So came the season which we at home call spring, the season of joy and budding life, when Nature awakens after her long winter sleep. But there it brought no change; day after day we had to gaze over the same white lifeless mass, the same white boundless ice-plains. Still we wavered between despondency, idle longing, and eager energy, shifting with the winds as we drift forward to our goal or are driven back from it. As before, I continued to brood upon the possibilities of the future and of our drift. One day I would think that everything was going on as we hoped and anticipated. Thus on April 17th I was convinced that there must be a current through the unknown polar basin, as we were unmistakably drifting northward. The midday observation gave 80° 20' northeast; that is, 9' since the day before yesterday. Strange! A north wind of four whole days took us to the south, while twenty-four hours of this scanty wind drifts us 9' northward. This is remarkable; it looks as if we were done with drifting southward. And when, in addition to this, I take into consideration the striking warmth of the water deep down, it seems to me that things are really looking brighter. The reasoning runs as follows: The temperature of the water in the East Greenland current, even on the surface, is nowhere over zero (the mean temperature for the year), and appears generally to be -1° C. (30.2° Fahr.), even in 70° north latitude. In this latitude the temperature steadily falls as you get below the surface; nowhere at a greater depth than 100 fathoms is it above -1° C., and generally from -1.5° (29.3° Fahr.) to -1.7° C. (28.94° Fahr.) right to the bottom. Moreover, the bottom temperature of the whole sea north of the 60th degree of latitude is under -1° C., a strip along the Norwegian coast and between Norway and Spitzbergen alone excepted, but here the temperature is over -1° C., from 86 fathoms (160 metres) downward, and 135 fathoms (250 metres) the temperature is already +0.55° C. (32.99° Fahr.), and that, too, be it remarked, north of the 80th degree of latitude, and in a sea surrounding the pole of maximum cold.

This warm water can hardly come from the Arctic Sea itself, while the current issuing thence towards the south has a general temperature of about -1.5° C. It can hardly be anything other than the Gulf Stream that finds its way hither, and replaces the water which in its upper layers flows towards the north, forming the sources of the East Greenland polar current. All this seems to chime in with my previous assumptions, and supports the theory on which this expedition was planned. And when, in addition to this, one bears in mind that the winds seem, as anticipated, to be as a rule southeasterly, as was, moreover, the case at the international station at Sagastyr (by the Lena mouth), our prospects do not appear to be unfavorable.

Frequently, moreover, I thought I could detect unmistakable symptoms of a steadily flowing northwesterly current under the ice, and then, of course, my spirits rose; but at other times, when the drift again bore southward—and that was often—my doubts would return, and it seemed as if there was no prospect of getting through within any reasonable time. Truly such drifting in the ice is extremely trying to the mind; but there is one virtue it fosters, and that is patience. The whole expedition was in reality one long course of training in this useful virtue.

Our progress as the spring advanced grew somewhat better than it had been during the winter, but on the whole it was always the same sort of crab-like locomotion; for each time we made a long stretch to the north, a longer period of reaction was sure to follow. It was, in the opinion of one of our number, who was somewhat of a politician, a constant struggle between the Left and Right, between Progressionists and Recessionists. After a period of Left wind and a glorious drift northward, as a matter of course the “Radical Right” took the helm, and we remained lying in dead-water or drifted backward, thereby putting Amundsen into a very bad temper. It was a remarkable fact that during the whole time the Fram’s bow turned towards the south, generally S. ¼ W., and shifted but very little during the whole drift. As I say on May 14th: “She went backward towards her goal in the north, with her nose ever turned to the south. It is as though she shrank from increasing her distance from the world; as though she were longing for southern shores, while some invisible power is drawing her on towards the unknown. Can it be an ill omen, this backward advance towards the interior of the Polar Sea? I cannot think it; even the crab ultimately reaches its goal.”

A statement of our latitude and longitude on different days will best indicate the general course of our drift:

May 1st, 80° 46' N. lat.; May 4th, 80° 50'; May 6th, 80° 49'; May 8th, 80° 55' N. lat., 129° 58' E. long.; May 12th, 80° 52' N. lat.; May 15th, 129° 20' E. long.; May 21st, 81° 20' N. lat., 125° 45' E. long.; May 23d, 81° 26' N. lat.; May 27th, 81° 31'; June 2d, 81° 31' N. lat., 121° 47' E. long.; June 13th, 81° 46'; June 18th, 81° 52'. Up to this we had made fairly satisfactory progress towards the north, but now came the reaction: June 24th, 81° 42'; July 1st, 81° 33'; July 10th, 81° 20'; July 14th, 81° 32'; July 18th, 81° 26'; July 31st, 81° 2' N. lat., 126° 5' 5 E. long.; August 8th, 81° 8'; August 14th, 81° 5' N. lat., 127° 38' E. long.; August 26th, 81° 1'; September 5th, 81° 14' N. lat., 123° 36' E. long.

After this we began once more to drift northward, but not very fast.

As before, we were constantly on the look-out for land, and were inclined, first from one thing, then from another, to think we saw signs of its proximity; but they always turned out to be imaginary, and the great depth of the sea, moreover, showed that, at all events, land could not be near.

Later on—August 7th—when I had found over 2085 fathoms (3850 metres) depth, I say in my diary: “I do not think we shall talk any more about the shallow Polar Sea, where land may be expected anywhere. We may very possibly drift out into the Atlantic Ocean without having seen a single mountain-top. An eventful series of years to look forward to!”

The plan already alluded to of travelling over the ice with dogs and sledges occupied me a good deal, and during my daily expeditions—partly on snow-shoes, partly with dogs—my attention was constantly given to the condition of the ice and our prospects of being able to make our way over it. During April it was specially well adapted for using dogs. The surface was good, as the sun’s power had made it smoother than the heavy drift-snow earlier in the winter; besides, the wind had covered the pressure-ridges pretty evenly, and there were not many crevasses or channels in the ice, so that one could proceed for miles without much trouble from them. In May, however, a change set in. So early as May 8th the wind had broken up the ice a good deal, and now there were lanes in all directions, which proved a great obstacle when I went out driving with the dogs. The temperature, however, was still so low that the channels were quickly frozen over again and became passable; but later on in the month the temperature rose, so that ice was no longer so readily formed on the water, and the channels became ever more and more numerous.

On May 20th I write: “Went out on snow-shoes in the forenoon. The ice has been very much broken up in various directions, owing to the continual winds during the last week. The lanes are difficult to cross over, as they are full of small pieces of ice, that lie dispersed about, and are partly covered with drift-snow. This is very deceptive, for one may seem to have firm ice under one at places where, on sticking one’s staff in, it goes right down without any sign of ice.” On many occasions I nearly got into trouble in crossing over snow like this on snow-shoes. I would suddenly find that the snow was giving way under me, and would manage with no little difficulty to get safely back on to the firm ice.

On June 5th the ice and the snow surface were about as before. I write: “Have just been out on a snow-shoe excursion with Sverdrup in a southerly direction, the first for a long while. The condition of the ice has altered, but not for the better; the surface, indeed, is hard and good, but the pressure-ridges are very awkward, and there are crevasses and hummocks in all directions. A sledge expedition would make poor enough progress on such ice as this.”

