1 Thanksgiving Day, November 28th, brought what we wanted. At noon, the Geological Party radioed a final weather report: “Unchanged. Perfect visibility. No clouds anywhere.” Harrison finished with his balloon runs, Haines with his weather charts. The sky was still somewhat overcast, and the surface wind from the east southeast. Haines came into the library, his face grave. Together, we went out for a walk and a last look at the weather. What he said exactly I have forgotten, but it was in effect: “If you don’t go now, you may never have another chance as good as this.” And that was that.

2 The mechanics, Bubier, Roth and Demas, went over the plane for the last time, testing everything with scrupulous care. A line of men passed five-gallon cans of gasoline to several men standing on the wing, who poured them into the wing tanks. Another line fed the stream of gear which flowed into the plane. Black weighed each thing before passing it on to McKinley and June, who were stowing the stuff in the cabin. Hanson went over the radio equipment. With de Ganahl, I made a careful check of the sextant and the watches and chronometers, which were among the last things put aboard. For days, de Ganahl and I had nursed the chronometers, checking them against the time tick broadcast every night from the United States. We knew their exact loss or gain.

3 The total weight was approximately 15,000 pounds.

4 Haines came up with a final report on the weather. “A twenty-mile wind from the south at 2,000 feet.” I went into my office and picked up a flag weighted with a stone from Floyd Bennett’s grave. It seemed fitting that something connected with the spirit of this noble friend, who stood with me over the North Pole, on May 9th, 1926, should rest as long as stone endures at the bottom of the world.

5 There were handshakes all around, and at 3:29 o’clock we were off. The skis were in the air after a run of 30 seconds–an excellent takeoff. A calm expectation took hold of my mind.

6 Had you been there to glance over the cabin of this modern machine which has so revolutionized polar travel, I think you would have been impressed most of all–perhaps first of all–with the profusion of gear in the cabin. There was a small sledge, rolled masses of sleeping bags, bulky food sacks, two pressure gasoline stoves, rows of cans of gasoline packed about the main tank forward, funnels for draining gasoline and oil from the engines, bundles of clothing, tents, and so on ad infinitum. There was scarcely room in which to move.

7 June had his radio in the after bulkhead on the port side. From time to time, he flashed reports on our progress to the base. From the ear phones strapped to his helmet ran long cords so that he might move freely about the cabin without being obliged to take them off. His duties were varied and important. He had to attend to the motion picture camera, the radio, and the complicated valves of the six gasoline tanks. Every now and then, he relieved Balchen at the wheel or helped him to follow the elusive trail.

8 McKinley had his mapping camera ready for action either on port or starboard side. It was for him and the camera he so sedulously served that the flight was made. The mapping of the corridor between Little America and the South Pole was one of the major objectives of the expedition.

9 Balchen was forward, bulking large in the narrow compartment, his massive hands on the wheel, now appraising the engines with a critical eye, now the dozen flickering fingers on the dials on the instrument board. Balchen was in his element. His calm, fine face bespoke his confidence and sureness. He was anticipating the struggle at the “Hump” almost with eagerness.

10 It was quite warm forward, behind the engines. But a cold wind swept through the cabin, making one thankful for heavy clothes. When the skies cleared, a golden light poured into the cabin. The sound of the engines and propellers filled it. One had to shout to make oneself heard. From the navigation table aft, where my charts were spread out, a trolley ran to the control cabin. Over it, I shouted to Balchen the necessary messages and courses; he would turn and smile his understanding.

11 That, briefly, is the picture, and a startling one it makes in contrast with that of Amundsen’s party, which had pressed along this same course eighteen years before. A wing, pistons and flashing propellers had taken the place of runner, dogs, and legs. Amundsen was delighted to make 25 miles per day. We had to average 90 miles per hour to accomplish our mission. We had the advantages of swiftness and comfort, but we had as well an enlarged fallibility. A flaw in a piece of steel, a bit of dirt in the fuel lines or carburetor jets, a few hours of strong head winds, fog or storm– these things, remotely beyond our control, could destroy our carefully laid plans and nullify our most determined efforts.

