the north; but he was not sure. Well,
—it must be a devil of a fox to excite the dogs like that. As the disturbance continued, I
at last went up myself, followed by Johansen. From different positions we looked long
and hard into the darkness in the direction in which the dogs were barking, but we could
see nothing moving. That something must be there was quite certain; and I had no doubt
that it was a bear, for the dogs were almost beside themselves. ‘Pan’ looked up into my
face with an odd expression, as if he had something important to tell me, and then
jumped up on the rail and barked away to the north. The dogs’ excitement was quite
remarkable; they had not been so keen when the bear was close in to the side of the ship.
However, I contented myself with remarking that the thing to do would be to loose some
dogs and go north with them over the ice. But these wretched dogs won’t tackle a bear,
and besides it is so dark that there is hardly a chance of finding anything. If it is a bear he
will come again. At this season, when he is so hungry, he will hardly go right away from
all the good food for him here on board. I struck about with my arms to get a little heat
into me, then went below and to bed. The dogs went on barking, sometimes louder than
before. Nordahl, whose watch it was, went up several times, but could discover no
reason for it. As I was lying reading in my berth I heard a peculiar sound; it was like
boxes being dragged about on deck, and there was also scraping, like a dog that wanted
to get out, scratching violently at a door. I thought of ‘Kvik,’ who was shut up in the
chart-room. I called into the saloon to Nordahl that he had better go up again and see
what this new noise was. He did so, but came back saying that there was still nothing to
be seen. It was difficult to sleep, and I lay long tossing about. Peter came on watch. I
told him to go up and turn the air-sail to the wind, to make the ventilation better. He was
a good time on deck doing this and other things, but he also could see no reason for the
to-do the dogs were still making. He had to go forward, and then noticed that the three
dogs nearest the starboard gangway were missing. He came down and told me, and we
agreed that possibly this might be what all the excitement was about; but never before
had they taken it so to heart when some of their number had run away. At last I fell
asleep, but heard them in my sleep for a long time.

Plate VI.

At Sunset, 22nd September 1893. Water-Colour Sketch.

“Wednesday, December 13th. Before I was rightly awake this morning I heard the dogs
‘at it’ still, and the noise went on all the time of breakfast, and had, I believe, gone on all
night. After breakfast Mogstad and Peter went up to feed the wretched creatures and let
them loose on the ice. Three were still missing. Peter came down to get a lantern; he
thought he might as well look if there were any tracks of animals. Jacobsen called after
him that he had better take a gun. No, he did not need one, he said. A little later, as I was
sitting sorrowfully absorbed in the calculation of how much petroleum we had used, and
how short a time our supply would last if we went on burning it at the same rate, I heard
a scream at the top of the companion. ‘Come with a gun!’ In a moment I was in the
saloon, and there was Peter tumbling in at the door, breathlessly shouting, ‘A gun! a
gun!’ The bear had bitten him in the side. I was thankful that it was no worse. Hearing
him put on so much dialect,12 I had thought it was a matter of life and death. I seized one
gun, he another, and up we rushed, the mate with his gun after us. There was not much
difficulty in knowing in what direction to turn, for from the rail on the starboard side
came confused shouts of human voices, and from the ice below the gangway the sound
of a frightful uproar of dogs. I tore out the tow-plug at the muzzle of my rifle, then up

with the lever and in with a cartridge; it was a case of hurry. But, hang it! there is a plug
in at this end too. I poked and poked, but could not get a grip of it. Peter screamed:
‘Shoot, shoot! Mine won’t go off!’ He stood clicking and clicking, his lock full of frozen
vaseline again, while the bear lay chewing at a dog just below us at the ship’s side.
Beside me stood the mate, groping after a tow-plug which he also had shoved down into
his gun, but now he flung the gun angrily away and began to look round the deck for a
walrus spear to stick the bear with. Our fourth man, Mogstad, was waving an empty rifle
(he had shot away his cartridges), and shouting to some one to shoot the bear. Four men,
and not one that could shoot, although we could have prodded the bear’s back with our
gun-barrels. Hansen, making a fifth, was lying in the passage to the chart-room, groping
with his arm through a chink in the door for cartridges; he could not get the door open
because of ‘Kvik’s’ kennel. At last Johansen appeared and sent a ball straight down into
the bear’s hide. That did some good. The monster let go the dog and gave a growl.
Another shot flashed and hissed down on the same spot. One more, and we saw the
white dog the bear had under him jump up and run off, while the other dogs stood round,
barking. Another shot still, for the animal began to stir a little. At this moment my plug
came out, and I gave him a last ball through the head to make sure. The dogs had
crowded round barking as long as he moved, but now that he lay still in death they drew
back terrified. They probably thought it was some new ruse of the enemy. It was a little
thin one-year-old bear that had caused all this terrible commotion.

“While it was being flayed I went off in a northwesterly direction to look for the dogs
that were still missing. I had not gone far when I noticed that the dogs that were
following me had caught scent of something to the north and wanted to go that way.
Soon they got frightened, and I could not get them to go on; they kept close in to my side
or slunk behind me. I held my gun ready, while I crawled on all-fours over the pack-ice,
which was anything but level. I kept a steady lookout ahead, but it was not far my eyes
could pierce in that darkness. I could only just see the dogs, like black shadows, when
they were a few steps away from me. I expected every moment to see a huge form rise
among the hummocks ahead, or come rushing towards me. The dogs got more and more
cautious; one or two of them sat down, but they probably felt that it would be a shame to
let me go on alone, so followed slowly after. Terrible ice to force one’s way over.
Crawling along on hands and knees does not put one in a very convenient position to
shoot from if the bear should make a sudden rush. But unless he did this, or attacked the
dogs, I had no hope of getting him. We now came out on some flat ice. It was only too
evident that there must be something quite near now. I went on, and presently saw a dark
object on the ice in front of me. It was not unlike an animal. I bent down—it was poor
‘Johansen’s Friend,’ the black dog with the white tip to his tail, in a sad state, and frozen
stiff. Beside him was something else dark. I bent down again and found the second of
the missing dogs, brother of the corpse-watcher ‘Suggen.’ This one was almost whole,
only eaten a little about the head, and it was not frozen quite stiff. There seemed to be
blood all round on the ice. I looked about in every direction, but there was nothing more

to be seen. The dogs stood at a respectful distance, staring and sniffing in the direction of
their dead comrades. Some of us went, not long after this, to fetch the dogs’ carcasses,
taking a lantern to look for bear tracks, in case there had been some big fellows along
with the little one. We scrambled on among the pack-ice. ‘Come this way with the
lantern, Bentzen; I think I see tracks here.’ Bentzen came, and we turned the light on
some indentations in the snow; they were bear-paw marks, sure enough, but only the
same little fellow’s. ‘Look! the brute has been dragging a dog after him here.’ By the
light of the lantern we traced the blood-marked path on among the hummocks. We found
the dead dogs, but no footprints except small ones, which we all thought must be those
of our little bear. ‘Svarten,’ alias ‘Johansen’s Friend,’ looked bad in the lantern-light.
Flesh and skin and entrails were gone; there was nothing to be seen but a bare breast and
back-bone, with some stumps of ribs. It was a pity that the fine strong dog should come
to such an end. He had just one fault: he was rather bad-tempered. He had a special
dislike to Johansen; barked and showed his teeth whenever he came on deck or even
opened a door, and when he sat whistling in the top or in the crow’s-nest these dark
winter days the ‘Friend’ would answer with a howl of rage from far out on the ice.
Johansen bent down with the lantern to look at the remains.

“‘Are you glad, Johansen, that your enemy is done for?’

“‘No, I am sorry.’

“‘Why?’

“‘Because we did not make it up before he died.’

“And we went on to look for more bear-tracks, but found none; so we took the dead dogs
on our backs and turned homeward.

“On the way I asked Peter what had really happened with him and the bear. ‘Well, you
see,’ said he, ‘when I came along with the lantern we saw a few drops of blood by the
gangway; but that might quite well have been a dog that had cut itself. On the ice below
the gangway we saw some bear-tracks, and we started away west, the whole pack of
dogs with us, running on far ahead. When we had got away a bit from the ship, there was
suddenly an awful row in front, and it wasn’t long before a great beast came rushing at
us, with the whole troop of dogs around it. As soon as we saw what it was, we turned
and ran our best for the ship. Mogstad, you see, had moccasins (komager) on, and knew
his way better and got there before me. I couldn’t get along so fast with my great
wooden shoes, and in my confusion I got right on to the big hummock to the west of the
ship’s bow, you know. I turned here and lighted back to see if the bear was behind me,
but I saw nothing and pushed on again, and in a minute these slippery wooden shoes had
me flat on my back among the hummocks. I was up again quick enough; but when I got

down on to the flat ice close to the ship I saw something coming straight for me on the
right-hand side. First I thought it was a dog—it’s not so easy to see in the dark, you
know. I had no time for a second thought, for the beast jumped on me and bit me in the
side. I had lifted my arm like this, you see, and so he caught me here, right on the hip.
He growled and hissed as he bit.’

“‘What did you think then, Peter?’

“‘What did I think? I thought it was all up with me. What was I to do? I had neither gun
nor knife. But I took the lantern and gave him such a whack on the head with it that the
thing broke, and went flying away over the ice. The moment he felt the blow he sat
down and looked at me. I was just taking to my heels when he got up; I don’t know
whether it was to grip me again or what it was for, but anyhow at that minute he caught
sight of a dog coming and set off after it, and I got on board.’

“‘I took the lantern and gave him such a whack on the head with it’”

(Drawn by H. Egidius)

“‘Did you scream, Peter?’

“‘Scream! I screamed with all my might.’

“And apparently this was true, for he was quite hoarse.

“‘But where was Mogstad all this time?’

“‘Well, you see, he had reached the ship long before me, but he never thought of running
down and giving the alarm, but takes his gun from the round-house wall and thinks he’ll
manage all right alone; but his gun wouldn’t go off, and the bear would have had time to
eat me up before his nose.’

“We were now near the ship, and Mogstad, who had heard the last part of the story from
the deck, corrected it in so far that he had just reached the gangway when Peter began to
roar. He jumped up and fell back three times before he got on board, and had no time to
do anything then but seize his gun and go to Peter’s assistance.

“When the bear left Peter and rushed after the dogs he soon had the whole pack about
him again. Now he would make a spring and get one below him; but then all the rest
would set upon him and jump on his back, so that he had to turn to defend himself. Then
he would spring upon another dog, and the whole pack would be on him again. And so
the dance went on, backward and forward over the ice, until they were once more close
to the ship. A dog stood there, below the gangway, wanting to get on board; the bear
made a spring on it, and it was there, by the ship’s side, that the villain met his fate.

“An examination on board showed that the hook of ‘Svarten’s’ leash was pulled out
quite straight; ‘Gammelen’s’ was broken through; but the third dog’s was only wrenched
a little; it hardly looked as if the bear had done it. I had a slight hope that this dog might
still be in life, but, though we searched well, we could not find it.

“It was altogether a deplorable story. To think that we should have let a bear scramble on
board like this, and should have lost three dogs at once! Our dogs are dwindling down;
we have only 26 now. That was a wily demon of a bear, to be such a little one. He had
crawled on board by the gangway, shoved away a box that was standing in front of it,
taken the dog that stood nearest, and gone off with it. When he had satisfied the first
pangs of his hunger, he had come back and fetched No. 2, and, if he had been allowed,
he would have continued the performance until the deck was cleared of dogs. Then he
would probably have come bumping down-stairs ‘and beckoned with cold hand’ in at the
galley door to Juell. It must have been a pleasant feeling for ‘Svarten’ to stand there in
the dark and see the bear come creeping in upon him.

“When I went below after this bear affair, Juell said as I passed the galley door, ‘You’ll
see that “Kvik” will have her pups to-day; for it’s always the way here on board, that
things happen together.’ And, sure enough, when we were sitting in the saloon in the
evening, Mogstad, who generally plays ‘master of the hounds,’ came and announced the
arrival of the first. Soon there was another, and then one more. This news was a little

balsam to our wounds. ‘Kvik’ has got a good warm box, lined with fur, up in the passage
on the starboard; it is so warm there that she is lying sweating, and we hope that the
young ones will live, in spite of 54 degrees of frost. It seems this evening as if every one
had some hesitation in going out on the ice unarmed. Our bayonet-knives have been
brought out, and I am providing myself with one. I must say that I felt quite certain that
we should find no bears as far north as this in the middle of winter; and it never occurred
to me, in making long excursions on the ice without so much as a penknife in my pocket,
that I was liable to encounters with them. But, after Peter’s experience, it seems as if it
might be as well to have, at any rate, a lantern to hit them with. The long bayonet-knife
shall accompany me henceforth.

“They often chaffed Peter afterwards about having screamed so horribly when the bear
seized him. ‘H’m! I wonder,’ said he, ‘if there aren’t others that would have screeched
just as loud. I had to yell after the fellows that were so afraid of frightening the bear that
when they ran they covered seven yards at each stride.’

“Thursday, December 14th. ‘Well, Mogstad, how many pups have you now?’ I asked at
breakfast. ‘There are five now.’ But soon after he came down to tell me that there were at
least twelve. Gracious! that is good value for what we have lost. But we were almost as
pleased when Johansen came down and said that he heard the missing dog howling on
the ice far away to the northwest. Several of us went up to listen, and we could all hear
him quite well; but it sounded as if he were sitting still, howling in despair. Perhaps he
was at an opening in the ice that he could not get across. Blessing had also heard him
during his night-watch, but then the sound had come more from a southwesterly
direction. When Peter went after breakfast to feed the dogs, there was the lost one,
standing below the gangway wanting to get on board. Hungry he was—he dashed
straight into the food-dish—but otherwise hale and hearty.

“This evening Peter came and said that he was certain he had heard a bear moving about
and pawing the ice; he and Pettersen had stood and listened to him scraping at the snow
crust. I put on my ‘pesk’ (a fur blouse), got hold of my double-barrelled rifle, and went
on deck. The whole crew were collected aft, gazing out into the night. We let loose
‘Ulenka’ and ‘Pan,’ and went in the direction where the bear was said to be. It was pitch-
dark, but the dogs would find the tracks if there was anything there. Hansen thought he
had seen something moving about the hummock near the ship, but we found and heard
nothing, and, as several of the others had by this time come out on the ice and could also
discover nothing, we scrambled on board again. It is extraordinary all the sounds that
one can fancy one hears out on that great, still space, mysteriously lighted by the
twinkling stars.

“Friday, December 15th. This morning Peter saw a fox on the ice astern, and he saw it
again later, when he was out with the dogs. There is something remarkable about this

appearance of bears and foxes now, after our seeing no life for so long. The last time we
saw a fox we were far south of this, possibly near Sannikoff Land. Can we have come
into the neighborhood of land again?

