CHAPTER XVI

The Voyage of the "Fram"

By First-Lieutenant Thorvald Nilsen

From Norway to the Barrier.

After the Fram had undergone extensive repairs in Horten Dockyard,

and had loaded provisions and equipment in Christiania, we left the

latter port on June 7, 1910. According to the plan we were first

to make an oceanographical cruise of about two months in the North

Atlantic, and then to return to Norway, where the Fram was to be

docked and the remaining outfit and dogs taken on board.

This oceanographical cruise was in many respects successful. In the

first place, we gained familiarity with the vessel, and got everything

shipshape for the long voyage to come; but the best of all was, that

we acquired valuable experience of our auxiliary engine. This is a

180 h.p. Diesel motor, constructed for solar oil, of which we were

taking about 90,000 litres (about 19,800 gallons). In this connection

it may be mentioned that we consumed about 500 litres (about 110

gallons) a day, and that the Fram's radius of action was thus about

six months. For the first day or two the engine went well enough,

but after that it went slower and slower, and finally stopped of its

own accord. After this it was known as the "Whooping Cough." This

happened several times in the course of the trip; the piston-rods had

constantly to be taken out and cleared of a thick black deposit. As

possibly our whole South Polar Expedition would depend on the motor

doing its work properly, the result of this was that the projected

cruise was cut short, and after a lapse of three weeks our course

was set for Bergen, where we changed the oil for refined paraffin,

and at the same time had the motor thoroughly overhauled.

Since then there has never been anything wrong with the engine.

From Bergen we went to Christiansand, where the Fram was docked, and,

as already mentioned, the remaining outfit, with the dogs and dog-food,

was taken on board.

The number of living creatures on board when we left Norway was

nineteen men, ninety-seven dogs, four pigs, six carrier pigeons,

and one canary.

At last we were ready to leave Christiansand on Thursday, August 9,

1910, and at nine o'clock that evening the anchor was got up and the

motor started. After the busy time we had had, no doubt we were all

glad to get off. As our departure had not been made public, only the

pilot and a few acquaintances accompanied us a little way out. It

was glorious weather, and everyone stayed on deck till far into the

light night, watching the land slowly disappear. All the ninety-seven

dogs were chained round the deck, on which we also had coal, oil,

timber and other things, so that there was not much room to move about.

The rest of the vessel was absolutely full. To take an example,

in the fore-saloon we had placed forty-three sledging cases, which

were filled with books, Christmas presents, underclothing, and the

like. In addition to these, one hundred complete sets of dog-harness,

all our ski, ski-poles, snow-shoes, etc. Smaller articles were stowed

in the cabins, and every man had something. When I complained, as

happened pretty often, that I could not imagine where this or that

was to be put, the Chief of the expedition used generally to say:

"Oh, that's all right; you can just put it in your cabin!"

Thus it was with every imaginable thing -- from barrels of paraffin

and new-born pups to writing materials and charts.

As the story of this voyage has already been told, it may be rapidly

passed over here. After much delay through headwinds in the Channel,

we picked up the north-east trade in about the latitude of Gibraltar,

and arrived at Madeira on September 6.

At 9 p.m. on September 9 we weighed anchor for the last time, and left

Madeira. As soon as we were clear of the land we got the north-east

trade again, and it held more or less fresh till about lat. 11° N.

After our departure from Madeira I took over the morning watch,

from 4 to 8 a.m.; Prestrud and Gjertsen divided the remainder of the

twenty-four hours.

In order if possible to get a little more way on the ship, a

studding-sail and a skysail were rigged up with two awnings; it did

not increase our speed very much, but no doubt it helped a little.

The highest temperature we observed was 84° F. In the trade winds we

constantly saw flying-fish, but as far as I know not one was ever

found on deck; those that came on board were of course instantly

snapped up by the dogs.

In about lat. 11° N. we lost the north-east trade, and thus came into

the "belt of calms," a belt that extends on each side of the Equator,

between the north-east and south-east trades. Here, as a rule, one

encounters violent rain-squalls; to sailing ships in general and

ourselves in particular this heavy rain is welcome, as water-tanks

can be filled up. Only on one day were we lucky enough to have rain,

but as it was accompanied by a strong squall of wind, we did not catch

all the water we wanted. All hands were on deck carrying water, some in

oilskins, some in Adam's costume; the Chief in a white tropical suit,

and, as far as I remember, clogs. As the latter were rather slippery,

and the Fram suddenly gave an unexpected lurch, he was carried off his

legs, and left sitting on the deck, while his bucket of water poured

all over him. But "it was all in his country's cause," so he did not

mind. We caught about 3 tons of water, and then had our tanks full,

or about 30 tons, when the shower passed off; later in the voyage we

filled a bucket now and again, but it never amounted to much, and if

we had not been as careful as we were, our water-supply would hardly

have lasted out.

On October 4 we crossed the Equator. The south-east trade was not

so fresh as we had expected, and the engine had to be kept going the

whole time.

At the beginning of November we came down into the west wind belt,

or the "Roaring Forties," as they are called, and from that time we

ran down our easting at a great rate. We were very lucky there, and had

strong fair winds for nearly seven weeks at a stretch. In the heavy sea

we found out what it was to sail in the Fram; she rolls incessantly,

and there is never a moment's rest. The dogs were thrown backwards

and forwards over the deck, and when one of them rolled into another,

it was taken as a personal insult, and a fight followed at once. But

for all that the Fram is a first-rate sea boat, and hardly ever ships

any water. If this had been otherwise, the dogs would have been far

worse off than they were.

The weather in the "Foggy Fifties" varied between gales, calms,

fogs, snowstorms, and other delights. As a rule, the engine was now

kept constantly ready, in case of our being so unlucky as to come

too near an iceberg. Fortunately, however, we did not meet any of

these until early on the morning of January 1, 1911, when we saw

some typical Antarctic bergs; that is to say, entirely tabular. Our

latitude was then a little over 60° S., and we were not far off the

pack. On the 1st and 2nd we sailed southward without seeing anything

but scattered bergs and a constantly increasing number of lumps of

ice, which showed us we were getting near. By 10 p.m. on the 2nd we

came into slack drift-ice; the weather was foggy, and we therefore

kept going as near as might be on the course to the Bay of Whales,

which was destined to be our base.

A good many seals were lying on the ice-floes, and as we went forward

we shot some. As soon as the first seal was brought on board, all

our dogs had their first meat meal since Madeira; they were given as

much as they wanted, and ate as much as they could. We, too, had our

share of the seal, and from this time forward we had fresh seal-steak

for breakfast at least every day; it tasted excellent to us, who for

nearly half a year had been living on nothing but tinned meat. With

the steak whortleberries were always served, which of course helped

to make it appreciated. The biggest seal we got in the pack-ice was

about 12 feet long, and weighed nearly half a ton. A few penguins were

also shot, mostly Adélie penguins; these are extraordinarily amusing,

and as inquisitive as an animal can be. When any of them saw us, they

at once came nearer to get a better view of the unbidden guests. If

they became too impertinent, we did not hesitate to take them, for

their flesh, especially the liver, was excellent. The albatrosses,

which had followed us through the whole of the west wind belt, had

now departed, and in their place came the beautiful snowy petrels

and Antarctic petrels.

We had more or less fog all through the pack-ice. Only on the night

of the 5th did we have sun and fine weather, when we saw the midnight

sun for the first time. A more beautiful morning it would be difficult

to imagine: radiantly clear, with thick ice everywhere, as far as the

eye could see; the lanes of water between the floes gleamed in the

sun, and the ice-crystals glittered like thousands of diamonds. It

was a pure delight to go on deck and drink in the fresh air; one felt

altogether a new man. I believe everyone on board found this passage

through the pack the most interesting part of the whole voyage, and,

of course, it all had the charm of novelty. Those who had not been

in the ice before, myself among them, and who were hunting for the

first time, ran about after seals and penguins, and amused themselves

like children.

At 10 p.m. on the 6th we were already out of the ice after a passage

of exactly four days; we had been extremely lucky, and the Fram went

very easily through the ice.

After coming out of the pack, our course was continued through the open

Ross Sea to the Bay of Whales, which from the previous description

was to be found in about long. 164° W. On the afternoon of the 11th

we had strong ice-blink ahead, by which is meant the luminous stripe

that is seen above a considerable accumulation of ice; the nearest

thing one can compare it to is the glare that is always seen over

a great city on approaching it at night. We knew at once that this

was the glare of the mighty Ross Barrier, named after Sir James Clark

Ross, who first saw it in 1841. The Barrier is a wall of ice, several

hundred miles long, and about 100 feet high, which forms the southern

boundary of Ross Sea. We were, of course, very intent upon seeing

what it looked like, but to me it did not appear so imposing as I had

imagined it. Possibly this was because I had become familiar with it,

in a way, from the many descriptions of it. From these descriptions we

had expected to find a comparatively narrow opening into Balloon Bight,

as shown in the photographs we had before us; but as we went along

the Barrier, on the 12th, we could find no opening. In long. 164° W.,

on the other hand, there was a great break in the wall, forming a cape

(West Cape); from here to the other side of the Barrier was about eight

geographical miles, and southward, as far as we could see, lay loose

bay ice. We held on to the east outside this drift-ice and along the

eastern Barrier till past midnight, but as Balloon Bight was not to

be found, we returned to the above-mentioned break or cape, where we

lay during the whole forenoon of the 13th, as the ice was too thick to

allow us to make any progress. After midday, however, the ice loosened,

and began to drift out; at the same time we went in, and having gone

as far as possible, the Fram was moored to the fast ice-foot on the

western side of the great bay we had entered. It proved that Balloon

Bight and another bight had merged to form a great bay, exactly as

described by Sir Ernest Shackleton, and named by him the Bay of Whales.

After mooring here, the Chief and one or two others went on a

reconnoitring tour; but it began to snow pretty thickly, and, as far

as I am aware, nothing was accomplished beyond seeing that the Barrier

at the southernmost end of the bay sloped evenly down to the sea-ice;

but between the latter and the slope there was open water, so that

they could not go any farther. We lay all night drifting in the ice,

which was constantly breaking up, and during this time several seals

and penguins were shot. Towards morning on the 14th it became quite

clear, and we had a splendid view of the surroundings. Right over on

the eastern side of the bay it looked as if there was more open water;

we therefore went along the fast ice-foot and moored off the eastern

Barrier at about three in the afternoon. The cape in the Barrier,

under which we lay, was given the name of "Man's Head," on account

of its resemblance to a human profile. All the time we were going

along the ice we were shooting seals, so that on arrival at our final

moorings we already had a good supply of meat.

For my part I was rather unlucky on one of these hunts: Four seals

were lying on the ice-foot, and I jumped down with rifle and five

cartridges; to take any cartridges in reserve did not occur to me, as,

of course, I regarded myself as a mighty hunter, and thought that one

shot per seal was quite enough. The three first died without a groan;

but the fourth took the alarm, and made off as fast as it could. I

fired my fourth cartridge, but it did not hit as it ought to have

done, and the seal was in full flight, leaving a streak of blood

behind it. I was not anxious to let a wounded seal go, and as I had

only one cartridge left, and the seal had its tail turned towards me,

I wanted to come to close quarters to make sure of it. I therefore

ran as hard as I could, but the seal was quicker, and it determined

the range. After running half-way to the South Pole, I summoned

my remaining strength and fired the last shot. Whether the bullet

went above or below, I have no idea. All I know is, that on arriving

on board I was met by scornful smiles and had to stand a good deal

of chaff.

As already mentioned, we left Norway on August 9, 1910, and arrived

at our final moorings on January 14, 1911, in the course of which

time we had only called at Madeira. The Barrier is 16,000 geographical

miles from Norway, a distance which we took five months to cover. From

Madeira we had had 127 days in open sea, and therewith the first part

of the voyage was brought to an end.

Off the Barrier.