12 Still, it was not these things that entered our minds. Rather, it was the thought of the “Hump,” and how we should fare with it.

13 Soon after passing the crevasses, we picked up again the vast escarpment to the right. More clearly than before, we saw the white-blue streams of many glaciers discharging into the Barrier, and several of the higher snow-clad peaks glistened so brightly in the sun as to seem like volcanoes in eruption.

14 Now the Queen Maud Range loomed ahead. I searched again for the “appearance of land” to the east. Still the rolling Barrier–nothing else.

15 At 8:15, we had the Geological Party in sight–a cluster of beetles about two dark-topped tents. Balchen dropped overboard the photographs of the Queen Maud Range and the other things we had promised to bring. The parachute canopy to which they were attached fluttered open and fell in gentle oscillations, and we saw two or three figures rush out to catch it. We waved to them and then prepared for settlement of the issue at the “Hump.”

16 Up to this time, the engines had operated continuously at cruising revolutions. Now Balchen opened them full throttle, and the Ford girded its loins for the long, fighting pull over the “Hump.” We rose steadily. We were then about 60 miles north of the western portal of Axel Heiberg, and holding our course steadily on meridian 163° 45′ W. with the sun compass.

17 I watched the altimeters, of which there were two in the navigation department. The fingers marched with little jumps across the face of the dial–3,000 feet; 3,500; 4,000; 4,500. The Ford had her toes in and was climbing with a vast, heaving effort.

18 Drawing nearer, we had edged 30° to the west of south, to bring not only Axel Heiberg but also Liv Glacier into view. This was a critical period. I was by no means certain which glacier I should choose for the ascent. I went forward and took a position behind the pilots.

19 The schemes and hopes of the next few minutes were beset by many uncertainties. Which would it be–Axel Heiberg or Liv Glacier?

20 There was this significant difference between flying and sledging: we could not pause long for decision or investigation. Minutes stood for gasoline, and gasoline was precious. The waste of so little as half an hour of fuel in a fruitless experiment might well overturn the mathematical balance on which the success of the flight depended. The execution of the plan hung on the proper choice of the route over the “Hump.”

21 Yet how well, after all, could judgment forecast the ultimate result? There were few facts on which we might base a decision. We knew, for example, from Amundsen’s report that the highest point of the pass of Axel Heiberg Glacier was 10,500 feet. We should know, in a very few minutes, after June had calculated the gasoline consumption, the weight of the plane. From that we could determine, according to the tables we had worked out and which were then before me, the approximate ceiling we should have. We should know, too, whether or not we should be able to complete the flight, other conditions being favorable.

22 These were the known elements. The unknown were burdened with equally important consequences. The structural nature of the head of the pass was of prime importance. We knew from Amundsen’s descriptions and from what we could see with our own eyes, that the pass on both sides was surrounded by towering peaks, much higher than the maximum ceiling of the heavily loaded plane. But whether the pass was wide or narrow, whether it would allow us room to maneuver in case we could not rise above it, whether it would be narrow and running with a torrent of down-pressing wind which would dash a plane, already hovering near its service ceiling to the glacier floor–these were things, naturally, we could not possibly know until the issue was directly at hand.

23 I stood beside Balchen, carefully studying the looming fortress, still wondering by what means we should attempt to carry it. With a gesture of the hand, Balchen pointed to fog vapor rising from the black rock of the foothills which were Nansen’s high priests, caused no doubt by the condensation of warm currents of air radiated from the sun-heated rocks. A thin layer of cloud seemed to cap Axel Heiberg’s pass and extended almost to Liv Glacier. But of this we were not certain. Perhaps it was the surface of the snow. If it were a cloud, then our difficulties were already upon us. Even high clouds would be resting on the floor of the uplifted plateau.