“I inspected ‘Kvik’s’ pups in the afternoon. There were thirteen, a curious coincidence—
thirteen pups on December 13th, for thirteen men. Five were killed; ‘Kvik’ can manage
eight, but more would be bad for her. Poor mother! she was very anxious about her
young ones—wanted to jump up into the box beside them and take them from us. And
you can see that she is very proud of them.

“Peter came this evening and said that there must be a ghost on the ice, for he heard
exactly the same sounds of walking and pawing as yesterday evening. This seems to be a
populous region, after all.

“According to an observation taken on Tuesday we must be pretty nearly in 79° 8′ north
latitude. That was 8 minutes’ drift in the three days from Saturday; we are getting on
better and better.

A nocturnal visitant

(By H. Egidius, from a Photograph)

“Why will it not snow? Christmas is near, and what is Christmas without snow, thickly
falling snow? We have not had one snowfall all the time we have been drifting. The hard
grains that come down now and again are nothing. Oh the beautiful white snow, falling
so gently and silently, softening every hard outline with its sheltering purity! There is
nothing more deliciously restful, soft, and white. This snowless ice-plain is like a life
without love—nothing to soften it. The marks of all the battles and pressures of the ice
stand forth just as when they were made, rugged and difficult to move among. Love is
life’s snow. It falls deepest and softest into the gashes left by the fight—whiter and purer
than snow itself. What is life without love? It is like this ice—a cold, bare, rugged mass,
the wind driving it and rending it and then forcing it together again, nothing to cover
over the open rifts, nothing to break the violence of the collisions, nothing to round away
the sharp corners of the broken floes—nothing, nothing but bare, rugged drift-ice.

“Saturday, December 16th. In the afternoon Peter came quietly into the saloon, and said
that he heard all sorts of noises on the ice. There was a sound to the north exactly like
that of ice packing against land, and then suddenly there was such a roar through the air
that the dogs started up and barked. Poor Peter! They laugh at him when he comes down
to give an account of his many observations; but there is not one among us as sharp as he
is.

“Wednesday, December 20th. As I was sitting at breakfast, Peter came roaring that he
believed he had seen a bear on the ice, ‘and that “Pan” set off the moment he was
loosed.’ I rushed on to the ice with my gun. Several men were to be seen in the
moonlight, but no bear. It was long before ‘Pan’ came back; he had followed him far to
the northwest.

“Sverdrup and ‘Smith Lars’ in partnership have made a great bear-trap, which was put
out on the ice to-day. As I was afraid of more dogs than bears being caught in it, it was
hung from a gallows, too high for the dogs to jump up to the piece of blubber which
hangs as bait right in the mouth of the trap. All the dogs spend the evening now sitting
on the rail barking at this new man they see out there on the ice in the moonlight.

“Thursday, December 21st. It is extraordinary, after all, how the time passes. Here we
are at the shortest day, though we have no day. But now we are moving on to light and
summer again. We tried to sound to-day; had out 2100 metres (over 1100 fathoms) of
line without reaching the bottom. We have no more line; what is to be done? Who could
have guessed that we should find such deep water? There has been an arch of light in the
sky all day, opposite the moon; so it is a lunar rainbow, but without color, so far as I have
been able to see.

Sverdrup’s bear-trap (moonlight). December 20, 1893

(From a photograph)

“Friday, December 22d. A bear was shot last night. Jacobsen saw it first, during his
watch. He shot at it. It made off; and he then went down and told about it in the cabin.
Mogstad and Peter came on deck; Sverdrup was called, too, and came up a little later.
They saw the bear on his way towards the ship again; but he suddenly caught sight of the
gallows with the trap on the ice to the west, and went off there. He looked well at the
apparatus, then raised himself cautiously on his hind-legs, and laid his right paw on the
cross-beam just beside the trap, stared for a little, hesitating, at the delicious morsel, but
did not at all like the ugly jaws round it. Sverdrup was by this time out at the deck-
house, watching in the sparkling moonshine. His heart was jumping—he expected every
moment to hear the snap of his trap. But the bear shook his head suspiciously, lowered
himself cautiously on to all-fours again, and sniffed carefully at the wire that the trap
was fastened by, following it along to where it was made fast to a great block of ice. He
went round this, and saw how cleverly it was all arranged, then slowly followed the wire
back, raised himself up as before, with his paw on the beam of the gallows, had a long
look at the trap, and shook his head again, probably saying to himself, ‘These wily
fellows have planned this very cleverly for me.’ Now he resumed his march to the ship.
When he was within 60 paces of the bow Peter fired. The bear fell, but jumped up and
again made off. Jacobsen, Sverdrup, and Mogstad all fired now, and he fell among some
hummocks. He was flayed at once, and in the skin there was only the hole of one ball,
which had gone through him from behind the shoulder-blade. Peter, Jacobsen, and

Mogstad all claimed this ball. Sverdrup gave up his claim, as he had stood so far astern.
Mogstad, seeing the bear fall directly after his shot, called out, ‘I gave him that one’;
Jacobsen swears that it was he that hit; and Bentzen, who was standing looking on, is
prepared to take his oath anywhere that it was Peter’s ball that did the deed. The dispute
upon this weighty point remained unsettled during the whole course of the expedition.

“He stared, hesitating, at the delicious morsel”

(Drawn by H. Egidius)

“Beautiful moonlight. Pressure in several directions. To-day we carried our supply of
gun-cotton and cannon and rifle powder on deck. It is safer there than in the hold. In case
of fire or other accident, an explosion in the hold might blow the ship’s sides out and
send us to the bottom before we had time to turn round. Some we put on the forecastle,
some on the bridge. From these places it would be quickly thrown on to the ice.

“Saturday, December 23d. What we call in Norway ‘Little Christmas-eve.’ I went a long
way west this morning, coming home late. There was packed up ice everywhere, with
flat floes between. I was turned by a newly formed opening in the ice, which I dared not
cross on the thin layer of fresh ice. In the afternoon, as a first Christmas entertainment,

we tried an ice-blasting with four prisms of gun-cotton. A hole was made with one of the
large iron drills we had brought with us for this purpose, and the charge, with the end of
the electric connecting wire, was sunk about a foot below the surface of the ice. Then all
retired, the knob was touched, there was a dull crash, and water and pieces of ice were
shot up into the air. Although it was 60 yards off, it gave the ship a good jerk that shook
everything on board, and brought the hoar-frost down from the rigging. The explosion
blew a hole through the four-feet-thick ice, but its only other effect was to make small
cracks round this hole.

“Sunday, December 24th (Christmas-eve), 67 degrees of cold (-37° C.). Glittering
moonlight and the endless stillness of the Arctic night. I took a solitary stroll over the
ice. The first Christmas-eve, and how far away! The observation shows us to be in 79°
11′ north latitude. There is no drift. Two minutes farther south than six days ago.”

I.—Promenade in times of peace with Sverdrup’s patent foot-gear

(From the “Framsjaa”)

There are no further particulars given of this day in the diary; but when I think of it, how
clearly it all comes back to me! There was a peculiar elevation of mood on board that
was not at all common among us. Every man’s inmost thoughts were with those at home;
but his comrades were not to know that, and so there was more joking and laughing than
usual. All the lamps and lights we had on board were lit, and every corner of the saloon
and cabins was brilliantly illuminated. The bill of fare for the day, of course, surpassed
any previous one—food was the chief thing we had to hold festival with. The dinner was
a very fine one indeed; so was the supper, and after it piles of Christmas cakes came on
the table; Juell had been busy making them for several weeks. After that we enjoyed a
glass of toddy and a cigar, smoking in the saloon being, of course, allowed. The
culminating point of the festival came when two boxes with Christmas presents were
produced. The one was from Hansen’s mother, the other from his fiancée—Miss

Fougner. It was touching to see the childlike pleasure with which each man received his
gift—it might be a pipe or a knife or some little knickknack—he felt that it was like a
message from home. After this there were speeches; and then the Framsjaa appeared,
with an illustrated supplement, selections from which are given. The drawings are the
work of the famous Arctic draughtsman, Huttetu. Here are two verses from the poem for
the day:

“When the ship’s path is stopped by fathom-thick ice,
And winter’s white covering is spread,
When we’re quite given up to the power of the stream,
Oh! ’tis then that so often of home we must dream.

“We wish them all joy at this sweet Christmas-tide,
Health and happiness for the next year,
Ourselves patience to wait; ’twill bring us to the Pole,
And home the next spring, never fear!”

There were many more poems, among others one giving some account of the principal
events of the last weeks, in this style:

“Bears are seen, and dogs are born,
Cakes are baked, both small and large;
Henriksen, he does not fall,
Spite of bear’s most violent charge;
Mogstad with his rifle clicks,
Jacobsen with long lance sticks,”

II.—“Fram” fellows on the war-path: difference between the Sverdrup and the Lapp foot-gear

(From the “Framsjaa”)

and so on. There was a long ditty on the subject of the “Dog Rape on board the Fram:”

“Up and down on a night so cold,
Kvirre virre vip, bom, bom,
Walk harpooner and kennelman bold,
Kvirre virre vip, bom, bom;

Our kennelman swings, I need hardly tell,
Kvirre virre vip, bom, bom,
The long, long lash you know so well,
Kvirre virre vip, bom, bom;
Our harpooner, he is a man of light,
Kvirre virre vip, bom, bom,
A burning lantern he grasps tight,
Kvirre virre vip, bom, bom,
They as they walk the time beguile,
Kvirre virre vip, bom, bom,
With tales of bears and all their wile,
Kvirre virre vip, bom, bom.

“Now suddenly a bear they see,
Kvirre virre vip, bom, bom,
Before whom all the dogs do flee,
Kvirre virre vip, bom, bom;
Kennelman, like a deer, runs fast,
Kvirre virre vip, bom, bom,
Harpooner slow comes in the last,
Kvirre virre vip, bom, bom,”

and so on.

III.—“Fram” fellows still on the war-path

(From the “Framsjaa”)

Among the announcements are—

“Instruction in Fencing.

“In consequence of the indefinite postponement of our departure, a limited number of pupils can be
received for instruction in both fencing and boxing.

“Majakoft,
“Teacher of Boxing,
“Next door to the Doctor’s.”

Again—

“On account of want of storage room, a quantity of old clothes are at present for sale, by private
arrangement, at No. 2 Pump Lane.13 Repeated requests to remove them having been of no effect, I am
obliged to dispose of them in this way. The clothes are quite fresh, having been in salt for a long time.”

After the reading of the newspaper came instrumental music and singing, and it was far
on in the night before we sought our berths.

“Monday, December 25th (Christmas-day). Thermometer at 36° Fahr. below zero (-38°
C.). I took a walk south in the beautiful light of the full moon. At a newly made crack I
went through the fresh ice with one leg and got soaked; but such an accident matters

very little in this frost. The water immediately stiffens into ice; it does not make one very
cold, and one feels dry again soon.

“They will be thinking much of us just now at home and giving many a pitying sigh over
all the hardships we are enduring in this cold, cheerless, icy region. But I am afraid their
compassion would cool if they could look in upon us, hear the merriment that goes on,
and see all our comforts and good cheer. They can hardly be better off at home. I myself
have certainly never lived a more sybaritic life, and have never had more reason to fear
the consequences it brings in its train. Just listen to to-day’s dinner menu:

1. Ox-tail soup;
2. Fish-pudding, with potatoes and melted butter;
3. Roast of reindeer, with pease, French beans, potatoes, and cranberry jam;
4. Cloudberries with cream;
5. Cake and marchpane (a welcome present from the baker to the expedition; we
blessed that man).

And along with all this that Ringnes bock-beer which is so famous in our part of the
world. Was this the sort of dinner for men who are to be hardened against the horrors of
the Arctic night?

“Every one had eaten so much that supper had to be skipped altogether. Later in the
evening coffee was served, with pineapple preserve, gingerbread, vanilla-cakes,
cocoanut macaroons, and various other cakes, all the work of our excellent cook, Juell;
and we ended up with figs, almonds, and raisins.

“Now let us have the breakfast, just to complete the day: coffee, freshly baked bread,
beautiful Danish butter, Christmas cake, Cheddar cheese, clove-cheese, tongue, corned-
beef, and marmalade. And if any one thinks that this is a specially good breakfast
because it is Christmas-day he is wrong. It is just what we have always, with the addition
of the cake, which is not part of the every-day diet.

“Add now to this good cheer our strongly built, safe house, our comfortable saloon,
lighted up with the large petroleum lamp and several smaller ones (when we have no
electric light), constant gayety, card-playing, and books in any quantity, with or without
illustrations, good and entertaining reading, and then a good, sound sleep—what more
could one wish?

“ ... But, O Arctic night, thou art like a woman, a marvellously lovely woman. Thine are
the noble, pure outlines of antique beauty, with its marble coldness. On thy high, smooth
brow, clear with the clearness of ether, is no trace of compassion for the little sufferings
of despised humanity; on thy pale, beautiful cheek no blush of feeling. Among thy raven
locks, waving out into space, the hoar-frost has sprinkled its glittering crystals. The

proud lines of thy throat, thy shoulders’ curves, are so noble, but, oh! unbendingly cold;
thy bosom’s white chastity is feelingless as the snowy ice. Chaste, beautiful, and proud,
thou floatest through ether over the frozen sea, thy glittering garment, woven of aurora
beams, covering the vault of heaven. But sometimes I divine a twitch of pain on thy lips,
and endless sadness dreams in thy dark eye.

“Oh, how tired I am of thy cold beauty! I long to return to life. Let me get home again,
as conqueror or as beggar; what does that matter? But let me get home to begin life
anew. The years are passing here, and what do they bring? Nothing but dust, dry dust,
which the first wind blows away; new dust comes in its place, and the next wind takes it
too. Truth? Why should we always make so much of truth? Life is more than cold truth,
and we live but once.

“It was strange once more to see the moonlight playing on the coal-black waves”

(From a Photograph)

“Tuesday, December 26th. 36° Fahr. below zero (-38° C.). This (the same as yesterday’s)
is the greatest cold we have had yet. I went a long way north to-day; found a big lane
covered with newly frozen ice, with a quite open piece of water in the middle. The ice
rocked up and down under my steps, sending waves out into the open pool. It was
strange once more to see the moonlight playing on the coal-black waves, and awakened
a remembrance of well-known scenes. I followed this lane far to the north, seemed to see
the outlines of high land in the hazy light below the moon, and went on and on; but in
the end it turned out to be a bank of clouds behind the moonlit vapor rising from the
open water. I saw from a high hummock that this opening stretched north as far as the
eye could reach.