As soon as we had moored, the Chief, Prestrud, Johansen and I went

up on to the Barrier on a tour of reconnaissance. The ascent from the

sea-ice to the Barrier was fine, a perfectly even slope. When no more

than a mile from the ship, we found a good site for the first dog-camp,

and another mile to the south it was decided that the house was to

stand, on the slope of a hill, where it would be least exposed to

the strong south-easterly gales which might be expected from previous

descriptions. Up on the Barrier all was absolutely still, and there

was not a sign of life; indeed, what should anything live on? This

delightful ski-run was extended a little farther to the south, and

after a couple of hours we returned on board. Here in the meantime

the slaughtering of seals had been going on, and there were plenty

to be had, as several hundreds of them lay about on the ice.

After the rather long sea voyage, and the cramped quarters on board,

I must say it was a pleasure to have firm ground under one's feet

and to be able to move about a little. The dogs evidently thought

the same; when they came down on to the ice, they rolled in the snow

and ran about, wild with delight. During our whole stay a great part

of the time was spent in ski-runs and seal-hunts, and an agreeable

change it was.

Sunday the 15th was spent in setting up tents at the first dog-camp and

at Framheim, as the winter station was named. A team of dogs was used,

and, as they were unused to being driven, it is not surprising that

some lay down, others fought, a few wanted to go on board, but hardly

any of them appreciated the seriousness of the situation or understood

that their good time had come to an end. On Monday all the dogs were

landed, and on the following day the supplies began to be put ashore.

The landing of the cases was done in this way: the sea-party brought

up on deck as many cases as the drivers could take in one journey;

as the sledges came down to the vessel, the cases were sent down

on to the ice on skids, so that it all went very rapidly. We would

not put the cases out on the ice before the sledges came back, as,

in case the ice should break up, we should be obliged to heave them

all on board again, or we might even lose them. At night no one was

ever allowed to stay on the ice.

Before we reached the ice, we had counted on having 50 per cent. of

idle days -- that is, from previous descriptions we had reckoned on

having such bad weather half the time that the Fram would be obliged

to leave her moorings. In this respect we were far luckier than we

expected, and only had to put out twice. The first time was on the

night of January 25, when we had a stiff breeze from the north with

some sea, so that the vessel was bumping rather hard against the

ice. Drifting floes came down upon us, and so as not to be caught

by any iceberg that might suddenly come sailing in from the point

of the Barrier we called Man's Head, we took our moorings on board

and went. When the shore party next morning came down as usual at

a swinging pace, they saw to their astonishment that the Fram was

gone. In the course of the day the weather became fine, and we tried

to go back about noon; but the bay was so full of drift-ice that we

could not come in to the fast ice-foot. About nine in the evening

we saw from the crow's nest that the ice was loosening; we made the

attempt, and by midnight we were again moored.

But the day was not wasted by the shore party, for on the day before

Kristensen, L. Hansen and I had been out on ski and had shot forty

seals, which were taken up to the station while we were away.

Only once or twice more did we have to leave our berth, until on

February 7, when almost all the ice had left the bay, we were able

to moor alongside the low, fast Barrier, where we lay in peace until

we went for good.

There was a great deal of animal life about us. A number of whales

came close in to the vessel, where they stayed still to look at the

uninvited guests. On the ice seals came right up to the ship, as did

large and small flocks of penguins, to have a look at us. These latter

were altogether extraordinarily inquisitive creatures. Two Emperor

penguins often came to our last moorings to watch us laying out an

ice-anchor or hauling on a hawser, while they put their heads on one

side and jabbered, and they were given the names of "the Harbour-master

and his Missis."

A great number of birds, skua gulls, snowy petrels and Antarctic

petrels, flew round the ship and gave us many a good "roast ptarmigan."

On the morning of February 4, about 1 a.m., the watchman, Beck, came

and called me with the news that a vessel was coming in. I guessed

at once, of course, that it was the Terra Nova; but I must confess

that I did not feel inclined to turn out and look at her. We hoisted

the colours, however.

As soon as she was moored, Beck told me, some of her party went ashore,

presumably to look for the house. They did not find it, though, and at

3 a.m. Beck came below again, and said that now they were coming on

board. So then I turned out and received them. They were Lieutenant

Campbell, the leader of Captain Scott's second shore party, and

Lieutenant Pennell, the commander of the Terra Nova. They naturally

asked a number of questions, and evidently had some difficulty in

believing that it was actually the Fram that was lying here. We had

at first been taken for a whaler. They offered to take our mail to

New Zealand; but we had no mail ready, and had to decline the offer

with thanks. Later in the day a number of the Terra Nova's officers

went to breakfast at Framheim, and the Chief, Prestrud and I lunched

with them. At about two in the afternoon the Terra Nova sailed again.

On Friday, February 16, a number of the shore party started on the

first trip to lay down depots. We cleared up, filled our water-tanks

with snow, and made the ship ready for sea. We had finished this by

the evening of the 14th.

From the Bay of Whales to Buenos Aires.

The sea party consisted of the following ten men Thorvald Nilsen,

L. Hansen, H. Kristensen and J. Nödtvedt; H. F. Gjertsen, A. Beck,

M. Rönne, A. Kutschin and O. K. Sundbeck. The first four formed one

watch, from eight to two, and the last five the other, from two to

eight. Last, but not least, comes K. Olsen, cook.

Having made ready for sea, we let go our moorings on the Ice Barrier at

9 a.m. on February 15, 1911. Hassel, Wisting, Bjaaland, and Stubberud

came down to see us off. As in the course of the last few days the

ice had broken up right to the end of the bay, we went as far south

as possible to take a sounding; the shallowest we got was 155 3/4

fathoms (285 metres). The bay ended in a ridge of ice on the east,

which was continued in a northerly direction, so that at the spot

where we were stopped by the Barrier, we reached the most southerly

point that a vessel can attain, so long as the Barrier remains as

it is now. Highest latitude 78° 41' S. When the Terra Nova was here,

her latitude and ours was 78° 38' S.

The last two days before our departure had been calm, and a thick,

dense sludge lay over the whole bay; so dense was it that the Fram

lost her way altogether, and we had to keep going ahead and astern

until we came out into a channel. Seals by the hundred were lying on

the floes, but as we had a quantity of seal's flesh, we left them in

peace for a change.

Before the Chief began the laying out of depots, I received from him

the following orders:

"To First-lieutenant Thorvald Nilsen.

With the departure of the Fram from the Ice Barrier, you will take

over the command on board. In accordance with the plan we have mutually

agreed upon

"1. You will sail direct to Buenos Aires, where the necessary

repairs will be executed, provisions taken on board, and the crew

completed. When this has been done,

"2. You will sail from Buenos Aires to carry out oceanographical

observations in the South Atlantic Ocean. It would be desirable if

you could investigate the conditions between South America and Africa

in two sections. These investigations must, however, be dependent on

the prevailing conditions, and on the time at your disposal. When

the time arrives you will return to Buenos Aires, where the final

preparations will be made for

"3. Your departure for the Ice Barrier to take off the shore party. The

sooner you can make your way in to the Barrier in 1912, the better. I

mention no time, as everything depends on circumstances, and I leave

it to you to act according to your judgment.

"In all else that concerns the interests of the Expedition, I leave

you entire freedom of action.

"If on your return to the Barrier you should find that I am prevented

by illness or death from taking over the leadership of the Expedition,

I place this in your hands, and beg you most earnestly to endeavour

to carry out the original plan of the Expedition -- the exploration

of the North Polar basin.

"With thanks for the time we have spent together, and in the hope

that when we meet again we shall have reached our respective goals,

"I am,

"Yours sincerely,

"Roald Amundsen."

When Sir James Ross was in these waters for the first time, in 1842,

he marked "Appearance of land" in long. 160° W., and lat. about 78°

S. Afterwards, in 1902, Captain Scott named this land "King Edward

VII. Land." One of the Terra Nova's objects was to explore this land;

but when we met the ship on February 4, they told us on board that

on account of the ice conditions they had not been able to land. As

no one had ever been ashore there, I thought it might be interesting

to go and see what it looked like. Consequently our course was laid

north-eastward along the Barrier. During the night a thick sea-fog

came on, and it was only now and then that we could see the Barrier

over our heads. All of a sudden we were close upon a lofty iceberg,

so that we had to put the helm hard over to go clear. The Fram steers

splendidly, however, when she is in proper trim, and turns as if on

a pivot; besides which, it was calm.

As the day advanced, the weather cleared more and more, and by noon it

was perfectly clear. The sight that then met us was the lofty Barrier

to starboard, and elsewhere all round about some fifty icebergs,

great and small. The Barrier rose from about 100 feet at its edge to

something like 1,200 feet.

We followed the Barrier for some distance, but in the neighbourhood of

Cape Colbeck we met the drift-ice, and as I had no wish to come between

this and the Barrier, we stood out in a north-westerly direction. There

is, besides, the disadvantage about a propeller like ours, that it is

apt to wear out the brasses, so that these have to be renewed from

time to time. It was imperative that this should be done before we

came into the pack-ice, and the sooner the better. When, therefore,

we had gone along the Barrier for about a day and a half without

seeing any bare land, we set our course north-west in open water,

and after we had come some way out we got a slant of easterly wind,

so that the sails could be set. We saw the snow-covered land and the

glare above it all night.

The date had not yet been changed, but as this had to be done, it

was changed on February 15.[2]

At noon on the 16th the propeller was lifted, and by the evening of the

17th the job was done -- a record in spite of the temperature. Capital

fellows to work, our engineers.

On the night of the 15th we saw the midnight sun unfortunately for the

last time. The same night something dark was sighted on the port bow;

in that light it looked very like an islet. The sounding apparatus

was got ready, and we who were on watch of course saw ourselves in

our minds as great discoverers. I was already wondering what would

be the most appropriate name to give it, but, alas! the "discovery"

became clearer and the name -- well, it was a rather prosaic one:

"Dead Whale Islet"; for it turned out to be a huge inflated whale,

that was drifting, covered with birds.

We went rather slowly north-westward under sail alone. On the morning

of the 17th we saw ice-blink on the starboard bow, and about noon we

were close to the pack itself; it was here quite thick, and raised

by pressure, so that an attempt to get through it was out of the

question. We were, therefore, obliged to follow the ice to the

west. Due aft we saw in the sky the same glare as above the great

Ice Barrier, which may possibly show that the Barrier turns towards

the north and north-west; besides which, the masses of pressure-ice

that collect here must go to show that it encounters an obstruction,

probably the Barrier. When we went out in 1912 the ice lay in exactly

the same place and in the same way.

Our course was still to the west along the pack-ice, and it was

not till the 20th that we could turn her nose northward again. For a

change we now had a stiff breeze from the south-east, with thick snow,

so we got on very well. On the whole, the Fram goes much more easily

through the water now than on the way south. Her bottom has probably

been cleaned by the cold water and all the scraping against the ice;

besides which, we have no more than a third of the load with which

we left Norway.

On the night of the 20th we had to light the binnacle-lamps again,

and now the days grew rapidly shorter. It may possibly be a good thing

to have dark nights on land, but at sea it ought always to be light,

especially in these waters, which are more or less unknown, and full

of drifting icebergs.

At 4 p.m. on the 22nd we entered the drift-ice in lat. 70.5° S.,

long. 177.5° E. The ice was much higher and uglier than when we were

going south, but as there was nothing but ice as far as we could

see both east and west, and it was fairly loose, we had to make the

attempt where there seemed to be the best chance of getting through.

The seals, which to the south of the ice had been following us

in decreasing numbers, had now disappeared almost entirely, and

curiously enough we saw very few seals in the pack. Luckily, however,

Lieutenant Gjertsen's watch got three seals, and for a week we were

able to enjoy seal-beef, popularly known as "crocodile beef," three

times a day. Seal-beef and fresh whortleberries -- delicioso!

We went comparatively well through the ice, though at night -- from

eleven to one -- we had to slacken speed, as it was impossible to

steer clear on account of the darkness, and towards morning we had

a heavy fall of snow, so that nothing could be seen, and the engine

had to be stopped. When it cleared, at about 9 a.m., we had come

into a dam, out of which we luckily managed to turn fairly easily,

coming out into a bay. This was formed by over a hundred icebergs,

many of which lay in contact with each other and had packed the ice

close together. On the west was the outlet, which we steered for,

and by 10 p.m. on February 23 we were already out of the ice and in

open water. Our latitude was then 69° S., longitude 175.5° E.