24 There was then a gamble in the decision. Doubtless a flip of the coin would have served as well. In the end, we decided to choose Liv Glacier, the unknown pass to the right which Amundsen had seen far in the distance and named after Dr. Nansen’s daughter. It seemed to be broader than Axel Heiberg, and the pass not quite so high.

25 A few minutes after 9 o’clock, we passed near the intermediate base which, of course, we could not see. Our altitude was then about 9,000 feet. At 9:15, we had the eastern portal on our left and were ready to tackle the “Hump.” We had discussed the “Hump” so often, had anticipated and maligned it so much, that now that it was in front of us and waiting in the flesh–in rock-ribbed, glacierized reality–it was like meeting an old acquaintance. But we approached it warily and respectfully, climbing steadily all the while with maximum power, to get a better view of its none-too-friendly visage.

26 June, wholly unaffected by the immediate perplexities, went about his job of getting the plane fighting trim, less heavy. He ripped open the last of the fuel cans and poured the contents into the main tank. The empty tins he dropped overboard, through the trapdoor. Every tin weighed two pounds, and every pound dropped was to our gain. June examined the gauges of the five wing tanks, then measured with a graduated stick the amount of fuel in the main tank. He jotted the figures on a pad, made a few calculations, and handed me the results. Consumption had thus far averaged between 55 and 60 gallons per hour. It had taken us longer to reach the mountains than we had expected, owing to head winds. However, the extra fuel taken aboard just before we left had absorbed this loss, and we actually had a credit balance. We then had enough gasoline to take us to the Pole and back.

27 With that doubt disposed of, we went at the “Hump” confidently.

28 We were still rising, and the engines were pulling wonderfully well. The wind was about abeam and, according to my calculations, not materially affecting the speed.

29 The glacier floor rose sharply, in a series of ice falls and terraces, some of which were well above the (then) altitude of the plane. These glacial waterfalls, some of which were from 200 to 400 feet high, seemed more beautiful than any precipitous stream I have ever seen. Beautiful yes–but how rudely and with what finality they would deal with steel and duralumin that crashed into them at 100 miles per hour.

30 Now the stream of air pouring down the pass roughened perceptibly. The great wing shivered and teetered as it balanced itself against the changing pressures. The wind from the left flowed against Fisher’s steep flanks, and the constant, hammering bumps made footing uncertain in the plane. But McKinley steadily trained his 50-pound camera on the mountains to the left. The uncertainties of load and ceiling were not his concern. His only concern was photographs–photographs over which students and geographers pore in the calm quiet of their studies.

31 The altimeters showed a height of 9,600 feet, but the figure was not necessarily exact. Nevertheless, there were indications we were near the service ceiling of the plane.

32 The roughness of the air increased and became so violent that we were forced to swing slightly to the left, in search of calmer air. This brought us over a frightfully crevassed slope which ran up and toward Mount Nansen. We thus escaped the turbulent swirl about Fisher, but the down-surging currents here damped our climb. To the left, we had the “blind” mountain glacier of Nansen in full view; and when we looked ahead we saw the plateau–a smooth, level plain of snow between Nansen and Fisher. The pass rose up to meet it.

33 In the center of the pass was a massive outcropping of snow-covered rocks, resembling an island, which protruded above and separated the descending stream of ice. Perhaps it was a peak or the highest eminence of a ridge connecting Fisher and Nansen which had managed through the ages to hold its head above the glacial torrent pouring down from the plateau. But its particular structure or relationship was of small import then. I watched it only with reference to the climb of the plane; and realized, with some disgust and more consternation, that the nose of the plane, in spite of the fact that Balchen had steepened the angle of attack, did not rise materially above the outcropping. We were still climbing, but at a rapidly diminishing rate of speed. In the rarefied air, the heavy plane responded to the controls with marked sluggishness. There is a vast difference between the plane of 1928 and the plane of 1937.

