Our polar flight

Ny-Aalesund, King’s Bay. Thursday, 21st May. Now they have gone! The daring journey has started! At five o’clock in the afternoon Amundsen, Riiser-Larsen and Feucht were on board N 25, Ellsworth, Dietrichson and Omdal on N 24, and we began to say farewell. Each one shook hands and received a nod of courage from all who should remain behind. To speak was impossible because of the noise from the four engines, which had all been working for a couple of hours, making such a din that our very words appeared to be torn in pieces and thrown into the snow spray which was whirled up by the propellers. At 5:15 N 25 glides out on to the ice. We are astonished, for there is no signal. Riiser-Larsen simply lets his engine out; the propeller whirs and the machine glides down from the strand onto the ice. The forward movement continues, and before we realize what is happening, the machine is gliding over the snow-clad plain and swings out onto the ice, suddenly giving a mighty swerve right round, and with continued speed rushes forward. One second—or is it a minute?—before Dietrichson’s machine follows? It disappears onto the ice in a cloud of snow making us wonder whether we are standing on our heads or our heels!

But what is this?

N 24 remains absolutely still on the plain, and where is N 25? There! A little gray fleck on the ice traveling towards the foot of the glacier. Will they have to lighten it? No! now it is in the air! No! Yes! Yes, it is! Just the fraction of a second passes, and we know that the start is successful in spite of the heavy load. We shout “Hurrah” as we see the space between the ice and the gray machine increasing and increasing till at last, there, high above the iceberg, and with the sky for a background, they swing round and set their course direct across the fjord. N 24 remains quite still. We cannot understand why and are about to cross over to make inquiries. But almost before we start the machine rises high into the clear blue sky and follows N 25 far out over the fjord. The two machines, so far as we can judge, are about 300 to 400 meters high, with N 25 a few hundred meters in front of N 24. We hear the even humming of the engines, echoing quite clearly on account of the high hills on the fjord’s opposite side—the noise decreases, ’tis now only like the humming of a fly. We follow the machines through binoculars, clearly seeing the propellers, the motor gondolas, the wings, and even the heads of the observers and pilots. Their speed must be 150 kilometers per hour. The two machines get smaller and smaller—the hum of the motors fainter and fainter. At last they have disappeared altogether. We look at the clock, they had left according to program and are in the air at 5:22—seven minutes after N 25 glided down onto the ice—both flying boats out of sight! Seven minutes.... It might almost have been seven hours. So much has happened.

Later

We remained standing as though suddenly realizing the difference in the work of those six on board the machines and ourselves. Till now we have all appeared to be actual members of the expedition. We have felt that there was no great difference in our desires to reach a common goal. We have lived under the same roof, fed in the same mess, have shared the same work, but now the others have gone, and we have become the land party again! The six ought to return after a few days’ absence and we should again be part of the expedition. But the few hours which have passed since 5:15 this afternoon have opened a tremendous gulf between us. The six may now be fighting for their very lives, while we hang around here exactly as we did yesterday, the day before, and every other day in the six weeks we have been in Ny-Aalesund. We have suddenly become superfluous! Until this afternoon we had tasks to perform, but from now we can only wait, just like all the rest of the world, for the six who have gone—and we know that we can give them no more help than any one else can. We have become passive.

The humming of the motors can still be heard in our dreams; in fact the whole occurrence appears only as a dream. Could it have really been we who saw them off? We, who are now packing up and getting ready to go on board the “Fram” and the “Hobby,” which lie ready by the quay to set off northwards to Danskeöen. The landscape is unchanged. The sun still shines high in the light blue polar sky, making the glacier scintillate with lovely colors. But the six have gone! At the end of the fjord’s north side lies Cape Mitra—that pointed corner which is one of the best landmarks in the world.

During the evening meal on board the “Fram” we talk of nothing but the start. We listen with pride to Schulte-Frohlinde’s praise regarding the pilots’ management of the two heavy machines. He says no one could have done it better, and we agree with him unanimously, although we don’t know the difference between a sporting and a bombarding machine. He has walked across the ice and examined the trails, and noted that the ice was broken into small pieces at the spot where Dietrichson stuck, and the same was the case in a 200–300 meter length along Riiser-Larsen’s track before he had been able to rise. The starting track was about 1,400 meters long, and Schulte-Frohlinde says that the trail gets less and less until towards its end it might only have been marked in the snow with one’s little finger.

For the first two hours after the machines had disappeared we scanned the heavens with our binoculars as, before starting, Amundsen had told Captain Hagerup of the “Fram” that if everything should not be in order, the machines would return again; and if one machine had had to make a forced landing, the other would fly back to King’s Bay and warn the ships to go quickly to their aid. It is seven o’clock. It is now eight, and no machine is to be seen, so now we know that all is well. Eleven o’clock, and “Fram’s” bunkers are well filled; the ship leaves the quay. Half an hour later, when “Hobby” is ready, we steer out of the fjord. We pass Cape Mitra, steering past the seven glaciers. So far as we can see northwards, it appears to be clear. The sea lies calm as a mirror. There is hardly any swell, and for the first time in the open sea we are all at the same moment free from seasickness. Westward above the horizon lies a low cloudbank. We ask Bjerknes and Calwagen what it can be; can this gray cloud-mass threaten danger to the airmen? No! It can’t do that, for it is only the dispersing fog which has hung over King’s Bay during the last days, and which was blown away by the northeast wind, making a start possible. During the night we passed drift-ice. We all stand on the bridge looking northwards every second.

Here we pass along the Coast over which the two machines flew this afternoon.

“The small hours begin to grow.” We bless the “Fram’s” steward, who brings us coffee, and we go to our bunks. “Fram” is no passenger boat, but we are quite happy to sleep wherever we can find a comfortable spot.

Virgo-havn between Danskeöen and Amsterdamöen. Friday, May 22nd

For the rest of the night and the early morning hours “Fram” steers northwards, along the glacier coast. At 6:30 we enter South Gate Sound, between Danskeöen and Spitzbergen’s mainland, where we lie until midday. “Hobby” continues northwards, sailing round Amsterdamöen towards Norskeöene to study the ice conditions, returning to fetch “Fram” after the inspection. And now the two ships steer towards Virgo-havn, and we drop our anchor at three o’clock in the afternoon. The entire time on both ships we have kept a sharp lookout from the bridge, carefully searching the horizon westward and northward for any sign of life. It might have been possible that both boats, on account of motor trouble, had been forced to land, and they might be lying anywhere waiting for the ships. But on land we saw nothing but stones, snow and ice, and to westward only the long stretch of gray water broken here and there by white drift ice.

What a desert!... Local partisanship in Ny-Aalesund is right when it maintains that King’s Bay is the best spot in Spitzbergen. The sound is narrow and closed-in. The cliffs rise sheer from the sea, snow covers them, there is hardly the sight of a stone to break the whiteness. But there is an abundance of birds, auks, and little auks, black guillemots, sea-gulls, etc., filling the air with their screaming and chattering. They are a host in themselves. If we were only tourists, and if we had nothing else to do but to wait for the six to return, we could relieve the monotony by watching them. But we have got to keep a sharp lookout in the direction in which the two machines may return. What if we do see them?—It is the whole subject of our conversation. Bjerknes and Calwagen work out and discuss the meteorological conditions, studying their chart’s mystic signs and wondrous curves which we others cannot understand. Now it is evening and another day has passed since the start. They may return to-day. We prick our ears at every sound and if we are not on deck we rush out and scan the horizon towards Amsterdamöen’s west point. The ordinary sounds of life on board ship keep us in a state of nervous tension, for the churning of the propeller and the humming of the engines can easily be mistaken for a returning plane.

