True North Read online

  For George Plimpton,

  who suggested this story of polar exploration

  for a new generation of readers

  “The Pole discovery is peopled with human romance:

  it is part of the epic of man.”

  —LINCOLN STEFFENS

  CONTENTS

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  PART ONE MEN OF DESTINY

  CHAPTER 1 Call of the Northland

  CHAPTER 2 North Greenland Expedition

  CHAPTER 3 Arctic Tenderfoots

  CHAPTER 4 Death on a Glacier

  CHAPTER 5 Ruled with an Iron Hand

  CHAPTER 6 The Snow Baby

  CHAPTER 7 “Polar Summer Resort”

  CHAPTER 8 Bounty Hunting

  CHAPTER 9 Destination Antarctica

  CHAPTER 10 The Ice Man

  CHAPTER 11 Roof of the Continent

  CHAPTER 12 Farthest North

  PART TWO TO THE POLE

  CHAPTER 13 “A Crazy Hunger”

  CHAPTER 14 “I Shall Win This Time”

  CHAPTER 15 Polar Quest

  CHAPTER 16 “Forward! March!”

  CHAPTER 17 “I Have Reached the Pole”

  CHAPTER 18 “Nailed to the Pole”

  CHAPTER 19 Seized by a “Heartsickness”

  Aftermath

  Source Notes

  Bibliography

  Index

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  EARLY IN the twentieth century, an international dispute raged over the discovery of the geographic North Pole, the most prized jewel in the crown of human exploration and a goal sought for nearly four hundred years. Following a rancorous public debate that spilled across the front pages of newspapers everywhere, the issue was largely resolved in favor of one American explorer over another, although each claimed to have been the first at the top of the world, where all meridians of longitude meet and the only direction is south.

  In the decades since, strong opinions have developed in some quarters that history got it wrong. According to this revisionist analysis, U.S. Navy civil engineer Robert E. Peary, universally credited with having discovered the North Pole on his final attempt, was untruthful about the distances covered on his “dash to the Pole” and never reached it at all; and the discredited claim of physician Frederick A. Cook to have beaten Peary to the Pole by a year has been accorded increased legitimacy because his detailed descriptions of the North Pole—the first ever published—have been verified by later explorers. If his claim is true, a grave injustice was inflicted upon Cook, who before the great polar controversy bore a reputation as impeccable as that of any explorer of his time, but who ended up being widely debunked and labeled a charlatan.

  The controversy has outlasted both men. Today, there are still individuals and groups claiming expertise in polar affairs who are highly partisan in their support of one claimant over the other, on the basis of available information and evidence—scientific, circumstantial, and psychological.

  Peary and Cook began as companions drawn by adventure and glory; they ended as bitter rivals. Their desperate efforts to attain the Pole, and, upon their return from the Far North, their equally desperate efforts to secure their place in history were once hailed by journalist Lincoln Steffens as “the story of the century.” That was a different century, of course, but it remains an extraordinary tale.

  THE NORTH POLE IS DISCOVERED

  BY DR. FREDERICK A. COOK

  NEW YORK HERALD

  SEPTEMBER 2, 1909

  PEARY DISCOVERS THE NORTH POLE

  AFTER EIGHT TRIALS IN 23 YEARS

  NEW YORK TIMES

  SEPTEMBER 7, 1909

  PROLOGUE

  1909

  A PHYSICIAN FROM Brooklyn and two young native hunters from a northern Greenland tribe, who together had survived the longest dog sledge journey in history and thereafter spent the meanest of winters hunkered down in an ice cave like Stone Age dwellers, were again staring death in the face. Not heard from for more than a year, they had in some circles been given up as lost, and no search parties were looking for them.

  On the final leg of an arduous return journey begun the preceding year, the men had been trekking for weeks up the desolate eastern shores of Ellesmere Island in an effort to reach what served as civilization in these latitudes: Greenland’s western coast, where food and shelter were to be found.

