We never tire of standing on the deck watching the drift-ice, which has a charm for any one who is observing it for the first time, even as it has for “old hands” in the northern regions. Against the sides of the great icebergs waves are breaking, just as they do against the island reefs of the Norwegian coast. The drifting pieces of ice have ever-changing forms. During a thaw, sea, sun, and wind turn them into shapes more weird and fantastic than even a sculptor could do. “Hobby” passes every possible kind of fabulous animal; we see extraordinary buildings, and twisted, stiffened trees; profiles of dead and living people whom we recognize; Gothic and Grecian pillars; floating models in a variety sufficient for a complete generation of artists and sculptors. From the floating ice we can see dangerous projections which are often many yards below the sea’s surface—projections which, should they come in contact with a steamer’s hull, might be as fateful as striking a rock. While we pass through the belt of drift ice we have a watchman continually on the lookout for these projections—with a wave of the hand he warns the man at the wheel each time it is necessary to change our course; thus we do not follow a straight line, and if we drew a plan of the course we pursue it would resemble an arabesque.
We pass out of the belt of drift-ice and after a half hour’s duration are in a sea that is clear of ice. Looking back upon the belt we have just left, we notice that it appears like a white strip between sea and sky. Southwards through the hazy air we see Spitzbergen’s cliffs, and westwards we can just glimpse the coast of Northeastland and the ice which covers it. Straight ahead new masses of ice begin to appear on the horizon. Is it another belt of drift-ice, or is it the border of the polar ice? We can only answer this question in an hour’s time, and we shall then know how soon “Hobby” can begin the first patrolling operations.
It was only drift ice. We cross it in the same manner as we crossed the former belt and continue northeastwards till late evening. The unbelievable happens! On the eastern horizon one island after another appears—and we have proof that in the beginning of June “Hobby” has managed without difficulty to break right through to the Seven Islands, which, in a year of bad ice conditions, can only be approached in the late summer, and in very bad years cannot be approached at all. Last year at St. Hans’ time it was hopeless to try and pass Moffenöen. Thus the conditions change from year to year with a capriciousness, the factors of which scientists are beginning to understand at last.
At midnight we are in 80° 45´ N. lat., 18° 15´ E. long., and we cease operations for the night, lying fifty yards from the border of the polar ice, which stretches northwards and eastwards as far as we can see through our binoculars.
“Hobby.” Sunday June 7th
Our awakening to-day was dramatic. Half asleep, we lay for some time in our bunks as we heard and felt bump after bump on the ship’s hull, so that in spite of its strong timbers it trembled under the force. When we were wide awake, even the greatest landlubbers amongst us were aware that the bumping came from the bottom and not from the sides, but before we had time to utter an opinion about the occurrence, we saw the skipper, who had been taking a well-earned sleep after his strenuous work, disappear from his cabin with his trousers in his hand. We stretched ourselves and turned over in our beds, for any help we could give would be worthless, and therefore we settled down for another little snooze.
The bumping continued and from the bridge we heard orders called in language which might have been couched in more parliamentary form. A noise like a storm issued from the engine room; they were trying at all costs to get the engines to work. We scrambled into our clothes and went up on deck, where we saw immediately the cause of the uproar, and the reason why the Captain was shouting out hoarse orders, while he still stood with his trousers in his hand. “Hobby” was lying “far in,” amongst the drift ice, and it was necessary to get out of it as quickly as possible, otherwise we might stick there for a much longer period than we should care to do. We also saw at a glance the cause of the bumping. A tremendous block of ice which lay close to the “Hobby” had a long projection under water—of such large dimensions that it stretched right under the vessel, and was visible at the other side knocking against an ice-floe which was crushing in on the side of the boat. Every time the floe heaved it struck the projection and drove it against the ship. The situation was not one of imminent danger, but it could become so at any moment, and we longed to hear the throbbing sound which would tell us the engines had started....
At last our wish was gratified and a start was made. Gently and carefully “Hobby” glided over the “ice-projection” which, by way of a farewell greeting as we got free of it, gave us a heavy double bump. We heaved a sigh of relief all round and the captain at last had leisure to put on his trousers. We were not right out of our trouble, however, as we had still 200–300 meters of ice to get through before we reached a clear water-course, but after a good deal of maneuvering we got through and steered eastwards. It seemed to us at first that the ice lay in a straight line to Ross Island (the most northerly of the Seven Islands), but after we patrolled its edge for an hour we found there was a large bay at the middle island and from the deck we could already see that the boundary between the loose “screw-ice” and the solid ice continued eastward to North Cape in Northeastland. It appeared as though the solid ice lay in a curve starting from a point within the bay and stretching northeast from Seven Islands, where we then lay.
