I’m reading a very long book right now, and so it’ll be a while yet before I have a review ready. Instead I share the picture above.
This photo was taken way back in the last century, in June of 1994. That young, thin, dark-bearded figure on the ship’s bridge is your obedient servant. The ship is the Fram, the arctic exploration vessel designed for Fridtjof Nansen and later used by Roald Amundsen as well. It’s in a museum all its own in Oslo, not far from the Viking Ship Museum. When I reviewed Nansen’s book Farthest North in January, almost a year ago, I vaguely remembered having this picture, and looked around for it. Couldn’t find it. Today I happened to open a photo album in the basement, and there it was. So I share it with you now, to your wonder and amazement, I have no doubt.
“Fram” means “forward.” It’s Norway’s traditional motto, based on the reported war cry of St. Olaf’s men at the battle of Stiklestad: “Forward, forward, Christ-men, cross-men, king’s men!”
This was my first trip to Norway, and I took it with my dad. My mother had died recently, and Dad proposed that we go together. “I’ll pay for the travel; you cover the rest of your own costs,” he said. Couldn’t say no to that. That was when I first met my relatives over there. It was the first of five delightful journeys.
Busy with translation today, but I was finished in the afternoon. I think there might have been more work available if I’d asked, but I’m busy with meetings tomorrow (volunteer stuff, of course), so I couldn’t commit. This is the first project I’ve done involving a certain new technology. I don’t think I’ll tell you what that technology is, because you have no Need To Know. Enough to say it might someday put me out of work entirely. For that reason I, for one, welcome our new android overlords. Me good human; not make trouble.
Seems odd not to have anything to write about Fridtjof Nansen today. But come to think of it, I do. Leftover thoughts, musings, and pharisaisms out of a long read.
I find it odd how the world judged Nansen vs. Roald Amundsen in terms of their dogs. Nansen and his companion Johansen, as I mentioned in the review, killed their sled dogs on their trek home, feeding them to the other dogs. Amundsen and his men, on his South Pole expedition, ate their dogs themselves (it was an emergency). But Nansen was hailed as a hero, with little mention of the dogs, while Amundsen came in for a lot of criticism for his canophagia (probably not a real word, but a quick web search didn’t produce a scientific term, so I improvised). I can only assume it was the eating, not the killing, that people objected to. In those days, killing dogs in itself wasn’t much of an issue in the public mind.
On a related issue, something I read once had given me the impression that Nansen’s distant treatment of Johansen after their return may have contributed to Johansen’s eventual depression and suicide. However, on further reading, I find that Nansen was a prince to the guy compared to Amundsen, who kicked him off the South Pole expedition and expunged his name from all reports.
It should also be noted that Johansen had a drinking problem, which probably didn’t help.
“In the flaming aurora borealis, the spirit of space hovers over the frozen waters. The soul bows down before the majesty of night and death.”
The great ordeal is over. I have finished reading Fridtjof Nansen’s Farthest North (okay, I skipped the final chapter, where Captain Otto Sverdrup finishes the ship Fram’s voyage, after Nansen and his companion have left on their own trek, kind of equivalent to an untethered space walk. Enough is enough). Although the book was interesting and vivid, the sheer length of the thing – along with the pain and discomfort involved in much of the adventure – made it feel as I’d been on the expedition myself. And I’m no outdoorsman.
I’ve been aboard Nansen’s ship Fram. They keep it in a museum in Oslo, near the Viking Ship Museum. So sturdy is the old tub that they permit tourists to clamber aboard and poke around in the cabins (I call it a “tub” advisedly, for reasons I’ll explain). I was looking around yesterday for a picture of me on board, to post here, but I don’t seem to have had one taken. I’d just seen the Viking ships for the first time, and that was about all I could think about.
