Cautionary Tales with Tim Harford - South Pole Race: “Mummy, is Amundsen a good man?”

Episode Date: July 29, 2022

Roald Amundsen beat Captain Scott to the South Pole. The Norwegian - using dog sleds and skis - made it look easy... fun, even. He was heading home to safety, while the British party - hauling sleds by hand - were struggling to survive out on the ice. In this case, to the victor went a spoiled reputation. The British grumbled that Amundsen had somehow cheated, or had at least behaved in an underhand manner. These stinging accusations would haunt the adventurer until the day he died in the polar wastes. For a full list of sources go to timharford.comSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

The headquarter of the Royal Geographical Society is a grand building in the heart of Victorian London amidst palaces in the Royal Albert Hall. The society was founded in 1830 and became an icon of Britain's scientific and imperial ambitions. And to Ronald Amundsen, the invitation to visit the Royal Geographical Society for a lecture and banquet late in 1912, well, it must have felt like an invitation from Sauron to come and have a picnic in Mordor. This cautionary tale is part 2 of a 3-part story. If you've listened to part 1, you'll know that the Norwegian Amonson was a brilliant adventurer. He'd astonished the world by announcing that there'd be a slight detour in his plans to explore the Arctic, he would first dash to the Antarctic, with one simple aim, being the first man to set foot on the

South Pole. His British rival, Captain Robert Falcon Scott, had also headed south with the same mission, but with other missions too. Scott was going to make maps in Antarctica and do serious science with funding from the Royal Geographical Society. He was testing out an innovation, a new kind of motorised snow sledge. He would plant the British flag symbolically at the South Pole, but not only that, he would show off British grit and courage by getting there the hard way, on foot. Amundsen had no such distractions. He wasn't going to do science or pioneer technology,

although his navigation was precise, he had no interest in making maps. That was a chore for those who would come later. Nor did he want to prove a point about endurance. Amundsen knew that a place in the history books awaited the first man to the pole, and he knew the most sensible way of getting there, on sledges, pulled by teams of dogs. In this unexpected race, Amundsen had comprehensively defeated Captain Scott and his patrons at the Royal Geographical Society. He returned triumphant in March 1912, leaving behind him an Antarctica cut off by the southern winter. Nobody even knew if Scott or any of his companions were alive or dead. When the society invited Amonson to tell his story, he could hardly refuse. He'd wounded his host's pride, he knew, but their respect his achievement, wouldn't they?

After the lecture, the banquet. The society's president, Lord Kursan, stood to give the after-dinner speech. I almost wish that in our tribute of admiration we could include those wonderful, good-tempered, fascinating, dogs. The true friends of man, without who Captain Ammonson would never have got to the pole. With that, Lord Kursan raised his glass and turned to look down on Ammonson. I therefore propose three cheers for the dogs. Ammonson felt like he'd been slapped across the face, his blood began to boil. I'm Tim Harvard, and you're listening to caution retails. A year earlier, life had seemed simpler out there on the ice. Amundsen's team certainly faced challenges, but each challenge was overcome with something closer to exhilaration and endurance.

For example, the cruel range of mountains stood in his way, a brutal obstacle for both Amunson and Scott. Scott slogged grimly up, demonstrating British dubbiness. But as Amunson and his team explored the snow-clad slopes, they almost seemed to be on a skiing holiday. I made all the preparations for an elegant telemarked turn. A telemarked turn allows a skier to turn sharply. The technique was invented in the Norwegian town of Telemark.

But I went head over heels brilliantly. I was on my feet again with surprising speed and shuffled over to Biala. Bialand was a former Norwegian cross-country skiing champion, one of the best skiers in the world. He was from Telomark. I am not sure if he saw me tumble. However, I collected myself after the unfortunate exhibition and he undoubtedly believed that I managed the Telomark.

At any rate, he was tactful enough to give that impression. You see what I mean? Fun! There's nothing like this in the diaries of the British Navy captain Scott and his companions. There's courage and adversity, some gallows humour, soulful conversations late at night in the tent, but goofing around on fresh powder? No. Poured overcast, gloomy, slowly. Our spirits became very low.

That's Scott, expressing how a journey to the South Pole is supposed to feel. Amundsen was having none of it, even when facing the most treacherous terrain and the most perilous dangerous. The wildness of the landscape from above is indescribable. Pit after pit, crevice after crevice, and huge ice blocks scattered, helter-skelter. It was not without satisfaction that we surveyed the scene. Our tent in the middle of this chaos, gave us a feeling of strength and power. This was supposed to be the worst journey in the world, but Amundsen was loving it. Last episode, I framed the race between Amundsen and Scott as a battle between David and Goliath.