The engine stopped, and “Hobby” “lay to.” The sea was still and not even the smallest puff of wind ruffled its surface. We were far away from the great “ocean-highways” at a spot where neither the charts nor the northern seamen on board could give us much information. New charts had to be drawn according to photographs and descriptions (for exact measurements and observations can never be taken), nor can much reliance be placed in the existing charts, for good ones of this district are scarce. The seal-boats which sail these waters get through, guided by the wits of their skippers, who mostly possess the explorer’s sense of direction. The landscape is different in this part to that of the coast lying westward. There the hills are high and jagged, a condition which rightly caused the Dutchmen to call the island-group “Spitzbergen” (spits, point; bergen, hills) when they discovered it in 1596.
Here the hills are lower, more rounded,—sloping evenly towards the sea and ending in long tongues of rock which stretch out from the coast. The Seven Islands have a formation which is characteristic of the whole district; they rise right up from the sea 200–300 meters high. One of them—the chart calls it Nelson Island—presents the appearance of the façade of l’Eglise de Notre Dame of Paris. We wished to call it Cathedral Island, but several people said the Island had been called after Admiral Nelson so we decided to let it keep its name.
We lay on the deck in the grateful warmth of the sun, while the captain stood with his glasses ranging the entire landscape for a sight of the airmen. He has traveled the polar seas for twenty-five years; his father, uncles and grandfather have done the same before him, for he belongs to a race, found frequently in Northern Norway, which has wrested its living from the ice regions. The other evening as we sat in the cabin and studied the Arctic charts, we noticed a little spot called Lonely Island lying beyond the Taimur Peninsula in Siberia, and in parentheses under its name stood the name “Johannessen 1878.” It turned out to be the uncle of our Captain, Kristian Johannessen. He had sailed round Novoje Semlia before any one else and had been with our skipper’s father many times on the polar expeditions of the Swede Nordenskiöld.
He has a history of northern custom and tradition behind him, for his people have often left their work of trapping if they believed that there was some geographical secret to be unraveled or some new road to be opened up. The Hammerfest skipper, Elling Carlsen, came into this neighborhood where we are now lying with a little vessel in 1863 in order to follow his calling as a trapper. As the fairway northwards appeared to be free from ice, he did not turn back the way he had come. He steered eastwards, sailed round Northeastland, and set his course southwards towards Norway, passing Giles Land, Barentsöen and Hopen. For such enterprise (in days when ice-boats only had sails) he got a well-deserved reward from the Royal Geographical Society in London.
How much this skipper’s experience has helped in our present expedition it would be difficult to say, but certain it is that many an explorer has been aided considerably by this man’s discoveries and by his accounts of conditions in districts hitherto unexplored and unknown. Polar explorers have always worked in company with the trappers in the Arctic—and Nansen, Sverdrup and Amundsen all made their first expedition in a seal-boat. Can one not regard their enterprise as a continuation of the work done by brave skippers in earlier days who took advantage of every opportunity which offered?
Nothing is to be seen of the airmen. On an ice-floe near the coast Johannessen notices that a number of seals are lying sleeping and sunning themselves. The seal-boat has been hanging on its derricks since the bear-hunt, so we quickly lower it and some of our party row towards the floe. They have to row very quietly (and have not gone far from the side of the vessel when we on board can no longer hear the sound of the rowlocks) for the slightest noise will waken the seals, which are light sleepers, and once awake they will flop into the sea and dive. Through our glasses we follow the progress of the boat. They crouch over their oars, and we can see nothing but their heads over the side of the boat as with long steady strokes they approach the ice-floe. The seals lie in such a position that if they are to be shot the boat will have to round the floe. At last they are within shooting range and the man with the gun rises noiselessly and takes aim. All the same the seal wakens, lifts its head and looks at him. It amazedly catches sight of the boat and we can see it draw itself together for a plunge into the sea. But it has been a good shot, and the fear that the animal would escape is groundless, for it remains lying on the outer edge of the floe with only its head lying in the water. The boat then draws alongside and the boys jump onto the ice, stick a hook into the heavy, slippery skin and haul the animal into a more favorable position. The shot has struck it behind the ear, killing it instantly. In a few moments the big heavy body is skinned, several pounds of seal-flesh are cut off and all carried on board the boat. Then the men row on to where the next seal lies on a floe some hundred meters away. Hardly has the boat rowed off when the remains of the dead animal are being fought over by flocks of sea-gulls and sea-mews. They tear the remainder of the fat and flesh into pieces, swallowing one big lump after another, until there is not one morsel to be found. But, even then, they cannot leave the place, as they have become so heavy it is impossible for them to fly.