  When they had emerged from their forced hibernation in mid-February, they fought through one storm after another coming off Jones Sound in the Cape Sparbo region. After each storm passed, they encountered ice tumbled into mountainous barriers, which they could skirt only by cutting through tremendous snow drifts, often while fighting gales that made them stagger like drunkards. Even in the long march northward the preceding spring, they had not experienced such difficult travel. Pulling a single sledge strapped to their shoulders because they no longer had dogs, they lightened the load by disposing of unneeded clothing and equipment.

  The Arctic was slowly awakening from its long winter night, which at this high latitude meant six months of no direct sunlight and freezing storms, during which temperatures plunged as low as minus fifty degrees Fahrenheit. On their weeks-long trek under skies that had slowly lightened, they saw no living things on the ice to hunt, no seals or walrus or hare, no beefy musk oxen, not even a lone seabird headed elsewhere. They were at the top of the food chain with no signs of life beneath them.

  When the last of their provisions were gone, they began eating things not normally considered food. Half of a wax candle and three cups of hot water were served for one meal. Sections of a walrus hide used as a slicker were cut up, boiled, and eaten for several days; although difficult to masticate and causing a few broken teeth, the hide, while it lasted, eased their voracious hunger. Next they cooked and consumed lengths of walrus line.

  As subzero winds cut gashes in the exposed skin of their faces, they trudged onward, every fiber of their weakened bodies quivering with cold and hunger. The exertion fueled by limited sustenance caused them to shrivel; under their furs, they were walking skeletons.

  On March 20, they discovered that they were not alone. In the twilight illumination that turned the ice an eerie gray, they gathered silently around the tracks in fresh snow of a bear many times larger than a man. They knew about the white semiaquatic bear found throughout the Arctic region. The physician could recite the scientific name, Ursus maritimus, for “sea bear.” To the Eskimos* it was Nanuk, whom native hunters considered the most prized of all the animals they traditionally hunted. An adult male weighed as much as 1,600 pounds, stood six feet at the shoulders, and grew to eight feet in length. Rising upright on its rear legs, as it did when threatened, it soared to an imposing twelve feet or higher. Bears were often found alone on the drifting ice in the spring and summer, swimming from one chunk of ice to the other, feasting on seals they usually caught on the ice. The Eskimos considered the bear a great lonely roamer, possessing wisdom as well as strength. In addition to being an able swimmer, the polar bear was a capable traveler on solid surfaces, with black footpads on the bottom of foot-long paws that gripped for traction. On the ice, the bear moved with surprising swiftness, able to gallop as fast as a horse for short distances. Shy by nature, it was dangerous when confronted, and stalked its prey before racing in for the kill that few escaped. In lean times, it subsisted on seaweed and grass but was carnivorous by nature, with a taste for seals, birds, and caribou. Although only the females hibernated, while the males remained active during the winter, come spring all “sea bears” were lean and h
ungry, eager to get on with the eating. Their favored first course: newborn seal pups found cavorting on the ice in early spring. Polar bears had a powerful sense of smell and, when hungry, were known to stalk humans.

  The tracks were fresh, meaning that the bear was still in the area and would have little trouble picking up their scent. As yet, they had seen no seals, adults or babies. The bear probably had no better luck. Nanuk would be famished.

  It was a sign of the gravity of their predicament that the lurking presence of such a predator registered on the men not as a threat but as an opportunity. Here was a potential food source, but first they would have to do battle with Ursus maritimus, the biggest, strongest, and most terrifying of all Arctic creatures.

  That evening, they prepared for the coming of the bear. Their plan was to make their prey believe it was the hunter, and not the hunted. A snowhouse was built with blocks of ice cut from the hard-pack surface; there was a peephole on each side and a narrow entryway at one end from which the men might escape or make an attack. On the outside, they built a low shelf upon which they draped remnants of skin and fur, arranged to resemble a recumbent seal on the ice pack. Over this, they rigged a looped line, through which the bear would have to place its head to reach the bait. Arranged on the ground were other looped lines. The end of each line was secured to solid ice. The men sharpened their lances and knives, then went into the snowhouse. One remained on watch while the other two tried to sleep.