It is very curious to find such calm weather in Ross Sea; in the two

months we have been here we have hardly had a strong breeze. Thus, when

I was relieved at 2 a.m. on the 25th, I wrote in my diary `. . . It

is calm, not a ripple on the water. The three men forming the watch

walk up and down the deck. Now and then one hears the penguins'

cry, kva, kva, but except these there is no other sound than the

tuff, tuff of the motor, 220 times a minute. Ah, that motor! it goes

unweariedly. It has now gone for 1,000 hours without being cleaned,

while on our Atlantic cruise last year it stopped dead after going

for eighty hours. . . . Right over us we have the Southern Cross,

all round glow the splendid southern lights, and in the darkness can

be seen the gleaming outline of an iceberg. . . ."

On the 26th we crossed the Antarctic Circle, and the same day the

temperature both of air and water rose above 32° F.

It was with sorrow in our hearts that we ate our last piece of

"crocodile beef," but I hoped we should get a good many albatrosses,

which we saw as soon as we came out of the ice. They were mostly

the sooty albatross, that tireless bird that generally circles alone

about the ship and is so difficult to catch, as he seldom tries to

bite at the pork that is used as bait. When I saw these birds for

the first time, as a deck boy, I was told they were called parsons,

because they were the souls of ungodly clergymen, who had to wait

down here till doomsday without rest.

More or less in our course to Cape Horn there are supposed to be

two groups of islands, the Nimrod group in about long. 158° W., and

Dougherty Island in about long. 120° W. They are both marked "D"

(Doubtful) on the English charts. Lieutenant Shackleton's vessel,

the Nimrod, Captain Davis, searched for both, but found neither;

Dougherty Island, however, is said to have been twice sighted. The

Fram's course was therefore laid for the Nimrod group. For a time

things went very well, but then we had a week of northerly winds --

that is, head winds -- and when at last we had a fair wind again,

we were so far to the south-east of them that there was no sense

in sailing back to the north-west to look for doubtful islands; it

would certainly have taken us weeks. Consequently, our course was

laid for Dougherty Island. We had westerly winds for about two weeks,

and were only two or three days' sail from the island in question,

when suddenly we had a gale from the north-east, which lasted for

three days, and ended in a hurricane from the same quarter. When

this was over, we had come according to dead reckoning about eighty

nautical miles to the south-east of the island; the heavy swell,

which lasted for days, made it out of the question to attempt to go

against it with the motor. We hardly had a glimpse of sun or stars,

and weeks passed without our being able to get an observation, so

that for that matter we might easily be a degree or two out in our

reckoning. For the present, therefore, we must continue to regard

these islands as doubtful.

Moral: Don't go on voyages of discovery, my friend; you're no good

at it!

As soon as we were out of Ross Sea and had entered the South Pacific

Ocean, the old circus started again -- in other words, the Fram began

her everlasting rolling from one side to the other. When this was at

its worst, and cups and plates were dancing the fandango in the galley,

its occupant's only wish was, "Oh, to be in Buenos Aires!" For that

matter, it is not a very easy job to be cook in such circumstances,

but ours was always in a good humour, singing and whistling all day

long. How well the Fram understands the art of rolling is shown by

the following little episode.

One afternoon a couple of us were sitting drinking coffee on a

tool-box that stood outside the galley. As ill-luck would have it,

during one of the lurches the lashing came loose, and the box shot

along the deck. Suddenly it was checked by an obstacle, and one of

those who were sitting on it flew into the air, through the galley

door, and dashed past the cook with a splendid tiger's leap, until he

landed face downwards at the other end of the galley, still clinging

like grim death to his cup, as though he wanted something to hold on

to. The face he presented after this successful feat of aviation was

extremely comical, and those who saw it had a hearty fit of laughter.

As has already been said, we went very well for a time after reaching

the Pacific, a fair wind for fourteen days together, and I began to

hope that we were once more in what are called the "westerlies."

However, nothing is perfect in this world, and we found that out here,

as we had icebergs every day, and were constantly bothered by

snow-squalls or fog; the former were, of course, to be preferred, as

it was at any rate clear between the squalls; but fog is the worst

thing of all. It sometimes happened that all hands were on deck the

whole night to work the ship at a moment's notice, and there were

never less than two men on the lookout forward. The engine, too, was

always ready to be started instantly. A little example will show how

ready the crew were at any time.

One Sunday afternoon, when Hansen, Kristensen and I were on watch,

the wind began to draw ahead, so that we had to beat. It was blowing

quite freshly, but I did not want to call the watch below, as they

might need all the sleep they could get, and Hansen and I were to put

the ship about. Kristensen was steering, but gave us a hand when he

could leave the wheel. As the ship luffed up into the wind and the

sails began to flap pretty violently, the whole of the watch below

suddenly came rushing on deck in nothing but their unmentionables

and started to haul. Chance willed it that at the same moment an

iceberg came out of the fog, right in front of our bows. It was not

many minutes, either, before we were on the other tack, and the watch

below did not linger long on deck. With so few clothes on it was no

pleasure to be out in that cold, foggy air. They slept so lightly,

then, that it took no more noise than that to wake them. When I

afterwards asked one of them -- I think it was Beck -- what made

them think of coming up, he replied that they thought we were going

to run into an iceberg and were trying to get out of the way.

It has happened at night that I have seen the ice-blink as far off

as eight miles, and then there is nothing to fear; but sometimes in

the middle of the day we have sailed close to icebergs that have only

been seen a few minutes before we were right on them. As the voyage

was long, we sailed as fast as we could, as a rule; but on two or

three nights we had to reduce our way to a minimum, as we could not

see much farther than the end of the bowsprit.

After two or three weeks' sailing the icebergs began gradually to

decrease, and I hoped we should soon come to the end of them; but

on Sunday, March 5, when it was fairly clear, we saw about midday a

whole lot of big bergs ahead. One of the watch below, who had just

come on deck, exclaimed: "What the devil is this beastly mess you

fellows have got into?" He might well ask, for in the course of that

afternoon we passed no less than about a hundred bergs. They were

big tabular bergs, all of the same height, about 100 feet, or about

as high as the crow's-nest of the Fram. The bergs were not the least

worn, but looked as if they had calved quite recently. As I said, it

was clear enough, we even got an observation that day (lat. 61° S.,

long. 150° W.), and as we had a west wind, we twisted quite elegantly

past one iceberg after another. The sea, which during the morning had

been high enough for the spray to dash over the tops of the bergs,

gradually went down, and in the evening, when we were well to leeward

of them all, it was as smooth as if we had been in harbour. In the

course of the night we passed a good many more bergs, and the next

day we only saw about twenty.

In the various descriptions of voyages in these waters, opinions are

divided as to the temperature of the water falling in the neighbourhood

of icebergs. That it falls steadily as one approaches the pack-ice

is certain enough, but whether it falls for one or a few scattered

icebergs, no doubt depends on circumstances.

One night at 12 o'clock we had a temperature in the water of 34.1°

F., at 4 a.m. 33.8° F., and at 8 a.m. 33.6° F.; at 6 a.m. we passed

an iceberg. At 12 noon the temperature had risen to 33.9° F. In this

case one might say that the temperature gave warning, but, as a rule,

in high latitudes it has been constant both before and after passing

an iceberg.

On Christmas Eve, 1911, when on our second trip southward we saw the

first real iceberg, the temperature of the water fell in four hours

from 35.6° F. to 32.7° F., which was the temperature when the bergs

were passed, after which it rose rather rapidly to 35° F.

In the west wind belt I believe one can tell with some degree of

certainty when one is approaching ice. In the middle of November, 1911,

between Prince Edward Island and the Crozet Islands (about lat. 47°

S.) the temperature fell. Towards morning I remarked to someone:

"The temperature of the water is falling as if we were getting near

the ice." On the forenoon of the same day we sailed past a very small

berg; the temperature again rose to the normal, and we met no more

ice until Christmas Eve.

On Saturday, March 4, the day before we met that large collection

of bergs, the temperature fell pretty rapidly from 33.9° F. to 32.5°

F. We had not then seen ice for nearly twenty-four hours. At the same

time the colour of the water became unusually green, and it is possible

that we had come into a cold current. The temperature remained as low

as this till Sunday morning, when at 8 a. m. it rose to 32.7° F.;

at 12 noon, close to a berg, to 32.9° F., and a mile to lee of it,

to 33° F. It continued to rise, and at 4 p.m., when the bergs were

thickest, it was 33.4° F.; at 8 p.m. 33.6° F., and at midnight 33.8°

F. If there had been a fog, we should certainly have thought we were

leaving the ice instead of approaching it; it is very curious, too,

that the temperature of the water should not be more constant in

the presence of such a great quantity of ice; but, as I have said,

it may have been a current.

In the course of the week following March 5 the bergs became rarer,

but the same kind of weather prevailed. Our speed was irreproachable,

and in one day's work (from noon to noon) we covered a distance of

200 nautical miles, or an average of about 82 knots an hour, which

was the best day's work the Fram had done up to that time. The wind;

which had been westerly and north-westerly, went by degrees to the

north, and ended in a hurricane from the north-east on Sunday, March

12. I shall quote here what I wrote about this in my diary on the 13th:

"Well, now we have experienced the first hurricane on the Fram. On

Saturday afternoon, the 11th, the wind went to the north-east, as an

ordinary breeze with rain. The barometer had been steady between 29.29

inches (744 millimetres) and 29.33 inches (745 millimetres). During

the afternoon it began to fall, and at 8 p.m. it was 29.25 inches

(743 millimetres) without the wind having freshened at all. The outer

jib was taken in, however. By midnight the barometer had fallen to

29.0 inches (737 millimetres), while the wind had increased to a stiff

breeze. We took in the foresail, mainsail, and inner jib, and had now

only the topsail and a storm-trysail left. The wind gradually increased

to a gale. At 4 a.m. on Sunday the barometer had fallen again to 28.66

inches (728 millimetres), and at 6 a.m. the topsail was made fast.[3]

The wind increased and the seas ran higher, but we did not ship much

water. At 8 a.m. the barometer was 28.30 inches (719 millimetres),

and at 9 a.m. 28.26 inches (718 millimetres), when at last it

stopped going down and remained steady till about noon, during

which time a furious hurricane was blowing. The clouds were brown,

the colour of chocolate; I cannot remember ever having seen such an

ugly sky. Little by little the wind went to the north, and we sailed

large under two storm-trysails. Finally, we had the seas on our beam,

and now the Fram showed herself in all her glory as the best sea-boat

in the world. It was extraordinary to watch how she behaved. Enormous

seas came surging high to windward, and we, who were standing on the

bridge, turned our backs to receive them, with some such remark as:

'Ugh, that's a nasty one coming.' But the sea never came. A few

yards from the ship it looked over the bulwarks and got ready to

hurl itself upon her. But at the last moment the Fram gave a wriggle

of her body and was instantly at the top of the wave, which slipped

under the vessel. Can anyone be surprised if one gets fond of such a

ship? Then she went down with the speed of lightning from the top of

the wave into the trough, a fall of fourteen or fifteen yards. When

we sank like this, it gave one the same feeling as dropping from

the twelfth to the ground-floor in an American express elevator,

'as if everything inside you was coming up.' It was so quick that we

seemed to be lifted off the deck. We went up and down like this all the

afternoon and evening, till during the night the wind gradually dropped

and it became calm. That the storm would not be of long duration

might almost be assumed from its suddenness, and the English rule --

Long foretold, long last; Short notice, soon past' --

may thus be said to have held good.

"When there is a strong wind on her beam, the Fram does not roll

so much as usual, except for an occasional leeward lurch; nor was

any excessive quantity of water shipped in this boisterous sea. The

watch went below as usual when they were relieved, and, as somebody

very truly remarked, all hands might quite well have turned in, if we

had not had to keep a lookout for ice. And fortune willed it that the

day of the hurricane was the first since we had left the Barrier that

we did not see ice -- whether this was because the spray was so high

that it hid our view, or because there really was none. Be that as it

may, the main thing was that we saw no ice. During the night we had

a glimpse of the full moon, which gave the man at the wheel occasion

to call out 'Hurrah!' -- and with good reason, as we had been waiting

a long time for the moon to help us in looking out for ice.