An hour after the boat returns with four seal-skins as their “bag,” also provision for the larder:
“Fresh meat this evening, Steward!”
Then the engines start again and “Hobby” continues southwards along the coast. About 10 P.M. we “lay to” for the night, slightly to the northeast of Lavöen outside Brandy Bay. The seal-boat rows out once more as the crew wish to make the little extra money which a night’s seal-hunting will bring them. From the deck we watch them row away between the ice-floes. We hope it will not turn out for these three men on board the little boat as it did for the three others who once landed east of Spitzbergen and went inland to search for eggs and eiderdown on the Tusindöene. We heard of them from a seal-skipper whom we met in King’s Bay. “They took with them only a hook in a small lifeboat, and hardly had they landed when the drift-ice closed in between the island and the vessel, which lay some hundreds of meters away. The fog descended around them and everything disappeared in its density. The three men decided to wait. They waited eight days before the fog cleared. They turned the ship’s boat over them to give them shelter from snow and wind, while they lived on eggs and uncooked birds, for any available fuel was too wet to use. When the fog lifted the vessel had disappeared, and they had no other way to save themselves but to cross over the ice-floes in their little boat towards the mainland-coast round South Cape, and nineteen days afterwards they arrived thin and emaciated, but otherwise in good condition, at the Swedish coal-fields in Bellsund. From there they were able to get a coal-boat to Tromsö. Arriving home, they found that their vessel had not returned, however, as it had remained to search for Kristian and his companions, and when it arrived several days after their return it was flying its flag half-mast, causing Kristian, who stood on the quay, to burst out in loud laughter as he shouted, ‘Hullo, father, what have you done with the top of the flag cord?’
The weather is still calm, and the seal-boat does not row very far away from the vessel. One could not imagine a calmer night. The barren landscape is as still as death. The only noise that we can hear is an occasional clang from the boat when an oar strikes the ice. The echo of it rolls from cliff to cliff along the coast. The sky is cloudless, but the atmosphere is hazy, so that the sun, which blazes high in the north, appears distant and unreal. The cliffs with their icy crests are reflected in the water. We hang over the side and gaze upon it all. It would be delightful if only we knew that the six airmen were safe. It is Riiser-Larsen’s birthday. We remember a remark of his early in May, “Now we must really start so that I can spend my birthday at home in Norway.”
“Hobby.” Monday, June 8th
There is not a great difference between night and day up here. When we went on deck in the morning the sun was shining from another part of the sky, otherwise everything was as before. The birds, after having taken two hours’ rest at midnight, were also full of activity. Auks in dress-coats and white shirts are still in full flight and whizz in flocks upon flocks from the land to the open sea in order to catch food. Black guillemots and little auks fly madly away, their direction being determined by the higher air currents. Sea gulls rest on their wings and keep moving round and round the boat, waiting for the steward to heave the contents of the rubbish bin overboard. They hover untiringly, hour after hour, though now and then one hears a beat of their wings when they have to change from one air-current to another. During the night a seal-boat has come along—it lies some hundreds of meters away from us and we pass alongside of it. We row up to it and explain “Hobby’s” mission up here—the captain promises to keep a good lookout for our airmen and also to warn any other “sealers” he may possibly get into touch with. No doubt there will be plenty of them up here as the conditions for making good catches are specially promising this year. (We can already see the mast-tops of another boat appearing on the horizon.) We also request the captain to warn those trappers who spend the winter in the huts along the north coast, if some of them by chance should visit him. He promises this, and as a farewell gift gets some packages of tobacco, because his supply is low, for his boat has been a long time at sea.