  They did not have long to wait. First came an ominous crackling sound made by a large creature advancing on the ice and snow. Through the peephole, they saw the little black nose held high—most of the bear’s bulk was awash in the whitish background. Then the beady eyes, large head, and extended neck came into focus as the bear approached in slow, measured steps, sniffing the ground toward the furs.

  From the men’s crouched position, the bear appeared gigantic. Apparently every bit as hungry as the men and without fear, it came straight for the bait. The two natives crept to the entryway, one with a lance and the other with a spiked harpoon shaft, ready to jump out and do battle.

  Inside the snowhouse, the doctor jerked the line and the loop tightened around the bear’s neck. Another line was yanked, catching a front paw as the bear reared angrily. Within moments, the lance and the spike were driven home into the growling creature, and a fierce struggle began.

  When it had become apparent the preceding fall that they would be trapped by winter, the doctor had taken his last four cartridges and hidden them away. The Eskimos knew nothing of them, believing that their ammunition had been expended. These cartridges the doctor intended to use at the last stage of hunger to kill something—perhaps even themselves if their suffering proved too great.

  The doctor took one of the cartridges from his pocket, loaded the large-bore, single-shot rifle, and raced outside. He tossed the weapon to one of the hunters, who turned toward the flailing bear and fired at point-blank range. The bear fell, mortally wounded, and the ice shook beneath their feet.

  The animal was quickly skinned. Before the butchering began in earnest, the natives hung up the skin atop the snowhouse, carefully laying it out in a lifelike pose. According to legend, the spirit of a dead polar bear that was properly treated by a hunter would share the good news with other bears. The animals would then be eager to be killed by such men, making future hunts successful.

  Thick steaks were sliced off the thighs, and, with no thought given to cooking or boiling the meat, the steaming flesh was devoured. More was passed around with bloodied hands until each man had his fill. They then slept, radiating with the inner warmth of full stomachs. When they awoke, they ate again.

  They now had an abundance of food, and if they stayed where they were, by the time they ran low, the seals should be out on the ice in great numbers. The men could then continue their march, hunting along the way to supply their needs. After enduring so much hunger, they were tempted to travel with the promise of adequate nourishment. Yet they had to weigh that benefit against the ice conditions they would be facing as spring turned into early summer.

  Situated squarely between them and salvation in Greenland was Smith Sound, thirty miles at its narrowest stretch between Cape Sabine and Annoatok. Their present position south of Cape Sabine prevented a crossing, because the ice in the sound had begun breaking up with the sun’s return, and they no longer were hauling the canvas boat they had used last summer to cross gaps of open water known as leads. To make Greenland on foot meant heading farther north along the Ellesmere coast toward the expanse of Kane Basin, where they hoped to find the sea ice solid enough to be traversed on foot. The loop north before heading eastward could add two hundred miles—and several weeks—to their journey, but in this they had no choice.

  If they stayed put and waited for abundant game, their fate would be tied to a dangerous race with warmer weather, which could open up so many leads in Kane Basin as to make a crossing without a boat impossible. The onset of fall and an early winter could find them stranded on the Ellesmere shore.

  These life-and-death issues weighed heavily on the doctor. The Eskimos were not plagued by any doubt: with Greenland so close, it must be reached at all costs. The doctor decided to honor their well-honed instincts for survival. After more gluttonous eating, the three men set out again, taking with them all the frozen bear meat they could carry.

  A new world of trouble soon found them. Unrelenting storms, mountains of ice, fresh snow up to their waists, vicious winds, and impassable snowdrifts impeded their progress and lengthened their course by forcing them to zigzag repeatedly. They reached Cape Sabine after great exertion and long delays, and their food supply was once again exhausted.