Scott, like Goliath, was weighed down, sluggish, and unable to focus. But what about David? David was brave and skillful, but neither of those qualities really account for David's victory. David won because he decided he didn't want to play by Goliath's rules. Goliath expected an epic duel of champions. In fact, everybody expected that on both sides. But David decided instead to do it the easy way by using a sling. Slings are highly effective weapons and with Goliath's open-faced helmet, he had no protection against a bone-crushing sling shot

right between the eyes. When David picked up some smooth pebbles to slip into his bag, his fellow Israelites would have understood, oh, David's playing by his own rules, and he's probably going to win. One of the most famous moments in cinema is in Raiders of the Lost Ark. In front of a crowd of onlookers, our hero, Indiana Jones,

faces off against the terrifying swordsman with an enormous symmetry. With a look of irritation, the bulls out of pistol and shoots the guy. And before his foe has even hit the floor, Indy has turned his back to get on with his next challenge. The scene caused a sensation because we all know that's not how the story is supposed to go. There's supposed to be an epic battle. In fact, an epic battle was in the original script, but with the lead actor Harrison Ford feeling unwell and the filming running behind schedule, they came

up with a shortcut. That unforgettable scene is the best depiction we have of what the battle between David and Goliath might actually have seemed like. Indy had a gun. David had a sling. Both were powerful weapons that could drop a heavily armed opponent from a safe distance. The question wasn't whether they would work. The question was whether our supposed hero would be so outrageous as to use a missile weapon in what was supposed to be hand-to-hand combat. Amundsen, like David and like Indiana Jones, didn't want to play the game Goliath's way. He brought a metaphorical sling,

and he knew exactly how to use it. And if some people thought it was unfair, that was their problem. So yes, Amundsen was very good at what he did, just like David, but skill wasn't his only advantage. His real edge was his ruthlessness. He wasn't going to play the game like British rules, and if the British didn't like that, he didn't care. At least, he thought he didn't care.

he didn't care. In his lecture to the Royal Geographical Society, Amundsen described how he'd won his David and Goliath battle with Captain Scots' far bigger, better-funded expedition. It was simple, really. It'd taken almost 100 dogs, who were perfectly adapted to the cold conditions, along with a small team of highly skilled skiers. They prepared supply depots every 10 miles, marking them with lines of flags planted every half mile. The small flags were just as they had been left, standing out beautifully against the white background. Amundson stored lots of supplies, as it later turned out, 10 times more per man

than Scott. He set aside plenty of spares of equipment and instruments. His men expended less physical energy than Scott's team, which meant that they sweated less. And you really don't want to sweat in the Antarctic because it turns to ice in your clothes. Amunson covered more ground per day than Scott, in much less time, leaving plenty of leeway to rest and recover. With his dog-fought sledges, Amunson could travel in conditions that pinned Scott down in his tent. For example, during one storm in early December, Scott wrote in his diary,

one cannot see the next tent let alone the land. I doubt if any party could travel in such weather. Certainly no one could travel a gaitstit. Couldn't they? At that very moment, Amundsen was moving through the same blizzard. It has been an unpleasant day, but we have advanced 13 miles closer to our goal. Of course, nobody in the audience

at the Royal Geographical Society knew yet how unremittingly grim it had all been for Scott. His diaries would be discovered only later. For now, they were just hearing how straightforward Amanson had found it. Scott's wife Kathleen, or was she his widow, sat discreetly up in the balcony. Amundsen's speech was plucky and modest, but dull and of a dullness. And that's the problem with winning like David, or Indiana Jones.

Epic battles make for great stories. Quick and easy victories, not so much. Amundsen had thought that merely being first to the pole would bring him the glory he craved. He hadn't understood that there was a deeper, more important objective, to come back with an interesting and admirable tale to tell. After the break, Goliath's friends complained that David has cheated. When Captain Scott's two-year-old son, Peter Markham Scott, heard about Amundsen's victory over his father, Peter asked his mother, Kathleen, mummy, is Amundsen a good man. The British didn't think so. They

called him a cheat, a professional, certainly not a gentleman or a scientist, or a hero. Some British objections were just silly. They culminated that Amundsen was an imposter as though he was trespassing or jumping the line, or both. But the British didn't own Antarctica. There was no line to jump. There were stronger grounds for complaining about Ammonstson's deception. He had told the world he was sailing north, but he had long been intending to sail south. He revealed his true plans at the last possible moment after both expeditions had already set sail. Scott was almost in Antarctica when he received the notoriously brief telegram.