“Hobby” moves off; the course is set northwards to the ice-edge; we shall steer past it westwards until we reach a point north of Norskeöene. The trip back to Virgo-havn on Danskeöen has started. After a few hours we near the ice-edge again, directly west of Ross-öen, and proceed along it: little by little Syvöene and Northeastland disappear in the horizon and we see no more land. Northwards is only ice and the edge stretches westward as far as we can see. We continue our course past it at a distance of 50–100 meters. A fresh breeze is blowing from the southward, which produces white crests on the waves—it must have been blowing the whole of the previous day, because during the course of the day we notice that the belts of drift-ice, which we passed through on the way up, have disappeared. The wind has driven them northwards and pressed them into the edge of the pack-ice.
On the trip along the ice-edge we help the crew in “blubbering” the sealskins. During the work Wharton makes a strange discovery. The crew he is working with had, during the war, served on the western front in the same American division to which he had belonged.
Having finished with the “blubbering,” we see another polar bear. It is standing on a high ice shoal at the extreme edge. We put a boat out and row towards it, climb ashore, and try to get within shooting range. Slowly we approach from shoal to shoal. In the excitement we fire from too long a range; the bullet passes the bear, which becomes alarmed, and, looking like a yellow-white streak on the drift-ice, it jumps from one shoal to another and speedily disappears from sight. Shall we leave it in peace or shall we try to find it again? We climb an iceberg and sight the bear through the glasses some hundred meters further ahead. One of the shots we fired after it when it sprang away must have injured it, for it appears to be lame on one side. It is not running any longer, but jogs along slowly over the ice. We follow it with glasses. Then it stops, and we see it lying down at the foot of a big iceberg about a kilometer from us. We speculate what to do. To proceed across the pack-ice is impossible. Most of the shoals lying at the outside are not sufficiently large to bear the weight of a man, and between the bigger pieces there are either big cracks or wide openings filled with mush and small lumps of ice.
If we have to get hold of the bear we must pull the boat along with us, push it over the shoals and row where we can. We look at each other and come to a quick decision. It will mean hard work! One man goes forward with the boat-hook, which has to be hooked into the shoals so that the boat can be hauled along; two men push with the oars, and two men jump now and again onto the shoals to help to push the boat over the mush. But they have to be nimble-footed, because many of the shoals they trust themselves on are not big enough to carry them and sink immediately. Then it is a question of getting on board again before they get too wet. (Now and then they are not quick enough.) In such a manner we get slowly along. The bear is still lying at the same spot. At last we get into gun-range and shoot. It jumps up, we shoot again, it collapses and we run towards it and fire a mortal shot. We skin it and take the skin with us to the boat, which we have left in a clearing between two shoals. Then we sit down to enjoy a few moments’ rest which is very necessary. It took us one and one-half hours in the snow to cover one kilometer from the ice-edge to the bear, and we are wet through, partly from perspiration and partly from sea water.
Then we press on again. The same toil on the return journey has to be gone through and about three hours after having left the “Hobby” we are on board again. They had been a little anxious when they noticed how far we had ventured onto the ice, because a fog-bank was approaching from the south. We had not noticed it in the excitement of hunting the bear. Barely half an hour after we are safely on board, the fog gets so thick that we only proceed at half speed along the ice-edge, which we can just catch a glimpse of fifty to sixty meters away from the ship. We are exactly north of the “worst-weather-corner” in Svalbard: Hinlopen Strait (between Spitzbergen and Northeastland), where there is always fog or wind at sea. The fog-belt we have got into is not very extensive. After an hour’s steaming we are out of it; we get clear weather again, but the sky is still a little overcast. We continue full speed along the ice-edge.
Throughout the evening we discuss the result of the trip. The experts on board are unanimous in the opinion that if the airmen get to Svalbard, the only place where one could expect to find them would be Northeastland, and the greatest chance of picking them up, if they get near land, would be on the east side of Syvöen and Nordkap, where the distance from the solid ice to the land is shortest and where the belt of pack-ice is smallest. It is practically impossible that they, with their primitive outfit and scanty remaining provisions, can manage to trek westwards to the ice-edge here, and if they should succeed, their position would be infinitely more difficult than further east. How broad the belt of pack-ice in front of the solid ice may be is of course a matter we cannot judge. But right away from Syvöen we can see it stretching as far as our glasses can range, namely, about fifteen kilometers. The further westward one goes the broader the belt probably gets. Seeing we took one and one-half hours to cover a bare kilometer when we chased the bear, although we had good assistance in having the boat to help us and nothing to carry, it would take a much longer time for the airmen to force their way forward over a similar distance. They would have to carry a burdensome pack, and the small canvas boats are far too fragile to carry the heavy packages when being pulled through the ice. If, notwithstanding all this, they manage to get westwards to the ice-edge, they will have to go along to Northeastland, because from the edge of the ice to the north coast of Spitzbergen there is an open sea channel to a breadth of about 100 kilometers, and to try and row across this in canvas boats means certain death.