34 It was an awesome thing, creeping (so it seemed) through the narrow pass, with the black walls of Nansen and Fisher on either side, higher than the level of the wings, and watching the nose of the ship bob up and down across the face of that chunk of rock. It would move up, then slide down. Then move up, and fall off again. For perhaps a minute or two, we deferred the decision, but there was no escaping it. If we were to risk a passage through the pass, we needed greater maneuverability than we had at that moment. Once we entered the pass, there would be no retreat. It offered no room for turn. If power was lost momentarily or if the air became excessively rough, we could only go ahead or down. We had to climb, and there was only one way in which we could climb.

35 June, anticipating the command, already had his hand on the dump valve of the main tank. A pressure of the fingers–that was all that was necessary–and in two minutes, 600 gallons of gasoline would gush out. I signaled to wait.

36 Balchen held to the climb almost to the edge of a stall. But it was clear to both of us that he could not hold it long enough. Balchen began to yell and gesticulate, and it was hard to catch the words in the roar of the engines echoing from the cliffs on either side. But the meaning was manifest. “Overboard–overboard–200 pounds!”

37 Which would it be–gasoline or food?

38 If gasoline, I thought, we might as well stop there and turn back. We could never get back to the base from the Pole. If food, the lives of all of us would be jeopardized in the event of a forced landing. Was that fair to McKinley, Balchen, and June? It really took only a moment to reach the decision. The Pole, after all, was our objective. I knew the character of the three men. McKinley, in fact, had already hauled one of the food bags to the trapdoor. It weighed 125 pounds.

39 The brown bag was pushed out and fell, spinning, to the glacier. The improvement in the flying qualities of the plane was noticeable. It took another breath and resumed the climb.

40 Now the down-currents over Nansen became stronger. The plane trembled and rose and fell, as if struck bodily. We veered a trifle to the right, searching for helpful, rising eddies. Balchen was flying shrewdly. He maintained flight at a sufficient distance below the absolute ceiling of the plane to retain at all times enough maneuverability to make him master of the ship. But he was hard pressed by circumstances, and I realized that, unless the plane was further lightened, the final thrust might bring us perilously close to the end of our reserve.

41 “More,” Bernt shouted. “Another bag.”

42 McKinley shoved a second bag through the trapdoor, and this time we saw it hit the glacier, and scatter in a soundless explosion. Two hundred and fifty pounds of food–enough to feed four men for a month–lay strewn on the barren ice.

43 The sacrifice swung the scales. The plane literally rose with a jump, the engines dug in, and we soon showed a gain in altitude of anywhere from 300 to 400 feet. It was what we wanted. We should clear the pass with about 500 feet to spare. Balchen gave a shout of joy. It was just as well. We could dump no more food. There was nothing left to dump except McKinley’s camera. I am sure that, had he been asked to put it overboard, he would have done so instantly; and I am equally sure he would have followed the precious instrument with his own body.

44 The next few minutes dragged. We moved at a speed of 77 nautical miles per hour through the pass, with the black walls of Nansen on our left. The wing gradually lifted above them. The floor of the plateau stretched in a white immensity to the south. We were over the dreaded “Hump” at last. The Pole lay dead ahead over the horizon, less than 300 miles away. It was then about 9:45 o’clock (I did not note the exact time. There were other things to think about).

45 Gaining the plateau, we studied the situation a moment and then shifted course to the southward. Nansen’s enormous towering ridge, lipped by the plateau, shoved its heavily broken sides into the sky. A whole chain of mountains began to parade across the eastern horizon. How high they are I cannot say, but surely some of them must be around 14,000 feet, to stand so boldly above the rim of the 10,000 foot plateau. Peak on peak, ridge on ridge, draped in snow garments which brilliantly reflected the sun, they extended in a solid array to the southeast. But can one really say they ran in that direction? The lines of direction are so bent in this region that 150 miles farther on, even were they to continue in the same general straight line, they must run north of east. This is what happens near the Pole.