Is there no watchman on deck? Is there any need for us to fly out to see what is the matter simply because the steward drops a knife on his pantry floor?

No, no, but the watchman is only human and may be sleeping.

Perhaps to-morrow? Or Sunday? At the latest Monday—four days after the start—they must return!

We really cannot seriously expect them back to-day. We all know that when they land they must make observations: the place where they camp must be exactly noted: the sea depth must be measured; and they may even have to go on foot, or on skis, for the last little stretch. According to the reports of the meteorologists the weather would seem to afford them no reason to shorten their stay, so we must possess our souls in patience.

Virgo-havn. Thursday, May 23rd

A change in the weather! When we went to bed at two this morning the weather was still clear. The fog-bank which lay to the west from the time we left King’s Bay was stretched out over the sky. The meteorologists were very anxious about it. Northwards things did not look quite so bad. Returning from the polar basin, the airmen would be able to find landmarks in the high cliffs of Spitzbergen. A few fleecy clouds were moving towards the southwest above Amsterdamöen and did not present a very threatening appearance. But in these early morning hours the picture has totally changed. The watchman tells us that between three and four o’clock it turned thick and hazy. From all corners the fog closed in, and drifting snow filled the air, so that it was impossible to see the tops of the island’s cliffs. The swell in the sound tells us that it is only a sea storm. In accordance with the instructions given by Amundsen, “Hobby” sets off to inspect the ice border at nine o’clock. Under the leadership of First Lieutenant Horgen the boat is to sail as far north as possible, keeping eastwards, but not sailing further in that direction than Yerlegen Hook. At 11 P.M. “Hobby” returns after sailing as far north of Norskeöene as possible, where the ice was such that a journey further eastwards would have been attended by grave risk, therefore, the boat turned back at Biscayer Hook, returning through the sound between the Norskeöene. Horgen, Johansen and Holm arrive after the trip on board the “Fram.” They have seen nothing of the flying machines and they tell us that the ice conditions eastward are bad. Tightly packed drift-ice lies as far as the eye can see, but the weather was lighter there than down here in the south, and visibility appeared to be much better for maneuvering with flying machines. We play bridge the whole evening. We continue playing for two complete days. Waiting has shown us that we cannot bring the flying machines back simply by staring our eyes out of our heads, gazing at Vest Pynt for the first sight of the heavy gray propellers. The weather has improved a little; the driving snow has stopped; the fog has thinned a little this afternoon; and the sun suddenly breaks through.

Virgo-havn. Sunday, May 24th

The weather is considerably better to-day. The meteorologists tell us that the weather in the polar regions appears to be good, and there is no ground for us to be worried about the fate of the flyers. It is now over three days since they left. Even the most phlegmatic on board the two ships are waiting every moment to see them return. We discuss every possibility; we think of every difficulty, and still come to no conclusion as to what is keeping them. We are no longer excited, the thrill of the first days has changed to a numb resignation. As each hour passes we seem to see more clearly what a dangerous task our six comrades have undertaken. Several of us begin to think of all the dreadful things which might or might not have occurred, but we do not put our thoughts into words.

Virgo-havn. Monday, May 25th

The fourth day passes like the rest. On board “Hobby” they have had their first false alarm. Amundsen’s old friend, sailmaker Rönne from Horten, insisted yesterday evening that he saw two flying machines appear from the north in full flight. He declared with certainty that he had followed them with his eyes the whole way as they came from behind Danskeöen through the fjord, until they were lost behind Amsterdamöen’s west point. The others on board thought this seemed unlikely and almost impossible.

Why in all the world should they fly in that direction? Had it been southwards one might have understood it, but Rönne stuck to his point: and so certain was he that the others on board heard of nothing else, and consequently came across to “Fram” to tell us about it, relating how they had shown Rönne a flock of gray geese flying in the same direction which he insisted the aeroplanes had taken, making him admit that he had been mistaken. We have had a similar occurrence on board the “Fram.” It was five o’clock. The watchman stood on the bridge, keeping a sharp lookout towards Vest Pynt, when suddenly he stood still as though nailed to the deck. He shaded his eyes with his hand and gazed over the sea directly into the stream of silver which the sun was casting over the water. He picked up his binoculars....

What is it?

Another took up his glasses. There, at the spot where sea and sky met, a gray-black object could be seen rocking on the water. Something seemed to extend from each side of it, which could easily have been the wings of a flying machine. None of us really believed that it was one of the gray seaplanes we were waiting for. But all the same we fetched Captain Hagerup and told him what we had seen. He shook his head, but in spite of his doubt he went up the steps of his bridge much quicker than usual, where, looking through his glasses, he discovered that the gray mass was nothing but an ice-floe, which, aided by a little phantasy, appeared like an approaching aeroplane. It is so easy to be mistaken. Afterwards when we see gray spots on the horizon we shall know that it is either a flock of geese on their way to their nests on the cliffs or that it is a curiously formed ice-floe. Such occurrences give us a little variation in the monotony of our waiting. We have now got used to the noises on the ship, the churning of the propeller, the noise of the pump and of the engines, and pay no attention to any of them. But once we hear a deep humming sound from the coast and think it is the throbbing note we are waiting for. It is only the waves beating against the land as they wash up the broken ice, shivering it again into a thousand pieces. But all the same we stand on the deck with half-opened mouths and hands behind our ears listening to the sound.

South Gate between Danskeöen and Spitzbergen’s Mainland. Tuesday, May 26th

The First Engineer of the “Fram” told the Captain yesterday evening that our fresh-water tanks were in bad condition. To get the tanks filled at Virgo-havn was not possible, so we would have to go down to Magdalena Bay on the mainland’s northwest point, and fill the tanks with ice from an iceberg we had noticed standing high and dry in the Bay as we passed northwards. It was a long business. The “Fram” was steered towards the iceberg and the crew hacked away large lumps of ice which were sent flying down from the top of the ice-hill direct into the ship’s tanks. It was afternoon before the tanks were full, and a shooting party which had landed returned on board, bringing with them two seals which they had shot. So we weighed our anchor and sailed away from the iceberg into brilliant sunshine over a glassy sea, turning our course towards South Gate where we have now arrived and shall remain for the night.

This evening we have had a long discussion as to whether it is right to follow Amundsen’s instructions “to the letter” during the waiting period. His orders are quite clear. “For a period of fourteen days after the start ‘Fram’ and ‘Hobby’ shall lie in the fairway by Danskeöen whilst the weather is clear. Should some become hazy ‘Fram’ shall continue standing-by, but ‘Hobby’ shall go north to reconnoiter the ice border and patrol eastward, but not to pass Verlegen Hook.” The ships up till now have done this: “Hobby” has been out several times, but when the weather remains clear, and visibility is good, both vessels lie at anchor as now at Virgo-havn. Meanwhile the days are passing: it is now five days since the start, and many of us think that “Hobby,” even in clear weather, ought to patrol the edge of the ice the whole time. How can we tell what has happened? The flying machines may have started homewards, and there is a possibility that they are short of petrol, and may have had to land in the open sea, which “Hobby” speaks of as lying between the ice edge and Spitzbergen’s north coast—they may be stranded there waiting for a helping hand to be stretched out to them.

