First View: The Discoverers of the South Pole
The first to reach the South Pole, on December 14, 1911, was Roald Amundsen, a Norwegian explorer. Here are excerpts from his book "The South Pole".
"At night I woke up several times with the same feeling I had as a child on the night before Christmas: an excited anticipation of what was to come. However, it seems to me that we slept that night as well as all the others.
On the morning of the fifteenth the weather was magnificent, as if specially created for arriving at the pole. I don't know for sure, but it seems to me that on that day we swallowed our breakfast a bit faster than on previous days, and left the tent a bit more hastily, although I must say we always did this with all possible speed. We took our usual positions in the following order: forerunner, Hansen, Wisting, Bjaaland, and second forerunner.
By noon we had reached 89° 53' south latitude by dead reckoning and prepared to cover the remaining distance in one go. At ten o'clock in the morning a light wind arose from the southeast, the sky became overcast, and we were unable to determine the noon altitude. But the cloud layer was not thick, and the sun peeked through from time to time. The snow crust that day was varied. Sometimes the skis glided well, but sometimes things turned out badly. On this day, as on the previous one, everything went completely mechanically. We talked little, but used our eyes all the more.
Hansen's neck that day was twice as long as on previous days – so much did he twist and stretch it in order to see a few millimeters farther! When we set out, I asked him to keep his eyes wide open, and he did so conscientiously. But no matter how he looked and peered, he saw nothing there but an endless, flat plain. The dogs stopped sniffing and apparently no longer took interest in the regions around the earth's axis!
At three o'clock in the afternoon all the dog drivers simultaneously shouted: "Stop!" They carefully watched their odometers and now stopped at an exactly measured distance – at our pole by dead reckoning!
The goal was achieved. The journey was over...
This was the only way I could express my gratitude to my comrades here in this desolate and forsaken place. I saw that they accepted it, and accepted it with the same feelings with which it was expressed to them. Five calloused frostbitten hands seized the pole, raised the waving flag, and planted it – for the first time and first at the geographic South Pole.
"So, we plant you, our beloved flag, at the South Pole and give the plain on which it stands the name: King Haakon VII's Plateau. These short minutes will certainly be remembered by all of us who stood there then. In these regions one unlearns long ceremonies – the shorter the better..."
Of course, that evening we had a festive feast in our tent – though the corks did not pop from champagne bottles and the wine did not flow like a river. We contented ourselves with a piece of seal meat each, and it was both tasty and pleasant. No other signs of celebration were noticeable inside the tent. But outside, our flag flapped and snapped. Inside the tent there was lively conversation, and many things were discussed. Perhaps each of us was carried away in thought to home, as if wanting to tell about what we had done. On everything we had with us, we wanted to put the mark "South Pole" with the date and year, so that later it would serve as a memory. Wisting turned out to be a first-class engraver, and he had to re-mark many things...
During our journey no speeches had yet been made, but now Bjaaland evidently decided that the right moment had come, and therefore surprised us all with a fine speech. But my amazement reached its peak when, after finishing his speech, he took out a cigar case filled with cigars and treated us all.
"Would you care for a cigar at the pole?"
"Gladly, thank you!"
But that was not all. After the cigars had gone around, there were still four left. I was very touched when Bjaaland handed me the cigar case and said:
"And this I give you as a souvenir of the pole."
I took the cigar case and will keep it as one of the many touching tokens of devotion from my comrades relating to the time of this journey. The cigars I later divided on Christmas Eve and thus celebrated the festive holiday.
Having finished this festive dinner at the pole, we began preparations for departure. First of all, a small tent was set up, which we had brought along in case we had to split into two parties. It was sewn by our craftsman Rønne from very thin, windproof material. It was grayish-brown and very easily visible on the white snow surface. To the tent pole was tied another pole, so that the total height was about four meters.
At the top was attached a small Norwegian flag, and below it a pennant with the inscription in paint: "Fram". The tent was securely fastened on all sides with guy ropes. In the tent, in a little bag, I left a letter to the king with a report of what we had accomplished. For the way home was long, and many things could happen that would deprive us of the opportunity to report on our expedition ourselves... Besides this letter, I wrote a short message to Scott, who, as I assumed, would be the first to find this place.