“The same luxurious living as yesterday; a dinner of four courses. Shooting with darts at
a target for cigarettes has been the great excitement of the day. Darts and target are
Johansen’s Christmas present from Miss Fougner.

“Wednesday, December 27th. Wind began to blow this afternoon, 19½ to 26 feet per
second; the windmill is going again, and the arc lamp once more brightens our lives.
Johansen gave notice of ‘a shooting-match by electric light, with free concert,’ for the
evening. It was a pity for himself that he did, for he and several others were shot into
bankruptcy and beggary, and had to retire one after the other, leaving their cigarettes
behind them.”

Plate VII.

The Waning Polar Day, 22nd September 1893. Pastel Sketch.

(The original was injured by damp.)

“Thursday, December 28th. A little forward of the Fram there is a broad, newly formed
open lane, in which she could lie crossways. It was covered with last night’s ice, in
which slight pressure began to-day. It is strange how indifferent we are to this pressure,
which was the cause of such great trouble to many earlier Arctic navigators. We have not
so much as made the smallest preparation for possible accident, no provisions on deck,
no tent, no clothing in readiness. This may seem like recklessness, but in reality there is
not the slightest prospect of the pressure harming us; we know now what the Fram can
bear. Proud of our splendid, strong ship, we stand on her deck watching the ice come
hurtling against her sides, being crushed and broken there and having to go down below
her, while new ice-masses tumble upon her out of the dark, to meet the same fate. Here
and there, amid deafening noise, some great mass rises up and launches itself
threateningly upon the bulwarks, only to sink down suddenly, dragged the same way as
the others. But at times when one hears the roaring of tremendous pressure in the night,
as a rule so deathly still, one cannot but call to mind the disasters that this uncontrollable
power has wrought.

“I am reading the story of Kane’s expedition just now. Unfortunate man, his preparations
were miserably inadequate; it seems to me to have been a reckless, unjustifiable
proceeding to set out with such equipments. Almost all the dogs died of bad food; all the
men had scurvy from the same cause, with snow-blindness, frost-bites, and all kinds of
miseries. He learned a wholesome awe of the Arctic night, and one can hardly wonder at
it. He writes on page 173: ‘I feel that we are fighting the battle of life at disadvantage,
and that an Arctic day and an Arctic night age a man more rapidly and harshly than a
year anywhere else in this weary world.’ In another place he writes that it is impossible
for civilized men not to suffer in such circumstances. These were sad but by no means
unique experiences. An English Arctic explorer with whom I had some conversation also
expressed himself very discouragingly on the subject of life in the polar regions, and
combated my cheerful faith in the possibility of preventing scurvy. He was of opinion
that it was inevitable, and that no expedition yet had escaped it, though some might have
given it another name: rather a humiliating view to take of the matter, I think. But I am
fortunately in a position to maintain that it is not justified; and I wonder if they would
not both change their opinions if they were here. For my own part, I can say that the
Arctic night has had no aging, no weakening, influence of any kind upon me; I seem, on
the contrary, to grow younger. This quiet, regular life suits me remarkably well, and I
cannot remember a time when I was in better bodily health balance than I am at present.
I differ from these other authorities to the extent of feeling inclined to recommend this
region as an excellent sanatorium in cases of nervousness and general breakdown. This
is in all sincerity.

A game of halma

“I am almost ashamed of the life we lead, with none of those darkly painted sufferings of
the long winter night which are indispensable to a properly exciting Arctic expedition.
We shall have nothing to write about when we get home. I may say the same of my
comrades as I have said for myself; they all look healthy, fat, in good condition; none of
the traditional pale, hollow faces; no low spirits—any one hearing the laughter that goes
on in the saloon, ‘the fall of greasy cards,’ etc. (see Juell’s poem), would be in no doubt
about this. But how, indeed, should there be any illness? With the best of food of every
kind, as much of it as we want, and constant variety, so that even the most fastidious
cannot tire of it, good shelter, good clothing, good ventilation, exercise in the open air ad
libitum, no over-exertion in the way of work, instructive and amusing books of every
kind, relaxation in the shape of cards, chess, dominoes, halma, music, and story-telling
—how should any one be ill? Every now and then I hear remarks expressive of perfect
satisfaction with the life. Truly the whole secret lies in arranging things sensibly, and
especially in being careful about the food. A thing that I believe has a good effect upon
us is this living together in the one saloon, with everything in common. So far as I know,
it is the first time that such a thing has been tried; but it is quite to be recommended. I
have heard some of the men complain of sleeplessness. This is generally considered to
be one inevitable consequence of the Arctic darkness. As far as I am personally
concerned, I can say that I have felt nothing of it; I sleep soundly at night. I have no
great belief in this sleeplessness; but then I do not take an after-dinner nap, which most
of the others are addicted to; and if they sleep for several hours during the day they can
hardly expect to sleep all night as well. ‘One must be awake part of one’s time,’ as
Sverdrup said.

“Sunday, December 31st. And now the last day of the year has come; it has been a long
year, and has brought much both of good and bad. It began with good by bringing little
Liv—such a new, strange happiness that at first I could hardly believe in it. But hard,
unspeakably hard, was the parting that came later; no year has brought worse pain than
that. And the time since has been one great longing.

“‘Would’st thou be free from care and pain,
Thou must love nothing here on earth.”

“But longing—oh, there are worse things than that! All that is good and beautiful may
flourish in its shelter. Everything would be over if we cease to long.

“But you fell off at the end, old year; you hardly carried us so far as you ought. Still you
might have done worse; you have not been so bad, after all. Have not all hopes and
calculations been justified, and are we not drifting away just where I wished and hoped
we should be? Only one thing has been amiss—I did not think the drift would have gone
in quite so many zig-zags.

“One could not have a more beautiful New-year’s-eve. The aurora borealis is burning in
wonderful colors and bands of light over the whole sky, but particularly in the north.
Thousands of stars sparkle in the blue firmament among the northern lights. On every
side the ice stretches endless and silent into the night. The rime-covered rigging of the
Fram stands out sharp and dark against the shining sky.

“The newspaper was read aloud; only verses this time; among other poems the
following:

“‘To the New Year.

“‘And you, my boy, must give yourself trouble
Of your old father to be the double;
Your lineage, honor, and fight hard to merit
Our praise for the habits we trust you inherit.
On we must go if you want to please us;
To make us lie still is the way to tease us.
In the old year we sailed not so badly,
Be it so still, or you’ll hear us groan sadly.
When the time comes you must break up the ice for us;
When the time comes you must win the great prize for us;
We fervently hope, having reached our great goal,
To eat next Christmas dinner beyond the North Pole.’

“During the evening we were regaled with pineapple, figs, cakes, and other sweets, and
about midnight Hansen brought in toddy, and Nordahl cigars and cigarettes. At the
moment of the passing of the year all stood up and I had to make an apology for a speech
—to the effect that the old year had been, after all, a good one, and I hoped the new
would not be worse; that I thanked them for good comradeship, and was sure that our
life together this year would be as comfortable and pleasant as it had been during the
last. Then they sang the songs that had been written for the farewell entertainments given
to us at Christiania and at Bergen:

“‘Our mother, weep not! it was thou
Gave them the wish to wander;
To leave our coasts and turn their prow
Towards night and perils yonder.
Thou pointedst to the open sea,
The long cape was thy finger;
The white sail wings they got from thee;

Thou canst not bid them linger!

“‘Yes, they are thine, O mother old!
And proud thou dost embrace them;
Thou hear’st of dangers manifold,
But know’st thy sons can face them.
And tears of joy thine eyes will rain,
The day the Fram comes steering
Up fjord again to music strain,
And the roar of thousands cheering.
“‘E. N.’

“Then I read aloud our last greeting, a telegram we received at Tromsö from Moltke
Moe:

“‘Luck on the way,
Sun on the sea,
Sun on your minds,
Help from the winds;
May the packed floes
Part and unclose
Where the ship goes.
Forward her progress be,
E’en though the silent sea,
Then
After her freeze up again.

“‘Strength enough, meat enough,
Hope enough, heat enough;
The Fram will go sure enough then
To the Pole and so back to the dwellings of men.
Luck on the way
To thee and thy band,
And welcome back to the fatherland!’

“After this we read some of Vinje’s poems, and then sang songs from the Framsjaa and
others.

“It seems strange that we should have seen the New Year in already, and that it will not
begin at home for eight hours yet. It is almost 4 A.M. now. I had thought of sitting up till

it was New Year in Norway too; but no; I will rather go to bed and sleep, and dream that
I am at home.

“Monday, January 1st, 1894. The year began well. I was awakened by Juell’s cheerful
voice wishing me a Happy New Year. He had come to give me a cup of coffee in bed—
delicious Turkish coffee, his Christmas present from Miss Fougner. It is beautiful clear
weather, with the thermometer at 36° below zero (-38° C.). It almost seems to me as if
the twilight in the south were beginning to grow; the upper edge of it to-day was 14°
above the horizon.

“An extra good dinner at 6 P.M.

1. Tomato soup.
2. Cod roe with melted butter and potatoes.
3. Roast reindeer, with green pease, potatoes, and cranberry jam.
4. Cloudberries with milk.
Ringnes beer.

“I do not know if this begins to give any impression of great sufferings and privations. I
am lying in my berth, writing, reading, and dreaming. It is always a curious feeling to
write for the first time the number of a New Year. Not till then does one grasp the fact
that the old year is a thing of the past; the new one is here, and one must prepare to
wrestle with it. Who knows what it is bringing? Good and evil, no doubt, but most good.
It cannot but be that we shall go forward towards our goal and towards home.

“‘Life is rich and wreathed in roses;
Gaze forth into a world of dreams.’

“Yes; lead us, if not to our goal—that would be too early—at least towards it; strengthen
our hope; but perhaps—no, no perhaps. These brave boys of mine deserve to succeed.
There is not a doubt in their minds. Each one’s whole heart is set on getting north. I can
read it in their faces—it shines from every eye. There is one sigh of disappointment
every time that we hear that we are drifting south, one sigh of relief when we begin to go
north again, to the unknown. And it is in me and my theories that they trust. What if I
have been mistaken, and am leading them astray? Oh, I could not help myself! We are
the tools of powers beyond us. We are born under lucky or unlucky stars. Till now I have
lived under a lucky one; is its light to be darkened? I am superstitious, no doubt, but I
believe in my star. And Norway, our fatherland, what has the old year brought to thee,
and what is the new year bringing? Vain to think of that; but I look at our pictures, the
gifts of Werenskjöld, Munthe, Kitty Kielland, Skredsvig, Hansteen, Eilif Pettersen, and I
am at home, at home!

“Wednesday, January 3d. The old lane about 1300 feet ahead of the Fram has opened
again—a large rift, with a coating of ice and rime. As soon as ice is formed in this
temperature the frost forces it to throw out its salinity on the surface, and this itself
freezes into pretty salt flowers, resembling hoar-frost. The temperature is between 38°
Fahr. and 40° Fahr. below zero (-39° C. to -40° C), but when there is added to this a
biting wind, with a velocity of from 9 to 16 feet per second, it must be allowed that it is
rather ‘cool in the shade.’

“Sverdrup and I agreed to-day that the Christmas holidays had better stop now and the
usual life begin again; too much idleness is not good for us. It cannot be called a full nor
a complicated one, this life of ours; but it has one advantage, that we are all satisfied
with it, such as it is.

“They are still working in the engine-room, but expect to finish what they are doing to
the boiler in a few days, and then all is done there. Then the turning-lathe is to be set up
in the hold, and tools for it have to be forged. There is often a job for Smith Lars, and
then the forge flames forward by the forecastle, and sends its red glow on to the rime-
covered rigging, and farther up into the starry night, and out over the waste of ice. From
far off you can hear the strokes on the anvil ringing through the silent night. When one is
wandering alone out there, and the well-known sound reaches one’s ear, and one sees the
red glow, memory recalls less solitary scenes. While one stands gazing, perhaps a light
moves along the deck and slowly up the rigging. It is Johansen on his way up to the
crow’s-nest to read the temperature. Blessing is at present engaged in counting blood
corpuscles again, and estimating amounts of hæmoglobin. For this purpose he draws
blood every month from every mother’s son of us, the bloodthirsty dog, with supreme
contempt for all the outcry against vivisection. Hansen and his assistant take
observations. The meteorological ones, which are taken every four hours, are Johansen’s
special department. First he reads the thermometer, hygrometer, and thermograph on
deck (they were afterwards kept on the ice); next the barometer, barograph, and
thermometer in the saloon; and then the minimum and maximum thermometers in the
crow’s-nest (this to take the record of the temperature of a higher air stratum). Then he
goes to read the thermometers that are kept on the ice to measure the radiations from its
surface, and perhaps down to the hold, too, to see what the temperature is there. Every
second day, as a rule, astronomical observations are taken, to decide our whereabouts
and keep us up to date in the crab’s progress we are making. Taking these observations
with the thermometer between 22° Fahr. and 40° Fahr. below zero (-30° C. to -40° C.) is
a very mixed pleasure. Standing still on deck working with these fine instruments, and
screwing in metal screws with one’s bare fingers, is not altogether agreeable. It often
happens that they must slap their arms about and tramp hard up and down the deck. They
are received with shouts of laughter when they reappear in the saloon after the
performance of one of these thundering nigger break-downs above our heads that has
shaken the whole ship. We ask innocently if it was cold on deck. ‘Not the very least,’

says Hansen; ‘just a pleasant temperature.’ ‘And your feet are not cold now?’ ‘No, I can’t
say that they are, but one’s fingers get a little cold sometimes.’ Two of his had just been
frost-bitten; but he refused to wear one of the wolf-skin suits which I had given out for
the meteorologists. ‘It is too mild for that yet; and it does not do to pamper one’s self,’ he
says.

“I believe it was when the thermometer stood at 40° below zero that Hansen rushed up
on deck one morning in shirt and drawers to take an observation. He said he had not time
to get on his clothes.

“At certain intervals they also take magnetic observations on the ice, these two. I watch
them standing there with lanterns, bending over their instruments; and presently I see
them tearing away over the floe, their arms swinging like the sails of the windmill when
there is a wind pressure of 32 to 39 feet—but ‘it is not at all cold.’ I cannot help thinking
of what I have read in the accounts of some of the earlier expeditions—namely, that at
such temperatures it was impossible to take observations. It would take worse than this
to make these fellows give in. In the intervals between their observations and
calculations I hear a murmuring in Hansen’s cabin, which means that the principal is at
present occupied in inflicting a dose of astronomy or navigation upon his assistant.