"In weather like this one notices nothing out of the ordinary

below deck. Here hardly anything is heard of the wind, and in

the after-saloon, which is below the water-line, it is perfectly

comfortable. The cook, who resides below, therefore reckons 'ugly

weather' according to the motion of the vessel, and not according to

storms, fog, or rain. On deck we do not mind much how it blows, so

long as it is only clear, and the wind is not against us. How little

one hears below deck may be understood from the fact that yesterday

morning, while it was blowing a hurricane, the cook went about as

usual, whistling his two verses of 'The Whistling Bowery Boy.' While

he was in the middle of the first, I came by and told him that it

was blowing a hurricane if he cared to see what it looked like. 'Oh,

yes,' he said, 'I could guess it was blowing, for the galley fire

has never drawn so well; the bits of coal are flying up the chimney';

and then he whistled through the second verse. All the same, he could

not resist going up to see. It was not long before he came down again,

with a 'My word, it is blowing, and waves up to the sky!' No; it was

warmer and more cosy below among his pots and pans.

"For dinner, which was eaten as usual amid cheerful conversation,

we had green-pea soup, roast sirloin, with a glass of aquavit, and

caramel pudding; so it may be seen that the cook was not behindhand in

opening tins, even in a hurricane. After dinner we enjoyed our usual

Sunday cigar, while the canary, which has become Kristensen's pet,

and hangs in his cabin, sang at the top of its voice."

On March 14 we saw the last iceberg; during the whole trip we had

seen and passed between 500 and 600 bergs.

The wind held steady from the north-east for a week and a half, and

I was beginning to think we should be stuck down here to play the

Flying Dutchman. There was every possible sign of a west wind, but

it did not come. On the night of the 17th it cleared; light cirrus

clouds covered the sky, and there was a ring about the moon. This,

together with the heavy swell and the pronounced fall of the barometer,

showed that something might be expected. And, sure enough, on Sunday,

March 19, we were in a cyclone. By manoeuvring according to the rules

for avoiding a cyclone in the southern hemisphere, we at any rate

went well clear of one semicircle. About 4 p.m. on Sunday afternoon

the barometer was down to 27.56 inches (700 millimetres), the lowest

barometer reading I have ever heard of. From noon to 4 p.m. there was

a calm, with heavy sea. Immediately after a gale sprang up from the

north-west, and in the course of a couple of days it slowly moderated

to a breeze from the same quarter.

Sunday, March 5, a hundred icebergs; Sunday March 12, a hurricane;

and Sunday, March 19, a cyclone: truly three pleasant "days of rest."

The curves given on the next page, which show the course of barometric

pressure for a week, from Monday to Monday, are interesting.

By way of comparison a third curve is given from the north-east trade,

where there is an almost constant breeze and fine weather.

On this trip the fore-saloon was converted into a sail-loft, where

Rönne and Hansen carried on their work, each in his watch. The

after-saloon was used as a common mess-room, as it is warmer, and

the motion is far less felt than forward.

From the middle of March it looked as if the equinoctial gales were

over, for we had quite fine weather all the way to Buenos Aires. Cape

Horn was passed on March 31 in the most delightful weather -- a light

westerly breeze, not a cloud in the sky, and only a very slight swell

from the west. Who would have guessed that such splendid weather was

to be found in these parts? -- and that in March, the most stormy

month of the year.

Lieutenant Gjertsen and Kutschin collected plankton all the time;

the latter smiled all over his face whenever he chanced to get one

or two "tadpoles" in his tow-net.

From the Falkland Islands onward the Fram was washed and painted,

so that we might not present too "Polar" an appearance on arrival at

Buenos Aires.

It may be mentioned as a curious fact that the snow with which we

filled our water-tanks on the Barrier did not melt till we were in

the River La Plata, which shows what an even temperature is maintained

in the Fram's hold.

About midday on Easter Sunday we were at the mouth of the River La

Plata, without seeing land, however. During the night the weather

became perfect, a breeze from the south, moonlight and starry, and we

went up the river by soundings and observations of the stars until at

1 a.m. on Monday, when we had the Recalada light-ship right ahead. We

had not seen any light since we left Madeira on September 9. At 2.30

the same morning we got a pilot aboard, and at seven in the evening

we anchored in the roads of Buenos Aires.

We had then been nearly once round the world, and for over seven

months the anchor had not been out.

We had reckoned on a two months' voyage from the ice, and it had

taken us sixty-two days.

The Oceanographical Cruise.

According to the programme, the Fram was to go on an oceanographical

cruise in the South Atlantic, and my orders were that this was to

be arranged to suit the existing circumstances. I had reckoned on a

cruise of about three months. We should have to leave Buenos Aires

at the beginning of October to be down in the ice at the right time

(about the New Year).

As we were too short-handed to work the ship, take soundings, etc.,

the following four seamen were engaged: H. Halvorsen, A. Olsen,

F. Steller, and J. Andersen.

At last we were more or less ready, and the Fram sailed from Buenos

Aires on June 8, 1911, the anniversary of our leaving Horten on our

first hydrographic cruise in the North Atlantic. I suppose there was

no one on board on June 8, 1910, who dreamed that a year later we

should go on a similar cruise in the South.

We had a pilot on board as far as Montevideo, where we arrived on the

afternoon of the 9th; but on account of an increasing wind (pampero)

we had to lie at anchor here for a day and a half, as the pilot could

not be taken off. On Saturday afternoon, the 10th, he was fetched

off by a big tug-boat, on board of which was the Secretary of the

Norwegian Consulate. This gentleman asked us if we could not come

into the harbour, as "people would like to see the ship." I promised

to come in on the way back, "if we had time."

On Sunday morning, the 11th, we weighed anchor, and went out in

the most lovely weather that can be imagined. Gradually the land

disappeared, and in the course of the evening we lost the lights;

we were once more out in the Atlantic, and immediately everything

resumed its old course.

In order to save our supply of preserved provisions as much as

possible, we took with us a quantity of live poultry, and no fewer

than twenty live sheep, which were quartered in the "farmyard" on the

port side of the vessel's fore-deck. Sheep and hens were all together,

and there was always a most beautiful scent of hay, so that we had not

only sea air, but "country air." In spite of all this delightful air,

three or four of the crew were down with influenza, and had to keep

their berths for some days.

I reckoned on being back at Buenos Aires by the beginning of September,

and on getting, if possible, one station a day. The distance,

according to a rough calculation, was about 8,000 nautical miles,

and I laid down the following plan: To go about east by north with

the prevailing northerly and north-westerly winds to the coast of

Africa, and there get hold of the south-east trade. If we could not

reach Africa before that date, then to turn on July 22 and lay our

course with the south-east trade for St. Helena, which we could reach

before August 1; from there again with the same wind to South Trinidad

(August 11 or 12); on again with easterly and north-easterly winds on

a south-westerly course until about August 22, when the observations

were to be concluded, and we should try to make Buenos Aires in the

shortest time.

That was the plan that we attempted. On account of the fresh water

from the River La Plata, we did not begin at once to take samples of

water, and with a head-wind, north-east, we lay close-hauled for some

days. We also had a pretty stiff breeze, which was another reason

for delaying the soundings until the 17th.

For taking samples of water a winch is used, with a sounding-line of,

let us say, 5,000 metres (2,734 fathoms), on which are hung one or more

tubes for catching water; we used three at once to save time. Now,

supposing water and temperatures are to be taken at depths of 300,

400, and 500 metres (164, 218, and 273 fathoms), Apparatus III. (see

diagram) is first hung on, about 20 metres (10 fathoms) from the end

of the line, where a small weight (a) hangs; then it is lowered until

the indicator-wheel, over which the line passes, shows 100 metres

(54 fathoms); Apparatus II. is then put on, and it is lowered again

for another 100 metres, when Apparatus I. is put on and the line paid

out for 300 metres (164 fathoms) -- that is, until the indicator-wheel

shows 500 metres (273 fathoms). The upper Apparatus (I.) is then at

300 metres (164 fathoms), No. II. at 400 metres (218 fathoms), and

No. III. at 500 metres (273 fathoms). Under Apparatus I. and II. is

hung a slipping sinker (about 8 centimetres, or 3 1/4 inches, long,

and 3 centimetres, or 1 1/4 inches, in diameter). To the water-samplers

are attached thermometers (b) in tubes arranged for the purpose.

The water-samplers themselves consist of a brass cylinder (c), about

38 centimetres (15 inches) long and 4 centimetres (1 1/2 inches)

in diameter (about half a litre of water), set in a frame (d). At

about the middle of the cylinder are pivots, which rest in bearings

on the frame, so that the cylinder can be swung 180 degrees (straight

up and down).

The cylinder, while being lowered in an inverted position, is open

at both ends, so that the water can pass through. But at its upper

and lower ends are valves, working on hinges and provided with

packing. When the apparatus is released, the cylinder swings round,

and these valves then automatically close the ends of the cylinder. The

water that is thus caught in the cylinder at the required depth remains

in it while it is being heaved up, and is collected in bottles. When

the apparatus is released, the column of mercury in the thermometer

is broken, and the temperature of the water is read at the same depth

as the water is taken from.

The release takes place in the following manner: when all the

cylinders have been lowered to the required depths, they are left

hanging for a few minutes, so that the thermometers may be set at

the right temperature before the column of mercury is broken. Then a

slipping sinker is sent down the line. When this sinker strikes the

first apparatus, a spring is pressed, a hook (e) which has held the

cylinder slips loose, and the cylinder turns completely over (Apparatus

I.). As it does this, the valves, as already mentioned, close the

ends of the cylinder, which is fixed in its new position by a hook

in the bottom of the frame. At the same instant the slipping sinker

that hangs under Apparatus I. is released, and continues the journey

to Apparatus II., where the same thing happens. It is then repeated

with Apparatus III. When they are all ready, they are heaved in.

By holding one's finger on the line one can feel, at all events in

fairly calm weather, when the sinkers strike against the cylinders;

but I used to look at my watch, as it takes about half a minute for

the sinker to go down 100 metres.

The necessary data are entered in a book.

On the morning of the 17th, then, the sails were clewed up, and the

Fram began to roll even worse than with the sails set. We first tried

taking soundings with a sinker of 66 pounds, and a tube for taking

specimens of the sea-bed. At 2,000 metres (1,093 fathoms) or more

the line (piano wire) broke, so that sinker, tube, and over 2,000

metres of line continued their way unhindered to the bottom. I had

thought of taking samples of water at 4,000, 3,000, and 2,000 metres

(2,187, 1,639, 1,093 fathoms), and so on, and water-cylinders were put

on from 0 to 2,000 metres. This, however, took six hours. Next day,

on account of the heavy sea, only a few samples from 0 to 100 metres

(54 fathoms) were taken. On the third day we made another attempt to

get the bottom. This time we got specimens of the sea-bed from about

4,500 metres (about 2,500 fathoms); but the heaving in and taking of

water samples and temperatures occupied eight hours, from 7 a.m. till

3 p.m., or a third part of the twenty-four hours. In this way we should

want at least nine months on the route that had been laid down; but as,

unfortunately, this time was not at our disposal, we at once gave up

taking specimens of the bottom and samples of water at greater depths

than 1,000 metres (546 fathoms). For the remainder of the trip we took

temperatures and samples of water at the following depths: 0, 5, 10,

25, 50, 75, 100, 150, 200, 250, 300, 400, 500, 750, and 1,000 metres

(0, 2 3/4, 5 1/2, 13 1/2, 27, 41, 54, 81, 108, 135, 164, 218, 273,

410, and 546 fathoms), in all, fifteen samples from each station,

and from this time forward we went on regularly with one station

every day. Finally, we managed to heave up two water-cylinders on

the same line by hand without great difficulty. At first this was

done with the motor and sounding-machine, but this took too long,

and we afterwards used nothing but a light hand-winch. Before very

long we were so practised that the whole business only took two hours.

