Thursday, February 4, 2010
4 February, 1911
Camp Six. 8AM.
We covered 10 miles last night. We had good moonlight and soft surfaces gave way to hard ones, which was easier on the ponies. The sky looks threatening to the south; I think we're in for a blizzard.
Camp 6. 8PM.
It is blowing a blizzard. Nothing to do but lie here.
The deep, dreamless sleep that follows the long march and the satisfying supper.
The surface crust which breaks with a snap and sinks with a snap, startling men and animals.
A dog must be either eating , asleep, or interested. His eagerness to snatch at interest, to chain his attention to something, is almost pathetic. The monotony of marching kills him.
This is the fearfullest difficulty for the dog driver on a snow plain without leading marks or objects in sight. The dog is almost human in its demand for living interest, yet fatally less than human in its ability to foresee.
The dog lives for the day, the hour, even the moment. The human being can live and support discomfort for a future.
I wonder if Amundsen has dogs, and how many. I wonder where he might be.