Nansen was a young, innovative scientist and explorer, a 19th Century rationalist. He was the arctic explorer who figured out that large, ship-borne expeditions weren’t the way to approach the North Pole. Dog teams and sleds, those were his idea (or so I understand). But his initial theory was that a current carries polar ice westward from north of Siberia, and that that current would carry a ship to the North Pole, if the ship was built properly. Fram was not built for its sailing qualities (which were poor) but for its smooth, round hull shape. He calculated that a properly constructed ship (if heavily braced within) would not be crushed by the pack ice but lifted by it. This idea proved correct. The Fram was essentially a manned buoy. It worked so well that it also served several later expeditions, including Roald Amundsen’s. Nansen’s account of the year he spent in the ice on the ship makes it sound positively “koselig” (as the Norwegians say). They seldom needed to use the stoves, and the men fretted about gaining weight.
The part of the theory that involved drifting to the Pole worked out less well. They got up to 85⁰ north latitude, but then realized they wouldn’t get any further that way. So Nansen, along with his companion Hjalmar Johansen, set off with dog sleds and skis. What followed was harrowing. The ice and snow of the ice cap proved to be extremely rugged and difficult to cross, and in time, somewhere above 86⁰ N., they gave it up. They had at least traveled further north than any human beings ever had, and that record stood a while.
Their retreat was even worse than the push north. As their supplies dwindled, they began (as planned) to kill their dogs one by one to feed to the other dogs. They often came to open water hard to cross, and faced attack from walruses and polar bears (though they got their own back, eating both whenever they could kill them). Finally the dogs and the ice pack both gave out and they took to their kayaks. They spent a miserable winter in a stone-built hut, huddled in a double sleeping bag, trying to hibernate. And at last, in the third year, they encountered an English expedition in Frans Josef Land and got passage home, national heroes.
The sheer endurance of these explorers is almost incomprehensible to a couch potato like me. Good planning prevented their suffering much from malnutrition, but they nearly worked themselves to death, shivered through storms, got dunked in subzero sea water, went months without seeing the sun, and were never entirely sure where they were. (Oddly, they gained weight, even on the final retreat, probably because of their idle winter in the hut.) The achievement is nearly unbelievable.
Readers of tender heart should be warned – many animals were harmed in the making of this story. Generally animals are killed for food (though not always), but Nansen tends to describe them in anthropomorphic terms, which makes one pity them. He seems to feel badly about it himself.
If you’re interested in arctic adventure, Farthest North is a compelling story. For this reader it was too long, but that’s just me. It’s a mark of the book’s inherent interest and good writing (decent translation, too) that I read it through pretty much to the end.
One odd point – Nansen keeps talking about “snow-shoes.” Eventually one figures out he means skis. The translator didn’t use that word because skis weren’t familiar to English speakers at that point in history.
Nansen’s ship “Fram,” frozen into the polar ice, 1893. Photo from the Fram Museum, Oslo.
It was a nice quiet weekend, just the way I like it. I continue reading Fridtjof Nansen’s interminable book on his Fram expedition. It’s not boring – I’d have dumped it if it was. But it’s suitable to its subject – grim and dark and uncomfortable. It correlates well to the weather we’re experiencing. I can’t resist tailoring tonight’s post to the pattern of his daily journal entries:
January 10, 2022: The day dawned bright and cold. I made my way to the gym again, after skipping most of last week due to my temporary attack of an unspecified ailment. I don’t believe it was Covid; the symptoms seemed wrong. But if it was, all the better; in that case I’m over it now. The temperature was -6 Fahrenheit as I drove; it reached a high of 3 above during the afternoon. Tomorrow looks to be warmer. When shall spring come? Will I live so long? Ah, for the warm zephyrs and green grass of June! It seems so far away in these dark days.
It appears most of the people at the gym are wearing masks again now. For some time they’d become rare. I’m still going barefaced. I believe the vaccine has some benefits, but I think I’ve become a mask skeptic.
At lunchtime I tried to get into Arby’s again, and again the dining room was closed, in spite of a big sign saying the room is open as a general principle. I hold no grudge; no doubt they’re doing their best to recruit workers. But once again, as has happened so often of late, I ended up at Perkins, which is nearby and where I can count on a table to sit at in comfort. The manager actually mentioned, as I paid my bill, that he’d been seeing me a lot lately. I had to confess I hadn’t set out with his restaurant in mind. Perhaps I should have let him believe he’d won a devoted fan, but that would just have left him with an illusion sure to be shattered. My meal was jumbo shrimp, which Perkins does pretty well, though I noticed the shrimp aren’t as jumbo as they used to be. Restaurant management is a tough business just now – I don’t begrudge them a few economies. The place is warm, the food is good, and the help is friendly.