Hitherto, however, progress had always been possible, but now the snow began to melt, and placed almost insuperable difficulties in the way. On June 13th I write: “The ice gets softer and softer every day, and large pools of water are formed on the floes all around us. In short, the surface is abominable. The snow-shoes break through into the water everywhere. Truly one would not be able to get far in a day now should one be obliged to set off towards the south or west. It is as if every outlet were blocked, and here we stick—we stick. Sometimes it strikes me as rather remarkable that none of our fellows have become alarmed, even when we are bearing farther and farther northward, farther and farther into the unknown; but there is no sign of fear in any one of them. All look gloomy when we are bearing south or too much to the west, and all are beaming with joy when we are drifting to the northward, the farther the better. Yet none of them can be blind to the fact that it is a matter of life and death if anything of what nearly every one prophesied should now occur. Should the ship be crushed in this ice and go to the bottom, like the Jeannette, without our being able to save sufficient supplies to continue our drift on the ice, we should have to turn our course to the south, and then there would be little doubt as to our fate. The Jeannette people fared badly enough, but their ship went down in 77° north latitude, while the nearest land to us is many times more than double the distance it was in their case, to say nothing of the nearest inhabited land. We are now more than 70 miles from Cape Chelyuskin, while from there to any inhabited region we are a long way farther. But the Fram will not be crushed, and nobody believes in the possibility of such an event. We are like the kayak-rower, who knows well enough that one faulty stroke of his paddle is enough to capsize him and send him into eternity; but none the less he goes on his way serenely, for he knows that he will not make a faulty stroke. This is absolutely the most comfortable way of undertaking a polar expedition; what possible journey, indeed, could be more comfortable? Not even a railway journey, for then you have the bother of changing carriages. Still a change now and then would be no bad thing.”

Later on—in July—the surface was even worse. The floes were everywhere covered with slush, with water underneath, and on the pressure-ridges and between the hummocks where the snow-drifts were deep one would often sink in up to the middle, not even the snow-shoes bearing one up in this soft snow. Later on in July matters improved, the snow having gradually melted away, so that there was a firmer surface of ice to go on.

But large pools of water now formed on the ice-floes. Already on the 8th and 9th of June such a pool had begun to appear round the ship, so that she lay in a little lake of fresh water, and we were obliged to make use of a bridge in order to reach a dry spot on the ice. Some of these fresh-water pools were of respectable dimensions and depth. There was one of these on the starboard side of the ship, so large that in the middle of July we could row and sail on it with the boats. This was a favorite evening amusement with some of us, and the boat was fully officered with captain, mate; and second mate, but had no common sailors. They thought it an excellent opportunity of practising sailing with a square sail; while the rest of our fellows, standing on the icy shore, found it still more diverting to bombard the navigators with snowballs and lumps of ice. It was in this same pool that we tried one day if one of our boats could carry all thirteen of us at once. When the dogs saw us all leave the ship to go to the pool, they followed us in utter bewilderment as to what this unusual movement could mean; but when we got into the boat they, all of them, set to work and howled in wild despair; thinking, probably, that they would never see us again. Some of them swam after us, while two cunning ones, “Pan” and “Kvik,” conceived the brilliant idea of galloping round the pool to the opposite side to meet us. A few days afterwards I was dismayed to find the pool dried up; a hole had been worn through the ice at the bottom, and all the fresh water had drained out into the sea. So that amusement came to an end.

In the summer, when we wanted to make an excursion over the ice, in addition to such pools we met with lanes in the ice in all directions; but as a rule could easily cross them by jumping from one loose floe to another, or leaping right across at narrow places.

These lanes never attained any great width, and there was consequently no question of getting the Fram afloat in any of them; and even could we have done so, it would have been of very little avail, as none of them was large enough to have taken her more than a few cable-lengths farther north. Sometimes there were indications in the sky that there must be large stretches of open water in our vicinity, and we could now and then see from the crow’s-nest large spaces of clear water in the horizon; but they could not have been large enough to be of much use when it came to a question of pushing forward with a ship.

Sanguine folk on board, however, attached more importance to such open stretches. June 15th I wrote in my diary: “There are several lanes visible in different directions, but none of them is wide or of any great extent. The mate, however, is always insisting that we shall certainly get open water before autumn, and be able to creep along northward, while with the rest, Sverdrup excepted, it seems to be a generally accepted belief. Where they are to get their open water from I do not know. For the rest, this is the first ice-bound expedition that has not spent the summer spying after open water, and sighing and longing for the ice to disperse. I only wish it may keep together, and hurry up and drift northward. Everything in this life depends on what one has made up one’s mind to. One person sets forth to sail in open water, perhaps to the very Pole, but gets stuck in the ice and laments; another is prepared to get stuck in the ice, but will not grumble even should he find open water. It is ever the safest plan to expect the least of life, for then one often gets the most.”

The open spaces, the lanes, and the rifts in the ice are, of course, produced, like the pressure and packing, by the shifting winds and the tidal currents that set the ice drifting first in one direction, then in another. And they best prove, perhaps, how the surface of the Polar Sea must be considered as one continuous mass of ice-floes in constant motion, now frozen together, now torn apart, or crushed against each other.

During the whole of our drift I paid great attention to this ice, not only with respect to its motion, but to its formation and growth as well. In the Introduction of this book I have pointed out that, even should the ice pass year after year in the cold Polar Sea, it could not by mere freezing attain more than a certain thickness. From measurements that were constantly being made, it appeared that the ice which was formed during the autumn in October or November continued to increase in size during the whole of the winter and out into the spring, but more slowly the thicker it became. On April 10th it was about 2.31 metres; April 21st, 2.41 metres; May 5th, 2.45 metres; May 31st, 2.52 metres; June 9th, 2.58 metres. It was thus continually increasing in bulk, notwithstanding that the snow now melted quickly on the surface, and large pools of fresh water were formed on the floes. On June 20th the thickness was the same, although the melting on the surface had now increased considerably. On July 4th the thickness was 2.57 metres. On July 10th I was amazed to find that the ice had increased to 2.76 metres, notwithstanding that it would now diminish several centimetres daily from surface melting. I bored in many places, but found it everywhere the same—a thin, somewhat loose ice mass lay under the old floe. I first thought it was a thin ice-floe that had got pushed under, but subsequently discovered that it was actually a new formation of fresh-water ice on the lower side of the old ice, due to the layer of fresh water of about 9 feet 9 inches (3 metres) in depth, formed by the melting of the snow on the ice. Owing to its lightness this warm fresh water floated on the salt sea-water, which was at a temperature of about -1.5° C. on its surface. Thus by contact with the colder sea-water the fresh water became cooler, and so a thick crust of ice was formed on the fresh water, where it came in contact with the salt water lying underneath it. It was this ice crust, then, that augmented the thickness of the ice on its under side. Later on in the summer, however, the ice diminished somewhat, owing to melting on the surface. On July 23d the old ice was only 2.33 metres, and with the newly formed layer 2.49 metres. On August 10th the thickness of the old ice had decreased to 1.94 metres, and together the aggregate thickness to 3.17 metres. On August 22d the old ice was 1.86 metres, and the aggregate thickness 3.06 metres. On September 3d the aggregate thickness was 2.02 metres, and on September 30th 1.98 metres. On October 3d it was the same; the thickness of the old ice was then 1.75 metres. On October 12th the aggregate thickness was 2.08 metres, while the old ice was 1.8 metres. On November 10th it was still about the same, with only a slight tendency to increase. Further on, in November and in December, it increased quite slowly. On December 11th the aggregate thickness reached 2.11 metres. On January 3d, 1895, 2.32 metres; January 10th, 2.48 metres; February 6th, 2.59 metres. Hence it will be seen that the ice does not attain any enormous thickness by direct freezing. The packing caused by pressure can, however, produce blocks and floes of a very different size. It often happens that the floes get shoved in under each other in several layers, and are frozen together so as to appear like one originally continuous mass of ice. Thus the Fram had got a good bed under her.