We are further agreed that if flying-machines come northwards in order to take part in reconnoitering, they would be of most service if they chose Lavöen, on the west coast of Northeastland, as a basis for their operations. Therefrom they can fly westwards and eastwards as far over the ice as is considered justifiable.
Virgo-havn. Tuesday, June 9th
We proceed the whole night, steering along the ice-edge, which north of Moffenöen bends southwards and at 80° 14′ bends again westwards. During the night the watchman on the bridge has seen four bears on the ice. Almost due north of Norskeöene we left the ice-edge and set our course for the islands.
We lie a few hours in the sound between the Islands to collect eggs, and then continue down to Virgo-havn, where we arrive about half-past seven. “Fram” is not here, but inside the hut—Pike’s House—is a message from Captain Hagerup, also the following telegram dated Oslo, June 6th, from the Aero-Club:
“Decided last night establish safety polar-flyers following places Spitzbergen East Greenland West Greenland Cape Columbia, stop. At Spitzbergen it is considered that the two vessels and two aeroplanes are sufficient but will warn Norwegian seal-hunting vessels, search also Eastside Spitzbergen, East Greenland in all probability by French explorer Charcot with Ritmester Isachsen stop Approaching committee New York to take over work at Northeast Greenland and Cape Columbia.”
In the message from Captain Hagerup of the “Fram” to First-Lieutenant Horgen he informed us that orders had arrived from the Commanding Admiral that the ship was to go to Advent Bay to coal, and meet the two flying boats which were on the way northwards from Horten with a collier. “Fram” had gone southwards last night, and if she had not returned to Virgo-havn by Tuesday, June 16th, at 8 A.M., “Hobby” was to go down to King’s Bay again. In the meantime “Hobby” was to go northwards and eastwards on a new reconnoitering trip. As there was a possibility that “Fram” might arrive before “Hobby” returned from its other reconnoitering trip we journalists were to go ashore at Danskeöen, and wait for four or five days in Pike’s House until “Hobby” or “Fram” should return.
Danskeöen. Wednesday, June 10th
We are living here now! “Hobby” went north at 4 P.M. and we have established ourselves as well as possible in the little hut. During the few days we have been with “Hobby” it has practically turned to summer here. Snow lies only on the high hillsides and in occasional heavy layers here and there in the bottom of the valleys. Otherwise the fields are bare—to says “fields,” by the way, is not to use the right expression, because the whole of Danskeöen is one complete heap of stones! In course of time water and ice have burst the sides of the hills into pieces, and it is only the very steepest of the precipices which are not covered with loose stones. We hear the water trickling everywhere, deep down between the stones, which lie so loosely that we have to be more than careful in climbing over them. To-day it has rained for the first time during our stay in Spitzbergen. It is nice and homely to sit in the hut and listen to the rain lashing against the glass windowpanes, and to watch it splashing onto the ground outside.
Danskeöen. Thursday, June 11th
During the night whilst we slept we were aroused by a rustling outside. Wharton (who having met so many bears had the feeling that we might meet some here) wakened me with a hard dig in the ribs, shouting: “Load your gun. Polar bear outside.” It was, however, only three hunters who had spent the winter on the east side of Spitzbergen in a little arm of Hinlopen Strait, called Lommebukten (or Pocket Bay). They had rowed the long distance round the north coast in a little boat which was deeply laden with fox-skins, the remainder of their provisions, and all the outfit they had used during the winter. The use of their boat afforded us a great deal of pleasure. We rowed about auk-shooting in the forenoon, and later we went out in it round the islets collecting fresh eggs.
There we were received by eider-duck and gulls, kittiwakes, sea-swallows and geese, which flew up in thousands from the nests, chirping, whistling and shrieking as they in desperation swooped down over the heads of the robbers of their nests, flapping their wings about our eyes. We hit out at them with our caps, but did not allow ourselves to be frightened back to our boat again. Nest after nest has to be looked into—it is principally the nest of the eider-duck we care about. There are about five or six eggs in each and a handful of down. We are not actual robbers for we leave one egg in each nest and a little bit of down so that the hen will continue to lay—she will come back and bustle about till the nest is all right again. (If we removed all the eggs and the down, the hen would desert the nest.) Egg and down collecting is not a pleasant occupation from the point of view of smell.