Among the items we left were a sextant with an artificial horizon, a cylinder from a hypsometer, three bags for notes, reindeer fur, a few boots, and mittens. When everything was ready, we entered the tent one by one to write our names on a board attached to the tent pole...
The solemn moment had come. Bareheaded, we bid farewell to our home and our flag. And then we took down our tent and packed the sledges. The return journey began – home, home step by step, mile by mile, until we finally arrived. We immediately got back into our old tracks and continued along them. Many times we turned around to take one last look at "Pulheim." Again the white mist descended, and soon the last thing still visible of "Pulheim," our little flag, disappeared from sight...
It was very pleasant to walk with our backs to the south. The wind, which had almost always blown from that direction, had often been very unpleasant for our sunburned faces. Now it would always be at our backs, urging us forward while giving our faces time to heal. There was one more thing we fervently wished – to descend to the plain again as soon as possible, so that we could breathe properly. For up here we had rarely managed to take a real, deep breath. To say simply "yes," we had to take two breaths. The state of asthma in which we had lived during our six-week stay on the plateau was extremely unpleasant...
Wednesday, January 10. "The same beastly weather," snow, snow, and more snow. Snow yet again. Will it never end? And it is so foggy that you cannot see ten yards ahead. Temperature – 80. Everything is melting on the sledges. Everything is wet. In this blinding weather we did not meet a single cairn. The snow was fearfully deep at first, and the crust was extremely heavy, but nevertheless the dogs managed the sledges splendidly...
Huge pieces of the surface had broken off, revealing hideous, terrible chasms of such size that they could swallow many caravans like ours. From these gaping holes, ugly wide cracks branched off in all directions. Moreover, there were hills and haystack-like formations everywhere. How we had passed here earlier with impunity is perhaps the most remarkable thing of all! We went as fast as possible. Hansen fell into one of these cracks, but fortunately got out easily...
It is not so easy to leave a place that has been your home for a long time, even if that home lay at 79 degrees south latitude and was almost buried under snow and ice.
We humans are too dependent on what is called habit to suddenly find ourselves outside this environment, with which we had gradually become familiar through our long stay there... The little sturdy house, located there beyond "Mount Nelson" and completely buried in snow, was our dwelling for a whole year, and truly it was a cozy, good dwelling, where after a long and tedious day's work we found the complete rest and peace we needed.
Through the whole Antarctic winter – the true Fimbul winter (according to Norwegian beliefs, Fimbul is the harsh winter preceding the end of the world) – its four walls protected us so well that many poor souls freezing in temperate latitudes would have heartily envied us if they had seen how comfortable we were here. In such harsh conditions that even all living things flee hastily, we lived in "Framheim" unhindered and at ease, and mark you, we lived not like animals, but as civilized people, and at all times had at our disposal most of the comforts that a well-appointed dwelling provides for man. Around us reigned darkness and frost, and snowstorms tried at all costs to cover all the numerous traces of our activity, but these enemies never penetrated the door of our magnificent dwelling; in the house we enjoyed light, warmth, and coziness.
Is it any wonder that this place attracted each of us so strongly at the moment we were leaving it forever? Before us, it is true, lay the wide world; it could give us many things we had long yearned for. But among all that awaited us, there was also much that we could gladly have done without for a very long time. When everyday life with its thousand cares and excitements arrives, it may happen that any one of us will wish to return again to the carefree and peaceful existence in "Framheim"...
...the goal of our year-long stay here is achieved... this realization weighed, of course, far more than the thought of how good things were for us here in many respects. What contributed most to the swift passage of days and to our being full of energy was the absolute absence of what I call a dead period during the whole time of our (two-year) life together on this expedition. No sooner had we finished one task than another appeared. Thus we were always busy, and when you are busy, time, as we know, flies.
People often ask, where in such a journey do you find time? My dear friends, if we racked our brains over anything, it was only over the question of how to make enough time.
To be continued.
Prepared by Oksana KISLITSYNA.
"Gazeta.Ru".