Juell and Peter had often disputed together during the winter as to the thickness of ice the Fram had under her. Peter, who had seen a good deal of the ice before, maintained that it must at least be 20 feet thick, while Juell would not believe it, and betted 20 kroner that it was not as thick as that. On April 19th this dispute again broke out, and I say of it in my diary: “Juell has undertaken to make a bore, but unfortunately our borer reaches no farther than 16 feet down. Peter, however, has undertaken to cut away the 4 feet that are lacking. There has been a lot of talk about this wager during the whole winter, but they could never agree about it. Peter says that Juell should begin to bore, while Juell maintains that Peter ought to cut the 4 feet first. This evening it ended in Juell incautiously offering 10 kroner to any one who would bore. Bentzen took him at his word, and immediately set to work at it with Amundsen; he thought one did not always have the chance of earning 10 kroner so easily. Amundsen offered him a kroner an hour, or else payment per foot; and time payment was finally agreed to. They worked till late on into the night, and when they had got down 12 feet the borer slipped a little way, and water rose in the hole, but this did not come to much, and presently the borer struck on ice again. They went on for some time, but now the borer would reach no farther, and Peter had to be called up to cut his four feet. He and Amundsen worked away at cutting till they were dripping with perspiration. Amundsen, as usual, was very eager, and vowed he would not give in till he had got through it, even if it were 30 feet thick. Meanwhile Bentzen had turned in, but a message was sent to him to say that the hole was cut, and that boring could now begin again. When it was only an inch or an inch and a half short of 20 feet the borer slipped through, and the water spurted up and filled the hole. They now sank a lead-line down it, and at 30 feet it again brought up against ice. Now they were obliged to give it up. A fine lump of ice we are lying on! Not taking into account a large, loose ice-floe that is lying packed up on the ice, it is 16 inches above the water; and adding to this the 2 feet which the Fram is raised up above the ice, there is no small distance between her and the water.”

The temperature on the ice in summer is about thawing-point, but gradually as the winter cold comes on, it, of course, falls rapidly on the surface, whence the cold slowly penetrates deeper and deeper down towards the lower surface, where it naturally keeps at an even temperature with the underlying water. Observations of the temperature of the ice in its different layers were constantly taken in order to ascertain how quickly this cooling-down process of the ice took place during the winter, and also how the temperature rose again towards spring. The lowest temperature of the ice occurred in March and the beginning of April, when at 1.2 metres it was about 3.2° Fahr. (-16° C), and at 0.8 metre about 22° Fahr. below zero (-30° C). After the beginning of April it began to rise slowly.

At these low temperatures the ice became very hard and brittle, and was readily cracked or broken up by a blow or by packing. In the summer, on the other hand, when its temperature was near melting-point, the ice became tough and plastic, and was not so readily broken up under packing. This difference between the condition of the ice in summer and winter was apparent also to the ear, as the ice-packing in winter was always accompanied by the frequently mentioned loud noises, while the packing of the tough summer ice was almost noiseless, so that the most violent convulsions might take place close to us without our noticing them.

In the immediate vicinity of the Fram the ice remained perfectly at rest the whole year through, and she was not at this time exposed to any great amount of pressure; she lay safe and secure on the ice-floe to which she was firmly frozen; and gradually, as the surface of the ice thawed under the summer sun, she rose up higher and higher. In the autumn she again began to sink a little, either because the ice gave way under her weight, or because it melted somewhat on the under surface, so that it no longer had so much buoyancy as before.

Meanwhile, life on board went on in its usual way. Now that we had daylight, there was of course more work of various descriptions on the ice than had been the case during the winter. I have already alluded more than once to our unsuccessful endeavors to reach the bottom by sounding. Unfortunately we were not prepared for such great depths, and had not brought any deep-sea sounding apparatus with us. We had, therefore, to do the best we could under the circumstances, and that was to sacrifice one of the ship’s steel cables in order to make a lead-line. It was not difficult to find sufficient space on the ice for a rope-walk, and although a temperature of from 22° Fahr. below zero (-30° C.) to 40° Fahr. below zero (-40° C.) is not the pleasantest in which to manipulate such things as steel wire, yet for all that the work went on well. The cable was unlaid into its separate strands, and a fresh, pliant lead-line manufactured by twisting two of these strands together. In this way we made a line of between 4000 and 5000 metres (2150 to 2700 fathoms) long, and could now at last reach the bottom. The depth proved to range between 3300 and 3900 metres (1800 to 2100 fathoms).

This was a remarkable discovery, for, as I have frequently mentioned, the unknown polar basin has always been supposed to be shallow, with numerous unknown lands and islands. I, too, had assumed it to be shallow when I sketched out my plan (see page 24), and had thought it was traversed by a deep channel which might possibly be a continuation of the deep channel in the North Atlantic (see page 28).

From this assumption of a shallow Polar Sea it was concluded that the regions about the Pole had formerly been covered with an extensive tract of land, of which the existing islands are simply the remains. This extensive tract of polar land was furthermore assumed to have been the nursery of many of our animal and plant forms, whence they had found their way to lower latitudes. These conjectures now appear to rest on a somewhat infirm basis.

This great depth indicates that here, at all events, there has not been land in any very recent geological period; and this depth is, no doubt, as old as the depth of the Atlantic Ocean, of which it is almost certainly a part.

Another task to which I attached great importance, and to which I have frequently alluded, was the observation of the temperature of the sea at different depths, from the surface down to the bottom. These observations we took as often as time permitted, and, as already mentioned, they gave some surprising results, showing the existence of warmer water below the cold surface stratum. This is not the place to give the results of the different measurements, but as they are all very similar I will instance one of them in order that an idea may be formed how the temperature is distributed.

This series of temperatures, of which an extract is given here, was taken from the 13th to the 17th of August.

These temperatures of the water are in many respects remarkable. In the first place, the temperature falls, as will be seen, from the surface downward to a depth of 80 metres, after which it rises to 280 metres, falls again at 300 metres, then rises again at 326 metres, where it was +0.49°; then falls to rise again at 450 metres, then falls steadily down to 2000 metres, to rise once more slowly at the bottom. Similar risings and fallings were to be found in almost all the series of temperatures taken, and the variations from one month to another were so small that at the respective depths they often merely amounted to the two-hundredth part of a degree. Occasionally the temperature of the warm strata mounted even higher than mentioned here. Thus on October 17th at 300 metres it was +0.85°, at 350 metres +0.76°, at 400 metres +0.78°, and at 500 metres +0.62°, after which it sank evenly, until, towards the bottom, it again rose as before.

We had not expected to meet with much bird life in these desolate regions. Our surprise, therefore, was not small when on Whitsunday, May 13th, a gull paid us a visit. After that date we regularly saw birds of different kinds in our vicinity till at last it became a daily occurrence, to which we did not pay any particular attention. For the most part they were ice mews (Larus eburneus), kittiwakes (Rissa tridactyla), fulmars (Procellaria glacialis), and now and then a blue gull (L. glaucus), a herring gull (L. argentatus?), or a black guillemot (Uria grylle); once or twice we also saw a skua (probably Lestris parasitica)—for instance, on July 14th. On July 21st we had a visit from a snow-bunting.