These two hours were those we liked best of the twenty-four. All kinds

of funny stories were told, especially about experiences in Buenos

Aires, and every day there was something new. Here is a little yarn:

One of the members of the expedition had been knocked down by

a motor-car in one of the busiest streets; the car stopped and of

course a crowd collected at once. Our friend lay there, wondering

whether he ought not to be dead, or at least to have broken a leg, so

as to get compensation. While he lay thus, being prodded and examined

by the public, he suddenly remembered that he had half a dollar in

his pocket. With all that money it didn't matter so much about the

compensation; up jumped our friend like an india-rubber ball, and

in a second he had vanished in the crowd, who stood open-mouthed,

gazing after the "dead" man.

Our speed on this cruise was regulated as nearly as possible so

that there might be about 100 nautical miles between each station,

and I must say we were uncommonly lucky in the weather. We made two

fairly parallel sections with comparatively regular intervals between

the stations; as regular, in any case, as one can hope to get with a

vessel like the Fram, which really has too little both of sail area

and engine power. The number of stations was 60 in all and 891 samples

of water were taken. Of plankton specimens 190 were sent home. The

further examination of these specimens in Norway will show whether

the material collected is of any value, and whether the cruise has

yielded satisfactory results.

As regards the weather on the trip, it was uniformly good the whole

time; we had a good deal of wind now and then, with seas and rolling,

but for the most part there was a fresh breeze. In the south-east

trade we sailed for four weeks at a stretch without using the engine,

which then had a thorough overhauling. At the same time we had a good

opportunity of smartening up the ship, which she needed badly. All

the iron was freed from rust, and the whole vessel painted both

below and above deck. The decks themselves were smeared with a

mixture of oil, tar and turpentine, after being scoured. All the

rigging was examined. At the anchorage at Buenos Aires nearly the

whole ship was painted again, masts and yards, the outside of the

vessel and everything inboard, both deck-houses, the boats and the

various winches, pumps, etc. In the engine-room everything was either

shining bright or freshly painted, everything hung in its place and

such order and cleanliness reigned that it was a pleasure to go down

there. The result of all this renovating and smartening up was that,

when we fetched up by the quay at Buenos Aires, the Fram looked

brighter than I suppose she has ever done since she was new.

During the trip the holds were also cleaned up, and all the provisions

re-stowed and an inventory made of them.

A whole suit of sails was completely worn out on this voyage; but

what can one expect when the ship is being worked every single day,

with clewing up, making fast and setting of sails both in calms

and winds? This work every day reminded me of the corvette Ellida,

when the order was "all hands aloft." As a rule, though, it was only

clewing up the sails that had to be done, as we always had to take

soundings on the weather side, so that the sounding-line should not

foul the bottom of the vessel and smash the apparatus. And we did

not lose more than one thermometer in about nine hundred soundings.

On account of all this wear and tear of sails Rönne was occupied the

whole time, both at sea and in Buenos Aires, in making and patching

sails, as there was not much more than the leeches left of those

that had been used, and on the approaching trip (to the Ice Barrier)

we should have to have absolutely first-class things in the "Roaring

Forties."

June 30, 1911, is a red-letter day in the Fram's history, as on that

day we intersected our course from Norway to the Barrier, and the

Franz thus completed her first circumnavigation of the globe. Bravo,

Fram! It was well done, especially after the bad character you have

been given as a sailer and a sea-boat. In honour of the occasion we

had a better dinner than usual, and the Franz was congratulated by

all present on having done her work well.

On the evening of July 29 St. Helena was passed. It was the first

time I had seen this historic island. It was very strange to think

that "the greatest spirit of a hundred centuries," as some author has

called Napoleon, should have ending his restless life on this lonely

island of the South Atlantic.

On August 12, when daylight came, we sighted the little Martin Vaz

Islands ahead, and a little later South Trinidad (in 1910 this island

was passed on October 16). We checked our chronometers, which, however,

proved to be correct. From noon till 2 p.m., while we were lying

still and taking our daily hydrographic observations, a sailing ship

appeared to the north of us, lying close-hauled to the south. She bore

down on us and ran up her flag, and we exchanged the usual greetings;

she was a Norwegian barque bound for Australia. Otherwise we did not

see more than four or five ships on the whole voyage, and those were

pretty far off:

Never since leaving Madeira (September, 1910) had we been troubled

with animals or insects of any kind whatever; but when we were in

Buenos Aires for the first time, at least half a million flies came

aboard to look at the vessel. I hoped they would go ashore when the

Fram sailed; but no, they followed us, until by degrees they passed

peacefully away on fly-paper.

Well, flies are one thing, but we had something else that was worse --

namely, rats -- our horror and dread, and for the future our deadly

enemies. The first signs of them I found in my bunk and on the table

in the fore-saloon; they were certainly not particular. What I said on

that occasion had better not be printed, though no expression could be

strong enough to give vent to one's annoyance at such a discovery. We

set traps, but what was the use of that, when the cargo consisted

exclusively of provisions?

One morning, as Rönne was sitting at work making sails, he observed

a "shadow" flying past his feet, and, according to his account,

into the fore-saloon. The cook came roaring: "There's a rat in the

fore-saloon!" Then there was a lively scene; the door was shut, and

all hands started hunting. All the cabins were emptied and rummaged,

the piano, too; everything was turned upside down, but the rat had

vanished into thin air.

About a fortnight later I noticed a corpse-like smell in Hassel's

cabin, which was empty. On closer sniffing and examination it turned

out to be the dead rat, a big black one, unfortunately a male rat. The

poor brute, that had starved to death, had tried to keep itself alive

by devouring a couple of novels that lay in a locked drawer. How the

rat got into that drawer beats me.

On cleaning out the provision hold nests were found with several

rats in them: six were killed, but at least as many escaped, so now

no doubt we have a whole colony. A reward was promised of ten cigars

for each rat; traps were tried again, but all this did very little

good. When we were in Buenos Aires for the second time we got a cat

on board; it certainly kept the rats down, but it was shot on the

Barrier. At Hobart we provided a few traps, which caught a good many;

but we shall hardly get rid of them altogether until we have landed

most of the provisions, and smoked them out.

We have also had a lot of moth; at present they have done nothing

beyond eating a couple of holes in my best trousers.

During the whole of this cruise we had a fishing-line hanging out,

but it hung for a whole month without there being a sign of a fish,

in spite of the most delicate little white rag that was attached

to the hook. One morning the keenest of our fishermen came up as

usual and felt the line. Yes, by Jove! at last there was one, and a

big one, too, as he could hardly haul in the line by himself. There

was a shout for assistance. "Hi, you beggar! come and lend a hand;

there's a big fish!" Help came in a second, and they both hauled for

all they were worth. "Ah! he's a fine, glistening fish; it'll be grand

to get fresh fish for dinner!" At last the fish appeared over the rail;

but, alas! it was seen to have no head. It was an ordinary stockfish,

about three-quarters of a yard long, that some joker had hung on the

line during the night. That we all had a hearty laugh goes without

saying, the fishermen included, as they took it all in good part.

As a fishing-boat the Fram is on the whole not very successful. The

only fish we caught, besides the above-mentioned stockfish, was a real

live fish; but, unfortunately, it fell off the hook as it was being

hauled in. According to the account of eye-witnesses, this fish was

. . . six feet long and one broad.

Now we don't fish any more.

On August 19 the hydrographic observations were brought to an end,

and a course was laid for Buenos Aires, where we anchored in the

roads at midnight on September 1.

At Buenos Aires.

To arrive at Buenos Aires in the early part of 1911 was not an unmixed

pleasure, especially when one had no money. The Fram Expedition

was apparently not very popular at that time, and our cash balance

amounted to about forty pesos (about (L)3 10s.), but that would not

go very far; our supply of provisions had shrunk to almost nothing,

and we had not enough to be able to leave the port. I had been told

that a sum had been placed to the credit of the Fram for our stay

in Buenos Aires, but I neither saw nor heard anything of it while we

were there, and it was no doubt somewhat imaginary.

If we were to be at all able to go down and take off the shore party

money must be found. We had come to the end of sail-cloth and ropes,

we had too little food and a minimum of oil; all this would have to be

provided. At the worst the oceanographical cruise could be cut out,

and we could lie still at Buenos Aires; then, as our comrades could

not very well be left to perish on the ice, enough would have to be

sent us from Norway to enable us to go down there; but that would

finish the whole expedition, as in such a case the Fram had orders

to go back to Norway.

As usual, however, the Fram's luck helped her again. A few days

before we left Norway our distinguished compatriot in Buenos Aires,

Don Pedro Christophersen, had cabled that he would supply us with

what provisions we might require, if, after leaving Madeira, we would

call at Buenos Aires. Of course, he did not know at that time that the

voyage would be extended to include the South Pole, and that the Fram

on arrival at Buenos Aires would be almost empty instead of having

a full cargo, but that did not prevent his helping us. I immediately

called on him and his brother, the Norwegian Minister; fortunately,

they were both very enthusiastic about our Chief's change of plan.

When, on a subsequent occasion, I expressed my astonishment at not

hearing from home, I was told that the funds of the Expedition were

exhausted, and Mr. Christophersen promised me, on hearing what straits

we were in, to pay all our expenses in Buenos Aires, and to supply

us with provisions and fuel. That brought us out of our difficulties

at a bound, and we had no more need to take thought for the morrow.

Everyone on board received a sum of money for his personal expenses

from the Norwegian colony of the River Plate, and we were invited to

their dinner on Independence Day, May 17.

Our second stay at Buenos Aires was very pleasant; everyone was

amiability itself, and festivities were even got up for us. We

took on board provisions that had been sent out from Norway by

Mr. Christophersen's orders, about 50,000 litres (11,000 gallons)

of petroleum, ship's stores, and so on; enough for a year. But this

was not all. Just before we sailed Mr. Christophersen said he would

send a relief expedition, if the Fram did not return to Australia by

a certain date; but, as everyone knows, this was happily unnecessary.

During the three weeks we were lying at the quay in Buenos Aires we

were occupied in getting everything on board, and making the vessel

ready for sea. We had finished this by the afternoon of Wednesday,

October 4, and next morning the Pram was ready to continue her second

circumnavigation of the globe.

In Buenos Aires we lay at the same quay as the Deutschland, the German

Antarctic Expedition's ship.

A. Kutschin and the second engineer, J. Nödtvedt, went home, and

seaman J. Andersen was discharged.

From Buenos Aires to the Ross Barrier.

On the trip from Buenos Aires to the Barrier the watches were divided

as follows: From eight to two: T. Nilsen, L. Hansen, H. Halvorsen,

and A. Olsen. From two to eight: H. Gjertsen, A. Beck, M. Rönne, and

F. Steller. In the engine-room: K. Sundbeck and H. Kristensen. Lastly,

K. Olsen, cook. In all eleven men.

It is said that "well begun is half done," and it almost seems as if a

bad beginning were likely to have a similar continuation. When we left

the northern basin on the morning of October 5, there was a head wind,

and it was not till twenty-four hours later that we could drop the

pilot at the Recalada lightship. After a time it fell calm, and we made

small progress down the River La Plata, until, on the night of the 6th,

we were clear of the land, and the lights disappeared on the horizon.

Properly speaking, we ought to have been in the west wind belt as

soon as we came out, and the drift of the clouds and movement of

the barograph were examined at least twenty-four times a day, but

it still remained calm. At last, after the lapse of several days, we

had a little fresh south-westerly wind with hail showers, and then,

of course, I thought we had made a beginning; but unfortunately it

only lasted a night, so that our joy was short-lived.

We took with us from Buenos Aires fifteen live sheep and fifteen live

little pigs, for which two houses were built on the after-deck; as,

however, one of the pigs was found dead on the morning after the

south-westerly breeze just mentioned, I assumed that this was on

account of the cold, and another house was at once built for them

between decks (in the work-room), where it was very warm. They were

down here the whole time; but as their house was cleaned out twice

a day and dry straw put on the floor, they did not cause us much

inconvenience; besides which, their house was raised more than half a

foot above the deck itself, so that the space below could always be

kept clean. The pigs thrived so well down here that we could almost

see them growing; on arrival at the Barrier we had no fewer than

nine alive.

The sheep had a weather-tight house with a tarpaulin over the roof,

and they grew fatter and fatter; we had every opportunity of noticing

this, as we killed one of them regularly every Saturday until we

came into the pack-ice and got seal-meat. We had four sheep left on

reaching the Barrier.