“It is something dreadful the amount of card-playing that goes on in the saloon in the
evenings now; the gaming demon is abroad far into the night; even our model Sverdrup
is possessed by him. They have not yet played the shirts off their backs, but some of
them have literally played the bread out of their mouths; two poor wretches have had to
go without fresh bread for a whole month because they had forfeited their rations of it to
their opponents. But, all the same, this card-playing is a healthy, harmless recreation,
giving occasion for much laughter, fun, and pleasure.

“An Irish proverb says, ‘Be happy; and if you cannot be happy, be careless; and if you
cannot be careless, be as careless as you can.’ This is good philosophy, which—no, what
need of proverbs here, where life is happy! It was in all sincerity that Amundsen burst
out yesterday with, ‘Yes, isn’t it just as I say, that we are the luckiest men on earth that
can live up here where we have no cares, get everything given us without needing to
trouble about it, and are well off in every possible way?’ Hansen agreed that it certainly
was a life without care. Juell said much the same a little ago; what seems to please him
most is that there are no summonses here, no creditors, no bills. And I? Yes, I am happy
too. It is an easy life; nothing that weighs heavy on one, no letters, no newspapers,
nothing disturbing; just that monastic, out-of-the-world existence that was my dream
when I was younger and yearned for quietness in which to give myself up to my studies.
Longing, even when it is strong and sad, is not unhappiness. A man has truly no right to
be anything but happy when fate permits him to follow up his ideals, exempting him

from the wearing strain of every-day cares, that he may with clearer vision strive
towards a lofty goal.

“‘Where there is work, success will follow,’ said a poet of the land of work. I am
working as hard as I can, so I suppose success will pay me a visit by-and-by. I am lying
on the sofa, reading about Kane’s misfortunes, drinking beer, smoking cigarettes. Truth
obliges me to confess that I have become addicted to the vice I condemn so strongly—
but flesh is grass; so I blow the smoke clouds into the air and dream sweet dreams. It is
hard work, but I must do the best I can.

“Thursday, January 4th. It seems as if the twilight were increasing quite perceptibly now,
but this is very possibly only imagination. I am in good spirits in spite of the fact that we
are drifting south again. After all, what does it matter? Perhaps the gain to science will
be as great, and, after all, I suppose this desire to reach the North Pole is only a piece of
vanity. I have now a very good idea of what it must be like up there. (‘I like that!’ say
you.) Our deep water here is connected with, is a part of, the deep water of the Atlantic
Ocean—of this there can be no doubt. And have not I found that things go exactly as I
calculated they would whenever we get a favorable wind? Have not many before us had
to wait for wind? And as to vanity—that is a child’s disease, got over long ago. All
calculations, with but one exception, have proved correct. We made our way along the
coast of Asia, which many prophesied we should have great difficulty in doing. We were
able to sail farther north than I had dared to hope for in my boldest moments, and in just
the longitude I wished. We are closed in by the ice, also as I wished. The Fram has borne
the ice-pressure splendidly, and allows herself to be lifted by it without so much as
creaking, in spite of being more heavily loaded with coal, and drawing more water than
we reckoned on when we made our calculations; and this after her certain destruction
and ours was prophesied by those most experienced in such matters. I have not found the
ice higher nor heavier than I expected it to be; and the comfort, warmth, and good
ventilation on board are far beyond my expectations. Nothing is wanting in our
equipment, and the food is quite exceptionally good. As Blessing and I agreed a few
days ago, it is as good as at home; there is not a thing we long for; not even the thought
of a beefsteak à la Châteaubriand, or a pork cutlet with mushrooms and a bottle of
Burgundy, can make our mouths water; we simply don’t care about such things. The
preparations for the expedition cost me several years of precious life; but now I do not
grudge them: my object is attained. On the drifting ice we live a winter life, not only in
every respect better than that of previous expeditions, but actually as if we had brought a
bit of Norway, of Europe, with us. We are as well off as if we were at home. All together
in one saloon, with everything in common, we are a little part of the fatherland, and daily
we draw closer and closer together. In one point only have my calculations proved
incorrect, but unfortunately in one of the most important. I presupposed a shallow Polar
Sea, the greatest depth known in these regions up till now being 80 fathoms, found by
the Jeannette. I reasoned that all currents would have a strong influence in the shallow

Polar Sea, and that on the Asiatic side the current of the Siberian rivers would be strong
enough to drive the ice a good way north. But here I already find a depth which we
cannot measure with all our line, a depth of certainly 1000 fathoms, and possibly double
that. This at once upsets all faith in the operation of a current; we find either none, or an
extremely slight one; my only trust now is in the winds. Columbus discovered America
by means of a mistaken calculation, and even that not his own; heaven only knows
where my mistake will lead us. Only I repeat once more—the Siberian driftwood on the
coast of Greenland cannot lie, and the way it went we must go.

“Monday, January 8th. Little Liv is a year old to-day; it will be a fête day at home. As I
was lying on the sofa reading after dinner, Peter put his head in at the door and asked me
to come up and look at a strange star which had just shown itself above the horizon,
shining like a beacon flame. I got quite a start when I came on deck and saw a strong red
light just above the edge of the ice in the south. It twinkled and changed color; it looked
just as if some one were coming carrying a lantern over the ice; I actually believe that for
a moment I so far forgot our surroundings as to think that it really was some person
approaching from the south. It was Venus, which we see to-day for the first time, as it
has till now been beneath the horizon. It is beautiful with its red light. Curious that it
should happen to come to-day. It must be Liv’s star, as Jupiter is the home star. And
Liv’s birthday is a lucky day—we are on our way north again. According to observations
we are certainly north of 79° north latitude. On the home day, September 6th, the
favorable wind began to blow that carried us along the coast of Asia; perhaps Liv’s day
has brought us into a good current, and we are making the real start for the north under
her star.

“Friday, January 12th. There was pressure about 10 o’clock this morning in the opening
forward, but I could see no movement when I was there a little later. I followed the
opening some way to the north. It is pretty cold work walking with the thermometer at
40° Fahr. below zero, and the wind blowing with a velocity of 16 feet per second straight
in your face. But now we are certainly drifting fast to the north under Liv’s star. After all,
it is not quite indifferent to me whether we are going north or south. When the drift is
northward new life seems to come into me, and hope, the ever-young, springs fresh and
green from under the winter snow. I see the way open before me, and I see the home-
coming in the distance—too great happiness to believe in.

“Sunday, January 14th. Sunday again. The time is passing almost quickly, and there is
more light every day. There was great excitement to-day when yesterday evening’s
observations were being calculated. All guessed that we had come a long way north
again. Several thought to 79° 18′ or 20′. Others, I believe, insisted on 80°. The
calculation places us in 79° 19′ north latitude, 137° 31′ east longitude. A good step
onward. Yesterday the ice was quiet, but this morning there was considerable pressure in
several places. Goodness knows what is causing it just now; it is a whole week after new

moon. I took a long walk to the southwest, and got right in among it. Packing began
where I stood, with roars and thunders below me and on every side. I jumped, and ran
like a hare, as if I had never heard such a thing before; it came so unexpectedly. The ice
was curiously flat there to the south; the farther I went the flatter it grew, with excellent
sledging surface. Over such ice one could drive many miles a day.

“Monday, January 15th. There was pressure forward both this morning and towards
noon, but we heard the loudest sounds from the north. Sverdrup, Mogstad, and Peter
went in that direction and were stopped by a large, open channel. Peter and I afterwards
walked a long distance N.N.E., past a large opening that I had skirted before Christmas.
It was shining, flat ice, splendid for sledging on, always better the farther north we went.
The longer I wander about and see this sort of ice in all directions, the more strongly
does a plan take hold of me that I have long had in my mind. It would be possible to get
with dogs and sledges over this ice to the Pole, if one left the ship for good and made
one’s way back in the direction of Franz Josef Land, Spitzbergen, or the west coast of
Greenland. It might almost be called an easy expedition for two men.

“But it would be too hasty to go off in spring. We must first see what kind of drift the
summer brings. And as I think over it, I feel doubtful if it would be right to go off and
leave the others. Imagine if I came home and they did not! Yet it was to explore the
unknown polar regions that I came; it was for that the Norwegian people gave their
money; and surely my first duty is to do that if I can. I must give the drift plan a longer
trial yet; but if it takes us in a wrong direction, then there is nothing for it but to try the
other, come what may.

“Tuesday, January 16th. The ice is quiet to-day. Does longing stupefy one, or does it
wear itself out and turn at last into stolidity? Oh that burning longing night and day were
happiness! But now its fire has turned to ice. Why does home seem so far away? It is
one’s all; life without it is so empty, so empty—nothing but dead emptiness. Is it the
restlessness of spring that is beginning to come over one?—the desire for action, for
something different from this indolent, enervating life? Is the soul of man nothing but a
succession of moods and feelings, shifting as incalculably as the changing winds?
Perhaps my brain is over-tired; day and night my thoughts have turned on the one point,
the possibility of reaching the Pole and getting home. Perhaps it is rest I need—to sleep,
sleep! Am I afraid of venturing my life? No, it cannot be that. But what else, then, can be
keeping me back? Perhaps a secret doubt of the practicability of the plan. My mind is
confused; the whole thing has got into a tangle; I am a riddle to myself. I am worn out,
and yet I do not feel any special tiredness. Is it perhaps because I sat up reading last
night? Everything around is emptiness, and my brain is a blank. I look at the home
pictures and am moved by them in a curious, dull way; I look into the future, and feel as
if it does not much matter to me whether I get home in the autumn of this year or next.
So long as I get home in the end, a year or two seem almost nothing. I have never

thought this before. I have no inclination to read, nor to draw, nor to do anything else
whatever. Folly! Shall I try a few pages of Schopenhauer? No, I will go to bed, though I
am not sleepy. Perhaps, if the truth were known, I am longing now more than ever. The
only thing that helps me is writing, trying to express myself on these pages, and then
looking at myself, as it were, from the outside. Yes, man’s life is nothing but a
succession of moods, half memory and half hope.

“Thursday, January 18th. The wind that began yesterday has gone on blowing all to-day
with a velocity of 16 to 19 feet per second, from S.S.E., S.E., and E.S.E. It has no doubt
helped us on a good way north; but it seems to be going down; now, about midnight, it
has sunk to 4 metres; and the barometer, which has been rising all the time, has suddenly
begun to fall; let us hope that it is not a cyclone passing over us, bringing northerly
wind. It is curious that there is almost always a rise of the thermometer with these
stronger winds; to-day it rose to 13° Fahr. below zero (-25° C). A south wind of less
velocity generally lowers the temperature, and a moderate north wind raises it. Payer’s
explanation of this raising of the temperature by strong winds is that the wind is warmed
by passing over large openings in the ice. This can hardly be correct, at any rate in our
case, for we have few or no openings. I am rather inclined to believe that the rise is
produced by air from higher strata being brought down to the surface of the earth. It is
certain that the higher air is warmer than the lower, which comes into contact with snow
and ice surfaces cooled by radiation. Our observations go to prove that such is the case.
Add to this that the air in its fall is heated by the rising pressure. A strong wind, even if it
does not come from the higher strata of the atmosphere, must necessarily make some
confusion in the mutual position of the various strata, mixing the higher with those
below them, and vice versa.

“I had a strange dream last night. I had got home. I can still feel something of the
trembling joy, mixed with fear, with which I neared land and the first telegraph station. I
had carried out my plan; we had reached the North Pole on sledges, and then got down
to Franz Josef Land. I had seen nothing but drift-ice; and when people asked what it was
like up there, and how we knew we had been to the Pole, I had no answer to give; I had
forgotten to take accurate observations, and now began to feel that this had been stupid
of me. It is very curious that I had an exactly similar dream when we were drifting on the
ice-floes along the east coast of Greenland, and thought that we were being carried
farther and farther from our destination. Then I dreamed that I had reached home after
crossing Greenland on the ice; but that I was ashamed because I could give no account
of what I had seen on the way—I had forgotten everything. Is there not a lucky omen in
the resemblance between these two dreams? I attained my aim the first time, bad as
things looked; shall I not do so this time too? If I were superstitious I should feel surer of
it; but, even though I am not at all superstitious, I have a firm conviction that our
enterprise must be successful. This belief is not merely the result of the last two days’
south wind; something within me says that we shall succeed. I laugh now at myself for

having been weak enough to doubt it. I can spend hours staring into the light, dreaming
of how, when we land, I shall grope my way to the first telegraph station, trembling with
emotion and suspense. I write out telegram after telegram; I ask the clerk if he can give
me any news from home.

“Friday, January 19th. Splendid wind, with velocity of 13 to 19 feet per second; we are
going north at a grand rate. The red, glowing twilight is now so bright about midday that
if we were in more southern latitudes we should expect to see the sun rise bright and
glorious above the horizon in a few minutes; but we shall have to wait a month yet for
that.

“Saturday, January 20th. I had about 600 pounds of pemmican and 200 pounds of bread
brought up from the hold to-day and stowed on the forecastle. It is wrong not to have
some provisions on deck against any sudden emergency, such as fire.

“Sunday, January 21st. We took a long excursion to the northwest; the ice in that
direction, too, was tolerably flat. Sverdrup and I got on the top of a high-pressure mound
at some distance from here. It was in the centre of what had been very violent packing,
but, all the same, the wall at its highest was not over 17 feet, and this was one of the
highest and biggest altogether that I have seen yet. An altitude of the moon taken this
evening showed us to be in 79° 35′ north latitude—exactly what I had thought. We are so
accustomed now to calculating our drift by the wind that we are able to tell pretty nearly
where we are. This is a good step northward, if we could take many more such. In honor
of the King’s birthday we have a treat of figs, raisins, and almonds.