On August 3d a remarkable occurrence took place: we were visited by the Arctic rose gull (Rhodostethia rosea). I wrote as follows about it in my diary: “To-day my longing has at last been satisfied. I have shot Ross’s gull,”1 three specimens in one day. This rare and mysterious inhabitant of the unknown north, which is only occasionally seen, and of which no one knows whence it cometh or whither it goeth, which belongs exclusively to the world to which the imagination aspires, is what, from the first moment I saw these tracts, I had always hoped to discover, as my eyes roamed over the lonely plains of ice. And now it came when I was least thinking of it. I was out for a little walk on the ice by the ship, and as I was sitting down by a hummock my eyes wandered northward and lit on a bird hovering over the great pressure-mound away to the northwest. At first I took it to be a kittiwake, but soon discovered it rather resembled the skua by its swift flight, sharp wings, and pointed tail. When I had got my gun, there were two of them together flying round and round the ship. I now got a closer view of them, and discovered that they were too light colored to be skuas. They were by no means shy, but continued flying about close to the ship. On going after them on the ice I soon shot one of them, and was not a little surprised, on picking it up, to find it was a little bird about the size of a snipe; the mottled back, too, reminded me also of that bird. Soon after this I shot the other. Later in the day there came another, which was also shot. On picking this one up I found it was not quite dead, and it vomited up a couple of large shrimps, which it must have caught in some channel or other. All three were young birds, about 12 inches in length, with dark mottled gray plumage on the back and wings; the breast and under side white, with a scarcely perceptible tinge of orange-red, and round the neck a dark ring sprinkled with gray.” At a somewhat later age this mottled plumage disappears; they then become blue on the back, with a black ring round the neck, while the breast assumes a delicate pink hue. Some few days afterwards (August 6th and 8th) some more of these birds were shot, making eight specimens in all.

While time was passing on, the plan I had been revolving in my mind during the winter was ever uppermost in my thoughts—the plan, that is to say, of exploring the unknown sea apart from the track in which the Fram was drifting. I kept an anxious eye upon the dogs, for fear anything should happen to them, and also to see that they continued in good condition, for all my hopes centred in them. Several of them, indeed, had been bitten to death, and two had been killed by bears; but there were still twenty-six remaining, and as a set-off against our losses we had the puppies, eight of which had been permitted to live. As spring advanced they were allowed to roam the deck, but on May 5th their world was considerably extended. I wrote thus: “In the afternoon we let the puppies loose on the ice, and ‘Kvik’ at once took long expeditions with them to familiarize them with their surroundings. First she introduced them to our meteorological apparatus, then to the bear-trap, and after that to different pressure-mounds. They were very cautious at first, staring timidly all around, and venturing out very slowly, a step at a time, from the ship’s side; but soon they began to run riot in their newly discovered world.

“‘Kvik’ was very proud to conduct her litter out into the world, and roamed about in the highest of spirits, though she had only just returned from a long driving expedition, in which, as usual, she had done good work in harness. In the afternoon one of the black and white puppies had an attack of madness. It ran round the ship, barking furiously; the others set on it, and it bit at everything that came in its way. At last we got it shut in on the deck forward, where it was furious for a while, then quieted down, and now seems to be all right again. This makes the fourth that has had a similar attack. What can it possibly be? It cannot be hydrophobia, or it would have appeared among the grown-up dogs. Can it be toothache, or hereditary epilepsy—or some other infernal thing?” Unfortunately, several of them died from these strange attacks. The puppies were such fine, nice animals, that we were all very sorry when a thing like this occurred.

On June 3d I write: “Another of the puppies died in the forenoon from one of those mysterious attacks, and I cannot conceal from myself that I take it greatly to heart, and feel low-spirited about it, I have been so used to these small polar creatures living their sorrowless life on deck, romping and playing around us from morning to evening, and a little of the night as well. I can watch them with pleasure by the hour together, or play with them as with little children—have a game at hide-and-seek with them round the skylight, the while they are beside themselves with glee. It is the largest and strongest of the lot that has just died, a handsome dog; I called him ‘LÖva’ (Lion). He was such a confiding, gentle animal, and so affectionate. Only yesterday he was jumping and playing about and rubbing himself against me, and to-day he is dead. Our ranks are thinning, and the worst of it is we try in vain to make out what it is that ails them. This one was apparently quite in his normal condition and as cheerful as ever until his breakfast was given him; then he began to cry and tear round, yelping and barking as if distracted, just as the others had done. After this convulsions set in, and the froth poured from his mouth. One of these convulsions no doubt carried him off. Blessing and I held a post mortem upon him in the afternoon, but we could discover no signs of anything unusual. It does not seem to be an infectious ailment. I cannot understand it.

“‘Ulenka,’ too, the handsomest dog in the whole pack, our consolation and our hope, suddenly became ill the other day. It was the morning of May 24th that we found it paralyzed and quite helpless, lying in its cask on deck. It kept trying to get up, but couldn’t, and immediately fell down again—just like a man who has had a stroke and has lost all power over his limbs. It was at once put to bed in a box and nursed most carefully; except for being unable to walk, it is apparently quite well.” It must have been a kind of apoplectic seizure that attacked the spinal cord in some spot or other, and paralyzed one side of the body. The dog recovered slowly, but never got the complete use of its legs again. It accompanied us, however, on our subsequent sledge expedition.

The dogs did not seem to like the summer, it was so wet on the ice, and so warm. On June 11th I write: “To-day the pools on the ice all round us have increased wonderfully in size, and it is by no means agreeable to go off the ship with shoes that are not water-tight; it is wetter and wetter for the dogs in the daytime, and they sweat more and more from the heat, though it as yet only rarely rises above zero (C.). A few days ago they were shifted on to the ice, where two long kennels were set up for them.”2 They were made out of boxes, and really consist of only a wall and a roof. Here they spend the greater part of the twenty-four hours, and we are now rid of all uncleanliness on board, except for the four puppies which still remain, and lead a glorious life of it up there between sleep and play. “Ulenka” is still on deck, and is slowly recovering. There is the same daily routine for the dogs as in the winter. We let them loose in the morning about half-past eight, and as the time for their release draws near they begin to get very impatient. Every time any one shows himself on deck a wild chorus of howls issues from twenty-six throats, clamoring for food and freedom.

After being let loose they get their breakfast, consisting of half a dried fish or three biscuits apiece. The rest of the forenoon is spent in rooting round among all the refuse heaps they can find; and they gnaw and lick all the empty tin cases which they have ransacked hundreds of times before. If the cook sends a fresh tin dancing along the ice a battle immediately rages around the prize. It often happens that one or another of them, trying to get at a tempting piece of fat at the bottom of a deep, narrow tin, sticks his head so far down into it that the tin sits fast, and he cannot release himself again; so with this extinguisher on his head he sprawls about blindly over the ice, indulging in the most wonderful antics in the effort to get rid of it, to the great amusement of us the spectators. When tired of their work at the rubbish heaps they stretch out their round, sausage-like bodies, panting in the sun, if there is any, and if it is too warm they get into the shade. They are tied up again before dinner; but “Pan,” and others like-minded, sneak away a little before that time, and hide up behind a hummock, so that one can only see a head or an ear sticking up here and there. Should any one go to fetch him in he will probably growl, show his teeth, or even snap; after which he will lie flat down, and allow himself to be dragged off to prison. The remainder of the twenty-four hours they spend sleeping, puffing and panting in the excessive heat, which, by-the-way, is two degrees of cold. Every now and then they set up a chorus of howls that certainly must be heard in Siberia, and quarrel among themselves till the fur flies in all directions. This removal of the dogs on to the ice has imposed upon the watch the arduous duty of remaining on deck at nights, which was not the practice before. But a bear having once been on board and taken off two of our precious animals, we don’t want any more such visitors.