This afternoon I girded up my loins and addressed a job I’d been putting off – filing and paying my Minnesota sales tax for books I unloaded during my summer adventures. I’ve never had any serious problem with the process, and yet I always approach it with fear and trembling. Great was my relief when I got the job done (online) and printed out my receipts (duplicates, because you can never be too careful). My only regret was that the money I transferred doubtless works out to sunk costs.
Yeah, that’s about the right town. Winter in Minnesota / dead reckoning trekking on an ice floe in the Arctic Ocean. Essentially the same thing.
Late posting today. I’ve been busy. Also not feeling real well. Not awful, just a little under the weather. And the work has started trickling in again, which is great. Left to my own devices, I’d probably be spending more time in bed, but money’s a good thing too.
Above is a little film about Fridtjof Nansen, about whom I posted last night. Thought it would be interesting to see him in motion, if only in old age. It feels odd to be hyping this guy, whom I don’t even like that much. Aside from his marital infidelities, he was one of those 19th Century scientific types who thought they’d figured everything out and transcended the need for God. He did some good stuff, too. But I get the sense he was always playing to the audience. In private, he felt free to be a jackass.
As do many of us.
As an aside, Fridtjof was never a common name, but it had a vogue in the late 19th and early 20th Centuries. This was due to a very popular translation of a Norse poem, which I discuss in this old post.
Fridtjof Nansen in the personal uniform he designed and wore everywhere.Olaf Trygvesson, with Nansen’s face, in Heimskringla
It’s one of those awkward moments in the course of my blogging. I’ve embarked on reading quite a long book, so I won’t have a review ready for a few days. And yet I must post something, to assuage my crippling sense of obligation. So I’ll talk about the book’s author, in general terms.
If you weigh your scoring in terms of the availability and ubiquity of various media through the course of history, you can make a strong case that Fridtjof Nansen (1861-1930) was the greatest celebrity Norway ever produced (though St. Olaf is a strong contender).
Nansen was a noted zoologist before he started doing Arctic exploration. And when he ventured into the far north, it was into terra still incognita. Nobody knew what was up there. Land? Pack ice? Open sea? These were among the things he set out to learn. And he did it in a bold, groundbreaking, hands-on way. Later, he became a diplomat (he had a lot to do with Norwegian independence from Sweden and the decision to become a monarchy). Then, as a League of Nations official entrusted with the relief of hundreds of thousands of people displaced and orphaned by World War I, he saved countless lives. Remember Young Frankenstein, where Igor breaks a jar containing the brain of “Hans Dalbruck, Scientist & Saint?” It might have been a description of Nansen, as he was perceived in the public mind.
When the artist Erik Werenskiold set out to illustrate the saga of Olaf Trygvesson in the classic edition of Heimskringla, the Sagas of the Kings of Norway, he put Nansen’s face on the ancient national hero.
But Nansen had a very dark side. When he left the ship Fram to attempt to ski to the North Pole with one companion, the two men spent four months living in close quarters, utterly dependent on one another. They became close friends. But once they returned to civilization, Nansen reasserted his rank. They’d been addressing one another with the intimate pronoun, “du” (thee). But now he went back to “de” (you), as befitted men of different social classes.
He was an international sex symbol, handsome and athletic. Wherever he traveled, the most desirable women (often married women) threw themselves at him. He did not resist, though he was a husband and a father. Eventually he commenced an affair with the wife of his neighbor, the artist Gerhard Munthe. They divorced their spouses and married one another, something Nansen’s children never forgave.
So he was no Hans Dalbruck. I remind myself, however, that I’ve been protected from fornication all my life by shyness and lack of opportunity. If I’d looked like Nansen, what would I have done? Best to contemplate the log in my own eye.
One interesting sidelight must be mentioned. In his international relief work, Nansen had a faithful right hand man, a young fellow named Vidkun Abraham Lauritz Jonsson Quisling. Quisling would later achieve dark immortality, and give us a new word for traitor, when he led the Norwegian Nazi Party during the Occupation.