“Tuesday, January 23d. When I came on deck this morning ‘Caiaphas’ was sitting out on
the ice on the port quarter, barking incessantly to the east. I knew there must be
something there, and went off with a revolver, Sverdrup following with one also. When I
got near the dog he came to meet me, always wriggling his head round to the east and
barking; then he ran on before us in that direction; it was plain that there was some
animal there, and of course it could only be a bear. The full moon stood low and red in
the north, and sent its feeble light obliquely across the broken ice-surface. I looked out
sharply in all directions over the hummocks, which cast long, many-shaped shadows; but
I could distinguish nothing in this confusion. We went on, ‘Caiaphas’ first, growling and
barking and pricking his ears, and I after him, expecting every moment to see a bear
loom up in front of us. Our course was eastward along the opening. The dog presently
began to go more cautiously and straighter forward; then he stopped making any noise
except a low growl—we were evidently drawing near. I mounted a hummock to look
about, and caught sight among the blocks of ice of something dark, which seemed to be
coming towards us. ‘There comes a black dog,’ I called. ‘No, it is a bear,’ said Sverdrup,
who was more to the side of it and could see better. I saw now, too, that it was a large
animal, and that it had only been its head that I had taken for a dog. It was not unlike a

bear in its movements, but it seemed to me remarkably dark in color. I pulled the
revolver out of the holster and rushed forward to empty all its barrels into the creature’s
head. When I was just a few paces from it, and preparing to shoot, it raised its head and I
saw that it was a walrus, and that same moment it threw itself sideways into the water.
There we stood. To shoot at such a fellow with a revolver would be of as much use as
squirting water at a goose. The great black head showed again immediately in a strip of
moonlight on the dark water. The animal took a long look at us, disappeared for a little,
appeared again nearer, bobbed up and down, blew, lay with its head under water, shoved
itself over towards us, raised its head again. It was enough to drive one mad; if we had
only had a harpoon I could easily have stuck it into its back. Yes, if we had had—and
back to the Fram we ran as fast as our legs would carry us to get harpoon and rifle. But
the harpoon and line were stored away, and were not to be had at once. Who could have
guessed that they would be needed here? The harpoon point had to be sharpened, and all
this took time. And for all our searching afterwards east and west along the opening, no
walrus was to be found. Goodness knows where it had gone, as there are hardly any
openings in the ice for a long distance round. Sverdrup and I vainly fret over not having
known at once what kind of animal it was, for if we had only guessed we should have
him now. But who expects to meet a walrus on close ice in the middle of a wild sea of a
thousand fathoms depth, and that in the heart of winter? None of us ever heard of such a
thing before; it is a perfect mystery. As I thought we might have come upon shoals or
into the neighborhood of land, I had soundings taken in the afternoon with 130 fathoms
(240 metres) of line, but no bottom was found.

“By yesterday’s observations we are in 79° 41′ north latitude and 135° 29′ east
longitude. That is good progress north, and it does not much matter that we have been
taken a little west. The clouds are driving this evening before a strong south wind, so we
shall likely be going before it soon too; in the meantime there is a breeze from the south
so slight that you hardly feel it.

“The opening on our stern lies almost east and west. We could see no end to it westward
when we went after the walrus; and Mogstad and Peter had gone three miles east, and it
was as broad as ever there.

“Wednesday, January 24th. At supper this evening Peter told some of his remarkable
Spitzbergen stories—about his comrade Andreas Bek. ‘Well, you see, it was up about
Dutchman’s Island, or Amsterdam Island, that Andreas Bek and I were on shore and got
in among all the graves. We thought we’d like to see what was in them, so we broke up
some of the coffins, and there they lay. Some of them had still flesh on their jaws and
noses, and some of them still had their caps on their heads. Andreas, he was a devil of a
fellow, you see, and he broke up the coffins and got hold of the skulls, and rolled them
about here and there. Some of them he set up for targets and shot at. Then he wanted to

see if there was marrow left in their bones, so he took and broke a thigh-bone—and, sure
enough, there was marrow; he took and picked it out with a wooden pin.’

“‘How could he do a thing like that?’

“‘Oh, it was only a Dutchman, you know. But he had a bad dream that night, had
Andreas. All the dead men came to fetch him, and he ran from them and got right out on
the bowsprit, and there he sat and yelled, while the dead men stood on the forecastle.
And the one with his broken thigh-bone in his hand was foremost, and he came crawling
out, and wanted Andreas to put it together again. But just then he wakened. We were
lying in the same berth, you see, Andreas and me, and I sat up in the berth and laughed,
listening to him yelling. I wouldn’t waken him, not I. I thought it was fun to hear him
getting paid out a little.’

“‘It was bad of you, Peter, to have any part in that horrid plundering of dead bodies.’

“‘Oh, I never did anything to them, you know. Just once I broke up a coffin to get wood
to make a fire for our coffee; but when we opened it the body just fell to pieces. But it
was juicy wood, that, better to burn than the best fir-roots—such a fire as it made!’

“One of the others now remarked, ‘Wasn’t it the devil that used a skull for his coffee-
cup?’

“‘Well, he hadn’t anything else, you see, and he just happened to find one. There was no
harm in that, was there?’

“Then Jacobsen began to hold forth: ‘It’s not at all such an uncommon thing to use skulls
for shooting at, either because people fancy them for targets, or because of some other
reason; they shoot in through the eyeholes,’ etc., etc.

“I asked Peter about ‘Tobiesen’s’ coffin—if it had ever been dug up to find out if it was
true that his men had killed him and his son.

“‘No, that one has never been dug up.’

“‘I sailed past there last year,’ begins Jacobsen again; ‘I didn’t go ashore, but it seems to
me that I heard that it had been dug up.’

“‘That’s just rubbish; it has never been dug up.’

“‘Well,’ said I, ‘it seems to me that I’ve heard something about it too; I believe it was
here on board, and I am very much mistaken if it was not yourself that said it, Peter.’

“‘No, I never said that. All I said was that a man once struck a walrus-spear through the
coffin, and it’s sticking there yet.’

“‘What did he do that for?’

“‘Oh, just because he wanted to know if there was anything in the coffin; and yet he
didn’t want to open it, you know. But let him lie in peace now.’”

“Friday January 26th. Peter and I went eastward along the opening this morning for
about seven miles, and we saw where it ends, in some old pressure-ridges; its whole
length is over seven miles. Movement in the ice began on our way home; indeed, there
was pretty strong pressure all the time. As we were walking on the new ice in the
opening it rose in furrows or cracked under our feet. Then it raised itself up into two
high walls, between which we walked as if along a street, amidst unceasing noises,
sometimes howling and whining like a dog complaining of the cold, sometimes a roar
like the thunder of a great waterfall. We were often obliged to take refuge on the old ice,
either because we came to open water with a confusion of floating blocks, or because the
line of the packing had gone straight across the opening, and there was a wall in front of
us like a high frozen wave. It seemed as if the ice on the south side of the opening where
the Fram is lying were moving east, or else that on the north side was moving west; for
the floes on the two sides slanted in towards each other in these directions. We saw
tracks of a little bear which had trotted along the opening the day before. Unfortunately
it had gone off southwest, and we had small hope, with this steady south wind, of its
getting scent of the ship and coming to fetch a little of the flesh on board.

“Saturday, January 27th. The days are turning distinctly lighter now. We can just see to
read Verdens Gang14 about midday. At that time to-day Sverdrup thought he saw land far
astern; it was dark and irregular, in some places high; he fancied that it might be only an
appearance of clouds. When I returned from a walk, about 1 o’clock, I went up to look,
but saw only piled-up ice. Perhaps this was the same as he saw, or possibly I was too
late. (It turned out next day to be only an optical illusion.) Severe pressure has been
going on this evening. It began at 7.30 astern in the opening, and went on steadily for
two hours. It sounded as if a roaring waterfall were rushing down upon us with a force
that nothing could resist. One heard the big floes crashing and breaking against each
other. They were flung and pressed up into high walls, which must now stretch along the
whole opening east and west, for one hears the roar the whole way. It is coming nearer
just now; the ship is getting violent shocks; it is like waves in the ice. They come on us
from behind, and move forward. We stare out into the night, but can see nothing, for it is
pitch-dark. Now I hear cracking and shifting in the hummock on the starboard quarter; it
gets louder and stronger, and extends steadily. At last the waterfall roar abates a little. It
becomes more unequal; there is a longer interval between each shock. I am so cold that I
creep below.

“But no sooner have I seated myself to write than the ship begins to heave and tremble
again, and I hear through her sides the roar of the packing. As the bear-trap may be in
danger, three men go off to see to it, but they find that there is a distance of 50 paces
between the new pressure-ridge and the wire by which the trap is secured, so they leave
it as it is. The pressure-ridge was an ugly sight, they say, but they could distinguish
nothing well in the dark.

“Most violent pressure is beginning again. I must go on deck and look at it. The loud
roar meets one as one opens the door. It is coming from the bow now, as well as from the
stern. It is clear that pressure-ridges are being thrown up in both openings, so if they
reach us we shall be taken by both ends and lifted lightly and gently out of the water.
There is pressure near us on all sides. Creaking has begun in the old hummock on the
port quarter; it is getting louder, and, so far as I can see, the hummock is slowly rising. A
lane has opened right across the large floe on the port side; you can see the water, dark as
it is. Now both pressure and noise get worse and worse; the ship shakes, and I feel as if I
myself were being gently lifted with the stern-rail, where I stand gazing out at the welter
of ice-masses that resemble giant snakes writhing and twisting their great bodies out
there under the quiet, starry sky, whose peace is only broken by one aurora serpent
waving and flickering restlessly in the northeast. I once more think what a comfort it is
to be safe on board the Fram, and look out with a certain contempt at the horrible hurly-
burly Nature is raising to no purpose whatever; it will not crush us in a hurry, nor even
frighten us. Suddenly I remember that my fine thermometer is in a hole on a floe to port
on the other side of the opening, and must certainly be in danger. I jump on to the ice,
find a place where I can leap across the opening, and grope about in the dark until I find
the piece of ice covering the hole; I get hold of the string, and the thermometer is saved.
I hurry on board again well pleased, and down into my comfortable cabin to smoke a
pipe of peace—alas! this vice grows upon me more and more—and to listen with glee to
the roar of the pressure outside and feel its shakings, like so many earthquakes, as I sit
and write my diary. Safe and comfortable, I cannot but think with deep pity of the many
who have had to stand by on deck in readiness to leave their frail vessels on the
occurrence of any such pressure. The poor Tegethoff fellows—they had a bad time of it,
and yet theirs was a good ship in comparison with many of the others. It is now 11.30,
and the noise outside seems to be subsiding.

“It is remarkable that we should have this strong pressure just now, with the moon in its
last quarter and neap tide. This does not agree with our previous experiences; no more
does the fact that the pressure the day before yesterday was from 12 A.M. to about 2
P.M., and then again at 2 A.M., and now we have had it from 7.30 to 10.30 P.M. Can
land have something to do with it here, after all? The temperature to-day is 42° Fahr.
below zero (-41.4° C), but there is no wind, and we have not had such pleasant weather
for walking for a long time; it feels almost mild here when the air is still.

“No, that was not the end of the pressure. When I was on deck at a quarter to twelve
roaring and trembling began again in the ice forward on the port quarter; then suddenly
came one loud boom after another, sounding out in the distance, and the ship gave a
start; there was again a little pressure, and after that quietness. Faint aurora borealis.

“Sunday, January 28th. Strange to say, there has been no pressure since 12 o’clock last
night; the ice seems perfectly quiet. The pressure-ridge astern showed what violent
packing yesterday’s was; in one place its height was 18 or 19 feet above the surface of
the water; floe-ice 8 feet thick was broken, pressed up in square blocks, and crushed to
pieces. At one point a huge monolith of such floe-ice rose high into the air. Beyond this
pressure-wall there was no great disturbance to be detected. There had been a little
packing here and there, and the floe to port had four or five large cracks across it, which
no doubt accounted for the explosions I heard last night. The ice to starboard was also
cracked in several places. The pressure had evidently come from the north or N.N.E. The
ridge behind us is one of the highest I have seen yet. I believe that if the Fram had been
lying there she would have been lifted right out of the water. I walked for some distance
in a northeasterly direction, but saw no signs of pressure there.

“Another Sunday. It is wonderful that the time can pass so quickly as it does. For one
thing we are in better spirits, knowing that we are drifting steadily north. A rough
estimate of to-day’s observation gives 79° 50′ north latitude. That is not much since
Monday; but then yesterday and to-day there has been almost no wind at all, and the
other days it has been very light—only once or twice with as much as 9 feet velocity, the
rest of the time 3 and 6.

“A remarkable event happened yesterday afternoon: I got Munthe’s picture of the ‘Three
Princesses’ fastened firmly on the wall. It is a thing that we have been going to do ever
since we left Christiania, but we have never been able to summon up energy for such a
heavy undertaking—it meant knocking in four nails—and the picture has amused itself
by constantly falling and guillotining whoever happened to be sitting on the sofa below
it.

“Tuesday, January 30th. 79° 49′ north latitude, 134° 57′ east longitude, is the tale told by
this afternoon’s observations, while by Sunday afternoon’s we were in 79° 50′ north
latitude, and 133° 23′ east longitude. This fall-off to the southeast again was not more
than I had expected, as it has been almost calm since Sunday. I explain the thing to
myself thus: When the ice has been set adrift in a certain direction by the wind blowing
that way for some time it gradually in process of drifting becomes more compressed, and
when that wind dies away a reaction in the opposite direction takes place. Such a
reaction must, I believe, have been the cause of Saturday’s pressure, which stopped
entirely as suddenly as it began. Since then there has not been the slightest appearance of
movement in the ice. Probably the pressure indicates the time when the drift turned. A

light breeze has sprung up this afternoon from S.E. and E.S.E., increasing gradually to
almost ‘mill wind.’ We are going north again; surely we shall get the better of the 80th
degree this time.

“Wednesday, January 31st. The wind is whistling among the hummocks; the snow flies
rustling through the air; ice and sky are melted into one. It is dark; our skins are smarting
with the cold; but we are going north at full speed, and are in the wildest of gay spirits.

“Thursday, February 1st. The same sort of weather as yesterday, except that it has turned
quite mild—7½° Fahr. below zero (-22° C.). The snow is falling exactly as it does in
winter weather at home. The wind is more southerly, S.S.E. now, and rather lighter. It
may be taken for granted that we have passed the 80th degree, and we had a small
preliminary fête this evening—figs, raisins, and almonds—and dart-shooting, which last
resulted for me in a timely replenishment of my cigarette-case.”

“Friday, February 2d. High festival to-day in honor of the 80th degree, beginning with
fresh rye-bread and cake for breakfast. Took a long walk to get up an appetite for dinner.
According to this morning’s observation, we are in 80° 10′ north latitude and 132° 10′
east longitude. Hurrah! Well sailed! I had offered to bet heavily that we had passed 80°,
but no one would take the bet. Dinner menu: Ox-tail soup, fish-pudding, potatoes,
rissoles, green pease, haricot beans, cloudberries with milk, and a whole bottle of beer to
each man. Coffee and a cigarette after dinner. Could one wish for more? In the evening
we had tinned pears and peaches, gingerbread, dried bananas, figs, raisins, and almonds.
Complete holiday all day. We read aloud the discussions of this expedition published
before we left, and had some good laughs at the many objections raised. But our people
at home, perhaps, do not laugh if they read them now.

“Monday, February 5th. Last time we shall have Ringnes beer at dinner. Day of
mourning.