When we get to within about ten to fifteen meters from the nest, the male bird starts to cry “Oi-oi-oi-oi-e,” while the hen sits close over her eggs. She sits immovable, only a blink now and again of her black eyes betrays that she is watching us. (Will she manage to deceive us into believing that her nest is a moss-covered stone?) But like all menfolk the male bird is frightened at the bottom of his heart. We only take two or three steps towards the nest when he rises up and sets noisily out towards the sea. The deserted hen follows. But at the last moment when she rises she makes one final frantic effort to save her eggs. Had we not been coarsened by our stay up here she might have succeeded in saving them, but as it is, we plunder the nest.
It has stopped raining. White clouds drive across the blue sky and it is warm in the sun. The air is fresh and mild; to lie here now on the island is like being in the fields at home in Norway in the summertime.
Danskeöen. Friday, June 12th
We have plenty to do in the hut. Roasting, cooking and making coffee the whole day, but we have plenty of time to look at the remains of André and Wellmann’s expedition equipment, which lies spread about in the valley where the hut stands. They are not just small things. The apparatus they used to make the gas for filling the balloon, which is lost forever, and the airship, which fell down immediately after the start, lie in a heap, rusted and weather-stained during the passage of time. Heaps of cases filled with filings, damaged acid-balloons and heaps of timber from the collapsed balloon sheds lie spread about. On the lids of the packing cases we can still read the half-blurred addresses. In Wellmann’s house the stonework is still standing practically untouched, and there is a kitchen range which looks much better than the old trumpery one we have in our hut. The other part of the house has disappeared—until some years ago it was still there, but then it was stolen (in the true sense of the word). An enterprising skipper who had bagged no seal that year pulled it down and took all the timber on board, covering his expenses for the trip (and even more than that) by selling it all to one of the collieries.
The northwest corner of Spitzbergen is, on the whole, one of the most classical parts in the history of Arctic expeditions. The first expedition which started from here for the North Pole was a British one. Two men-of-war passed here in 1773, but they did not get further north than 80° 36′ when the ice forced them south again. On board one of these was Nelson as midshipman, and during this trip he was not far from being killed by a polar bear. In the following decades several attempts were made to get northwards from Spitzbergen, but all the experiences which these expeditions showed was that it was impossible to reach the great goal from this side by sailing ship. The ice stretched too far down, and the current turned the boats southwards as soon as they had got well amongst the ice, so that maneuvering was difficult. For a long time no attempt was made—the next was André and Wellmann’s. It was left to Fridtjof Nansen to show the way to the North Pole, with the “Fram.” This last-named boat when it came out of the ice in 1896 passed Virgo-havn steering southwards to Norway. That summer André was on Danskeöen waiting anxiously for a favorable wind to allow him to start his balloon trip, but it did not take place that year and it was only in the following summer that he got away.
Danskeöen. Saturday, June 13th
Weather fine, calm and clear with slightly blurred sky.
Danskeöen. Sunday, June 14th
Same as yesterday.
Danskeöen. Monday, June 15th
About four o’clock “Hobby” returns from the second trip. It has had a spell of drizzly weather, has rolled a lot and has seen nothing of the airmen. Ice was about the same as on the first trip; north of Syvöen it had successfully forced its way right up to 81°. “Fram” has not yet got back. If it is not here by 8 A.M. to-morrow “Hobby” will go to King’s Bay.
Ny-Aalesund. King’s Bay. Tuesday, June 16th
“Hobby” arrived here at 4 P.M. after a good trip along the coast past the seven glaciers. A fresh wind blew, and now and then the vessel took a little water on deck. During our stay up north great things have happened. There is a telegram for us from Advent Bay telling us that two naval flying-boats have arrived with a collier from Horten. “Fram,” which has to be taken over by a scientific expedition, has gone southwards to Norway, and the naval patrol-boat “Heimdal” will be the flying-boats’ mother-ship. We communicated immediately by wireless with “Heimdal,” which had also arrived at Advent Bay. The flying-boats are on the water and can start whenever the weather conditions permit. We have put out buoys at places where they can moor, but we advise “Heimdal” that it is blowing so hard here that the start must be delayed until the wind abates.