I'm going south. Amunzen. That was crafty, but was it shameful? The last minute revelation was viewed with some bitterness by the British. Here's Scott's companion, absolutely cherry-garard. Nothing makes a more unpleasant impression than a faint. And here's the diary of birdie-bowers, as he trudged miserably towards the south pole alongside Captain Scott.

Amanson has probably reached the pole by now. I hope he has not, as I regard him as a sneaking, backhanded ruffian. But another of Scott's team, Captain Oats, just shrugged. In a letter to a friend, he wrote, bloody norskies coming down South as a bit of a shock. They say Amanson has been underhand in the way he's gone about it, but personally, I don't see it as underhand to keep your mouth shut. As so often, Oats was a realist.

Amanson was under no obligation to explain his plans in public. But I do think some moments must have troubled Amonson's conscience. He accepted £100 from the Royal Geographical Society to help fund his expedition, more than $10,000 in today's terms. But they gave him that funding because they believed he was heading to the Arctic, rather than racing their own man's scott to the South Pole. Captain Oats had said of Ammonston, I don't see it as underhand to keep your mouth shut, but Ammonston wasn't keeping his mouth shut. He poured a stream of plausible lies into the ears of journalists, explaining all the

details of his plans to explore the North Pole of Asim. He lied to others too, the Norwegian Parliament, the Norwegian King, and his own mentor Fritjof Nansen, who ship he was borrowing. He was even lying to his own crew. Amundsen's lives were fueled by desperation. He'd already secured some funding to go north when two American explorers, Frederick Cook and Robert Peary, both claimed to have reached the North Pole. That put Ammonson in a pinch. Going north felt pointless, and his backers had lost enthusiasm

now that race seemed to be over. But few backers would give him money to go south either. Not with the world's eyes on the formidable British expedition of Captain Scott. He decided that he would borrow heavily and head south in secret, using money already pledged for a northern expedition. If he succeeded in his south pole coup, all would be forgiven. If he succeeded in his South Pole coup, all would be forgiven. Only when Ammonson was out of reach of his creditors did he tell his own crew that they were heading to the South Pole, as I said, ruthless. And there was one deception that occurred three months before his secret departure to

Antarctica. In March 1910, Amundson was at home in Cristiana, modern-day Oslo. He received a call from the concierge of a hotel downtown. Amundson? Captain Robert Falken Scott was in Cristiana too. He'd visited Norway to supervise trials of his motorized sledges and hit purchased 50 pairs of skis and even hired a Norwegian ski instructor. Now, he wanted to arrange to meet Amundsen. Amundsen cringed. I see. This wasn't a surprise.

Scott had written to suggest a meeting, so they could coordinate their scientific work. Ammonson in the north and Scott in the south. Scott, of course, never suspected for a moment that Ammonson was planning to race him to the south pole. Please tell Captain Scott that Ammonson is unfortunately unavailable. Ammonson's legendary courage failed him. He couldn't look Scott in the eye and tell him the truth, and he couldn't light his face

either. And so, he hid. For decades, British children were taught that Amunson had cheated. That's not true. Polar exploration has had its share of cheats, but Amunson wasn't one of them. Amunson's journey to the pole was brave and brilliant. Yet he left some casualties behind him, such as truth, trust, and 89 faithful dogs. Amanson regarded those dogs as tools, to be cherished, to be treated well, but to be discarded without sentiment when they had outlived their usefulness. Ammonson bought a hundred dogs for his expedition and most of them arrived safely at his base camp.

He set out for the pole with 52, but at a single camp, about two-thirds of the way to the pole, Ammonson and his men shot and skinned 27 dogs to provide a store of food for those who remained. Shot now followed shot. It sounded gruesome over the wastes. A faithful servant lost his life with each shot. There was something oppressive, miserable in the air. We called the place the butcher's shop. But he didn't hesitate. And by the time he left Antarctica, only

eleven dogs had survived. Still, to win as the long shot outside her, you can't afford to be squeamish. Amunson's ruthless choices paid off handsomely. His final victory when it came seemed effortless. Here he is approaching the pole, heading into the wind at a temperature of nearly minus 20 degrees Fahrenheit. A little cool to go against with our sore faces, but nothing to make a song about. There was no great outpouring of emotion

when he reached the pole. It was all very matter of fact. So we arrived and were able to plant our flag at the geographical south pole. Helga, one of the favourite dogs, had all but collapsed. He had been almost dragged in harness the last few miles to the pole to die with the honour of a goal achieved. After eating Helga, the other dogs basked in the sun. The men spent four days at the pole, measuring the sun as it spanned in a circle around their heads, making sure of their position. It was a time

to relax, they smoked cigars. Amunson's team rearranged their ever lighter provisions. Amunson left a letter for Scott, and some spare supplies in case Scott could use them. And then, Amunson took a last, fateful decision. He pondered leaving Scott some extra fuel, and then decided against it. For some time I debated with myself whether or not to leave behind two five gallant drums of oil I did not expect to need. In the end, I did not leave the oil. It's hard to blame Amanson for being cautious. The Antarctic is unpredictable.