We did wretchedly in October -- calms and east winds, nothing but

east winds; as regards distance it was the worst month we had had

since leaving Norway, notwithstanding that the Fram had been in dry

dock, had a clean bottom and a light cargo. When close-hauled with

any head sea, we scarcely move; a stiff fair wind is what is wanted

if we are to get on. Somebody said we got on so badly because we had

thirteen pigs on board; another said it was because we caught so many

birds, and I had caught no less than fourteen albatrosses and four

Cape pigeons. Altogether there is quite enough of what I will call

superstition at sea. One particular bird brings fine weather, another

storms; it is very important to notice which way the whale swims or

the dolphin leaps; the success of seal-hunting depends on whether

the first seal is seen ahead or astern, and so on. Enough of that.

October went out and November came in with a fresh breeze from the

south-south-west, so that we did nine and a half knots. This promised

well for November, but the promise was scarcely fulfilled. We had

northerly wind or southerly wind continually, generally a little to

the east of north or south, and I believe I am not saying too much

when I state that in the "west wind belt" with an easterly course we

lay close-hauled on one tack or the other for about two-thirds of the

way. For only three days out of three months did we have a real west

wind, a wind which, with south-westerly and north-westerly winds,

I had reckoned on having for 75 per cent. of the trip from Buenos

Aires to about the longitude of Tasmania.

In my enthusiasm over the west wind in question, I went so far as

to write in my diary at 2 a.m. on November 11: "There is a gale from

the west, and we are making nine knots with foresail and topsail. The

sea is pretty high and breaking on both sides of the vessel, so that

everything about us is a mass of spray. In spite of this, not a drop

of water comes on deck, and it is so dry that the watch are going

about in clogs. For my part I am wearing felt slippers, which will

not stand wet. Sea-boots and oilskins hang ready in the chart-house,

in case it should rain. On a watch like to-night, when the moon is kind

enough to shine, everyone on deck is in the best of humours, whistling,

chattering, and singing. Somebody comes up with the remark that 'She

took that sea finely,' or 'Now she's flying properly.' 'Fine' is almost

too feeble an expression; one ought to say 'lightly and elegantly'

when speaking of the Fram . . . . What more can one wish?" etc.

But whatever time Adam may have spent in Paradise, we were not

there more than three days, and then the same wretched state of

things began again. What I wrote when there was a head wind or calm,

I should be sorry to reproduce. Woe to him who then came and said it

was fine weather.

It was lucky for us that the Fram sails so much more easily now

than in 1910, otherwise we should have taken six months to reach the

Barrier. When we had wind, we used it to the utmost; but we did not do

this without the loss of one or two things; the new jib-sheet broke

a couple of times, and one night we carried away the outer bobstay

of the jib-boom. The foresail and topsail were neither made fast nor

reefed during the whole trip.

The last time the jib-sheet broke there was a strong breeze from the

south-west with a heavy sea; all sail was set with the exception of

the spanker, as the ship would not steer with that. There was an extra

preventer on the double jib-sheet, but in spite of that the sheets

broke and the jib was split with a fearful crack. Within a minute

the mainsail and gaff-topsail were hauled down, so that the ship

might fall off, and the jib hauled down. This was instantly unbent

and a new one bent. The man at the helm, of course, got the blame

for this, and the first thing he said to me was "I couldn't help it,

she was twisting on the top of a wave." We were then making ten knots,

and more than that we shall not do.

The Fram rolled well that day. A little earlier in the afternoon,

at two o'clock, when the watch had gone below to dinner and were just

eating the sweet, which on that occasion consisted of preserved pears,

we felt that there was an unusually big lurch coming. Although, of

course, we had fiddles on the table, the plates, with meat, potatoes,

etc., jumped over the fiddles, which they didn't care a button for,

into Beck's cabin. I caught one of the pears in its flight, but the

plate with the rest of them went on its way. Of course there was a

great shout of laughter, which stopped dead as we heard a violent

noise on deck, over our heads; I guessed at once it was an empty

water-tank that had broken loose, and with my mouth full of pear

I yelled "Tank!" and flew on deck with the whole watch below at my

heels. A sea had come in over the after-deck, and had lifted the tank

up from its lashings. All hands threw themselves upon the tank, and

held on to it till the water had poured off the deck, when it was

again fixed in its place. When this was done, my watch went below

again and lit their pipes as if nothing had happened.

On November 13 we passed the northernmost of the Prince Edward Islands,

and on the 18th close to Penguin Island, the most south-westerly

of the Crozets. In the neighbourhood of the latter we saw a great

quantity of birds, a number of seals and penguins, and even a little

iceberg. I went close to the land to check the chronometers, which

an observation and bearings of the islands showed to be correct.

Our course was then laid for Kerguelen Island, but we went too far

north to see it, as for two weeks the wind was south-easterly and

southerly, and the leeway we made when sailing close-hauled took us

every day a little to the north of east. When we were in the same

waters in 1910, there was gale after gale; then we did not put in at

Kerguelen on account of the force of the wind; this time we could not

approach the island because of the wind's direction. In no respect

can the second trip be compared with the first; I should never have

dreamed that there could be so much difference in the "Roaring Forties"

in two different years at the same season. In the "Foggy Fifties"

the weather was calm and fine, and we had no fog until lat. 58° S.

As regards the distance sailed, November, 1911, is the best month

the Fram has had.

In December, which began with a speed of one and a half knots, calm,

swell against us, and the engine at full speed, we had a fair wind for

three days, all the rest calms and head winds; the first part of the

month from the north-east and east, so that we came much too far south;

even in long. 150 E. we were in lat. 60° S. In Christmas week we had

calms and light winds from the south-east, so that we managed to steal

eastward to long. 170° E. and lat. 65° S., where, on the edge of the

pack-ice, we had a stiff breeze from the north-north-east, that is,

straight on to the ice.

Between Buenos Aires and the pack-ice we caught, as I have said,

a good many birds, mostly albatrosses, and about thirty skins were

prepared by L. Hansen. The largest albatross we got measured twelve

feet between the tips of its wings, and the smallest bird was of a

land species, not much bigger than a humming-bird.

Talking of albatrosses, it is both amusing and interesting to watch

their elegant flight in a high wind. Without a movement of the wings

they sail, now with, now against, the wind; at one instant they

touch the surface of the water with the points of their wings, at the

next they go straight into the air like an arrow. An interesting and

instructive study for an aviator.

In a wind, when there is generally a number of them hovering about the

vessel, they will dash down after anything that is thrown overboard;

but of course it is useless to try to catch them when the ship has

so much way. This must be done the next day, when the wind is lighter.

The birds are caught with an iron triangle, which ought to be enclosed

in wood, so that it will float on the water. At the apex, which is

very acute, the iron is filed as sharp as a knife, and pork is hung

on each of the sides. When this is thrown in the wake of the ship,

the bird settles on the water to feed. The upper part of its beak is

hooked like that of a bird of prey, and as the albatross opens its beak

and bites at the pork, you give a jerk, so that the triangle catches

the upper part of the beak by two small notches, and the bird is left

hanging. If the line should break, the whole thing simply falls off

and the bird is unharmed. In hauling in, therefore, you have to be

very careful to hold the line quite tight, even if the bird flies

towards you, otherwise it will easily fall off: A bird may be pulled

half-way in several times, and will immediately take the bait again.

On the night of December 11 an unusually beautiful aurora was seen;

it lasted over an hour, and moved in a direction from west to east.

On the 14th all the white paint was washed; the temperature was 43°

F., and we were in shirt-sleeves.

For a whole week before Christmas the cook was busy baking Christmas

cakes. I am bound to say he is industrious; and the day before

Christmas Eve one of the little pigs, named Tulla, was killed. The

swineherd, A. Olsen, whose special favourite this pig was, had to

keep away during the operation, that we might not witness his emotion.

Early on the morning of Christmas Eve we saw the three first icebergs;

there was an absolute calm all day, with misty air.

To keep Christmas the engine was stopped at 5 p.m., and then all hands

came to dinner. Unfortunately we had no gramophone to sing to us, as in

1910; as a substitute the "orchestra" played "Glade Jul, hellige Jul,"

when all were seated. The orchestra was composed of Beck on the violin,

Sundbeck on the mandolin, and the undersigned on the flute. I puffed

out my cheeks as much as I could, and that is not saying a little,

so that the others might see how proficient I was. I hardly think

it was much of a musical treat; but the public was neither critical

nor ceremonious, and the prevalent costume was jerseys. The dinner

consisted of soup, roast pork, with fresh potatoes and whortleberries,

ten-years-old aquavit and Norwegian bock beer, followed by wine-jelly

and "kransekake," with -- champagne. The toasts of their Majesties

the King and Queen, Don Pedro Christophersen, Captain Amundsen,

and the Fram were drunk.

I had decorated the saloon in a small way with artificial flowers,

embroideries, and flags, to give a little colour. Dinner was followed

by cigars and the distribution of Christmas presents. L. Hansen

played the accordion, and Lieutenant Gjertsen and Rönne danced "folk

dances"; the latter was, as usual, so amusing that he kept us in fits

of laughter.

At ten o'clock it was all over, the engine was started again, one

watch went to bed and the other on deck; Olsen cleaned out the pigsty,

as usual at this time of night. That finished Christmas for this year.

As has been said before, Sir James Ross was down here in the

1840's. Two years in succession he sailed from the Pacific into Ross

Sea with two ships that had no auxiliary steam-power. I assumed,

therefore, that if he could get through so easily, there must be

some place between South Victoria Land and the Barrier (or land)

on the other side, where there was little or no ice. Following this

assumption, I intended to go down to the western pack-ice (that lying

off South Victoria Land) and steer along it till we were in Ross Sea,

or, at all events, until we found a place where we could easily get

through. It is quite possible that Ross was very lucky in the time

at which he encountered the ice, and that he only sailed in clear

weather. We had no time to spare, however, but had to make use of

whatever wind there was, even if we could not see very far.

As early as December 28, at 5 p.m., in lat. 65° S. and long. 171.5°

E., it was reported that we were off the pack. I was a good deal

surprised, as recent expeditions had not met the pack until 66.5°

S., or about one hundred nautical miles farther south, nor had there

been any sign of our being so near the ice. The wind for the last

few days had been south-easterly, but for the moment it was calm; we

therefore held on to the east along the edge of the pack, with the ice

to starboard. About midnight the wind freshened from the north, and we

lay close-hauled along the edge of the ice till midday on the 29th,

when the direction of the ice became more southerly. The northerly

wind, which gradually increased to a stiff breeze, was good enough

for getting us on, but it must inevitably bring fog and snow in its

train. These came, sure enough, as thick as a wall, and for a couple

of days we sailed perfectly blindly.

Outside the pack-ice proper lie long streams of floes and loose

scattered lumps, which become more frequent as one nears the pack. For

two days we sailed simply by the lumps of ice; the more of them we saw,

the more easterly was our course, until they began to decrease, when we

steered more to the south. In this way we went in forty-eight hours

from lat. 65° S. and long. 174° E. to lat. 69° S. and long. 178°

E., a distance of about two hundred and fifty nautical miles,

without entering the pack. Once we very nearly went into the trap,

but fortunately got out again. The wind was so fresh that we did as

much as eight and a half knots; when sailing at such a rate through

a loose stream of ice, we sometimes ran upon a floe, which went under

the ship's bottom, and came up alongside the other way up.

During the afternoon of the 31st the streams of ice became closer

and closer, and then I made the mistake of continuing to sail to the

eastward; instead of this, I ought to have stood off, and steered

due south or to the west of south, with this ice on ourport side. The

farther we advanced, the more certain I was that we had come into the

eastern pack-ice. It must be remembered, however, that owing to fog

and thick snow we had seen nothing for over two days. Observations

there were none, of course; our speed had varied between two and eight

and a half knots, and we had steered all manner of courses. That our

dead reckoning was not very correct in such circumstances goes without

saying, and an observation on January 2 showed us that we were somewhat

farther to the east than we had reckoned. On the evening of December 31

the fog lifted for a while, and we saw nothing but ice all round. Our

course was then set due south. We had come right down in lat. 69.5°

S., and I hoped soon to be clear altogether; in 1910 we got out of

the ice in 70°S., and were then in the same longitude as now.