Ny-Aalesund. Wednesday, June 17th
When we wakened in the morning the weather was good for flying. The sky blue, clear and high, the fjord ruffled a little by a slight breeze from the east, First-Lieutenant Horgen informed the airmen in Advent Bay that everything was all right for their reception here, and we received word that they had set off immediately on receipt of Horgen’s message. That was at 9:35. A little after eleven o’clock we expected them, and we had hardly begun to look for them over the entrance to the fjord when we heard their engines in the distance. Soon afterwards we saw them appear like two small specks 1,200–1,500 meters up in the air over the flat tongue of land at Quade Hook. A few minutes after F 18, piloted by First Lieutenant Lutzow-Holm, and F 22, piloted by First Lieutenant Styr, landed and moored by the buoys. We were naturally very pleased to see the boats and the airmen, but our pleasure was mixed with sadness. To-morrow, Thursday, 18th of June, it will be four weeks since N 24 and N 25 started. That day the weather was just as fine and ideal for flying as to-day.
In company with the newly arrived airmen we got by the starting place, which is quite free from snow. On the beach still lay some of the petrol cans from which we filled the tanks of the two machines the night before they started. We ask about the news from the south, and then we tell them what has happened up here. It seems that the opinions at home are the same as up here—nobody thinks that the six will be able now to come flying back; every one is of the opinion that most likely the machines have got damaged through landing in the ice region and that the airmen are now on their way to Cape Columbia. But as there is a possibility that the six may be on the way to the north coast of Spitzbergen, it is thought that the expedition which has arrived here must be sent there to search for them.
“Heimdal” arrived at 8 P.M. to-day. Captain Hagerup is on board and is now to lead the expedition. He has not got special instructions how long “Heimdal,” “Hobby” and the two flying-boats shall patrol, but probably we shall still be here for two more weeks. On Thursday, 2nd July, “the six weeks from the start” are up—the time limit which Amundsen laid down in his instructions for patrolling the ice-edge. Plans for the coming fourteen days are being made, and in accordance with the experience which “Hobby” has garnered on the two trips, it is agreed that Lavöen by the West coast of Northeastland is the best base for the two flying boats to operate from, and it is settled that the two vessels shall go northwards to Danskeöen at midnight. They will be there to-morrow 8–9 A.M., and the flyers are to follow.
The uniformed officers and the naval armaments remind us of a world from which we have been cut off for the last six weeks, and they have a stranger and more unfamiliar effect on us than one might have expected in such a short time. We have had a taste of both winter and spring up here and now we are experiencing the short summer of the Arctic regions. Our thoughts go back to the start—to the long weeks preceding it in Ny-Aalesund, and to the still longer weeks we have spent in the ice area since the six departed. We have seen men whom we (until they disappeared outside the fjord in two gray flying-machines) considered as ordinary mortals, but who are now regarded by us as something apart, since the light of adventure started to shine over them. Shall we see them again? We put the matter out of our minds, but the thought returns to us again and again. It is even stronger to-day than it has been recently because “Heimdal” and the flying-boats are lying here,—actual proof that the world at large is possessed by the same doubts and the same fears as we are.
We also think about all the types of humanity we have met in this frozen northern area. People who wrest their living from the ice. In milder climes they could earn more and live under better conditions, but the “unknown,” the danger, the ice and the love of adventure all call to them just as they called the six. With modest outfits and simple means they answered the call and set off to the sound of the enthusiastic jubilation of mankind: a jubilation that has turned into doubt and fear. But now an expedition fitted out with all the aid that science can offer is to look for the explorers or at least to try and find trace of them.
We have dined with the newly arrived flying-men and the officers of the “Heimdal” at Director Knutsen’s to-day. We were in the same room where we had been so often with those six, and where only two or three weeks ago we had said good-by to those comrades of ours who had first traveled south. Our host, who at that time had been very optimistic, tries to buoy us up with hope. But we notice that he himself is no longer confident, doubt has entered into his optimism. It has taken longer to come to him than to the rest of us, but it has come in spite of himself, all the same. Conversation drags. Here we sit—more than fifteen men—all different in mind and character, and all following different occupations, and we are trying to find a theme that will interest us all. But there are long intervals, because our thoughts are all on the one subject, which we do not want to mention. One after another goes down to the ships, which will soon carry us north again, where we are to wait for the end of the fourteen days when we can return to Norway. That will be a sign to the waiting world that all hope of finding the six in these regions has been given up. (Spitzbergen will then glide away out of our consciousness.)