“On July 31st ‘Kvik’ again increased our population by bringing eleven puppies into the world, one of which was deformed, and was at once killed; two others died later, but most of them grew up and became fine, handsome animals. They are still living.

“Few or no incidents occurred during this time, except, naturally, the different red-letter days were celebrated with great ceremony.”

May 17th3 we observed with special pomp, the following description of which I find in my journal:

“Friday, May 18th. May 17th was celebrated yesterday with all possible festivity. In the morning we were awakened with organ music—the enlivening strains of the ‘College Hornpipe.’ After this a splendid breakfast off smoked salmon, ox tongues, etc., etc. The whole ship’s company wore bows of ribbon in honor of the day—even old ‘Suggen’ had one round his tail. The wind whistled, and the Norwegian flag floated on high, fluttering bravely at the mast-head. About 11 o’clock the company assembled with their banners on the ice on the port side of the ship, and the procession arranged itself in order. First of all came the leader of the expedition with the ‘pure’ Norwegian flag;4 after him Sverdrup with the Fram’s pennant, which, with its ‘FRAM’ on a red ground, 3 fathoms long, looked splendid. Next came a dog-sledge, with the band (Johansen with the accordion), and Mogstad, as coach-man; after them came the mate with rifles and harpoons, Henriksen carrying a long harpoon; then Amundsen and Nordahl, with a red banner. The doctor followed, with a demonstration flag in favor of a normal working-day. It consisted of a woollen jersey, with the letters ‘N. A.’5 embroidered on the breast, and at the top of a very long pole it looked most impressive. After him followed our chef, Juell, with ‘peik’s’6 saucepan on his back; and then came the meteorologists, with a curious apparatus, consisting of a large tin scutcheon, across which was fastened a red band, with the letters ‘Al. St.,’ signifying ‘almindelig stemmeret,’ or ‘universal suffrage.’7

“At last the procession began to move on. The dogs marched demurely, as if they had never done anything else in all their lives than walk in procession, and the band played a magnificent festive march, not composed for the occasion. The stately cortÈge marched twice round the Fram, after which with great solemnity it moved off in the direction of the large hummock, and was photographed on the way by the photographer of the expedition. At the hummock a hearty cheer was given for the Fram, which had brought us hither so well, and which would, doubtless, take us equally well home again. After this the procession turned back, cutting across the Fram’s bow. At the port gangway a halt was called, and the photographer, mounting the bridge, made a speech in honor of the day. This was succeeded by a thundering salute, consisting of six shots, the result of which was that five or six of the dogs rushed off over hummocks and pressure-ridges, and hid themselves for several hours. Meanwhile we went down into the cozy cabin, decorated with flags for the occasion in a right festive manner, where we partook of a splendid dinner, preluded by a lovely waltz. The menu was as follows: Minced fish with curried lobster, melted butter, and potatoes; music; pork cutlets, with green pease, potatoes, mango chutney, and Worcester sauce; music; apricots and custard, with cream; much music. After this a siesta; then coffee, currants, figs, cakes; and the photographer stood cigars. Great enthusiasm, then more siesta. After supper the violinist, Mogstad, gave a recital, when refreshments were served in the shape of figs, sweetmeats, apricots, and gingerbread (honey cakes). On the whole, a charming and very successful Seventeenth of May, especially considering that we had passed the 81st degree of latitude.

“Monday, May 28th. Ugh! I am tired of these endless, white plains—cannot even be bothered snow-shoeing over them, not to mention that the lanes stop one on every hand. Day and night I pace up and down the deck, along the ice by the ship’s sides, revolving the most elaborate scientific problems. For the past few days it is especially the shifting of the Pole that has fascinated me. I am beset by the idea that the tidal wave, along with the unequal distribution of land and sea, must have a disturbing effect on the situation of the earth’s axis. When such an idea gets into one’s head, it is no easy matter to get it out again. After pondering over it for several days, I have finally discovered that the influence of the moon on the sea must be sufficient to cause a shifting of the Pole to the extent of one minute in 800,000 years. In order to account for the European Glacial Age, which was my main object, I must shift the Pole at least ten or twenty degrees. This leaves an uncomfortably wide interval of time since that period, and shows that the human race must have attained a respectable age. Of course, it is all nonsense. But while I am indefatigably tramping the deck in a brown study, imagining myself no end of a great thinker, I suddenly discover that my thoughts are at home, where all is summer and loveliness, and those I have left are busy building castles in the air for the day when I shall return. Yes, yes. I spend rather too much time on this sort of thing; but the drift goes as slowly as ever, and the wind, the all-powerful wind, is still the same. The first thing my eyes look for when I set foot on deck in the morning is the weathercock on the mizzen-top, to see how the wind lies; thither they are forever straying during the whole day, and there again they rest the last thing before I turn in. But it ever points in the same direction, west and southwest, and we drift now quicker, now more slowly westward, and only a little to the north. I have no doubt now about the success of the expedition, and my miscalculation was not so great, after all; but I scarcely think we shall drift higher than 85°, even if we do that. It will depend on how far Franz Josef Land extends to the north. In that case it will be hard to give up reaching the Pole; it is in reality a mere matter of vanity, merely child’s play, in comparison with what we are doing and hoping to do; and yet I must confess that I am foolish enough to want to take in the Pole while I am about it, and shall probably have a try at it if we get into its neighborhood within any reasonable time.

“This is a mild May; the temperature has been about zero several times of late, and one can walk up and down and almost imagine one’s self at home. There is seldom more than a few degrees of cold; but the summer fogs are beginning, with occasional hoar-frost. As a rule, however, the sky, with its light, fleeting clouds, is almost like a spring sky in the south.

“We notice, too, that it has become milder on board; we no longer need to light a fire in the stove to make ourselves warm and cozy; though, indeed, we have never indulged in much luxury in this respect. In the store-room the rime frost and ice that had settled on the ceiling and walls are beginning to melt; and in the compartments astern of the saloon, and in the hold, we have been obliged to set about a grand cleaning-up, scraping off and sweeping away the ice and rime, to save our provisions from taking harm, through the damp penetrating the wrappings and rusting holes in the tin cases. We have, moreover, for a long time kept the hatchways in the hold open, so that there has been a thorough draught through it, and a good deal of the rime has evaporated. It is remarkable how little damp we have on board. No doubt this is due to the Fram’s solid construction, and to the deck over the hold being panelled on the under side. I am getting fonder and fonder of this ship.

“Saturday, June 9th. Our politician, Amundsen, is celebrating the day with a white shirt and collar.8 To-day I have moved with my work up into the deck-house again, where I can sit and look out of the window in the daytime, and feel that I am living in the world and not in a cavern, where one must have lamplight night and day. I intend remaining here as long as possible out into the winter: it is so cozy and quiet, and the monotonous surroundings are not constantly forcing themselves in upon me.

“I really have the feeling that summer has come. I can pace up and down the deck by the hour together with the sun, or stand still and roast myself in it, while I smoke a pipe, and my eyes glide over the confused masses of snow and ice. The snow is everywhere wet now, and pools are beginning to form every here and there. The ice too is getting more and more permeated with salt-water; if one bores ever so small a hole in it, it is at once filled with water. The reason, of course, is that, owing to the rise in the temperature, the particles of salt contained in the ice begin to melt their surroundings, and more and more water is formed with a good admixture of salt in it, so that its freezing-point is lower than the temperature of the ice around it. This, too, had risen materially; at about 4 feet depth it is only 25.2° Fahr. (-3.8° C), at 5 feet it is somewhat warmer again, 26.5° Fahr. (-3.1° C).