Now, indeed, our progress began to be slow, and the old year went out

in a far from pleasant fashion. The fog was so thick that I may safely

say we did not see more than fifty yards from the ship, whereas we

ought to have had the midnight sun; ice and snow-sludge were so thick

that at times we lay still. The wind had, unfortunately, fallen off,

but we still had a little breeze from the north, so that both sails

and engine could be used. We went simply at haphazard; now and then

we were lucky enough to come into great open channels and even lakes,

but then the ice closed again absolutely tight. It could hardly be

called real ice, however, but was rather a snow-sludge, about two feet

thick, and as tough as dough; it looked as if it had all just been

broken off a single thick mass. The floes lay close together, and we

could see how one floe fitted into the other. The ice remained more

or less close until we were right down in lat. 73°S. and long. 179°

W.; the last part of it was old drift-ice.

From here to the Bay of Whales we saw a few scattered streams of

floes and some icebergs.

A few seals were shot in the ice, so that we had fresh meat enough,

and could save the sheep and pigs until the shore party came on

board. I was sure they would appreciate fresh roast pork.

The chart of Ross Sea has been drawn chiefly as a guide to future

expeditions. It may be taken as certain that the best place to go

through the ice is between long. 176° E. and 180°, and that the best

time is about the beginning of February.

Take, for instance, our southward route in 1911 -- 1912: as has been

said, the ice was met with as early as in 65° S., and we were not

clear of it till about 73° S.; between 68° S. and 69° S. the line

is interrupted, and it was there that I ought to have steered to

the south.

Now follow the course from the Bay of Whales in 1912. Only in about 75°

S. was ice seen (almost as in 1911), and we followed it. After that

time we saw absolutely no more ice, as the chart shows; therefore in

the course of about a month and a half all the ice that we met when

going south had drifted out.

The stippled line shows how I assume the ice to have lain; the heavy

broken line shows what our course ought to have been.

The midnight sun was not seen till the night of January 7, 1912,

to the south of lat. 77° S.; it was already 9.5° above the horizon.

On the night of January 8 we arrived off the Barrier in extremely

bitter weather. South-westerly and southerly winds had held for a

few days, with fair weather; but that night there was thick snow,

and the wind gradually fell calm, after which a fresh breeze sprang

up from the south-east, with biting snow, and at the same time a lot

of drift-ice. The engine went very slowly, and the ship kept head to

wind. About midnight the weather cleared a little, and a dark line,

which proved to be the Barrier, came in sight. The engine went ahead

at full speed, and the sails were set, so that we might get under

the lee of the perpendicular wall. By degrees the ice-blink above the

Barrier became lighter and lighter, and before very long we were so

close under it that we only just had room to go about. The Barrier

here runs east and west, and with a south-easterly wind we went along

it to the east. The watch that had gone below at eight o'clock, when

we were still in open sea, came up again at two to find us close to

the long-desired wall of ice.

Some hours passed in the same way, but then, of course, the wind

became easterly -- dead ahead -- so that we had tack after tack till

6 p.m. the same day, when we were at the western point of the Bay

of Whales.

The ice lay right out to West Cape, and we sailed across the mouth

of the bay and up under the lee of the eastern Barrier, in order,

if possible, to find slack ice or open water; but no, the fast ice

came just as far on that side. It turned out that we could not get

farther south than 78°30' -- that is, eleven nautical miles farther

north than the previous year, and no less than fifteen nautical miles

from Framheim, taking into consideration the turn in the bay.

We were thus back at the same place we had left on February 14,

1911, and had since been round the world. The distance covered on

this voyage of circumnavigation was 25,000 nautical miles, of which

8,000 belong to the oceanographical cruise in the South Atlantic.

We did not lie under the lee of the eastern Barrier for more than

four hours; the wind, which had so often been against us, was true to

its principles to the last. Of course it went to the north and blew

right up the bay; the drift-ice from Ross Sea came in, and at midnight

(January 9 -- 10) we stood out again.

I had thought of sending a man up to Framheim to report that we had

arrived, but the state of the weather did not allow it. Besides, I

had only one pair of private ski on board and should therefore only

have been able to send one man. It would have been better if several

had gone together.

During the forenoon of the l0th it gradually cleared, the wind fell

light and we stood inshore again. As at the same time the barometer

was rising steadily, Lieutenant Gjertsen went ashore on ski about

one o'clock.

Later in the afternoon a dog came running out across the sea-ice,

and I thought it had come down on Lieutenant Gjertsen's track; but I

was afterwards told it was one of the half-wild dogs that ran about

on the ice and did not show themselves up at the hut.

Meanwhile the wind freshened again; we had to put out for another

twenty-four hours and lay first one way and then the other with

shortened sail; then there was fine weather again and we came in. At 4

p.m. on the 11th Lieutenant Gjertsen returned with Lieutenant Prestrud,

Johansen and Stubberud. Of course we were very glad to see one another

again and all sorts of questions were asked on both sides. The Chief

and the southern party were not yet back. They stayed on board till

the 12th, got their letters and a big pile of newspapers and went

ashore again; we followed them with the glasses as far as possible,

so as to take them on board again if they could not get across the

cracks in the ice.

During the days that followed we lay moored to the ice or went out,

according to the weather.

At 7 p.m. on the 16th we were somewhat surprised to see a vessel

bearing down. For my part, I guessed her to be the Aurora, Dr. Mawson's

ship. She came very slowly, but at last what should we see but the

Japanese flag! I had no idea that expedition was out again. The ship

came right in, went past us twice and moored alongside the loose

ice. Immediately afterwards ten men armed with picks and shovels went

up the Barrier, while the rest rushed wildly about after penguins,

and their shots were heard all night. Next morning the commander of

the Kainan Maru, whose name was Homura, came on board. The same day

a tent was set up on the edge of the Barrier, and cases, sledges, and

so on, were put out on the ice. Kainan Maru means, I have been told,

"the ship that opens the South."

Prestrud and I went on board her later in the day, to see what she

was like, but we met neither the leader of the expedition nor the

captain of the ship. Prestrud had the cinematograph apparatus with him,

and a lot of photographs were also taken.

The leader of the Japanese expedition has written somewhere or other

that the reason of Shackleton's losing all his ponies was that the

ponies were not kept in tents at night, but had to lie outside. He

thought the ponies ought to be in the tents and the men outside. From

this one would think they were great lovers of animals, but I must

confess that was not the impression I received. They had put penguins

into little boxes to take them alive to Japan! Round about the deck

lay dead and half-dead skua gulls in heaps. On the ice close to the

vessel was a seal ripped open, with part of its entrails on the ice;

but the seal was still alive. Neither Prestrud nor I had any sort of

weapon that we could kill the seal with, so we asked the Japanese

to do it, but they only grinned and laughed. A little way off two

of them were coming across the ice with a seal in front of them;

they drove it on with two long poles, with which they pricked it

when it would not go. If it fell into a crack, they dug it up again

as you would see men quarrying stone at home; it had not enough life

in it to be able to escape its tormentors. All this was accompanied

by laughter and jokes. On arrival at the ship the animal was nearly

dead, and it was left there till it expired.

On the 19th we had a fresh south-westerly wind and a lot of ice

went out. The Japanese were occupied most of the night in going

round among the floes and picking up men, dogs, cases, and so on, as

they had put a good deal on to the ice in the course of the day. As

the ice came out, so the Fram went in, right up to fat. 78°35' S.,

while the Kainan Maru drifted farther and farther out, till at last

she disappeared. Nor did we see the vessel again, but a couple of

men with a tent stayed on the Barrier as long as we were in the bay.

On the night of the 24th there was a stiff breeze from the west,

and we drifted so far out in the thick snow that it was only on the

afternoon of the 27th that we could make our way in again through a

mass of ice. In the course of these two days so much ice had broken

up that we came right in to fat. 78°39' S., or almost to Framheim, and

that was very lucky. As we stood in over the Bay of Whales, we caught

sight of a big Norwegian naval ensign flying on the Barrier at Cape

Man's Head, and I then knew that the southern party had arrived. We

went therefore as far south as possible and blew our powerful siren;

nor was it very long before eight men came tearing down. There was

great enthusiasm. The first man on board was the Chief; I was so

certain he had reached the goal that I never asked him. Not till an

hour later, when we had discussed all kinds of other things, did I

enquire "Well, of course you have been at the South Pole?"

We lay there for a couple of days; on account of the short distance

from Framheim, provisions, outfit, etc., were brought on board. If such

great masses of ice had not drifted out in the last few days, it would

probably have taken us a week or two to get the same quantity on board.

At 9.30 p.m. on January 30, 1912, in a thick fog, we took our moorings

on board and waved a last farewell to the mighty Barrier.

From the Barrier to Buenos Aires, Via Hobart.

The first day after our departure from the Barrier everything we had

taken on board was stowed away, so that one would not have thought

our numbers were doubled, or that we had taken several hundred cases

and a lot of outfit on board. The change was only noticed on deck,

where thirty-nine powerful dogs made an uproar all day long, and in

the fore-saloon, which was entirely changed. This saloon, after being

deserted for a year, was now full of men, and it was a pleasure to

be there; especially as everyone had something to tell -- the Chief

of his trip, Prestrud of his, and Gjertsen and I of the Fram's.

However, there was not very much time for yarning. The Chief at once

began writing cablegrams and lectures, which Prestrud and I translated

into English, and the Chief then copied again on a typewriter. In

addition to this I was occupied the whole time in drawing charts,

so that on arrival at Hobart everything was ready; the time passed

quickly, though the voyage was fearfully long.

As regards the pack-ice we were extremely lucky. It lay in exactly

the same spot where we had met with it in 1911 -- that is, in about

lat. 75° S. We went along the edge of it for a very short time, and

then it was done with. To the north of 75° we saw nothing but a few

small icebergs.

We made terribly slow progress to the northward, how slow may perhaps

be understood if I quote my diary for February 27:

"This trip is slower than anything we have had before; now and then

we manage an average rate of two knots an hour in a day's run. In

the last four days we have covered a distance that before would have

been too little for a single day. We have been at it now for nearly

a month, and are still only between lat. 52° and 53° S. Gales from

the north are almost the order of the day," etc. However, it is an

ill wind that blows nobody any good, and the time was well employed

with all we had to do.

After a five weeks' struggle we at last reached Hobart and anchored

in the splendid harbour on March 7.

Our fresh provisions from Buenos Aires just lasted out; the last of

the fresh potatoes were finished a couple of days before our arrival,

and the last pig was killed when we had been at Hobart two days.

The Fram remained here for thirteen days, which were chiefly spent in

repairing the propeller and cleaning the engine; in addition to this

the topsail-yard, which was nearly broken in the middle, was spliced,

as we had no opportunity of getting a new one.

The first week was quiet on board, as, owing to the circumstances,

there was no communication with the shore; but after that the ship

was full of visitors, so that we were not very sorry to get away again.

Twenty-one of our dogs were presented to Dr. Mawson, the leader of

the Australian expedition, and only those dogs that had been to the

South Pole and a few puppies, eighteen in all, were left on board.

While we lay in Hobart, Dr. Mawson's ship, the Aurora, came in. I went

aboard her one day, and have thus been on board the vessels of all

the present Antarctic expeditions. On the Terra Nova, the British, on

February 4, 1911, in the Bay of Whales; on the Deutschland, the German,

in September and October, 1911, in Buenos Aires; on the Kainan Maru,

the Japanese, on January 17, 1912, in the Bay of Whales; and finally

on the Aurora in Hobart. Not forgetting the Fram, which, of course,

I think best of all.

On March 20 the Fram weighed anchor and left Tasmania.

We made very poor progress to begin with, as we had calms for nearly

three weeks, in spite of its being the month of March in the west wind

belt of the South Pacific. On the morning of Easter Sunday, April 7,

the wind first freshened from the north-west and blew day after day,

a stiff breeze and a gale alternately, so that we went splendidly

all the way to the Falkland Islands, in spite of the fact that the

topsail was reefed for nearly five weeks on account of the fragile

state of the yard. I believe most of us wanted to get on fast; the

trip was now over for the present, and those who had families at home

naturally wanted to be with them as soon as they could; perhaps that

was why we went so well.