Ny-Aalesund. King’s Bay. Thursday, June 18th
The last guests left Director Knutsen’s at 1 A.M. and went on board. “Heimdal” was under steam and ready to start. In a few minutes the third and last period of the reconnoitering was to begin. We approach the quay and can see the tops of the masts over the crown of a little hill. People from the mining village, who are not used to any great excitement, stand “en masse” on the high loading-pier. We are right down below them and only forty to fifty meters away from them. Then the great thing happens! A man comes tearing along the loading-pier towards the shore. He waves his hands to us, bends over the side of the railings and shouts: “Amundsen has arrived.” Then he dashes on and his voice is hoarse and rough. “Only a drunken man can make such a bad joke,” we say to each other, and continue on our way for another four or five steps.
What can be taking place?
People on the pier are waving their hats. We hear hurrahs and shouts and see a new vessel lying alongside the quay. We know immediately that they have come. We dash along the short distance so that the mud splashes over us whilst the cheers from down below increase. We spring on board the “Heimdal,” which lies nearest the quay, then onto the “Hobby,” which is lying outside.
Lord! it is true!
From “Hobby’s” rail we look down upon the deck of a small sealer which lies alongside. There they are, all six! Amundsen, Dietrichson, Ellsworth, Feucht, Omdal, Riiser-Larsen, dirty and grimy, but living and safe and sound, surrounded by workers and seamen, a motley crowd who shout hurrah, clap their hands and carry them shoulder high. We jump down on to the overfilled deck, we cry and we laugh, we pat their cheeks, we embrace them and words fail us. Not a sensible word could be spoken. Surely it can’t be true! We must be dreaming! Is it really they?
We reflect about matters a little, and then Director Knutsen takes them up to his house. The rooms are filled both by invited and uninvited guests who suddenly begin to sing “Ja vi elsker.” Little by little we get to know what has happened to them. We don’t learn much to begin with.
We learn enough, however, to understand why they seem to have two different mentalities. A present one which sees and understands all that happens around about them,—and a past which is part of their life in the north, and which will not leave them for a long time to come. They get food, a hot bath and a bed with fresh white sheets. In the course of the day their long four-weeks-old whiskers disappear.
The people who were at the quay when the motorboat “Sjoliv” arrived tell us about the unbelievable moment when they realized who it was who stood on the vessel’s deck. When it had become known in Ny-Aalesund that “Heimdal” and “Hobby” were to go northwards to Danskeöen at midnight, many people collected in the twilight on the quay in order to watch the departure. The midnight sun, which stood high in the sky over the hills on the other side of the fjord, shone through a light cloud bank. At the mouth of the fjord was a little cloud-belt and the people noticed how a little sea-boat came in through the evening haze. Nobody took special notice of it or showed special delight, as they all thought it was one of the many vessels which in the course of the summer call in at Ny-Aalesund to get coal and water. People watched indifferently remarking only that it seemed to carry an unusually big crew for such a small vessel. Forward stand some heavily fur-clad men who wave their arms towards the land. The vessel approaches quickly. Then somebody shouts: “It’s Amundsen!” At the same moment everybody knows it. Cheers are given. The six on the foredeck wave shorewards and the vessel berths alongside the “Hobby.” All six are with us, safe and sound. A few minutes later the quay is black with people. One would have thought that the inhabitants of Ny-Aalesund had slept with their clothes on, for in a second the “Sjoliv’s” deck is filled with people who go mad with joy.
Oslo. July 1st
This morning I arrived home. I now read through my diary of the trip and understand little of the whole. All that happened during the first hours on the deck of that little polar seal-boat is like a fog in my mind. The whole seems so far away. If I shut my eyes and try to charm those fourteen days back I feel bewildered in mind and in spirit.
For now we all stood there beside them—beside the six.
We looked into their faces, which bore signs of all they had suffered and gone through, and then we asked them to tell us about the four weeks of hope and doubt.
All power of thought seemed to leave us and our souls were filled with feelings both boundless and indescribable. Could this be on account of the pleasure of seeing our comrades again?
Or have our souls been touched by the Unknown Being to whom all turn in moments of trouble when things have to be settled which are beyond human power?