He didn't expect to need the oil, but he might. Anyway, Scott and his well-funded expedition couldn't possibly need one or two extra cans. Could he? And then, without realizing quite what a way to decision he had made, Amundson and his men headed north. It was time to go. Two sledges remained and sixteen dogs. Bjarlham, the great skier, no longer drove a sledge. Instead, he was to lead, the dogs chasing him all the way across the plateau towards home.

They were in a hurry, not for lack of food and fuel, they had more than enough, and not because of the cold, but for fear that Scott might somehow reach the pole, then overtake them on the way home. Ammonson couldn't have known quite how far behind Scott was, nor that the Norwegians were travelling twice as fast as the British. They tore across the snow, led by a champion, rations being increased as they made progress, and Amundsen became more confident of his margin of safety. Even better was the descent from the plateau bound to warmer temperatures and richer air. The small teams soon reached 30 miles a day. Their final sprint for home was pure joy.

And perhaps one of the last times rolled It was a full year before the news arrived from Antarctica that Robert Falcon Scott and the men who had led to the South Pole were all dead. Their bodies had been found, along with Scott's diary, giving a lyrical account of the struggle and the courage and their calm acceptance of death. and cannot be far. It seems a pity, but I do not think I can write more." When Amunson first heard the news, interrupting a hectic schedule of lectures and celebrity appearances, he was incredulous. I am unwilling to believe the report is true. I was reported to have perished, so was Shackleton, but soon the weight of it hit him. Horrible. Horrible.

I would gladly forego any honour or money, if thereby I could have saved Scott his terrible death. Ammonson must have remembered the fuel can he'd pondered leaving for Scott at the south pole. But Scott was to haunt Ammonson's reputation as well as his conscience. The British had been looking for a hero and now they'd found one. Ammonson's calm matter-of-fact account of his success was eclipsed by Scott's epic description of his failure. Ammonson had won the race to the pole.

Scott, in death, was winning the race to become a legend. Ammonson started to realize that he made a serious mistake. He'd made his achievement look too easy. Amundsen had led the first team to navigate the Northwest Passage, then the first team to reach the South Pole, but he couldn't settle for a quiet, comfortable retirement. He had accumulated debts, financial debts,

and a debt of obligation to the explorer Fritchoff Nansen, who'd lent him a ship after Amanson promised to use it for scientific work in the Arctic, only to see Amanson dash for the South Pole. He had also accumulated enemies. In 1918, six years after returning from the South Pole, Amundsen bought a new ship and tried to please Nansen by navigating the northeast passage between Russia and the North Pole. It was a grim, seven-year voyage, in which Amundsen broke his shoulder, was mauled by a polar bear, and eventually left the command of the ship to someone else.

At the end of the expedition, Amunson's creditors seized the ship. Amunson, by then, looked prematurely aged. In one famous photograph, he looks like a grizzled 70-year-old, but it was taken in 1923 when he was only 50. One account described him as distinguished but somehow a little decayed. Amundson's dog-sledging skills were already obsolete, but he was determined to stay relevant. Having left his crew behind attempting the northeast passage, he hatched a new, expensive plan. To be the first man to fly to the North Pole. It did not go well. There were setbacks and embarrassing crashes.

His debts were mounting still further. He fell out with his financial manager, his brother, Leon. They stopped speaking. He declared himself bankrupt, despite being advised not to. The Norwegian press increasingly treated Amundsen as a fallen hero. Some said he was a coward, others a madman, and others claimed he had no real plan to fly to the North Pole. The crashes were deliberate,

part of a publicity-seeking hoax. I have so terribly few friends, he wrote to one of the few who remained, he had even less money. In 1924, Amundsen visited New York to try to raise funds for more polar flights. All seemed lost, until a gentleman named Lincoln Ellsworth appeared at Amonson's hotel. Ellsworth was a young adventurer, desperate to attach himself to Amonson's fame and experience. But Ellsworth was also the heir to a fortune. That meant he could solve Amonsson's all-to-apparent

money problems. In his room at the Waldorf, I frequently heard a mysterious rustling of paper on the floor, Ellsworth recalled. Another caught summons for Ammonson being slayed under the door. Ellsworth put up the money to keep Amundsen flying. Together, they flew towards the North Pole and had to make an emergency landing on the ice cap. The rest of the world gave them up for dead. But they were desperately hacking ice and shoveling snow near a runway to take off again. Three weeks later, they flew back to civilization. Amanson was back from the dead. It was a sensational return to the spotlight.