“Tuesday, February 6th. Calm, clear weather. A strong sun-glow above the horizon in the
south; yellow, green, and light blue above that; all the rest of the sky deep ultramarine. I
stood looking at it, trying to remember if the Italian sky was ever bluer; I do not think so.
It is curious that this deep color should always occur along with cold. Is it perhaps that a
current from more northerly, clear regions produces drier and more transparent air in the
upper strata? The color was so remarkable to-day that one could not help noticing it.
Striking contrasts to it were formed by the Fram’s red deck-house and the white snow on
roof and rigging. Ice and hummocks were quite violet wherever they were turned from
the daylight. This color was specially strong over the fields of snow upon the floes. The
temperature has been 52° Fahr. and 54° Fahr. below zero (-47° and -48° C.). There is a
sudden change of 125° Fahr. when one comes up from the saloon, where the
thermometer is at 72° Fahr. (+22° C.); but, although thinly clad and bareheaded, one

does not feel it cold, and can even with impunity take hold of the brass door-handle or
the steel cable of the rigging. The cold is visible, however; one’s breath is like cannon
smoke before it is out of one’s mouth; and when a man spits there is quite a little cloud
of steam round the fallen moisture. The Fram always gives off a mist, which is carried
along by the wind, and a man or a dog can be detected far off among the hummocks or
pressure-ridges by the pillar of vapor that follows his progress.

“Wednesday, February 7th. It is extraordinary what a frail thing hope, or rather the mind
of man, is. There was a little breeze this morning from the N.N.E., only 6 feet per
second, thermometer at 57° Fahr. below zero (-49.6° C.), and immediately one’s brow is
clouded over, and it becomes a matter of indifference how we get home, so long as we
only get home soon. I immediately assume land to the northward, from which come
these cold winds, with clear atmosphere and frost and bright blue skies, and conclude
that this extensive tract of land must form a pole of cold with a constant maximum of
air-pressure, which will force us south with northeast winds. About midday the air began
to grow more hazy and my mood less gloomy. No doubt there is a south wind coming,
but the temperature is still too low for it. Then the temperature, too, rises, and now we
can rely on the wind. And this evening it came, sure enough, from S.S.W., and now, 12
P.M., its velocity is 11 feet, and the temperature has risen to 43° Fahr. below zero ( -42°
C.). This promises well. We should soon reach 81°. The land to the northward has now
vanished from my mind’s eye.

“We had lime-juice with sugar at dinner to-day instead of beer, and it seemed to be
approved of. We call it wine, and we agreed that it was better than cider. Weighing has
gone on this evening, and the increase in certain cases is still disquieting. Some have
gained as much as 4 pounds in the last month—for instance, Sverdrup, Blessing, and
Juell, who beats the record on board with 13 stone. ‘I never weighed so much as I do
now,’ says Blessing, and it is much the same story with us all. Yes, this is a fatiguing
expedition, but our menus are always in due proportion to our labors. To-day’s dinner:
Knorr’s bean soup, toad-in-the-hole, potatoes, rice and milk, with cranberry jam.
Yesterday’s dinner: Fish au gratin (hashed fish) with potatoes, curried rabbit with
potatoes and French beans, stewed bilberries, and cranberries with milk. At breakfast
yesterday we had freshly baked wheat-bread, at breakfast to-day freshly baked rye-
bread. These are specimens of our ordinary bills of fare. It is as I expected: I hear the
wind roaring in the rigging now; it is going to be a regular storm, according to our ideas
of one here.

“Saturday, February 10th. Though that wind the other day did not come to much after
all, we still hoped that we had made good way north, and it was consequently an
unwelcome surprise when yesterday’s observation showed our latitude to be 79° 57′ N.,
13′ farther south instead of farther north. It is extraordinary how little inured one gets to
disappointments; the longing begins again; and again attainment seems so far off, so

doubtful. And this though I dream at nights just now of getting out of the ice west of
Iceland. Hope is a rickety craft to trust one’s self to. I had a long, successful drive with
the dogs to-day.

“Sunday, February 11th. To-day we drove out with two teams of dogs. Things went well;
the sledges got on much better over this ice than I thought they would. They do not sink
much in the snow. On flat ice four dogs can draw two men.

“Tuesday, February 13th. A long drive southwest yesterday with white dogs. To-day still
farther in the same direction on snow-shoes. It is good healthy exercise, with a
temperature of 43° Fahr. to 47° Fahr. below zero (-42° and -44° C.) and a biting north
wind. Nature is so fair and pure, the ice is so spotless, and the lights and shadows of the
growing day so beautiful on the new-fallen snow. The Fram’s hoar-frost-covered rigging
rises straight and white with rime towards the sparkling blue sky. One’s thoughts turn to
the snow-shoeing days at home.

“Thursday, February 15th. I went yesterday on snow-shoes farther northeast than I have
ever been before, but I could still see the ship’s rigging above the edge of the ice. I was
able to go fast, because the ice was flat in that direction. To-day I went the same way
with dogs. I am examining the ‘lie of the land’ all round, and thinking of plans for the
future.

“What exaggerated reports of the Arctic cold are in circulation! It was cold in Greenland,
and it is not milder here; the general day temperature just now is about 40° Fahr. and 43°
Fahr. below zero. I was clothed yesterday as usual as regards the legs—drawers,
knickerbockers, stockings, frieze leggings, snow-socks, and moccasins; my body
covering consisted of an ordinary shirt, a wolf-skin cape, and a sealskin jacket, and I
sweated like a horse. To-day I sat still, driving with only thin ducks above my ordinary
leg wear, and on my body woollen shirt, vest, Iceland woollen jersey, a frieze coat, and a
sealskin one. I found the temperature quite pleasant, and even perspired a little to-day,
too. Both yesterday and to-day I had a red-flannel mask on my face, but it made me too
warm, and I had to take it off, though there was a bitter breeze from the north. That north
wind is still persistent, sometimes with a velocity of 9 or even 13 feet, but yet we do not
seem to be drifting south; we lie in 80° north latitude, or even a few minutes farther
north. What can be the reason of this? There is a little pressure every day just now.
Curious that it should again occur at the moon’s change of quarter. The moon stands
high in the sky, and there is daylight now, too. Soon the sun will be making his
appearance, and when he does we shall hold high festival.

First appearance of the sun

“Friday, February 16th. Hurrah! A meridian observation to-day shows 80° 1′ north
latitude, so that we have come a few minutes north since last Friday, and that in spite of
constant northerly winds since Monday. There is something very singular about this. Is
it, as I have thought all along from the appearance of the clouds and the haziness of the
air, that there has been south wind in the south, preventing the drift of the ice that way,
or have we at last come under the influence of a current? That shove we got to the south
lately in the face of southerly winds was a remarkable thing, and so is our remaining
where we are now in spite of the northerly ones. It would seem that new powers of some
kind must be at work. “To-day another noteworthy thing happened, which was that about
midday we saw the sun, or, to be more correct, an image of the sun, for it was only a
mirage. A peculiar impression was produced by the sight of that glowing fire lit just
above the outermost edge of the ice. According to the enthusiastic descriptions given by
many Arctic travellers of the first appearance of this god of life after the long winter
night, the impression ought to be one of jubilant excitement; but it was not so in my
case. We had not expected to see it for some days yet, so that my feeling was rather one
of pain, of disappointment, that we must have drifted farther south than we thought. So it
was with pleasure I soon discovered that it could not be the sun itself. The mirage was at
first like a flattened-out glowing red streak of fire on the horizon; later there were two
streaks, the one above the other, with a dark space between; and from the main-top I
could see four, or even five, such horizontal lines directly over one another, and all of
equal length; as if one could only imagine a square dull-red sun with horizontal dark
streaks across it. An astronomical observation we took in the afternoon showed that the

sun must in reality have been 2° 22′ below the horizon at noon; we cannot expect to see
its disk above the ice before Tuesday at the earliest: it depends on the refraction, which is
very strong in this cold air. All the same, we had a small sun-festival this evening, on the
occasion of the appearance of its image—a treat of figs, bananas, raisins, almonds, and
gingerbread.

“Sunday, February 18th. I went eastward yesterday on snow-shoes, and found a good
snow-shoeing and driving road out to the flats that lie in that direction. There is a pretty
bad bit first, with hummocks and pressure-ridges, and then you come out on these great
wide plains, which seem to extend for miles and miles to the north, east, and southeast.
To-day I drove out there with eight dogs; the driving goes capitally now; some of the
others followed on snow-shoes. Still northerly wind. This is slow work; but anyhow we
are having clear, bright weather. Yes, it is all very well—we snow-shoe, sledge, read
both for instruction and amusement, write, take observations, play cards, chat, smoke,
play chess, eat and drink; but all the same it is an execrable life in the long-run, this—at
least, so it seems to me at times. When I look at the picture of our beautiful home in the
evening light, with my wife standing in the garden, I feel as if it were impossible that
this could go on much longer. But only the merciless fates know when we shall stand
there together again, feeling all life’s sweetness as we look out over the smiling fjord,
and ... Taking everything into calculation, if I am to be perfectly honest, I think this is a
wretched state of matters. We are now in about 80° north latitude, in September we were
in 79°; that is, let us say, one degree for five months. If we go on at this rate we shall be
at the Pole in forty-five, or say fifty, months, and in ninety or one hundred months at 80°
north latitude on the other side of it, with probably some prospect of getting out of the
ice and home in a month or two more. At best, if things go on as they are doing now, we
shall be home in eight years. I remember Brogger writing before I left, when I was
planting small bushes and trees in the garden for future generations, that no one knew
what length of shadows these trees would cast by the time I came back. Well, they are
lying under the winter snow now, but in spring they will shoot and grow again—how
often? Oh! at times this inactivity crushes one’s very soul; one’s life seems as dark as the
winter night outside; there is sunlight upon no part of it except the past and the far, far
distant future. I feel as if I must break through this deadness, this inertia, and find some
outlet for my energies. Can’t something happen? Could not a hurricane come and tear up
this ice, and set it rolling in high waves like the open sea? Welcome danger, if it only
brings us the chance of fighting for our lives—only lets us move onward! The miserable
thing is to be inactive onlookers, not to be able to lift a hand to help ourselves forward. It
wants ten times more strength of mind to sit still and trust in your theories and let nature
work them out without your being able so much as to lay one stick across another to
help, than it does to trust in working them out by your own energy—that is nothing when
you have a pair of strong arms. Here I sit, whining like an old woman. Did I not know all
this before I started? Things have not gone worse than I expected, but, on the contrary,
rather better. Where is now the serene hopefulness that spread itself in the daylight and

the sun? Where are those proud imaginings now that mounted like young eagles towards
the brightness of the future? Like broken-winged, wet crows they leave the sunlit sea,
and hide themselves in the misty marshes of despondency. Perhaps it will all come back
again with the south wind; but, no—I must go and rummage up one of the old
philosophers again.

“There is a little pressure this evening, and an observation just taken seems to indicate a
drift of 3′ south.

“11 P.M. Pressure in the opening astern. The ice is cracking and squeezing against the
ship, making it shake.

“Monday, February 19th. Once more it may be said that the night is darkest just before
the dawn. Wind began to blow from the south to-day, and has reached a velocity of 13
feet per second. We did some ice-boring this morning, and found that the ice to port is 5
feet 11–⅝ inches (1.875 metres) thick, with a layer of about 1½ inches of snow over it.
The ice forward was 6 feet 7½ inches (2.08 metres) thick, but a couple of inches of this
was snow. This cannot be called much growth for quite a month, when one thinks that
the temperature has been down to 58° Fahr. below zero.

“Both to-day and yesterday we have seen the mirage of the sun again; to-day it was high
above the horizon, and almost seemed to assume a round, disk-like form. Some of the
others maintain that they have seen the upper edge of the sun itself; Peter and Bentzen,
that they have seen at least half of the disk, and Juell and Hansen declare that the whole
of it was above the horizon. I am afraid it is so long since they saw it that they have
forgotten what it is like.

“Tuesday, February 20th. Great sun festival to-day without any sun. We felt certain we
should see it, but there were clouds on the horizon. However, we were not going to be
cheated out of our festival; we can hold another on the occasion of really seeing it for the
first time. We began with a grand rifle practice in the morning; then there was a dinner of
three or four courses and ‘Fram wine,’ otherwise lime-juice, coffee afterwards with
‘Fram cake.’ In the evening pineapple, cake, figs, bananas, and sweets. We go off to bed
feeling that we have over-eaten ourselves, while half a gale from the S.E. is blowing us
northward. The mill has been going to-day, and though the real sun did not come to the
festival, our saloon sun lighted up our table both at dinner and supper. Great face-
washing in honor of the day. The way we are laying on flesh is getting serious. Several
of us are like prize pigs, and the bulge of cook Juell’s cheeks, not to mention another part
of his body, is quite alarming. I saw him in profile to-day, and wondered how he would
ever manage to carry such a corporation over the ice if we should have to turn out one of
these fine days. Must begin to think of a course of short rations now.

“Wednesday, February 21st. The south wind continues. Took up the bag-nets to-day
which were put out the day before yesterday. In the upper one, which hung near the
surface, there were chiefly amphipoda; in Murray’s net, which hung at about 50 fathoms’
depth, there was a variety of small crustacea and other small animals shining with such a
strong phosphorescence that the contents of the net looked like glowing embers as I
emptied them out in the cook’s galley by lamplight. To my astonishment the net-line
pointed northwest, though from the wind there ought to be a good northerly drift. To
clear this matter up I let the net down in the afternoon, and as soon as it got a little way
under the ice the line pointed northwest again, and continued to do so the whole
afternoon. How is this phenomenon to be explained? Can we, after all, be in a current
moving northwest? Let us hope that the future will prove such to be the case. We can
reckon on two points of variation in the compass, and in that case the current would
make due N.N.W. There seems to be strong movement in the ice. It has opened and
formed channels in several places.