On April 1 Mrs. Snuppesen gave birth to eight pups; four of these

were killed, while the rest, two of each sex, were allowed to live.

On Maundy Thursday, April 4, we were in long. 180° and changed the

date, so that we had two Maundy Thursdays in one week; this gave us a

good many holidays running, and I cannot say the effect is altogether

cheerful; it was a good thing when Easter Tuesday came round as an

ordinary week-day.

On May 6 we passed Cape Horn in very fair weather; it is true we,

had a snow-squall of hurricane violence, but it did not last much

more than half an hour. For a few days the temperature was a little

below freezing-point, but it rose rapidly as soon as we were out in

the Atlantic.

From Hobart to Cape Horn we saw no ice.

After passing the Falkland Islands we had a head wind, so that the

last part of the trip was nothing to boast of.

On the night of May 21 we passed Montevideo, where the Chief had

arrived a few hours before. From here up the River La Plata we

went so slowly on account of head wind that we did not anchor in

the roads of Buenos Aires till the afternoon of the 23rd, almost

exactly at the same time as the Chief landed at Buenos Aires. When

I went ashore next morning and met Mr. P. Christophersen, he was in

great good-humour. "This is just like a fairy tale," he said; and it

could not be denied that it was an amusing coincidence. The Chief,

of course, was equally pleased.

On the 25th, the Argentine National Fête, the Fram was moored at the

same quay that we had left on October 5, 1911. At our departure there

were exactly seven people on board to say good-bye, but, as far as I

could see, there were more than this when we arrived; and I was able

to make out, from newspapers and other sources, that in the course of

a couple of months the third Fram Expedition had grown considerably

in popularity.

In conclusion I will give one or two data. Since the Fram left

Christiania on June 7, 1910, we have been two and a half times round

the globe; the distance covered is about 54,400 nautical miles; the

lowest reading of the barometer during this time was 27.56 inches (700

millimetres) in March, 1911, in the South Pacific, and the highest

30.82 inches (783 millimetres) in October, 1911, in the South Atlantic.

On June 7, 1912, the second anniversary of our leaving Christiania,

all the members of the Expedition, except the Chief and myself, left

for Norway, and the first half of the Expedition was thus brought to

a fortunate conclusion.

CHAPTER I

The "Fram"

By Commodore Christian Blom

Colin Archer says in his description of the Fram, in Fridtjof Nansen's

account of the Norwegian Arctic Expedition, 1893 -- 1896, that the

successful result of an expedition such as that planned and carried

out by Dr. Nansen in the years 1893 -- 1896 must depend on the care

with which all possible contingencies are foreseen, and precautions

taken to meet them, and the choice of every detail of the equipment

with special regard to the use to which it will be put. To no part

of the equipment, he says, could this apply with greater force than

to the ship which was to carry Dr. Nansen and his companions on their

adventurous voyage.

Colin Archer then built the ship -- Fram was her name -- and she

showed -- first on Fridtjof Nansen's famous voyage, and afterwards

on Sverdrup's long wintering expedition in Ellesmere Land, that

she answered her purpose completely, nay, she greatly exceeded the

boldest expectations.

Then Roald Amundsen decided to set out on a voyage not less adventurous

than the two former, and he looked about for a suitable ship. It

was natural that he should think of the Fram, but she was old --

about sixteen years -- and had been exposed to many a hard buffet;

it was said that she was a good deal damaged by decay.

Roald Amundsen, however, did not allow himself to be discouraged

by these misgivings, but wished to see for himself what kind of

a craft the Fram was after her two commissions. He therefore came

down to Horten with Colin Archer on June 1, 1908, and made a thorough

examination of the vessel. He then, in the spring of 1909, requested

the Naval Dockyard at Horten to repair the ship and carry out the

alterations he considered necessary for his enterprise.

Before giving an account of the repairs and alterations to the vessel

in 1909 -- 1910, we shall briefly recapitulate, with the author's

permission, a part of the description of the Fram in Fridtjof Nansen's

work, especially as regards the constructive peculiarities of the

vessel.

The problem which it was sought to solve in the construction of the

Fram was that of providing a ship which could survive the crushing

embrace of the Arctic drift-ice. To fit her for this was the object

before which all other considerations had to give way.

But apart from the question of mere strength of construction, there

were problems of design and model which, it was thought, would play an

important part in the attainment of the chief object. It is sometimes

prudent in an encounter to avoid the full force of a blow instead of

resisting it, even if it could be met without damage; and there was

reason to think that by a judicious choice of model something might

be done to break the force of the ice-pressure, and thus lessen its

danger. Examples of this had been seen in small Norwegian vessels that

had been caught in the ice near Spitzbergen and Novaya Zemlya. It often

happens that they are lifted right out of the water by the pressure

of the ice without sustaining serious damage; and these vessels are

not particularly strong, but have, like most small sailing-ships,

a considerable dead rising and sloping sides. The ice encounters

these sloping sides and presses in under the bilge on both sides,

until the ice-edges meet under the keel, and the ship is raised up

into the bed that is formed by the ice itself.

In order to turn this principle to account, it was decided to depart

entirely from the usual flat-bottomed frame-section, and to adopt

a form that would offer no vulnerable point on the ship's side, but

would cause the increasing horizontal pressure of the ice to effect

a raising of the ship, as described above. In the construction of

the Fram it was sought to solve this problem by avoiding plane or

concave surfaces, thus giving the vessel as far as possible round and

full lines. Besides increasing the power of resistance to external

pressure, this form has the advantage of making it easy for the ice

to glide along the bottom in any direction.

The Fram was a three-masted fore-and-aft schooner with an auxiliary

engine of 200 indicated horse-power, which was calculated to give her

a speed of 6 knots, when moderately loaded, with a coal consumption

of 2.8 tons a day.

The vessel was designed to be only large enough to carry the necessary

coal-supply, provisions, and other equipment for a period of five

years, and to give room for the crew.

Her principal dimensions are:

Length of keel 103.3 English feet

Length of waterline 119'

Length over all 128'

Beam on waterline 34'

Greatest beam 36'

Depth 17.2'

Her displacement, with a draught of 15.6 feet, is 800 tons. The

measurements are taken to the outside of the planks, but do not

include the ice-skin. By Custom-house measurement she was found to

be 402 gross tons register, and 807 tons net.

The ship, with engines and boilers, was calculated to weigh about 420

tons. With the draught above mentioned, which gives a freeboard of 3

feet, there would thus be 380 tons available for cargo. This weight

was actually exceeded by 100 tons, which left a freeboard of only

20 inches when the ship sailed on her first voyage. This additional

immersion could only have awkward effects when the ship came into the

ice, as its effect would then be to retard the lifting by the ice,

on which the safety of the ship was believed to depend in a great

measure. Not only was there a greater weight to lift, but there was

a considerably greater danger of the walls of ice, that would pile

themselves against the ship's sides, falling over the bulwarks and

covering the deck before the ice began to raise her. The load would,

however, be lightened by the time the ship was frozen fast. Events

showed that she was readily lifted when the ice-pressure set in, and

that the danger of injury from falling blocks of ice was less than

had been expected. The Fram's keel is of American elm in two lengths,

14 inches square; the room and space is 2 feet. The frame-timbers

are almost all of oak obtained from the Naval Dockyard at Horten,

where they had lain for many years, thus being perfectly seasoned. The

timbers were all grown to shape. The frames consist of two tiers of

timbers everywhere, each timber measuring 10 to 11 inches fore and aft;

the two tiers of timbers are fitted together and bolted, so that they

form a solid and compact whole. The joints of the frame-timbers are

covered with iron plates. The lining consists of pitch-pine in good

lengths and of varying thickness from 4 to 6 inches. The keelson is

also of pitch-pine, in two layers, one above the other; each layer 15

inches square from the stem to the engine-room. Under the boiler and

engine there was only room for one keelson. There are two decks. The

beams of the main-deck are of American or German oak, those of the

lower deck and half-deck of pitch-pine and Norwegian fir. All the deck

planks are of Norwegian fir, 4 inches in the main-deck and 3 inches

elsewhere. The beams are fastened to the ship's sides by knees of

Norwegian spruce, of which about 450 were used. Wooden knees were,

as a rule, preferred to iron ones, as they are more elastic. A good

many iron knees were used, however, where wood was less suitable. In

the boiler and engine room the beams of the lower deck had to be

raised about 3 feet to give sufficient height for the engines. The

upper deck was similarly raised from the stern-post to the mainmast,

forming a half-deck, under which the cabins were placed. On this

half-deck, immediately forward of the funnel, a deck-house was

placed, arranged as a chart-house, from which two companions (one

on each side) led down to the cabins. Besides the ice-skin, there

is a double layer of outside planking of oak. The two first strakes

(garboard strakes), however, are single, 7 inches thick, and are

bolted both to the keel and to the frame-timbers. The first (inner)

layer of planks is 8 inches thick, and is only fastened with nails;

outside this comes a layer of 4-inch planks, fastened with oak trenails

and through bolts, as usual. The two top strakes are single again, and

6 inches thick. The ice-skin is of greenheart, and covers the whole

ship's side from the keel to 18 inches from the sheer strake. It is

only fastened with nails and jagged bolts. Each layer of planks was

caulked and pitched before the next one was laid. Thus only about 3

or 4 inches of the keel projects below the planking, and this part of

the keel is rounded off so as not to hinder the ice from passing under

the ship's bottom. The intervals between the timbers were filled with

a mixture of coal-tar, pitch, and sawdust, heated together and put in

warm. The ship's side thus forms a compact mass varying in thickness

from 28 to 32 inches. As a consequence of all the intervals between

the timbers being filled up, there is no room for bilge-water under

the lining. A loose bottom was therefore laid a few inches above the

lining on each side of the keelson. In order to strengthen the ship's

sides still more, and especially to prevent stretching, iron braces

were placed on the lining, running from the clamps of the top deck

down to well past the floor-timbers.

The stem consists of three massive oak beams, one inside the other,

forming together 4 feet of solid oak fore and aft, with a breadth of

15 inches. The three external plankings as well as the lining are all

rabbeted into the stem. The propeller-post is in two thicknesses,

placed side by side, and measures 26 inches athwart-ship and 14

inches fore and aft. It will be seen from the plan that the overhang

aft runs out into a point, and that there is thus no transom. To

each side of the stern-post is fitted a stout stern-timber parallel

to the longitudinal midship section, forming, so to speak, a double

stern-post, and the space between them forms a well, which goes right

up through the top deck. The rudder-post is placed in the middle

of this well, and divides it into two parts, one for the propeller

and one for the rudder. In this way it is possible to lift both the

rudder and the screw out of the water. The rudder is so hung that

the rudder-stock, which is cylindrical, turns on its own axis, to

prevent the rudder being jammed if the well should be filled with

ice. Aft of the rudder-well the space between the stern-timbers is

filled with solid wood, and the whole is securely bolted together with

bolts running athwart-ship. The frame-timbers join the stern-timbers

in this part, and are fastened to them by means of knees. The stem

and stern-post are connected to the keelson and to the keel by stout

knees of timber, and both the ship's sides are bound together with

solid breasthooks and crutches of wood or iron.

Although the Fram was not specially built for ramming, it was probable

that now and then she would be obliged to force her way through the

ice. Her bow and stern were therefore shod in the usual way. On the

forward side of the stem a segment-shaped iron was bolted from the

bobstay-bolt to some way under the keel. Outside this iron plates (3 x

3/4 inches) were fastened over the stem, and for 6 feet on each side

of it. These iron plates were placed close together, and thus formed

a continuous armour-plating to a couple of feet from the keel. The

sharp edge of the stern was protected in the same way, and the lower

sides of the well were lined with thick iron plates. The rudder-post,

which owing to its exposed position may be said to form the Achilles'

heel of the ship, was strengthened with three heavy pieces of iron,

one in the opening for the screw and one on each side of the two posts

and the keel, and bolted together with bolts running athwart-ship.