The year afterwards, Amanson and Ellsworth flew to the North Pole in an airship with the Italian aviator Umberto Nobile. Ammonson had been to the North Pole, the South Pole, through the Northwest passage, and through the Northeast passage. Surely his legacy was assured. And yet, Ammonson still needed money. And he still felt bitter. Having fallen out with his brother, Leon, he also fell out with fellow adventurer, Umburto Nubile. He wrote a memoir, My Life as an Explorer,

which tried to settle old scores and simply reopened old wounds. His young friend, Lincoln Ellsworth, defended him. He was like a child whose confidence has been betrayed so often that it finally trusts nobody. So he's encased himself in a shell of ice. But, added Ellsworth, if you knew him well, nobody was warm-hearted. Maybe. But there was nothing warm-ed about the Sour Memoir. Many of Ammonston's rivals and former friends found themselves injured by his words. At the Royal Geographical Society, there was outwrench when Ammonston recounted the story

about the society's president, Lord Kurson, proposing three cheers for the dogs. "'It never happened,' said the society. Captain Ammonson must be mistaken, and he should apologize.' Captain Ammonson's secretary responded that Ammonson would never forget the gross insult, and he would neither withdraw his remarks nor apologize for them. Amanson caused such a storm that Norwegians had to distance themselves from him.

Good relations between Norway and Britain couldn't be jeopardized. His old mentor, Nansen, was now a statesman and winner of the Nobel Peace Prize, but Nansen took the step of writing to the Royal Geographical Society to explain that Amunsen was not of sound mind. It's a bitter irony. Robert Falcon Scott, defeated and dead, was viewed as one of Britain's greatest heroes. Rolled Amundsen, victorious and very much alive, was now being accused by the Norwegian establishment of having lost his mind. But perhaps we shouldn't be surprised.

Amundsen's skill and ruthlessness had brought him brilliant success, but that same ruthlessness had helped to isolate him. It was at this moment in his life, ostracized and financially distressed that Ammonson received word that an airship had crashed over the Arctic ice, stranding his former friend and colleague Umberto Noble, who was radiating for help. Amunson was asked by a journalist whether he would assist in the airborne search for Noble at once, he declared.

He really had no business flying out again over the Arctic. There were at least 20 other teams trying to find Noble and Amunson was getting old. He didn't have a robust enough plane, but perhaps it was the last chance to remind people that he wasn't a madman, but a hero. Or the last chance to win what might be the final Polar race. Before he left, he told a journalist, Before he left, he told a journalist, Ah, if you only knew how splendid it is up there in the north, that's where I want to die, and I wish only the death would come to me chivalrously, that it will find me

during the execution of some great deed, quickly, and without suffering. And so, on Monday, June 18, 1928, Amundsen and his crew took off in a sea plane from the northern reaches of Norway, looking for Noble. They never returned. This is the second part in a three-part series about Amundsen, Scott and the race to the South Pole. In the third part, I try to unlock a mystery which explains why Scott's expedition unraveled so catastrophically, which points to a much bigger question. What happens when we discover new knowledge

and then lose faith in it? For a full list of our sources, see timhalford.com Corsinary tales is written by me Tim Haford with Andrew Wright. It's produced by Ryan Dilly with support from Courtney Garino and Emily Vaughn. The sound design and original music is the work of Pascal Weiss. It features the voice talents of Ben Crow, Melanie Gutridge, Stella Haafard and Rufus Wright. The show also wouldn't have been possible without the work of Mia Label, Jacob Weisberg, Heather Fane, John Schnarrs, Julia Barton, Carly McGleory, Eric Sandler, Royston Besserv,

Maggie Taylor, Nicole Marano, Daniel LeCarn and Maya Caning. Corsairry Tales is a production of Cushkin Industries. If you like the show, please remember to share, rate and review, tell a friend, tell two friends, and if you want to hear the show ads-free and listen to four exclusive Corsairry Tales shorts, then sign up for Pushkin Plus on the show page in Apple Podcasts or at Pushkin.fm-plus.