Diagrams of ice with layers

“Thursday, February 22d. The net-line has pointed west all day till now, afternoon, when
it is pointing straight up and down, and we are presumably lying still. The wind
slackened to-day till it was quite calm in the afternoon. Then there came a faint breeze
from the southwest and from the west, and this evening the long-dreaded northwester
has come at last. At 9 P.M. it is blowing pretty hard from N.N.W. An observation of
Capella taken in the afternoon would seem to show that we are in any case not farther
north than 80° 11′ and this after almost four days’ south wind. Whatever can be the
meaning of this? Is there dead-water under the ice, keeping it from going either forward
or backward? The ice to starboard cracked yesterday, away beyond the bear-trap. The

thickness of the solid floe was 11½ feet (3.45 metres), but, besides this, other ice was
packed on to it below. Where it was broken across, the floe showed a marked stratified
formation, recalling the stratification of a glacier. Even the darker and dirtier strata were
there, the color in this case produced by the brownish-red organisms that inhabit the
water, specimens of which I found at an earlier date. In several places the strata were
bent and broken, exactly in the same manner as the geological strata forming the earth’s
crust. This was evidently the result of the horizontal pressure in the ice at the time of
packing. It was especially noticeable at one place, near a huge mound formed during the
last pressure. Here the strata looked very much as they are represented in the annexed
drawing.15

It was extraordinary too to see how this floe of over three yards in thickness was bent
into great waves without breaking. This was clearly done by pressure, and was specially
noticeable, more particularly near the pressure-ridges, which had forced the floe down so
that its upper surface lay even with the water-line, while at other places it was a good
half-yard above it, in these last cases thrust up by ice pressed in below. It all shows how
extremely plastic these floes are, in spite of the cold; the temperature of the ice near the
surface must have been from 4° Fahr. to 22° Fahr. below zero (-20° to -30° C.) at the
time of these pressures. In many places the bending had been too violent, and the floe
had cracked. The cracks were often covered with loose ice, so that one could easily
enough fall into them, just as in crossing a dangerous glacier.

“Saturday, February 24th. Observations to-day show us to be in 79° 54′ north latitude,
132° 57′ east longitude. Strange that we should have come so far south when the north or
northwest wind only blew for twenty-four hours.

“Sunday, February 25th. It looks as if the ice were drifting eastward now. Oh! I see
pictures of summer and green trees and rippling streams. I am reading of valley and
mountain life, and I grow sick at heart and enervated. Why dwell on such things just
now? It will be many a long day before we can see all that again. We are going at the
miserable pace of a snail, but not so surely as it goes. We carry our house with us; but
what we do one day is undone the next.

“Monday, February 26th. We are drifting northeast. A tremendous snow-storm is going
on. The wind has at times a velocity of over 35 feet per second; it is howling in the
rigging, whistling over the ice, and the snow is drifting so badly that a man might be lost
in it quite near at hand. We are sitting here listening to the howling in the chimney and in
the ventilators, just as if we were sitting in a house at home in Norway. The wings of the
windmill have been going round at such a rate that you could hardly distinguish them;
but we have had to stop the mill this evening because the accumulators are full, and we
fastened up the wings so that the wind might not destroy them. We have had electric
light for almost a week now.

“This is the strongest wind we have had the whole winter. If anything can shake up the
ice and drive us north, this must do it. But the barometer is falling too fast; there will be
north wind again presently. Hope has been disappointed too often; it is no longer elastic;
and the gale makes no great impression on me. I look forward to spring and summer, in
suspense as to what change they will bring. But the Arctic night, the dreaded Arctic
night, is over, and we have daylight once again. I must say that I see no appearance of
the sunken, wasted faces which this night ought to have produced; in the clearest
daylight and the brightest sunshine I can only discover plump, comfortable-looking
ones. It is curious enough, though, about the light. We used to think it was like real day
down here when the incandescent lamps were burning; but now, coming down from the
daylight, though they may be all lit, it is like coming into a cellar. When the arc lamp has
been burning all day, as it has to-day, and is then put out and its place supplied by the
incandescent ones, the effect is much the same.

“Tuesday, February 27th. Drifting E.S.E. My pessimism is justified. A strong west wind
has blown almost all day; the barometer is low, but has begun to rise unsteadily. The
temperature is the highest we have had all winter; to-day’s maximum is 15° Fahr. above
zero (-9.7° C.). At 8 P.M. the thermometer stood at 7° Fahr. below zero (-22° C.). The
temperature rises and falls almost exactly conversely with the barometer. This
afternoon’s observation places us in about 80° 10′ north latitude.

“Wednesday, February 28th. Beautiful weather to-day, almost still, and temperature only
about 15° Fahr. to 22° Fahr. below zero (-26° to -30° 5′ C.). There were clouds in the
south, so that not much was to be seen of the sun; but it is light wonderfully long
already. Sverdrup and I went snow-shoeing after dinner—the first time this year that we
have been able to do anything of the kind in the afternoon. We made attempts to pump
yesterday and to-day; there ought to be a little water, but the pump would not suck,
though we tried both warm water and salt. Possibly there is water frozen round it, and
possibly there is no water at all. In the engine-room there has been no appearance of
water for more than a month, and none comes into the forehold, especially now that the
bow is raised up by the pack-ice; so if there is any it can only be a little in the hold. This
tightening may be attributed chiefly to the frost.

“The wind has begun to blow again from the S.S.W. this evening, and the barometer is
falling, which ought to mean good wind coming; but the barometer of hope does not rise
above its normal height. I had a bath this evening in a tin tub in the galley; trimmed and
clean, one feels more of a human being.

“Thursday, March 1st. We are lying almost still. Beautiful mild weather, only 2½° Fahr.
below zero (-19° C.), sky overcast; light fall of snow, and light wind. We made attempts
to sound to-day, having lengthened our hemp line with a single strand of steel. This
broke off with the lead. We put on a new lead and the whole line ran out, about 2000

fathoms, without touching bottom, so far as we could make out. In process of hauling in,
the steel line broke again. So the results are: no bottom, and two sounding-leads, each of
100 pounds’ weight, making their way down. Goodness knows if they have reached the
bottom yet. I declare I feel inclined to believe that Bentzen is right, and that it is the hole
at the earth’s axis we are trying to sound.

“Friday, March 2d. The pups have lived until now in the chart-room, and have done all
the mischief there that they could, gnawing the cases of Hansen’s instruments, the log-
books, etc. They were taken out on deck yesterday for the first time, and to-day they
have been there all the morning. They are of an inquiring turn of mind, and examine
everything, being specially interested in the interiors of all the kennels in this new, large
town.

“Sunday, March 4th. The drift is still strong south. There is northwesterly wind to-day
again, but not quite so much of it. I expected we had come a long way south, but
yesterday’s observation still showed 79° 54′ north latitude. We must have drifted a good
way north during the last days before this wind came. The weather yesterday and to-day
has been bitter, 35° Fahr. and 36½° Fahr. below zero (-37° and -38° C.), with sometimes
as much as 35 feet of wind per second, must be called cool. It is curious that now the
northerly winds bring cold, and the southerly warmth. Earlier in the winter it was just the
opposite.

“Monday, March 5th. Sverdrup and I have been a long way northeast on snow-shoes.
The ice was in good condition for it; the wind has tossed about the snow finely, covering
over the pressure-ridge as far as the scanty supply of material has permitted.

“Tuesday, March 6th. No drift at all. It has been a bitter day to-day, 47° Fahr. to 50°
Fahr. below zero (-44° to -46° C.), and wind up to 19 feet. This has been a good occasion
for getting hands and face frost-bitten, and one or two have taken advantage of it. Steady
northwest wind. I am beginning to get indifferent and stolid as far as the wind is
concerned. I photographed Johansen to-day at the anemometer, and during the process
his nose was frost-bitten.

“There has been a general weighing this evening again. These weighings are considered
very interesting performances, and we stand watching in suspense to see whether each
man has gained or lost. Most of them have lost a little this time. Can it be because we
have stopped drinking beer and begun lime-juice? But Juell goes on indefatigably—he
has gained nearly a pound this time. Our doctor generally does very well in this line too,
but to-day it is only 10 ounces. In other ways he is badly off on board, poor fellow—not
a soul will turn ill. In despair he set up a headache yesterday himself, but he could not
make it last over the night. Of late he has taken to studying the diseases of dogs; perhaps
he may find a more profitable practice in this department.

“Thursday, March 8th. Drifting south. Sverdrup and I had a good snow-shoeing trip to-
day, to the north and west. The snow was in splendid condition after the winds; you fly
along like thistledown before a breeze, and can get about everywhere, even over the
worst pressure-mounds. The weather was beautiful, temperature only 38° Fahr. below
zero (-39° C.); but this evening it is quite bitter again, 55° Fahr. (-48.5° C.) and from 16
to 26 feet of wind. It is by no means pleasant work standing up on the windmill, reefing
or taking in the sails; it means aching nails, and sometimes frost-bitten cheeks; but it has
to be done, and it is done. There is plenty of ‘mill-wind’ in the daytime now—this is the
third week we have had electric light—but it is wretched that it should be always this
north and northwest wind; goodness only knows when it is going to stop. Can there be
land north of us? We are drifting badly south. It is hard to keep one’s faith alive. There is
nothing for it but to wait and see what time will do.

“After a long rest the ship got a shake this afternoon. I went on deck. Pressure was going
on in an opening just in front of the bow. We might almost have expected it just now, as
it is new moon; only we have got out of the way of thinking at all about the spring tides,
as they have had so little effect lately. They should of course be specially strong just
now, as the equinox is approaching.

Johansen reading the anemometer

(From a photograph)

“Friday, March 9th. The net-line pointed slightly southwest this morning; but the line
attached to a cheese which was only hanging a few fathoms below the ice to thaw faster,
seemed to point in the opposite direction. Had we got a southerly current together with
the wind now? H’m! in that case something must come of it! Or was it, perhaps, only the
tide setting that way?

“Still the same northerly wind; we are steadily bearing south. This, then, is the change I
hoped the March equinox would bring! We have been having northerly winds for more

than a fortnight. I cannot conceal from myself any longer that I am beginning to
despond. Quietly and slowly, but mercilessly, one hope after the other is being crushed
and ... have I not a right to be a little despondent? I long unutterably after home, perhaps
I am drifting away farther from it, perhaps nearer; but anyhow it is not cheering to see
the realization of one’s plans again and again delayed, if not annihilated altogether, in
this tedious and monotonously killing way. Nature goes her age-old round impassively;
summer changes into winter; spring vanishes away; autumn comes, and finds us still a
mere chaotic whirl of daring projects and shattered hopes. As the wheel revolves, now
the one and now the other comes to the top—but memory betweenwhiles lightly touches
her ringing silver chords—now loud like a roaring waterfall, now low and soft like far
off sweet music. I stand and look out over this desolate expanse of ice with its plains and
heights and valleys, formed by the pressure arising from the shifting tidal currents of
winter. The sun is now shining over them with his cheering beams. In the middle lies the
Fram, hemmed in immovably. When, my proud ship, will you float free in the open
water again?

“‘Ich schau dich an, und Wehmuth,
Schleicht mir in’s Herz hinein.’

Over these masses of ice, drifting by paths unknown, a human pondered and brooded so
long that he put a whole people in motion to enable him to force his way in among them
—a people who had plenty of other claims upon their energies. For what purpose all this
to-do? If only the calculations were correct these ice-floes would be glorious—nay,
irresistible auxiliaries. But if there has been an error in the calculation—well, in that case
they are not so pleasant to deal with. And how often does a calculation come out correct?
But were I now free? Why, I should do it all over again, from the same starting-point.
One must persevere till one learns to calculate correctly.

“I laugh at the scurvy; no sanatorium better than ours.

“I laugh at the ice; we are living as it were in an impregnable castle.

“I laugh at the cold; it is nothing.

“But I do not laugh at the winds; they are everything; they bend to no man’s will.

“But why always worry about the future? Why distress yourself as to whether you are
drifting forward or backward? Why not carelessly let the days glide by like a peacefully
flowing river? every now and then there will come a rapid that will quicken the lazy
flow. Ah! what a wondrous contrivance is life—one eternal hurrying forward, ever
forward—to what end? And then comes death and cuts all short before the goal is
reached.

“I went a long snow-shoe tour to-day. A little way to the north there were a good many
newly formed lanes and pressure-ridges which were hard to cross, but patience
overcomes everything, and I soon reached a level plain where it was delightful going. It
was, however, rather cold, about 54° Fahr. below zero (-48° C.) and 16 feet of wind from
N.N.E., but I did not feel it much. It is wholesome and enjoyable to be out in such
weather. I wore only ordinary clothes, such as I might wear at home, with a sealskin
jacket and linen outside breeches, and a half-mask to protect the forehead, nose, and
cheeks.

“There has been a good deal of ice-pressure in different directions to-day. Oddly enough,
a meridian altitude of the sun gave 79° 45′. We have therefore drifted only 8′ southward
during the four days since March 4th. This slow drift is remarkable in spite of the high
winds. If there should be land to the north? I begin more and more to speculate on this
possibility. Land to the north would explain at once our not progressing northward, and
the slowness of our southward drift. But it may also possibly arise from the fact of the
ice being so closely packed together, and frozen so thick and massive. It seems strange
to me that there is so much northwest wind, and hardly any from the northeast, though
the latter is what the rotation of the earth would lead one to expect. As a matter of fact,
the wind merely shifts between northwest and southeast, instead of between southwest
and northeast, as it ought to do. Unless there is land I am at a loss to find a satisfactory
explanation, at all events, of this northwest direction. Does Franz Josef Land jut out
eastward or northward, or does a continuous line of islands extend from Franz Josef
Land in one or other of those directions? It is by no means impossible. Directly the
Austrians got far enough to the north they met with prevailing winds from the northeast,
while we get northwesterly winds. Does the central point of these masses of land lie to
the north, midway between our meridian and theirs? I can hardly believe that these
remarkably cold winds from the north are engendered by merely passing over an ice-
covered sea. If, indeed, there is land, and we get hold of it, then all our troubles would be
over. But no one can tell what the future may bring forth, and it is better, perhaps, not to
know.

“Saturday, March 10th. The line shows a drift northward; now, too, in the afternoon, a
slight southerly breeze has sprung up. As usual, it has done me good to put my
despondency on paper and get rid of it. To-day I am in good spirits again, and can
indulge in happy dreams of a large and high land in the north with mountains and
valleys, where we can sit under the mountain wall, roast ourselves in the sun, and see the
spring come. And over its inland ice we can make our way to the very Pole.

“Sunday, March 11th. A snow-shoe run northward. Temperature -50° C. (58° Fahr.
below zero), and 10 feet wind from N.N.E. We did not feel the cold very much, though it
was rather bad for the stomach and thighs, as none of us had our wind trousers16 on. We
wore our usual dress of a pair of ordinary trousers and woollen pants, a shirt, and

wolfskin cloak, or a common woollen suit with a light sealskin jacket over it. For the
first time in my life I felt my thighs frozen, especially just over the knee, and on the
kneecap; my companions also suffered in the same way. This was after going a long
while against the wind. We rubbed our legs a little, and they soon got warm again; but
had we kept on much longer without noticing it we should probably have been severely
frost-bitten. In other respects we did not suffer the least inconvenience from the cold—
on the contrary, found the temperature agreeable; and I am convinced that 10°, 20°, or
even 30° lower would not have been unendurable. It is strange how one’s sensations
alter. When at home, I find it unpleasant if I only go out-of-doors when there are some
20 degrees of cold, even in calm weather. But here I don’t find it any colder when I turn
out in 50 degrees of cold, with a wind into the bargain. Sitting in a warm room at home
one gets exaggerated ideas about the terribleness of the cold. It is really not in the least
terrible; we all of us find ourselves very well in it, though sometimes one or another of
us does not take quite so long a walk as usual when a strong wind is blowing, and will
even turn back for the cold; but that is when he is only lightly clad and has no wind
clothes on. This evening it is 51.2° Fahr. below zero, and 14½ feet N.N.E. wind. Brilliant
northern lights in the south. Already there is a very marked twilight even at midnight.

