Fridtjof Nansen - Farthest North (Vol. 1&2)

A warm corner among the walruses, off East Taimur

( By Otto Sinding )

We now continued our course, against a strong current, southward along the coast, past the mouth of the Chatanga. This eastern part of the Taimur Peninsula is a comparatively high, mountainous region, but with a lower level stretch between the mountains and the sea—apparently the same kind of low land we had seen along the coast almost the whole way. As the sea seemed to be tolerably open and free from ice, we made several attempts to shorten our course by leaving the coast and striking across for the mouth of the Olenek; but every time thick ice drove us back to our channel by the land.

On September 14th we were off the land lying between the Chatanga and the Anabara. This also was fairly high, mountainous country, with a low strip by the sea. “In this respect,” so I write in my diary, “this whole coast reminds one very much of Jæderen, in Norway. But the mountains here are not so well separated, and are considerably lower than those farther north. The sea is unpleasantly shallow; at one time during the night we had only 4 fathoms, and were obliged to put back some distance. We have ice outside, quite close; but yet there is a sufficient fairway to let us push on eastward.”

The following day we got into good, open water, but shallow—never more than 6 to 7 fathoms. We heard the roaring of waves to the east, so there must certainly be open water in that direction, which indeed we had expected. It was plain that the Lena, with its masses of warm water, was beginning to assert its influence. The sea here was browner, and showed signs of some mixture of muddy river-water. It was also much less salt.

“It would be foolish,” I write in my diary for this day (September 15th), “to go in to the Olenek, now that we are so late. Even if there were no danger from shoals, it would cost us too much time—probably a year. Besides, it is by no means sure that the Fram can get in there at all; it would be a very tiresome business if she went aground in these waters. No doubt we should be very much the better of a few more dogs, but to lose a year is too much; we shall rather head straight east for the New Siberian Islands, now that there is a good opportunity, and really bright prospects.

“The ice here puzzles me a good deal. How in the world is it not swept northward by the current, which, according to my calculations, ought to set north from this coast, and which indeed we ourselves have felt. And it is such hard, thick ice—has the appearance of being several years old. Does it come from the eastward, or does it lie and grind round here in the sea between the ‘north-going’ current of the Lena and the Taimur Peninsula? I cannot tell yet, but anyhow it is different from the thin, one-year-old ice we have seen until now in the Kara Sea and west of Cape Chelyuskin.

“Saturday, September 16th. We are keeping a northwesterly course (by compass) through open water, and have got pretty well north, but see no ice, and the air is dark to the northward. Mild weather, and water comparatively warm, as high as 35° Fahr. We have the current against us, and are always considerably west of our reckoning. Several flocks of eider-duck were seen in the course of the day. We ought to have land to the north of us; can it be that which is keeping back the ice?”

Next day we met ice, and had to hold a little to the south to keep clear of it; and I began to fear that we should not be able to get as far as I had hoped. But in my notes for the following day (Monday, September 18th) I read: “A splendid day. Shaped our course northward, to the west of Bielkoff Island. Open sea; good wind from the west; good progress. Weather clear, and we had a little sunshine in the afternoon. Now the decisive moment approaches. At 12.15 shaped our course north to east (by compass). Now it is to be proved if my theory, on which the whole expedition is based, is correct—if we are to find a little north from here a north-flowing current. So far everything is better than I had expected. We are in latitude 75½° N., and have still open water and dark sky to the north and west. In the evening there was ice-light ahead and on the starboard bow. About seven I thought that I could see ice, which, however, rose so regularly that it more resembled land, but it was too dark to see distinctly. It seemed as if it might be Bielkoff Island, and a big light spot farther to the east might even be the reflection from the snow-covered Kotelnoi. I should have liked to run in here, partly to see a little of this interesting island, and partly to inspect the stores which we knew had been deposited for us here by the friendly care of Baron von Toll; but time was precious, and to the north the sea seemed to lie open to us. Prospects were bright, and we sailed steadily northward, wondering what the morrow would bring—disappointment or hope? If all went well we should reach Sannikoff Land—that, as yet, untrodden ground.

“It was a strange feeling to be sailing away north in the dark night to unknown lands, over an open, rolling sea, where no ship, no boat had been before. We might have been hundreds of miles away in more southerly waters, the air was so mild for September in this latitude.

Plate II.

Sleepy and Cross, 12th September 1893. Pastel Sketch.

“Tuesday, September 19th. I have never had such a splendid sail. On to the north, steadily north, with a good wind, as fast as steam and sail can take us, and open sea mile after mile, watch after watch, through these unknown regions, always clearer and clearer of ice one might almost say! How long will this last? The eye always turns to the northward as one paces the bridge. It is gazing into the future. But there is always the same dark sky ahead, which means open sea. My plan was standing its test. It seemed as if luck had been on our side ever since the 6th of September. We see ‘nothing but clean water,’ as Henriksen answered from the crow’s-nest when I called up to him. When he was standing at the wheel later in the morning, and I was on the bridge, he suddenly said: ‘They little think at home in Norway just now that we are sailing straight for the Pole in clear water.’ ‘No, they don’t believe we have got so far.’ And I shouldn’t have believed it myself if any one had prophesied it to me a fortnight ago; but true it is. All my reflections and inferences on the subject had led me to expect open water for a good way farther north; but it is seldom that one’s inspirations turn out to be so correct. No ice-light in any direction, not even now in the evening. We saw no land the whole day; but we had fog and thick weather all morning and forenoon, so that we were still going at half-speed, as we were afraid of coming suddenly on something. Now we are almost in 77° north latitude. How long is it to go on? I have said all along that I should be glad if we reached 78°; but Sverdrup is less easily satisfied; he says over 80°—perhaps 84°, 85°. He even talks seriously of the open Polar Sea, which he once read about; he always comes back upon it, in spite of my laughing at him.

“I have almost to ask myself if this is not a dream. One must have gone against the stream to know what it means to go with the stream. As it was on the Greenland expedition, so it is here.

“ ‘Dort ward der Traum zur Wirklichkeit,

Hier wird die Wirklichkeit zum Traum!’

“Hardly any life visible here. Saw an auk or black guillemot to-day, and later a sea-gull in the distance. When I was hauling up a bucket of water in the evening to wash the deck I noticed that it was sparkling with phosphorescence. One could almost have imagined one’s self to be in the south.