  Starvation was no stranger to this region, the scene of one of the most tragic incidents in the history of Arctic exploration. In 1881, twenty-four American soldiers, newcomers to the Arctic, set out under the command of U.S. Army Lieutenant Adolphus Greely to conduct scientific observations on the remote northwest coast of Ellesmere. Two years later, after resupply ships failed to arrive, their situation became bleak and the ragtag band retreated south. Following weeks of travel—much of it spent drifting aimlessly on the ice pack of Kane Basin—they made Cape Sabine before being halted by winter. As the weeks passed and food ran out, men began to die. The survivors subsisted on leather from their boots, bits of moss scraped from the rocks, and, eventually, the flesh of their fallen comrades. Alone or in small groups, hungry men—hunting knives in hand—visited the ridge above their camp, where the corpses were piled like logs, and partook of haunting meals that kept them alive. By the time a rescue ship arrived in summer, eighteen men had perished. The six survivors included the leader, Greely, who came under criticism for weak leadership, although poor planning, bad weather, and a lack of sufficient financial and logistical support from the government contributed to the disaster.

  Passing through the area, the three travelers grew solemn as they came across human remains, dug up and picked clean by foxes, wolves, and ravens. The two hunters determined that the dead were from their own tribe. Some of the sordid details Cook already knew, but from his companions, Etukishook and Ahwelah, he heard more about the tragic deaths of their people in 1901.

  Under a telltale pile of rocks marking a food cache, the carcass of an old seal was found in an oil-soaked bag. It had been caught the year before and placed here by Panikpa, father of Etukishook. Also in the cache was a crude hieroglyphic drawing telling of a loving father’s futile search for his lost son and two companions. The meat, along with a pound of salt, had been left as an offering. Eating some now and saving the remainder, they portioned out the salt and eventually devoured every edible part of the seal—meat, blubber, skin—even though it was so rotten that it had the aroma of Limburger cheese.

  Heartened at finding the cache, they took it as a good omen.

  They pushed farther north, along Bache Peninsula t
o near Cape Louis Napoleon. Under the ascending sun, soon to offer around-the-clock daylight, nature’s incubator had begun to hatch the young of various species; seals, foxes, and bears all experienced the newness of life on the sun-kissed ice cap.

  Northern Greenland, home for the natives and the first stepping-stone to home for the doctor, never seemed nearer. Yet they were separated from it by much open water, so they continued north. With the sun upon them and the ice breaking up and the sea beginning to breathe after its winter lock, they still dared to dream they would find a way across.

  After two days of hard travel, they found good ice. Turning southeast, they headed back toward the native settlement of Annoatok, which they had overshot because they had been forced so far north. On the back end of the loop their course had taken, they were able to angle toward their destination over steep icy hummocks and through pockets of deep snow.

  Inevitably, they would come to open water, which necessitated more detours. When they had eaten all the frozen seal and found nothing to hunt, they began to eat other things again—even their shoelaces and pieces of their boots. On their southward course, they came upon a tall icy ridge. By then, they had so little energy that they had to scramble up it on their hands and knees. At the top, they recognized—not more than a mile away—Annoatok, whence they had departed on their journey a year earlier.

  The weary ice men stood weakly and waved, gaunt, dark figures arrayed in rags of fur. Silhouetted against the white backdrop, they were recognized from afar as men in trouble, and dog sledges were dispatched. The three men awaited rescue, huddled together, too exhausted to show any outward signs of joy, although their hearts were beating wildly.

  As the sledges pulled up, the dog drivers let out hoots of recognition. Because of their long absence, the three men had been presumed to have perished, and those who saw them could not believe their eyes. The men who had returned from the dead were sights to behold: half human, half beast, rail thin, stringy hair down to their shoulders, and covered with a grounded-in grime that would take more than one immersion in hot water to cleanse.