I meant to write at the time, but forgot, that Friday was the 96th anniversary of
Roald Amundsen and his team becoming the first men to reach the true South Pole: December 14, 1911. Amundsen is my favorite polar explorer, though I must acknowledge that it's an inherited preference; my grandmother taught me to love him and Ernest Shackleton, and rather to scorn that great romantic hero,
Robert Falcon Scott, for his quixotic stupidity.
Amundsen was supremely intelligent. He was the first explorer of Antarctica, for example, to use black tents, which both relieved his men's eyes and made the home base easier to spot. But he was daring as well, an attribute usually ascribed to Scott and Shackleton, those two quintessential Englishmen, and not to the Norwegian. When he learned that Nansen had already laid claim to the North Pole, Amundsen turned his ship 180 degrees and sailed south
without telling anybody. His death, too, proved his courage; when two men came to his house to enlist his aid on a dangerous rescue mission, he turned the book he had been reading face down and stood up, ready to leave that instant. The plane they took disappeared, but for me, at any rate, his mortal acts live on.