On the other hand Amundsen has worded his instructions quite clearly. He knows exactly where he can find the ships when he returns, and he will wish to have them in the place, where he has given them instructions to await him. We decide that so long as there are no weighty grounds for disobeying these orders we shall follow them.

We shall remain here at South Gate till to-morrow; then “Fram” will cross northwards to Virgo-havn, where “Hobby” awaits us.... And it is not impossible that when we arrive in the morning, we shall see two flying-boats lying by the vessel’s side. For five days have passed! Our confidence is a little less assured. Doubts slowly develop into words. But we keep telling each other that we do not need to fear for the safety of our six comrades.

The discussions carried us on until 1 A.M. We have walked a little on deck before we turn in, and, standing there, get a little illustration of how quickly the ice conditions can change. When “Fram” anchored we could see the snow-clad fjord ice lying flat and solid as far into the Bay as the eye could reach, but now the tide has turned, breaking the ice and carrying it in a steady stream of irregular lumps through the fjord and out to sea. They are driving past as quickly as a boat can row and ice-pilot Ness is watching them thoughtfully. “We shall probably have to move out of here before the night is over,” he says. “For the first of the lumps are already congregated at the side of the ship.”

Virgo-havn. Wednesday, May 27th

Ness is right. We are hardly in bed before we hear a scraping noise alongside, and we notice that the plates are sensitive to the pressure as the drift ice turns against the ship. But we turn over and sleep all the same on our mattresses on the saloon floor. At three o’clock we rush on deck. We have the steering gear right over our heads and can hear how it is working. There is a noise of the tramping of sea-boots, and the engine-room telegraph keeps insistently ringing.

Should it be....

We had forgotten about the ice after we had gone to rest some hours ago, and now it lies tightly packed around the whole vessel. The bay, which was free of ice when we anchored, is now covered with drift-ice, and in all circumstances Captain Hagerup has decided that he must leave South Gate at once and make for Virgo-havn. We arrive there during the day and find “Hobby” exactly where we had left it yesterday morning, but no flying machines are to be seen. “Fram’s” wireless operator tells us that America is sending out pessimistic messages as they think, after six days have passed without news, that something must have happened to the expedition. As he tells us this view down in the mess, a shock passes through us. We feel that it is not only we who await the expedition, but there are millions and millions in the five Continents who are longing to hear how much further, between the known and the unknown areas, the boundary has been moved northward as the result of human enterprise’s latest move in the eternal search for knowledge. In the few words of the American message we get certain proof that all who have longed to do the same things which Amundsen, Dietrichson, Ellsworth, Feucht, Omdal and Riiser-Larsen actually set out to accomplish fear that the journey to the Pole will end in sacrifice. And the fear which we have all sought to hide now rises up in us, that six struggles against death are being fought out somewhere between 80° and 90° N. lat. The anxiety and excitement of the outer world reflects on us, and the first uncomfortable thoughts are thoroughly discussed by us, until little by little they are dispelled. Hardly a week has passed since they left, and if we trust Amundsen’s own word, there is no need to fear until fourteen days have elapsed since the 21st May.

Virgo-havn. Thursday, 28th May. 5:15 P.M.

It is now a week since we saw the two machines fly from King’s Bay and disappear in the distance in the direction of Cape Mitra. The hope which we journalists entertained of announcing their return a week from the start has gone. The meteorologists have summed up the weather conditions of the last seven days with a result which calms us.

When they started there must have been a good weather area over the Arctic Sea, with its center not far away from the actual Pole-point. During the entire flight the machines, therefore, have probably met only the lightest winds and clear weather. In the days immediately following the start the high pressure area was menaced by a depression from the North American coast and by a bad weather area which passed northeast from Russia to Siberia’s northern coast. There must have been a light breeze blowing in the direction of Spitzbergen, but any serious change in the weather is hardly likely to have taken place. From the 25th of May (Monday) the Siberian bad weather center passed eastwards, whilst that from Alaska passed towards Greenland. Between these two bad weather centers there always lay a high pressure area with its center at the Pole-point. These conditions continue; therefore, from the meteorological deductions, we can come to the conclusion that good weather has existed up till now, over the ground covered by the expedition. The confidence of the scientists braces us all up. We remember also the words which the airmen said before they left—especially a remark of Riiser-Larsen’s to the meteorologists, as he looked over the cliffs and saw the thick snow showers driving through the air, “Only provide us with twelve hours good weather and we shall reach the Pole. We don’t need any more to get there, but if necessary we can spend fourteen days on the homeward trip.”

These words we repeat to each other over and over again, and comfort ourselves with the knowledge of the excellence of the machines and their crews, and the recollection that they warned us that in bad weather they might only return after an absence of fourteen days. Yet it seems strange that they should be so long away when, so far as we can judge, the weather has been favorable. When Amundsen made his rush to the South Pole he could only stay to make observations for three days, as he had to trek back again and food allowance was limited. In this case, however, he can return to his base in eight, ten, or twelve hours so why should he jeopardize the benefit to the world’s scientific knowledge by leaving his point of observation before necessity demanded? If they have found land up there, they will wish to make maps—to photograph it—to measure it—a week will soon go by. But—but—but—this little word comes up every time we try to find a reason for the delay—and yet it is absurd to give up hope so soon.

This evening a council of war has been held on board the “Fram.” An announcement has arrived from the Norwegian Luftseiladsforeningen that they are planning a reconnoitering expedition. Two naval hydroplanes are to be sent north to help in the patroling of the ice borders. Captain Hagerup, First Lieutenant Horgen, Shipper Johansen, and First Mate Astrup Holm are to send word at once if such machines will be of any use. To give an answer of this kind is difficult, for the ice this year lies with a broad belt of drifting ice screwing in shoals in front of the solid ice border. Thus the hydroplanes could not negotiate this obstacle to any great distance. Should they themselves have to make a forced landing any distance from the open sea, both they and their crews would be lost. On the other hand, they would be able to fly over the entire area of the fairway north of Spitzbergen in a few hours, a distance which it would take several days for ships to cruise over, and thus they would make the patroling much more effective. Our answer was based on this latter consideration.

To-day it is eight days since they started, and we enter a new phase in our waiting time. Until to-day none of us have gone far away from the ships. The American journalist, James B. Wharton, who is with us, the film photographer, Paul Berge, and I had not set our feet out of the ship. We have always waited in the expectation of seeing the machines at any moment appear from behind Amsterdamöen. We have lain fully clad on our mattresses, ready to set the wireless working broadcasting the news. Berge’s film camera has stood on its three legs on the bridge ready to turn out hundreds of yards of film. We have always kept a boat ready at “Fram’s” side so that we could row across to the flying machines the moment they landed, and every night before we went to rest we instructed the watchman on deck that he must waken us the first moment he heard anything. But this evening as the telegraph station from the coast asked if they should keep open all night with extra supervision, I had answered that it was no longer necessary. As these words were broadcast from the little wireless compartment, it seemed as though we had sent a telegram to a waiting world that showed them that even we had begun to doubt. The same doubt is felt now by almost every one on the two boats. The possibility of seeing them come flying back is gradually diminishing. We still believe, but to-morrow our confidence will be less. We feel that on the 9th day from the start we shall give up hope. To-day it is decided that to-morrow “Fram” shall go down to Ny-Aalesund, partly for coaling reasons, partly to take away those members of the expedition who wish to take advantage of the opportunity to go down to Advent Bay, whence a coal steamer can carry them to Norway. When we shall see our comrades carried southwards while we are left behind, we shall enter into an anxious period of waiting which will seem unending.