“Sunday, June 10th. Oddly enough we have had no cases of snow-blindness on board, with the exception of the doctor, who, a couple of days ago, after we had been playing at ball, got a touch of it in the evening. The tears poured from his eyes for some time, but he soon recovered. Rather a humiliating trick of fate that he should be the first to suffer from this ailment.” Subsequently we had a few isolated cases of slight snow-blindness, so that one or two of our men had to go about with dark spectacles; but it was of little importance and was due to their not thinking it worth while to take the necessary precautions.

“Monday, June 11th. To-day I made a joyful discovery. I thought I had begun my last bundle of cigars, and calculated that by smoking one a day they would last a month, but found quite unexpectedly a whole box in my locker. Great rejoicing! it will help to while away a few more months, and where shall we be then? Poor fellow, you are really at a low ebb! ‘To while away time’—that is an idea that has scarcely ever entered your head before. It has always been your great trouble that time flew away so fast, and now it cannot go fast enough to please you. And then so addicted to tobacco—you wrap yourself in clouds of smoke to indulge in your everlasting day dreams. Hark to the south wind, how it whistles in the rigging; it is quite inspiriting to listen to it. On Midsummer-eve we ought, of course, to have had a bonfire as usual, but from my diary it does not seem to have been the sort of weather for it.

“Saturday, June 23, 1894.

The north wind continues with sleet. Gloomy weather. Drifting south. 81° 43' north latitude; that is, 9' southward since Monday.

“I have seen many Midsummer-eves under different skies, but never such a one as this. So far, far from all that one associates with this evening. I think of the merriment round the bonfires at home, hear the scraping of the fiddle, the peals of laughter, and the salvoes of the guns, with the echoes answering from the purple-tinted heights. And then I look out over this boundless, white expanse into the fog and sleet and the driving wind. Here is truly no trace of midsummer merriment. It is a gloomy lookout altogether! Midsummer is past—and now the days are shortening again, and the long night of winter approaching, which, maybe, will find us as far advanced as it left us.

“I was busily engaged with my examination of the salinity of the sea-water this afternoon when Mogstad stuck his head in at the door and said that a bear must be prowling about in the neighborhood. On returning after dinner to their work at the great hummock, where they were busy making an ice-cellar for fresh meat,9 the men found bear-tracks which were not there before. I put on my snow-shoes and went after it. But what terrible going it had been the last few days! Soft slush, in which the snow-shoes sink helplessly. The bear had come from the west right up to the Fram, had stopped and inspected the work that was going on, had then retreated a little, made a considerable detour, and set off eastward at its easy, shambling gait, without deigning to pay any further attention to such a trifle as a ship. It had rummaged about in every hole and corner where there seemed to be any chance of finding food, and had rooted in the snow after anything the dogs had left, or whatever else it might be. It had then gone to the lanes in the ice, and skirted them carefully, no doubt in the hope of finding a seal or two, and after that it had gone off between the hummocks and over floes, with a surface of nothing but slush and water. Had the surface been good I should no doubt have overtaken Master Bruin, but he had too long a start in the slushy snow.

“A dismal, dispiriting landscape—nothing but white and gray, No shadows—merely half-obliterated forms melting into the fog and slush. Everything is in a state of disintegration, and one’s foothold gives way at every step. It is hard work for the poor snow-shoer who stamps along through the slush and fog after bear-tracks that wind in and out among the hummocks, or over them. The snow-shoes sink deep in, and the water often reaches up to the ankles, so that it is hard work to get them up or to force them forward; but without them one would be still worse off.

“Every here and there this monotonous grayish whiteness is broken by the coal-black water, which winds, in narrower or broader lanes, in between the high hummocks. White, snow-laden floes and lumps of ice float on the dark surface, looking like white marble on a black ground. Occasionally there is a larger dark-colored pool, where the wind gets a hold of the water and forms small waves that ripple and plash against the edge of the ice, the only signs of life in this desert tract. It is like an old friend, the sound of these playful wave-lets. And here, too, they eat away the floes and hollow out their edges. One could almost imagine one’s self in more southern latitudes. But all around is wreathed with ice, towering aloft in its ever-varying fantastic forms, in striking contrast to the dark water on which a moment before the eye had rested. Everlastingly is this shifting ice modelling, as it were, in pure, gray marble, and, with nature’s lavish prodigality, strewing around the most glorious statuary, which perishes without any eye having seen it. Wherefore? To what end all this shifting pageant of loveliness? It is governed by the mere caprices of nature, following out those everlasting laws that pay no heed to what we regard as aims and objects.

“In front of me towers one pressure-ridge after another, with lane after lane between. It was in June the Jeannette was crushed and sank; what if the Fram were to meet her fate here? No, the ice will not get the better of her. Yet, if it should, in spite of everything! As I stood gazing around me I remembered it was Midsummer-eve. Far away yonder her masts pointed aloft, half lost to view in the snowy haze. They must, indeed, have stout hearts, those fellows on board that craft. Stout hearts, or else blind faith in a man’s word.

“It is all very well that he who has hatched a plan, be it never so wild, should go with it to carry it out; he naturally does his best for the child to which his thoughts have given birth. But they—they had no child to tend, and could, without feeling any yearning balked, have refrained from taking part in an expedition like this. Why should any human being renounce life to be wiped out here?

“Sunday, June 24th. The anniversary of our departure from home. Northerly wind; still drifting south. Observations to-day gave 81° 41' 7 north latitude, so we are not going at a breakneck speed.

“It has been a long year—a great deal has been gone through in it—though we are quite as far advanced as I had anticipated. I am sitting, and look out of the window at the snow whirling round in eddies as it is swept along by the north wind. A strange Midsummer-day! One might think we had had enough of snow and ice; I am not, however, exactly pining after green fields—at all events, not always. On the contrary, I find myself sitting by the hour laying plans for other voyages into the ice after our return from this one.... Yes, I know what I have attained, and, more or less, what awaits me. It is all very well for me to sketch plans for the future. But those at home.... No, I am not in a humor for writing this evening; I will turn in.

“Wednesday, July 11th. Lat. 81° 18' 8. At last the southerly wind has returned, so there is an end of drifting south for the present.

“Now I am almost longing for the polar night, for the everlasting wonderland of the stars with the spectral northern lights, and the moon sailing through the profound silence. It is like a dream, like a glimpse into the realms of fantasy. There are no forms, no cumbrous reality—only a vision woven of silver and violet ether, rising up from earth and floating out into infinity.... But this eternal day, with its oppressive actuality, interests me no longer—does not entice me out of my lair. Life is one incessant hurrying from one task to another; everything must be done and nothing neglected, day after day, week after week; and the working-day is long, seldom ending till far over midnight. But through it all runs the same sensation of longing and emptiness, which must not be noted. Ah, but at times there is no holding it aloof, and the hands sink down without will or strength—so weary, so unutterably weary.

“Ah! life’s peace is said to be found by holy men in the desert. Here, indeed, there is desert enough; but peace—of that I know nothing. I suppose it is the holiness that is lacking.