“Monday, March 12th. Slowly drifting southward. Took a long snow-shoe run alone,
towards the north; to-day had on my wind breeches, but found them almost too warm.
This morning it was 51.6° Fahr. below zero, and about 13 feet N. wind; at noon it was
some degrees warmer. Ugh! this north wind is freshening; the barometer has risen again,
and I had thought the wind would have changed, but it is and remains the same.

“This is what March brings us—the month on which my hopes relied. Now I must wait
for the summer. Soon the half-year will be past, it will leave us about in the same place
as when-it began. Ugh! I am weary—so weary! Let me sleep, sleep! Come, sleep!
noiselessly close the door of the soul, stay the flowing stream of thought! Come dreams,
and let the sun beam over the snowless strand of Godthaab!

“Wednesday, March 14th. In the evening the dogs all at once began to bark, as we
supposed on account of bears. Sverdrup and I took our guns, let ‘Ulenka’ and ‘Pan’
loose, and set off. There was twilight still, and the moon, moreover, began to shine. No
sooner were the dogs on the ice than off they started westward like a couple of rockets,
we after them as quickly as we could. As I was jumping over a lane I thrust one leg
through the ice up to the knee. Oddly enough, I did not get wet through to the skin,
though I only had Finn shoes and frieze gaiters on; but in this temperature, 38° Fahr.
below zero (-39° C.), the water freezes on the cold cloth before it can penetrate it. I felt
nothing of it afterwards; it became, as it were, a plate of ice armor that almost helped to
keep me warm. At a channel some distance off we at last discovered that it was not a
bear the dogs had winded, but either a walrus or a seal. We saw holes in several places
on the fresh-formed ice where it had stuck its head through. What a wonderfully keen

nose those dogs must have: it was quite two-thirds of a mile from the ship, and the
creature had only had just a little bit of its snout above the ice. We returned to the ship to
get a harpoon, but saw no more of the animal, though we went several times up and
down the channel. Meanwhile ‘Pan,’ in his zeal, got too near the edge of the lane and fell
into the water. The ice was so high that he could not get up on it again without help, and
if I had not been there to haul him up I am afraid he would have been drowned. He is
now lying in the saloon, and making himself comfortable and drying himself. But he,
too, did not get wet through to the skin, though he was a good time in the water: the
inner hair of his close, coarse coat is quite dry and warm. The dogs look on it as a high
treat to come in here, for they are not often allowed to do so. They go round all the
cabins and look out for a comfortable corner to lie down in.

Two friends

(By A. Bloch, from a Photograph)

“Lovely weather, almost calm, sparklingly bright, and moonshine: in the north the faint
flush of evening, and the aurora over the southern sky, now like a row of flaming spears,
then changing into a silvery veil, undulating in wavy folds with the wind, every here and
there interspersed with red sprays. These wonderful night effects are ever new, and never
fail to captivate the soul.”

“Thursday, March 15th. This morning 41.7°, and at 8 P.M. 40.7° Fahr. below zero, while
the daytime was rather warmer. At noon it was 40.5° and at 4 P.M. 39° Fahr. below zero.
It would almost seem as if the sun began to have power.

“The dogs are strange creatures. This evening they are probably sweltering in their
kennels again, for four or five of them are lying outside or on the roof. When there are
50 degrees of cold most of them huddle together inside, and lie as close to one another as
possible. Then, too, they are very loath to go out for a walk; they prefer to lie in the sun
under the lee of the ship. But now they find it so mild and such pleasant walking that to-
day it was not difficult to get them to follow.

“Friday, March 16th. Sverdrup has of late been occupied in making sails for the ship’s
boats. To-day there was a light southwesterly breeze, so we tried one of the sails on two
hand-sledges lashed together. It is first-rate sailing, and does not require much wind to
make them glide along. This would be a great assistance if we had to go home over the
ice.

“Wednesday, March 21st. At length a reaction has set in: the wind is S.E. and there is a
strong drift northward again. The equinox is past, and we are not one degree farther
north since the last equinox. I wonder where the next will find us. Should it be more to
the south, then victory is uncertain; if more to the north, the battle is won, though it may
last long. I am looking forward to the summer; it must bring a change with it. The open
water we sailed in up here cannot possibly be produced by the melting of the ice alone; it
must be also due to the winds and current. And if the ice in which we are now drifts so
far to the north as to make room for all this open water, we shall have covered a good bit
on our way. It would seem, indeed, as if summer must bring northerly winds, with the
cold Arctic Sea in the north and warm Siberia in the south. This makes me somewhat
dubious; but, on the other hand, we have warm seas in the west: they may be stronger;
and the Jeannette, moreover, drifted northwest.

“It is strange that, notwithstanding these westerly winds, we do not drift eastward. The
last longitude was only 135° east longitude.

Experiment in sledge sailing

(From a Photograph)

“Maundy Thursday, March 22d. A strong southeasterly wind still, and a good drift
northward. Our spirits are rising. The wind whistles through the rigging overhead, and
sounds like the sough of victory through the air. In the forenoon one of the puppies had a
severe attack of convulsions; it foamed at the mouth and bit furiously at everything
round it. It ended with tetanus, and we carried it out and laid it down on the ice. It
hopped about like a toad, its legs stiff and extended, neck and head pointing upward,
while its back was curved like a saddle. I was afraid it might be hydrophobia or some
other infectious sickness, and shot it on the spot. Perhaps I was rather too hasty; we can
scarcely have any infection among us now. But what could it have been? Was it an
epileptic attack? The other day one of the other puppies alarmed me by running round
and round in the chart-house as if it were mad, hiding itself after a time between a chest

and the wall. Some of the others, too, had seen it do the same thing; but after a while it
got all right again, and for the last few days there has been nothing amiss with it.

“Good Friday, March 23d. Noonday observation gives 80° north latitude. In four days
and nights we have drifted as far north as we drifted southward in three weeks. It is a
comfort, at all events, to know that!

“It is remarkable how quickly the nights have grown light. Even stars of the first
magnitude can now barely manage to twinkle in the pale sky at midnight.

“Saturday, March 24th. Easter Eve. To-day a notable event has occurred. We have
allowed the light of spring to enter the saloon. During the whole of the winter the
skylight was covered with snow to keep the cold out, and the dogs’ kennels, moreover,
had been placed round it. Now we have thrown out all the snow upon the ice, and the
panes of glass in the skylight have been duly cleared and cleaned.

“Monday, March 26th. We are lying motionless—no drift. How long will this last? Last
equinox how proud and triumphant I was! The whole world looked bright; but now I am
proud no longer.

“The sun mounts up and bathes the ice-plain with its radiance. Spring is coming, but
brings no joys with it. Here it is as lonely and cold as ever. One’s soul freezes. Seven
more years of such life—or say only four—how will the soul appear then? And she...? If
I dared to let my longings loose—to let my soul thaw. Ah! I long more than I dare
confess.

“I have not courage to think of the future.... And how will it be at home, when year after
year rolls by and no one comes?

“I know this is all a morbid mood; but still this inactive, lifeless monotony, without any
change, wrings one’s very soul. No struggle, no possibility of struggle! All is so still and
dead, so stiff and shrunken, under the mantle of ice. Ah! ... the very soul freezes. What
would I not give for a single day of struggle—for even a moment of danger!

“Still I must wait, and watch the drift; but should it take a wrong direction, then I will
break all the bridges behind me, and stake everything on a northward march over the ice.
I know nothing better to do. It will be a hazardous journey—a matter, maybe, of life or
death. But have I any other choice?

“It is unworthy of a man to set himself a task, and then give in when the brunt of the
battle is upon him. There is but one way, and that is Fram—forward.

“Tuesday, March 27th. We are again drifting southward, and the wind is northerly. The
midday observation showed 80° 4′ north latitude. But why so dispirited? I am staring
myself blind at one single point—am thinking solely of reaching the Pole and forcing
our way through to the Atlantic Ocean. And all the time our real task is to explore the
unknown polar regions. Are we doing nothing in the service of science? It will be a
goodly collection of observations that we shall take home with us from this region, with
which we are now rather too well acquainted. The rest is, and remains, a mere matter of
vanity. ‘Love truth more, and victory less.’

“I look at Eilif Peterssen’s picture, a Norwegian pine forest, and I am there in spirit. How
marvellously lovely it is there now, in the spring, in the dim, melancholy stillness that
reigns among the stately stems! I can feel the damp moss in which my foot sinks softly
and noiselessly; the brook, released from the winter bondage, is murmuring through the
clefts and among the rocks, with its brownish-yellow water; the air is full of the scent of
moss and pine-needles; while overhead, against the light-blue sky, the dark pine-tops
rock to and fro in the spring breeze, ever uttering their murmuring wail, and beneath
their shelter the soul fearlessly expands its wings and cools itself in the forest dew.

“O solemn pine forest, the only confidant of my childhood, it was from you I learned
nature’s deepest tones—its wildness, its melancholy! You colored my soul for life.

At the coming of the Spring. March, 1894

(From a photograph)

“Alone—far in the forest—beside the glowing embers of my fire on the shore of the
silent, murky woodland tarn, with the gloom of night overhead, how happy I used to be
in the enjoyment of nature’s harmony!

“Thursday, March 29th. It is wonderful what a change it makes to have daylight once
more in the saloon. On turning out for breakfast and seeing the light gleaming in, one
feels that it really is morning.

“We are busy on board. Sails are being made for the boats and hand-sledges. The
windmill, too, is to have fresh sails, so that it can go in any kind of weather. Ah, if we
could but give the Fram wings as well! Knives are being forged, bear-spears which we
never have any use for, bear-traps in which we never catch a bear, axes, and many other
things of like usefulness. For the moment there is a great manufacture of wooden shoes
going on, and a newly started nail-making industry. The only shareholders in this
company are Sverdrup and Smith Lars, called ‘Storm King,’ because he always comes
upon us like hard weather. The output is excellent and is in active demand, as all our
small nails for the hand-sledge fittings have been used. Moreover, we are very busy
putting German-silver plates under the runners of the hand-sledges, and providing
appliances for lashing sledges together. There is, moreover, a workshop for snow-shoe
fastenings, and a tinsmith’s shop, busied for the moment with repairs to the lamps. Our
doctor, too, for lack of patients, has set up a bookbinding establishment which is greatly
patronized by the Fram’s library, whereof several books that are in constant circulation,
such as Gjest Baardsens Liv og Levnet, etc., are in a very bad state. We have also a
saddlers’ and sail-makers’ workshop, a photographic studio, etc. The manufacture of
diaries, however, is the most extensive—every man on board works at that. In fine, there
is nothing between heaven and earth that we cannot turn out—excepting constant fair
winds.

“Our workshops can be highly recommended; they turn out good solid work. We have
lately had a notable addition to our industries, the firm ‘Nansen & Amundsen’ having
established a music-factory. The cardboard plates of the organ had suffered greatly from
wear and damp, so that we had been deplorably short of music during the winter. But
yesterday I set to work in earnest to manufacture a plate of zinc. It answers admirably,
and now we shall go ahead with music sacred and profane, especially waltzes, and these
halls shall once more resound with the pealing tones of the organ, to our great comfort
and edification. When a waltz is struck up it breathes fresh life into many of the inmates
of the Fram.

“I complain of the wearing monotony of our surroundings; but in reality I am unjust. The
last few days, dazzling sunshine over the snow-hills; to-day, snow-storm and wind, the
Fram enveloped in a whirl of foaming white snow. Soon the sun appears again, and the
waste around gleams as before.

Returning home after sunset. March 31, 1894

(From a photograph)

“Here, too, there is sentiment in nature. How often, when least thinking of it, do I find
myself pause, spell-bound by the marvellous hues which evening wears. The ice-hills
steeped in bluish-violet shadows, against the orange-tinted sky, illumined by the glow of
the setting sun, form as it were a strange color-poem, imprinting an ineffaceable picture
on the soul. And these bright, dream-like nights, how many associations they have for us
Northmen! One pictures to one’s self those mornings in spring when one went out into
the forest after blackcock, under the dim stars, and with the pale crescent moon peering
over the tree-tops. Dawn, with its glowing hues up here in the north, is the breaking of a
spring day over the forest wilds at home; the hazy blue vapor beneath the morning glow

turns to the fresh early mist over the marshes; the dark low clouds on a background of
dim red seem like distant ranges of hills.

“Daylight here, with its rigid, lifeless whiteness, has no attractions; but the evening and
night thaw the heart of this world of ice; it dreams mournful dreams, and you seem to
hear in the hues of the evening sounds of its smothered wail. Soon these will cease, and
the sun will circle round the everlasting light-blue expanse of heaven, imparting one
uniform color to day and night alike.

“Friday, April 6th. A remarkable event was to take place to-day which, naturally, we all
looked forward to with lively interest. It was an eclipse of the sun. During the night
Hansen had made a calculation that the eclipse would begin at 12.56 o’clock. It was
important for us to be able to get a good observation, as we should thus be able to
regulate our chronometers to a nicety. In order to make everything sure, we set up our
instruments a couple of hours beforehand, and commenced to observe. We used the large
telescope and our large theodolite. Hansen, Johansen, and myself took it by turns to sit
for five minutes each at the instruments, watching the rim of the sun, as we expected a
shadow would become visible on its lower western edge, while another stood by with
the watch. We remained thus full two hours without anything occurring. The exciting
moment was now at hand, when, according to calculation, the shadow should first be
apparent. Hansen was sitting by the large telescope when he thought he could discern a
quivering in the sun’s rim; 33 seconds afterwards he cried out, ‘Now!’ as did Johansen
simultaneously. The watch was then at 12 hrs. 56 min. 7.5 sec. A dark body advanced
over the border of the sun 7½ seconds later than we had calculated on. It was an
immense satisfaction for us all, especially for Hansen, for it proved our chronometers to
be in excellent order. Little by little the sunlight sensibly faded away, while we went
below to dinner. At 2 o’clock the eclipse was at its height, and we could notice even
down in the saloon how the daylight had diminished. After dinner we observed the
moment when the eclipse ended, and the moon’s dark disk cleared the rim of the sun.