Virgo-havn. 29th of May

Is the weather going to change after all? Last night it turned cloudy and before long snow began to fall thicker and faster. The atmosphere became absolutely impenetrable, and “Hobby” was sent to patrol the ice-border. The meteorologists think that the bad weather and invisibility is traveling across the polar basin from the northern ice, and that fog will probably cover the area up to 85° N. This gives us grounds to believe that the machines will not return to-day, for if the airmen have observed approaching fog, they will not risk flying through it for the fear of being separated. “Fram” sets out in the evening to King’s Bay.

Ny-Aalesund, King’s Bay. 30th of May

We arrived here this morning. The journey down past the seven glaciers was like an adventure. As we left the Sound between Amsterdamöen and Danskeöen we saw the high snow-clad hills of Prince Karl’s Foreland—they were 100 kilometers away and blended into the clear evening air in the distance like a white veil. We followed the coast till we arrived opposite Seal Bay, and were able to observe the whole time how the light of the midnight sun illuminated the hills of the mainland with a rosy glow, so it was long before we sought our bunks. We passed the seven glaciers one by one, which lie along the coast, making it impossible to land anywhere between Cape Mitra and Magdalena Bay—for the dark brown cliffs lying between each glacier rise sheer from the sea, and here also the fairway is dangerous. Far out, as we are, from the coast we can see the waves break over the ground, although the sea is so calm and the swell hardly perceptible, while “Fram” rarely gives a single roll. During the trip downwards we had coffee in company with our comrades who should now leave us. It was the last meal on board that we should have together for some time, yet the final cup had to be quickly swallowed as those who were leaving us had many things to pack. Bjerknes and Calwagen gathered their meteorological instruments together—and the Amundsen-Ellsworth Expedition’s weather service came to an end. The last report they made showed us that the weather in the polar basin had not got much worse. The depression from the North Atlantic was delayed.

We are now opposite the center glacier and can see all seven. One of the expedition’s humorists asks us if we can tell him which two of the glaciers have the greatest distance between them.

He is full of glee when we make him answer his own question and he replies with the words, “The distance is naturally greatest between the first and the seventh!”

We stand on the afterdeck and earnestly ask the Dornier-Wal factory’s representative if it is not possible that one of the flying machines has dashed down during the flight and crashed, and that the other has probably got damaged in landing to go to its assistance. “Nothing is impossible,” says Schulte-Frohlinde, “but the chance that one machine has crashed during the flight is even less than that ‘Fram’ at the present moment should suddenly break her back. And one must never forget that skilled airmen are piloting N 24 and 25, making an accident highly improbable.”

We are now nearing Cape Mitra and turn in for the night. As we wake this morning we find we have arrived at the coaling quay of Ny-Aalesund. Formerly we stayed in this little thriving mining town for six weeks ere we left it nine days ago, yet we have to look long at everything before we recognize the place, for while we have been away the sun and wind have altered its appearance and left their mark on it in every direction. The ice which had lain beside the quay to a thickness of eight or ten inches was now only mush; the rest had been carried away to sea by the currents and the tide. On the other side of the fjord the fairway is clear and open, reaching to the foot of the glacier and on the Ny-Aalesund side the ice has become so thin that it will hardly bear the weight of a man. The track which the flying machines had glided over is now clear of ice and people ashore tell us that it was not many days after the start before the ice broke up entirely. We have hardly finished breakfast on board when the expedition’s good friend, Director Knutsen, comes on board to hear the news. We have not much to tell him, but what we relate never shakes his confidence in the least that the six will return to Ny-Aalesund, and that this tiny outpost of civilization shall see the beginning of their triumphal procession southwards. He declares further that so long as he is on the spot everything shall be ready to receive them, or to minister to their needs, and the table shall be spread within half an hour of their setting foot in Ny-Aalesund. Greetings shall thunder out and every flag the town possesses shall be flown mast-high. Everything is ready! Just let them arrive! His confidence inflects us, and by the time we sit at the luncheon table we all take a brighter view of the situation. And this, although it is Saturday, nine days after the start—the day we should have begun to doubt in earnest.

Ny-Aalesund, King’s Bay. Sunday, May 31st

This evening the first of the party, who arrived here on Easter Day (April 13th) with the expedition, set off southwards. To-day is Whitsunday; seven weeks have passed since “Fram” and “Hobby” sailed to the ice border—five kilometers in front of the quay where “Fram” now lies. It is a bitterly cold day—the air raw, and a biting wind stinging one’s face and blowing through even the thickest clothes. During the entire day we have had a clear blue sky which acts as a background to the three mountains, Nora, Svea and Dana, the peculiar formation of which in the strangely clear atmosphere makes them appear to be only a stone’s throw away and not thirty kilometers from the spot where we stand on the quay.

Towards the entrance to the fjord we see a long heavy smoke cloud; it is the farewell greeting from the icebreaker “Pasvik,” which is carrying our comrades away.

There were originally twenty members in the expedition which came to help Amundsen. He and five others flew into the unknown on the 21st of May. Here again in Spitzbergen are Horgen, the chemist Zapffe, the film photographer Berge, the journalist Wharton, the stewart Einer Olsen, and I. On board the “Pasvik” are Director Schulte-Frohlinde, Dr. Matheson, Dr. Phil. Bjerknes, the meteorologist Calwagen, sail-maker Rönne, the engineer Green, the mechanic Zinsmayer, and the meteorological telegraphist Devoid, sailing southwards.

The twenty of us were not gathered together for so very many weeks, but it is not the duration of time which determines good feeling amongst men. The occurrence through which we have lived has bound us together with mutual memories so exalted that even if we should never meet again there will always be a Freemasonry amongst us. We saw six men in two heavy gray machines place themselves in the hands of Fate, a fate more relentless, more unknown, than Columbus and Vasco da Gama encountered. If we should meet each other under different conditions we should never be at a loss for a subject of conversation, for we could always fall back on the eternal, “Do you remember ...?” by way of an opening.

For the last time we all dined together with Director Knutsen to-day. A feeling of depression lay over us all in spite of our host’s sturdy optimism. We should soon be parted, and no longer could we hope in each other’s company to witness the great home-coming. As Dr. Matheson thanked Herr Knutsen in a little speech for all his kindly hospitality, we are not ashamed to admit that we were weak enough to have lumps in our throats. As we sat there we heard the shriek of the “Pasvik’s” siren. Two hours afterwards all the baggage, many hundreds of photographs, and 2,000 meters of film taken in the north were put on board the icebreaker. We exchanged handshakes and greetings. The “Pasvik” drew off from the quay; there was a waving of handkerchiefs and scarfs ... and the last we heard from those on board was the remark of Schulte-Frohlinde: “Don’t come southwards before you have Amundsen and his five companions with you.”

The “Pasvik” had brought several mail-bags for the expedition from Green Harbour. Some were for the land party and some for those who had left. There were private letters for every one of us, and several were addressed to “Roald Amundsen, The North Pole,” from all corners of the earth. There was a large pile of newspapers from different lands in which we read with great interest comments on our plans for the flight and the progress of our work before the machines started.