46 We laid our line of flight on the 171st meridian.

47 Our altitude was then between 10,500 and 11,000 feet. We were “riding” the engines, conscious of the fact that if one should fail we must come down. Once the starboard engine did sputter a bit, and Balchen nosed down while June rushed to the fuel valves. But it was nothing; to conserve fuel, Balchen had “leaned” the mixture too much. A quick adjustment corrected the fault; and, in a moment, the engine took up its steady rhythm. Moments like this one make a pioneering flight anything but dull; one moment everything is lovely, and the next is full of foreboding.

48 From time to time, June “spelled” Balchen at the controls, and Balchen would walk back to the cabin, flexing his cramped muscles. There was little thought of food for any of us–a beef sandwich, stiff as a board from frost, and tea and coffee from a thermos bottle. It was difficult to believe that two decades or so before the most resolute men who had ever attempted to carry a remote objective, Scott and Shackleton, had plodded over this same plateau, a few miles each day, with hunger, fierce, unrelenting hunger, stalking them every step of the way.

49 Between 11:30 and 12:30, the mountains to the eastward began to disappear, dropping imperceptibly out of view, one after another. Not long after 12:30, the whole range had retreated from vision, and the plateau met the horizon in an indefinite line. The mountains to the right had long since disappeared.

50 The air finally turned smooth. At 12:38, I shot the sun. It hung, a ball of fire, just beyond south to the east, 21° above the horizon. So it was quite low, and we stared it in the eye. The sight gave me an approximate line of latitude, which placed us very near our position as calculated by dead reckoning. That dead reckoning and astronomy should check so closely was very encouraging. The position line placed us at Lat. 89° 4 ½’ S., or 55 ½ miles from the Pole. A short time later, we reached an altitude of 11,000 feet. According to Amundsen’s records, the plateau, which had risen to 10,300 feet, descended here to 9,600 feet. We were, therefore, about 1,400 feet above the plateau.

51 So the Pole was actually in sight. But I could not yet spare it so much as a glance. Chronometers, drift indicators, and compasses are hard taskmasters.

52 Relieved by June, Balchen came aft and reported that visibility was not as good as it had been. Clouds were gathering on the horizon off the port bow, and a storm, Balchen thought, was in the air. A storm was the last thing we wanted to meet on the plateau on the way back. It would be difficult enough to pass the Queen Maud Range in bright sunlight; in thick weather, it would be suicidal. Conditions, however, were merely unpromising: not really bad, simply not good. If worse came to worst, we decided we could out-race the clouds to the mountains.

53 At six minutes after one, a sight of the sun put us a few miles ahead of our dead reckoning position. We were quite close now. At 1:14 Greenwich mean time, our calculations showed that we were at the Pole.

54 I opened the trapdoor and dropped over the calculated position of the Pole the small flag which was weighted with the stone from Bennett’s grave. Stone and flag plunged down together. The flag had been advanced 1,500 miles farther south than it had ever been advanced by any American or American expedition.

55 For a few seconds, we stood over the spot where Amundsen had stood, December 14th, 1911, and where Scott had also stood, thirty-four days later, reading the note which Amundsen had left for him. In their honor, the flags of their countries were again carried over the Pole. There was nothing now to mark that scene: only a white desolation and solitude disturbed by the sound of our engines. The Pole lay in the center of a limitless plain. To the right, which is to say to the eastward, the horizon was covered with clouds. If mountains lay there, as some geologists believe, they were concealed, and we had no hint of them.

56 And that, in brief, is all there is to tell about the South Pole. One gets there, and that is about all there is for the telling. It is the effort to get there that counts.

* * * *
Sunday, Dec. 1

57 . . . Well, it’s done. We have seen the Pole. McKinley, Balchen, and June have delivered the goods. They took the Pole in their stride, neatly, expeditiously, and undismayedly. If I had searched the world, I doubt if I could have found a better team. Theirs was the actual doing. But there is not a man in this camp who did not assist in the preparation for the flight. Whatever merit accrues to the accomplishment must be shared with them.



By: Kimberly