“Wednesday, July 18th. Went on excursion with Blessing in the forenoon to collect specimens of the brown snow and ice, and gather seaweed and diatoms in the water. The upper surface of the floes is nearly everywhere of a dirty brown color, or, at least, this sort of ice preponderates, while pure white floes, without any traces of a dirty brown on their surface, are rare. I imagined this brown color must be due to the organisms I found in the newly-frozen, brownish-red ice last autumn (October); but the specimens I took to-day consist, for the most part, of mineral dust mingled with diatoms and other ingredients of organic origin.10

“Blessing collected several specimens on the upper surface of the ice earlier in the summer, and came to the same conclusions. I must look further into this, in order to see whether all this brown dust is of a mineral nature, and consequently originates from the land.11 We found in the lanes quantities of algÆ like those we had often found previously. There were large accumulations of them in nearly every little channel. We could also see that a brown surface layer spread itself on the sides of the floes far down into the water. This is due to an alga that grows on the ice. There were also floating in the water a number of small viscid lumps, some white, some of a yellowish red color; and of these I collected several. Under the microscope they all appeared to consist of accumulations of diatoms, among which, moreover, were a number of larger cellular organisms of a very characteristic appearance.12 All of these diatomous accumulations kept at a certain depth, about a yard below the surface of the water; in some of the small lanes they appeared in large masses. At the same depth the above-named alga seemed especially to flourish, while parts of it rose up to the surface. It was evident that these accumulations of diatoms and alga remained floating exactly at the depth where the upper stratum of fresh water rests on the sea-water. The water on the surface was entirely fresh, and the masses of diatoms sank in it, but floated on reaching the salt-water below.

“Thursday, July 19th. It is as I expected. I am beginning to know the ways of the wind up here pretty well now. After having blown a ‘windmill breeze’ to-day it falls calm in the evening, and to-morrow we shall probably have wind from the west or northwest.

“Yesterday evening the last cigar out of the old box! And now I have smoked the first out of the last box I have got. We were to have got so far by the time that box was finished; but are scarcely any farther advanced than when I began it, and goodness knows if we shall be that when this, too, has disappeared. But enough of that. Smoke away.

“Sunday, July 22d. The northwest wind did not come quite up to time; on Friday we had northeast instead, and during the night it gradually went round to N.N.E., and yesterday forenoon it blew due north. To-day it has ended in the west, the old well-known quarter, of which we have had more than enough. This evening the line13 shows about N.W. to N., and it is strong, so we are moving south again.

“I pass the day at the microscope. I am now busied with the diatoms and algÆ of all kinds that grow on the ice in the uppermost fresh stratum of the sea. These are undeniably most interesting things, a whole new world of organisms that are carried off by the ice from known shores across the unknown Polar Sea, there to awaken every summer and develop into life and bloom. Yes, it is very interesting work, but yet there is not that same burning interest as of old, although the scent of oil of cloves, Canada balsam, and wood-oil awakens many dear reminiscences of that quiet laboratory at home, and every morning as I come in here the microscope and glasses and colors on the table invite me to work. But though I work indefatigably day after day till late in the night, it is mostly duty work, and I am not sorry when it is finished, to go and lie for some few hours in my berth reading a novel and smoking a cigar. With what exultation would I not throw the whole aside, spring up, and lay hold of real life, fighting my way over ice and sea with sledges, boats, or kayaks! It is more than true that it is ‘easy to live a life of battle’; but here there is neither storm nor battle, and I thirst after them. I long to enlist titanic forces and fight my way forward—that would be living! But what pleasure is there in strength when there is nothing for it to do? Here we drift forward, and here we drift back, and now we have been two months on the same spot.

“Everything, however, is being got ready for a possible expedition, or for the contingency of its becoming necessary to abandon the ship. All the hand-sledges are lashed together, and the iron fittings carefully seen to. Six dog-sledges are also being made, and to-morrow we shall begin building kayaks ready for the men. They are easy to draw on hand-sledges in case of a retreat over the ice without the ship. For a beginning we are making kayaks to hold two men each. I intend to have them about 12 feet long, 3 feet wide, and 18 inches in depth. Six of these are to be made. They are to be covered with sealskin or sail-cloth, and to be decked all over, except for two holes—one for each man.

“I feel that we have, or rather shall have, everything needful for a brilliant retreat. Sometimes I seem almost to be longing for a defeat—a decisive one—so that we might have a chance of showing what is in us, and putting an end to this irksome inactivity.

“Monday, July 30th. Westerly wind, with northwesterly by way of a pleasant variety; such is our daily fare week after week. On coming up in the morning I no longer care to look at the weathercock on the masthead, or at the line in the water; for I know beforehand that the former points east or southeast, and the line in the contrary direction, and that we are ever bearing to the southeast. Yesterday it was 81° 7' north latitude, the day before 81° 11', and last Monday, July 25th, 81° 26'.

“But it occupies my thoughts no longer. I know well enough there will be a change some time or other, and the way to the stars leads through adversity. I have found a new world; and that is the world of animal and plant life that exists in almost every fresh-water pool on the ice-floes. From morning till evening and till late in the night I am absorbed with the microscope, and see nothing around me. I live with these tiny beings in their separate universe, where they are born and die, generation after generation; where they pursue each other in the struggle for life, and carry on their love affairs with the same feelings, the same sufferings, and the same joys that permeate every living being from these microscopic animalcules up to man—self-preservation and propagation—that is the whole story. Fiercely as we human beings struggle to push our way on through the labyrinth of life, their struggles are assuredly no less fierce than ours—one incessant, restless hurrying to and fro, pushing all others aside, to burrow out for themselves what is needful to them. And as to love, only mark with what passion they seek each other out. With all our brain-cells, we do not feel more strongly than they, never live so entirely for a sensation. But what is life? What matters the individual’s suffering so long as the struggle goes on?

“And these are small, one-celled lumps of viscous matter, teeming in thousands and millions, on nearly every single floe over the whole of this boundless sea, which we are apt to regard as the realm of death. Mother Nature has a remarkable power of producing life everywhere—even this ice is a fruitful soil for her.

“In the evening a little variety occurred in our uneventful existence, Johansen having discovered a bear to the southeast of the ship, but out of range. It had, no doubt, been prowling about for some time while we were below at supper, and had been quite near us; but, being alarmed by some sound or other, had gone off eastward. Sverdrup and I set out after it, but to no purpose; the lanes hindered us too much, and, moreover, a fog came on, so that we had to return after having gone a good distance.”

The world of organisms I above alluded to was the subject of special research through the short summer, and in many respects was quite remarkable. When the sun’s rays had gained power on the surface of the ice and melted the snow, so that pools were formed, there was soon to be seen at the bottom of these pools small yellowish-brown spots, so small that at first one hardly noticed them. Day by day they increased in size, and absorbing, like all dark substances, the heat of the sun’s rays, they gradually melted the underlying ice and formed round cavities, often several inches deep. These brown spots were the above-mentioned algÆ and diatoms. They developed speedily in the summer light, and would fill the bottoms of the cavities with a thick layer. But there were not plants only, the water also teemed with swarms of animalcules, mostly infusoria and flagellata, which subsisted on the plants. I actually found bacteria—even these regions are not free from them!

But I could not always remain chained by the microscope. Sometimes, when the fine weather tempted me irresistibly, I had to go out and bake myself in the sun, and imagine myself in Norway.

“Saturday, August 4th. Lovely weather yesterday and to-day. Light, fleecy clouds sailing high aloft through the sparkling azure sky—filling one’s soul with longings to soar as high and as free as they. I have just been out on deck this evening; one could almost imagine one’s self at home by the fjord. Saturday evening’s peace seemed to rest on the scene and on one’s soul.