Virgo-havn. Monday, 1st June

We left Ny-Aalesund in the evening yesterday, and arrived here again this morning after a fine trip along the coast past the seven glaciers, to which we bowed as though they were old acquaintances. “Hobby” lay in the bay—alone! We have given up hope of seeing the machines again. Whether we see our six comrades again is a subject I dare not think about. There are two possibilities: Either both machines have been damaged hopelessly in a landing on the ice, and their crews have set off on foot to Cape Columbia in Grant’s Land, west of Greenland’s north point, or the petrol supply came to an end on the return journey and they are now probably trying to cross the drift ice towards Syöene north of Northeastland. If they have done this it is possible that one of the vessels may catch sight of them when they begin patrolling the ice border next Thursday—the fourteenth day from the start. We take the charts from the boxes and study the long route over which they will have to pass to reach Cape Columbia, and therefrom down to Thule on the north coast of Greenland. It is a distance of 1,600 kilometers to walk and to row, so we know that if the machines have been damaged in the landing, we shall not see our comrades again till 1926. The canvas boats they have taken with them are so small that there is no possibility of them being used for a crossing between Greenland and Grant’s Land over the Kennedy Channel, if the ice has broken up, which it generally does in the month of July—and there is no chance of them reaching Cape Columbia before the end of June. Therefrom they would have to go down to Fort Conger in Discovery Harbour, from whence they must cross the Kennedy Channel (a march of several weeks).

If they are on the way to Spitzbergen and are crossing eastwards to Northeastland, it will also take many weeks, but there is the chance that they may meet with one or other of the seal hunters, who trek northwards and eastwards at this period of the year—or they may trek down the coast and in the late summer surprise us by appearing in Ny-Aalesund or Advent Bay. Under these conditions we, on board the vessels, feel that we are more superfluous than ever. We think with envy of our comrades who set off on board the “Pasvik” southwards to Norway—to summer, with green-clad mountain sides, and birds singing in the woods—to warmth, and to a land where one day sleeps before another is born—in light and in darkness. Yet here we must remain for another four weeks amidst snow and ice, sleeping in uncomfortable bunks, and tramping the same deck planks in a pale unwavering light which saps the remaining calmness from one’s nerves. We have grown to hate the midnight sun; it gives light pale as a white-washed hospital ward, yet so strong that it is difficult to bear. Through the smallest holes and cracks in the port-hole curtains, it pours in like Röntgen rays, and burns one’s very soul and eyes. It has the same effect whether it is day or whether it is what we, from force of habit, call night; either the sun shines from a blue sky or gray clouds scurrying before a bitter nor’-easter hide that same sun, which in the south is making the grass grow and the birds sing love-songs from the tops of the beech trees.

I wonder if the others have the same thoughts. Now that the strain of the early expectation is over and that a waiting period, which I believe cannot bring a solution to the situation, has started, the entire work of patrolling and reconnoitering from air and sea has become so colorless—colorless and monotonous as the sea and the cold naked hills, with their glaciers and their snow-drifts in the dales. The deck planks are being worn down by incessant tramping. We wait first for breakfast, then for lunch, and then for our evening meal. We say the same things, look at the same views, and we play cards. I get the same cards always and lose consistently. And this is only the first day. On Thursday, three days hence, we are to begin patrolling in earnest.

Virgo-havn. Tuesday, June 2nd

Our water supply is very low. To take ice on board is impracticable. Down in the dark tanks the water only keeps a few degrees of heat, the ice melts so slowly that in the after-tank large lumps are still lying unmelted, since we put them in the tanks at Magdalena Bay. In a handbook of Spitzbergen, which is found in the ship’s library, Captain Hagerup discovers that at Seal Bay there is a small lake which never freezes to its lowest depth. Perhaps we can get water there. The motor boat is lowered, we take out guns and ammunition and accompany Hagerup and the ice-pilot shore wards. Seal flesh is not altogether a luxury, but it is at least fresh meat, and the steward on board has shown us that auk can taste like ptarmigan when the gravy is made with cream and butter. We push off, and the little trip to Seal Bay seems almost as exciting for us as the reading of a thrilling novel, for it is such a welcome change. The boat can approach quite near to land, where “Fram” cannot steer, as there are many sand-banks and rocks, unmarked on the charts. Lying in the sound just before we swing round and down the coast to the open sea is a little island no larger than the floor of an ordinary-sized room, ten or fifteen meters from Danskeöen. It is three or four meters high and has a skull-cap of snow, on which is perched a large sea-gull looking down at us. The bird is so glistening white that the snow appears like a gray shadowed background for the heavy bird. As we approach it flies upwards with long sweeping wings, and with a hoarse scream disappears seawards. From the boat we can see on the top of the snow-cap a green egg which is lying there.

There is a history attached to this little island—sad as are so many of these fateful stories of the north. One winter before Wellman set off in his balloon he had his big balloon shed ready, and in another of his houses which stands there were stored provisions for a long period. He had engaged two watchmen to look after his belongings. They spent the time trapping foxes which at that time were to be found on Danskeöen in great numbers. The two watchmen (Björvik and Johnsen they were called) wished one day to go out to the little island. The sound between it and the land is ten to fifteen meters broad. It was in the month of May Johnsen went a little in advance of Björvik, who suddenly saw his comrade disappear through the ice. Johnsen called for help, but before Björvik could get to him the ice broke up entirely round the spot where he was, and the stream carried him away under the ice while Björvik could only stand helplessly by and look on. He lived there alone afterwards for a long time before a ship arrived from Norway. For the greater part of the time he sat by a signaling post and stared out over the sea. He kept a diary of his life there: “It is the second time I have had to see a good comrade die here in the north,” he writes, “but this is worse than it is in Franz Joseph Land; I must pull myself together and find something or other to do.” His remark applies to a time when he had lived ten years ago on the above mentioned island, when he and a man from the “Fram” named Bentzon spent the winter there. Bentzon got scurvy and died. So that his corpse should not be eaten by bears or foxes, Björvik kept it in the little hut beside him for several months before a vessel came and carried him and the dead man away to Norway.

Whilst this is being related, we steer out of the sound. We round Danskeöen’s northwest point and turn down the coast past several 400 to 500 meter-high cliffs rising directly out of the sea. The waves toss the motor boat up and down and wash over us. We send a shot towards the cliffs; the echo reverberates and thousands of auks fly out. We pick up our fowling pieces and aim at the birds which fly past in a whirling flock, and we anticipate having auk for lunch. But we miss our mark, for motor boats are not built with the idea of their being a shooting ground for auk! We get proof of this when a shot aimed at two birds falls directly into the sea sending the spray flying. The non-sporting men in the boat rub their hands with joy when they see the birds escape from the bloodthirsty marksmen. Occasionally we shoot a brace of puffins; the small black and white birds with red parrot beaks always lie rocking on the waves, and are an easy prey. They are clumsy flyers and never try to escape until it is too late. We turn into Seal Bay, and as we enter, the rolling ceases, for there is a sandbank which acts as a breakwater, and beyond it the water lies like a mirror. It is so clear that we can see the fine white sand at the bottom, where the seaweed waves above in the gentle current. Here we are able to note that the water in the neighborhood of Spitzbergen must indeed have become warmer in recent years, for scarcely ten years ago it was a rare thing to see seaweed growing so far north. Now it can be found on the sea bottom of all the bays where current conditions are favorable.

We go ashore and try to break the ice on the lake. We hack and hack, but never get through. If this lake is not frozen solid it is at any rate frozen to such a depth that we shall require other tools to get through the ice. As we return to the motor boat, Captain Hagerup points to a little hillock saying: “That is where we found the bodies of two meteorologists who drifted here in an open boat from Quade Hook on the way to King’s Bay and lay here two months, where they slowly starved and froze to death.”

We return to the “Fram” at 6 P.M. It seems to us that we have as much to tell those on board as though we had been away three weeks instead of only three hours. The sportsmen too receive grateful thanks for bringing auk with them, “which taste nearly as good as ptarmigan.”

A telegram awaits us on board saying that MacMillan is to start his expedition on the 20th of June from Boston to search for Amundsen and his companions, north of Cape Columbia. We comment on this. If the ice conditions in the north are favorable, he can be in Etah with his ships and flying machines by the end of the month or the beginning of July, and by sending his flying machines northwards from there he can probably sight our airmen if they are walking towards Grant’s Land.

And why should they not have proceeded so far? The account which Peary has given of the ice conditions between the Pole and Grant’s Land show that it is even and flat so that a long day’s march is possible. His accounts are backed up by the trappers, who describe the condition of the ice as it drifts towards Greenland’s east coast. There great floes can be seen, many kilometers long and without the slightest mooring. We recall to memory what Amundsen said to Ellsworth one day when we walked on ice as flat as a floor: “Landing places like these are numerous where we are going.” Now we know that even if the machines have been damaged in landing, the airmen will still be able to walk many miles a day on the ice until they see land ahead.

And we reason further: even if one or two men have been so hurt in an unfortunate landing that they must be helped by the others, the sledges are not so heavy but that they can be pulled along, for all of them have the will and the strength to get home. The more we discuss the point, the more sure we are that there is a chance of the MacMillan expedition joining up with our six. How astonished they will be to hear of all the plans which have been made to search for them, for they count on no help whatever (certainly not from Norway, for they understood that they had received all the help they could from there when the State aided the actual expedition). Twelve days since they left us!—in two days “Fram” and “Hobby” must begin to patrol the ice border.

Virgo-havn. Wednesday, June 3rd

The weather during the last days has been clear with good visibility, and the airmen would have found no difficulty in steering for Spitzbergen, as the high mountains must have been discernible for several hundreds of kilometers, from the height at which the aeroplanes would be flying.

But to-day there is a change. When we came on deck at 9 A.M. we found a real polar fog around us; heavy, raw and forbiddingly gray it lay over the “Fram.” The smoke could not rise, and soot fell everywhere. Every breath filled our lungs with grime instead of the usual sparkling air. Although we only lay 200 yards from land we could not see it. When it was at its worst we could only just catch a glimpse of “Hobby’s” clumsy hull, which lay just ahead. Our spirits were not so heavy as the fog; even the crew found something to keep them interested.

This evening a telegram arrives to say that America is forming a Committee to arrange a search for Amundsen in the neighborhood of Cape Columbia. They are collecting the necessary funds. A brother-in-law of Ellsworth’s is a member of the Committee.

Virgo-havn. Thursday, June 4th

Now the fourteen days have passed during which we should lie here in the fairway, according to Amundsen’s orders, and wait for the airmen. The “Fram” should now continue a course westwards from the northern coast of Norskeöene, as the boat is not constructed for ice navigation; “Hobby,” on the other hand, is built of wood and has a strong ice-bow of solid oak, and can safely follow a course eastwards along the ice border, probably being able to reach Northeastland. As soon as “Fram” has got her tanks filled (which should be by to-morrow evening), the patrolling shall begin. We shall remain here in the north till the 2nd of July—six weeks from the start (that is the limit Amundsen fixed for the airmen to return to Spitzbergen on foot or in the small canvas boats), after which the last members of the Amundsen-Ellsworth expedition were to set off southwards.

This afternoon we live through an occurrence which smacks of sensation. The fog had lifted and there was only a slight thickness remaining on the high points of Spitzbergen’s mainland, the rest had been blown to sea by a fresh breeze. Now visibility is good. We have just drunk our coffee and come on deck, and we suddenly notice a little boat rowing towards us. Instinctively we lift our binoculars. There are two men in the boat, which lies deep in the water. Apparently it is one of “Hobby’s” “seal-boats” which has probably been out and caught a number of seals. The boat approaches, rows past our ship, and lies by the side of a little hut on the beach at Danskeöen. This hut was built by a Scottish scientist, and is called Pike’s House, after him. The two men land and empty the boat of its load. We realize that they are two trappers whom “Hobby” has met in the course of her patrolling near Norskeöene, where they have remained since autumn trapping bears and foxes. In a short time they come on board to learn if they can possibly find a ship to carry them southwards.

With true Polar hospitality we invite them to have coffee with us and tell them the news from the outer world which they have not been in touch with since September. They listen with the same interest to our news as we do to their tales of the life of a trapper in the polar night. They have kept diaries and have made notes of wind and weather.

We borrow their diaries and read their accounts of the weather about the time of the start. They have made the following notes: May 18th. Calm, air very thick -3° c. 19th May. Fresh easterly wind, cloudy air, -4° c. 20th May. Slight northeast wind, atmosphere thick, a little snow, -3° c. Afternoon. Fresh easterly wind, snow. Evening. Easterly, snow, -5° c.

Thus we arrive at the starting day, which gave us the brilliant weather the airmen were waiting for, and which the meteorologists believe continued straight to the Pole.

In the diary the notes were: May 21st. Fresh, north east, atmosphere thick, and snow, -7° c. Evening, weather conditions the same -8° c. On the following day, May 22nd, when “Fram” and “Hobby” came northwards, they had noted clear weather in their diaries. These trappers’ diaries give us a new subject for conversation. If their observations are correct our airmen must have flown into thick fog opposite Danskeöen and Amsterdamöen. Supposing they followed a northward course after passing Amsterdamöen, it is not likely that the weather could have changed extensively between there and Norskeöene, especially with such a wind blowing as the diaries describe. We discuss it from every point of view and arrive at the only possible result. Around Spitzbergen’s northwest point and the islands immediately near it there has been a local storm on the day of the start. The airmen could not have missed seeing it, and the fact that they have continued northwards in spite of it, is because they have seen clear weather ahead in the polar basin, where they could make use of their sun compasses and deviation measures for navigating. The trappers are of the same opinion—one of them has spent many winters in Spitzbergen, and tells us that the weather conditions there are often quite different to what they are a little further south. The two trappers row away to their hut, where they intend to live until “Fram” goes southwards to coal, when they will accompany us in order to join a coal-boat from Ny-Aalesund to carry them to one or other Norwegian port. They will sell the two polar bear skins and thirty fox skins from their winter’s trapping and will live on the proceeds for a few months in Norway, then return to Spitzbergen again when they wish to gather a fresh harvest.

In the evening we hold a council of war in “Fram’s” mess regarding the patrolling, and we arrange exactly which parts of the fairway each boat shall cruise over. The first trip is to begin to-morrow, Friday, June 5th, continuing until June 9th, when at eight o’clock on that day “Hobby” and “Fram” shall be back in Virgo-havn again. There is a little difficulty about the fact that “Hobby” is not fitted with wireless, and for this reason we have made the first cruise of so short a duration, as word may come at any moment which would do away with the necessity for further patrolling.