“Our sailmakers, Sverdrup and Amundsen, have to-day finished covering the first double kayak with sail-cloth. Fully equipped, it weighs 30.5 kilos. (60 lbs.). I think it will prove a first-rate contrivance. Sverdrup and I tried it on a pool. It carried us splendidly, and was so stiff that even sitting on the deck we could handle it quite comfortably. It will easily carry two men with full equipment for 100 days. A handier or more practical craft for regions like this I cannot well imagine.

“Sunday, August 5th. 81° 7' north latitude.

“Brilliant summer weather. I bathe in the sun and dream I am at home either on the high mountains or—heaven knows why—on the fjords of the west coast. The same white fleecy clouds in the clear blue summer sky; heaven arches itself overhead like a perfect dome, there is nothing to bar one’s way, and the soul rises up unfettered beneath it. What matters it that the world below is different—the ice no longer single glittering glaciers, but spread out on every hand? Is it not these same fleecy clouds far away in the blue expanse that the eye looks for at home on a bright summer day? Sailing on these, fancy steers its course to the land of wistful longing. And it is just at these glittering glaciers in the distance that we direct our longing gaze. Why should not a summer day be as lovely here? Ah, yes! it is lovely, pure as a dream, without desire, without sin; a poem of clear white sunbeams refracted in the cool crystal blue of the ice. How unutterably delightful does not this world appear to us on some stifling summer day at home?

“Have rested and ‘kept Sunday.’ I could not remain in the whole day, so took a trip over the ice. Progress is easy except for the lanes.

“Hansen practised kayak-paddling this afternoon on the pool around the ship, from which several channels diverge over the ice; but he was not content with paddling round in them, but must, of course, make an experiment in capsizing and recovering himself as the Eskimos do. It ended by his not coming up again, losing his paddle, remaining head downward in the water, and beating about with his hands till the kayak filled, and he got a cold bath from top to toe. Nordahl, who was standing by on the ice to help him, at last found it necessary to go in after him and raise him up on an even keel again, to the great amusement of us others.

“One can notice that it is summer. This evening a game of cards is being played on deck, with ‘Peik’s’14 big pot for a card-table. One could almost think it was an August evening at home; only the toddy is wanting, but the pipes and cigars we have.

“Sunday, August 12th. We had a shooting competition in the forenoon.

“A glorious evening. I took a stroll over the ice among the lanes and hummocks. It was so wonderfully calm and still. Not a sound to be heard but the drip, drip of water from a block of ice, and the dull sound of a snow-slip from some hummock in the distance. The sun is low down in the north, and overhead is the pale blue dome of heaven, with gold-edged clouds. The profound peace of the Arctic solitudes. My thoughts fly free and far. If one could only give utterance to all that stirs one’s soul on such an evening as this! What an incomprehensible power one’s surroundings have over one!

“Why is it that at times I complain of the loneliness? With Nature around one, with one’s books and studies, one can never be quite alone.

“Thursday, August 16th. Yesterday evening, as I was lying in my berth reading, and all except the watch had turned in, I heard the report of a gun on deck over my head. Thinking it was a bear, I hurriedly put on my sea-boots and sprang on deck. There I saw Johansen bareheaded, rifle in hand. ‘Was it you that fired the shot?’ ‘Yes. I shot at the big hummock yonder—I thought something was stirring there, and I wanted to see what it was, but it seems to have been nothing.’ I went to the railings and looked out. ‘I fancied it was a bear that was after our meat—but it was nothing.’ As we stood there one of the dogs came jogging along from the big hummock. ‘There, you see what you have shot at,’ I said, laughing. ‘I’m bothered if it wasn’t a dog!’ he replied. ‘Ice-bear’ it was, true enough, for so we called this dog. It had seemed so large in the fog, scratching at the meat hummock. ‘Did you aim at the dog and miss? That was a lucky chance!’ ‘No! I simply fired at random in that direction, for I wanted to see what it was.’ I went below and turned in again. At breakfast to-day he had, of course, to run the gantlet of some sarcastic questions about his ‘harmless thunderbolt,’ but he parried them adroitly enough.

“Tuesday, August 21st. North latitude, 81° 4.2'. Strange how little alteration there is: we drift a little to the north, then a little to the south, and keep almost to the same spot. But I believe, as I have believed all along, since before we even set out, that we should be away three years, or rather three winters and four summers, neither more nor less, and that in about two years’ time from this present autumn we shall reach home.15 The approaching winter will drift us farther, however slowly, and it begins already to announce itself, for there were four degrees of cold last night.

“Sunday, August 26th. It seems almost as if winter had come; the cold has kept on an average between 24.8° Fahr. (-4° C.) and 21.2° Fahr. (-6° C.) since Thursday. There are only slight variations in the temperature up here, so we may expect it to fall regularly from this time forth, though it is rather early for winter to set in. All the pools and lanes are covered with ice, thick enough to bear a man even without snow-shoes.

“I went out on my snow-shoes both morning and afternoon. The surface was beautiful everywhere. Some of the lanes had opened out or been compressed a little, so that the new ice was thin and bent unpleasantly under the snow-shoes; but it bore me, though two of the dogs fell through. A good deal of snow had fallen, so there was fine, soft new snow to travel over. If it keeps on as it is now, there will be excellent snow-shoeing in the winter; for it is fresh water that now freezes on the surface, so that there is no salt that the wind can carry from the new ice to spoil the snow all around, as was the case last winter. Such snow with salt in it makes as heavy a surface as sand.

“Monday, August 27th. Just as Blessing was going below after his watch to-night, and was standing by the rail looking out, he saw a white form that lay rolling in the snow a little way off to the southeast. Afterwards it remained for a while lying quite still. Johansen, who was to relieve Blessing, now joined him, and they both stood watching the animal intently. Presently it got up, so there was no longer any doubt as to what it was. Each got hold of a rifle and crept stealthily towards the forecastle, where they waited quietly while the bear cautiously approached the ship, making long tacks against the wind. A fresh breeze was blowing, and the windmill going round at full speed; but this did not alarm him at all; very likely it was this very thing he wanted to examine. At last he reached the lane in front, when they both fired and he fell down dead on the spot. It was nice to get fresh meat again. This was the first bear we had shot this year, and of course we had roast bear for dinner to-day. Regular winter with snow-storms.

“Wednesday, August 29th. A fresh wind; it rattles and pipes in the rigging aloft. An enlivening change and no mistake! The snow drifts as if it were midwinter. Fine August weather! But we are bearing north again, and we have need to! Yesterday our latitude was 80° 53.5'. This evening I was standing in the hold at work on my new bamboo kayak, which will be the very acme of lightness. Pettersen happened to come down, and gave me a hand with some lashings that I was busy with. We chatted a little about things in general; and he was of opinion ‘that we had a good crib of it on board the Fram, because here we had everything we wanted, and she was a devil of a ship—and any other ship would have been crushed flat long ago.’ But for all that he would not be afraid, he said, to leave her, when he saw all the contrivances, such as these new kayaks, we had been getting ready. He was sure no former expedition had ever had such contrivances, or been so equipped against all possible emergencies as we. But, after all, he would prefer to return home on the Fram.” Then we talked about what we should do when we did get home.

“‘Oh, for your part, no doubt you’ll be off to the South Pole,’ he said.

“‘And you?’ I replied. ‘Will you tuck up your sleeves and begin again at the old work?’

“‘Oh, very likely! but on my word I ought to have a week’s holiday first. After such a trip I should want it, before buckling to at the sledge-hammer again.’”