Hardly any of us believe that there is a chance of our picking up the airmen. With such good flying machines there is hardly any doubt but that they must have reached the Pole before they had to land. Therefore we conclude that any accident can only have taken place where they have landed at the Pole point. It will, thus, be a shorter distance to Cape Columbia than to Northeastland, especially taking into consideration the fact that the going is easier over the flat ice towards the American coast than scrambling over the screw-ice north of Spitzbergen. From what the airmen said before they left it was their intention to return to Cape Columbia, and we had often noticed in King’s Bay during the conversation that Amundsen himself always counted on the possibility of coming home on foot. Every small item of the equipment which could be required on a march was gone through most carefully by Amundsen himself and tested and examined over and over again. He thought of everything, but when we remember what a small space the entire equipment for a march took up in the two machines it seems impossible that six men could have had enough material to keep life and soul together and get clear away. But Amundsen has experience from former years....

The first part of the waiting period is over. The thought of the last fourteen days arouses a chaos of memories and sensations. The last lunch in the mess on the starting day, three or four hours before they left, seems to be as far away as a childhood’s memory. We sat round the long table talking as usual, when suddenly the six men got up, saying: “It is time we put on our flying clothes,” and the whole occurrence appeared so natural to us all that many of us remained to drink an additional cup of the extra fine coffee which the steward had made for the occasion.

And thus they started, and we passed impatient days of anxious waiting to see them return. And now we can hardly understand our first great confidence. It seems to me quite impossible that for ten or fourteen days I could have believed in their home-coming with a certainty as firm as that of the six themselves. But should a miracle happen on the other hand, and we should suddenly see them flying towards us, and hear the thrumming of their engines, it would seem to be the most natural thing that could take place.

Virgo-havn. Friday, June 5th.

The “Fram’s” crew have continued filling the water-tanks to-day. They fill the lifeboats with fresh water ice and the motor-boats tow them to the ship’s side, where they empty bucket after bucket into the tanks. They are finished by 5 P.M. and they are ready to sail northwards.

The weather prospects are good. The frost is over for this year and one can see the bare patches amongst the snow growing bigger and bigger, as it melts and runs away down the hillside in several little brooks, which increase in size as they descend, carrying gravel and sand right out to sea. A wide stretch in front of the beach is muddy and thick in rainbow sections with one part gray, another brown, turning into red or yellow, according to the color of the mud which the hill stream has carried with it. The weather is mild and we no longer require our mittens and leather hats. When we take a little walk ashore, we have not gone far up the hill before perspiration breaks out on us.

This barren Virgo-havn which we came to a fort-night ago and which seemed so deserted has now awakened to life. Even unaccustomed eyes can see how the birds are preparing for the joys of family life. The capercailzies, which were arriving in flocks when we first came, are now settling down in pairs,—the dark brown hen flies seawards with a crooning note, followed by her mate. With a splash they alight on the water by the side of the island, where they land, and together search like two every-day citizens for a suitable nesting place. A flock of little auks flies throughout the day round a high hilltop which rises from the beach. Their wings fill the air with a whirring noise, and their squawking nearly deafens us as we pass near their nests, for they are apprehensive of our intentions. Large plundering sea-mews swirl around overhead in the hope of espying an egg.

Yes! spring is really here, taking hold of this island, where conditions of life are so poor that only a great thaw gives anything a chance to grow.

The last boat-load of water has been towed to the side of the “Fram”: the whistle recalls those of us who are ashore, and we see that the vessel is ready to leave. Everything on deck is secured and fast. The photographer Berge, Wharton and I shall go eastwards with “Hobby” towards Northeastland, where the chances of meeting the six are greatest. We pack all our belongings together and row towards “Hobby,” as “Fram” is to leave in half an hour’s time.

“Hobby” Saturday, 6th June

At 6 P.M. to-day “Fram” steamed off and disappeared along Amsterdamöen’s east coast. “Hobby” made ready for sailing and at eight o’clock we followed. To begin with we kept to the same course as “Fram.” The weather was not of the best. Visibility was fairly good, but the sky was covered with gray, low-lying clouds, while the air was damp and heavy. A nor’-easter made our position on deck anything but comfortable, but the mere fact that we were moving engendered a satisfactory feeling and we sat up late into the night. Leaving Virgo-havn we got a good chance to study, on Spitzbergen’s mainland, how the glaciers here in the north have diminished in recent years. In one of the dales we can see the remainder of a glacier which not so many years ago reached right down to the sea. Now there is hardly a small ice hillock left of it. The neighboring glaciers have also shrunk and no longer fill the dales as they did formerly. We remember what our friends in King’s Bay told us, that the large glaciers in the Bay have moved 1,500–2,000 meters further out than they were ten years ago, when the coal miners first started to work. During the trip through the sound we are accompanied part of the way by a young seal, which unconcernedly swims by the side of the vessel regarding us curiously with black shining eyes. Our sporting instincts awaken—we have no intention of shooting a young seal, but the sight of it reminds us that there will be plenty of sport further north, where at this time of year seals are plentiful. It is not impossible that we may also bag a polar bear or two. “Hobby” in the meantime has passed Singing-Bird Island, which could hardly have borne a more fitting name. Town dwellers who are on board the vessel, to whom fifty or sixty sparrows appear as a crowd of birds, have always listened with skepticism to the tales told of flocks of birds so dense that they obliterate the sun. As we pass the Island we get a proof that these tales have not been exaggerated. I admit that there was no sun to obliterate, but round the high Island we can see flocks of auk flying in such numbers that they look like big black thunder clouds driving before the wind. We turn into the sound, passing Norskeöene and lose sight of Amsterdamöen’s double-peaked top. In a small opening between Singing-Bird Island and Cloven-Cliff Island we catch sight of “Fram.” It is lying still, and it would appear that the officers on board have begun their hydrographic work. They are quickly lost to sight as we pass Outer-Norskeöene, where we see thousands of capercailzies flying backwards and forwards.

When we return after three or four days’ absence we shall be able to gather enough eggs to last us a lifetime. The island is famed amongst trappers as being one of the best nesting places on Spitzbergen. It is almost as good as Moss Island at the entrance to South Gate and Dunn Island outside Horn Sound. Through the glasses we can see that the capercailzies are busy building their nests—the most fortunate of them have found places to build in the crannies of the broken ice heaps. Coming out of the sound, we have the whole polar sea lying in front of us. Up till now fate has provided that we should only see the water calm and in sunshine. (Although we had a storm crossing from Tromsö to King’s Bay it is so long ago that we have forgotten it.) Now we get raw, cold and stormy weather. The sea is not blue and pleasant-looking, but gray and heavy as lead. The waves toss the ship about, and we have to hold fast to anything near us to prevent ourselves being slung overboard, whilst from the pantry we hear kitchen utensils and cooking pots crashing about accompanied by the steward’s high-pitched curses. We don’t see much ice! Here and there a small floe or a patch of mush rocks past on the waves, strengthening the impression that this deserted sea stretches to the world’s end. During a sea journey in the south, even if land is not to be seen, one knows that in a few hours a strip of coast line will appear—and behind that coast line there is land, with people and life and new things to see, to hear, and to learn, which gives the journey a purpose! But this sea! It stretches northwards and northwards. The heavy lead-gray mass of water is never broken by a bit of smiling coast, with green-clad mountain sides or high hills, but goes on in an endless monotony of drifting ice. As it lies before us now it has no charm; it only repels with its cold indifference. We prefer not to look at it, and go down into the little saloon, where we who have come to the “Fram” are delighted to find that here also they have the praiseworthy habit of serving coffee at night whilst the ship is at sea. We go to bed at ten o’clock, after which the engines stop and “Hobby” lies drifting through the night (it is just as well to spare our fuel). As we settled down for the night “Hobby” lay a little northwest of Mofföen, almost directly north of Welcome Point in Reindeerland.

When we wakened about ten in the morning, we still lay drifting, for towards morning a heavy fog had descended and it was useless to try to proceed. It would be impossible to see our course, and to get a sight of the airmen was equally out of the question in such density. The fog we experienced in Virgo-havn some days ago was nothing compared to this, which seemed like a mass of thick wool enveloping us. There was no rest for the eye, no gap in the foggy curtain. How long will it last? People who know the conditions here shrug their shoulders.... There is nothing to be done but to remain where we are. There is a little snow shower which does not improve matters. Should the weather remain like this, it seems to us that a reconnoitering expedition will have to be sent to search for us as well.

We go down, throw ourselves on our mattresses and sleep!

An hour or two after lunch time and the fog has lifted a little. We can see several ship-lengths ahead, and above it is distinctly clearer; the sun is still shining behind it all. A few ice-floes pass out of the density and we follow them gladly with our eyes as they serve to break the awful monotony. A small breeze begins to blow, bringing us the same feelings which come to a prisoner when he hears the key turn in the lock of his prison door, opening it for him. The fog disappears like magic before the wind and as we stand on deck we hear a voice shout something which makes us all stare excitedly at a large ice-floe to starboard:

Polar bear!

Where?

There, on the top of the floe!

Right enough, there before us with the dispersing fog as a background the bear stands like a yellow shadow. In less than a second we have got the seal-boat out on the water; sportsmen and photographers all tumble in, in company with their guns and their oars, so that five men lie in a mixed heap at the bottom of the boat. It is not long before the oarsmen are in their places and bearing down towards the ice-floe where the polar bear is sending foam flecks flying over its shoulder. It is a few hundred yards away—nearer and nearer we approach and see the bear more and more distinctly. It is three or four years old, and those of us who have never seen the polar bear living in its natural surroundings are delighted to see it disporting itself on the floe. It has not yet noticed the boat approaching. Contented to play with the top of an ice-clump, it stands up on its hind legs, striking it with a fore paw, and sending the snowflakes flying around it. Then it turns a somersault, lies on its back and waves its four legs in the air, jumps up and starts to play “peek-a-boo” with itself round the ice-clump. We are close up to it ... twenty meters, ten meters.... Still it does not see us, for it is lying behind the clump. We round it, and just when we are five meters away the bear hears the splash of the oars. It rises up on its hind legs, stands like a statue for a second, gazes at us doubtfully, then turns round and rushes away in a heavy gallop over the floe, sending the snow flying in all directions. From the other side of the floe we hear a splash; it has jumped into the sea to try and save itself by swimming....

The three oarsmen bend their backs; we round the floe and see the bear swimming towards “Hobby.” It is a thrilling moment! Here are three strong men rowing until the boat trembles under their exertions: while the perspiration runs from them, the distance between boat and bear increases, and we believe for a moment that it will be able to get away by reaching an ice-floe on the other side of the vessel. Should it manage to get there, it has a good chance of saving its skin. But the poor beast cannot keep up this great speed for long; it swims more and more slowly and, catching sight of “Hobby,” decides to change its course towards a smaller floe onto which it jumps, gallops over it and slips into the sea on the other side. Our boat gains on it now with every stroke of the oars, and we can hear its heavy breathing. A little later we are close up to the bear; it lifts its head and gives a terrified glance at the boat, then turns towards “Hobby” and tries to cast itself underneath while Berge stands filming on the deck. We are three meters from the vessel’s side. The bear turns its tired shiny eyes towards the boat, opens its large mouth and gives a hoarse roar. An oar is stretched towards it which it bites into splinters.

There is a shot. The bear is hit in the neck. A stream of blood welters out, coloring the water and the bear’s own skin with crimson. The heavy body gives a mighty lurch and with its last ounce of strength attempts to dive, and we can see when it is in the water how it tries with its powerful claws to get deeper down. But its strength gives out, and, turning on its back, it gives out a series of terrible roars. A shot in the chest and now it lies still beside the crimson-dyed water. We cut a hole in its neck and drag it across the ice-floe, where we proceed to skin it. They watch us from the ship and, putting a boat out, row across to where we are skinning the bear—an operation which is being filmed and photographed. “Hobby’s” dog Sally accompanies them; she is a mongrel resembling a fox terrier and has the name of every canine breed included in her pedigree. The little animal snuffles around the bear and is finally photographed, by her proud owner, sitting on its back. We take the bear-skin on board, also the gall bladder, the contents of which, according to Arctic traditions, constitute a cure for gout when mixed with an equal quantity of brandy.

Safely on board again and we feel like new men. We forget that only an hour ago we cursed the Arctic seas and everything connected with them, whilst we only longed for sunshine and for warmth—for flowers and leafy trees, and for the songs of woodland birds on a summer evening. But now it is changed; we are no longer merely passengers on board, we have become part of the actual life of the ice regions. We at last begin to understand how it is possible for people, year after year, to leave their summer homes and set off to journey amongst ice and snowfields here in the north—not only is it a possibility, but a necessity—for this region possesses a power which draws back to it those who have once visited it. The fog has now vanished, and in the distance we can see Spitzbergen’s coast quite clearly from Norskeöene in the west, to Verlegen Hook in the east. Northwards and eastwards the sea is almost free of ice, while a number of cracks break pieces off the unending ice-plains. We hear an order given to set the engines going, and we, who in the fever of the chase after the bear have almost forgotten the reason we are here, are called back to a world of reality by the first thrum of the motor-engines. “Hobby” is soon steering towards the northeast, making for the most northerly of the Seven Islands. This afternoon the weather has got clearer, and soon after 7 P.M. we enter into the first belt of drift-ice. We understand more and more the charm of life in these high latitudes. The sea is blue, the sky is blue, and jolly little waves are washing over the small ice-floes, while each ripple (under the influence of a northeast breeze) is tipped with foam which glistens in the glorious sunshine, making all on board feel well pleased with the world at large. We pass one large iceberg after another, heavy, stranded icebergs, which stand thirty, forty or fifty meters above the surface of the sea. They are eight or nine times deeper than the part which we can see, and stand on the sea bottom until such a time as sun and wind leave their mark on them to such an extent that they overbalance and drift off southwards. We ask if it is possible for “Hobby” to sail close up to them so that we can get good photographs, but Captain Johansen says “No.” He has experience in this matter and knows that an iceberg, which at the moment is lying quite still, can suddenly topple,—and although “Hobby” is a very strong ship, she could hardly stand being struck by such a colossus. As we pass a heavy flat ice-floe, we see an interesting sight. The waves are swaying it with a regular rhythm, and spouting up from its very center there is a large column of water which rises twenty to twenty-five meters into the air. The explanation of this strange spring is simple enough. A caprice of nature has formed a hole in the floe, and as the waves rock it, the water presses through the hole with such force that the floe becomes a floating fountain.