The ponies are tiring pretty rapidly. It's a question of days with all except Nobby. Yet they are outlasting the forage, and tonight against some opinion, I decided Christopher must go. He has been shot. I don't regret seeing him go, either, all the trouble he gave us. Oates had a time of it killing him too. Well, he was his pony. But the first bullet lodged in his head, he bolted, and had to be chased down. An awful business. I better not mention that in my book.
We leave a depot here so no other weight is put on the remaining ponies. Three more marches ought to bring us through. With the seven crocks and dog teams, we must get through I think. The men alone ought not to have heavy loads on the surface, which is extremely trying.
We tried Nobby in snow shoes this morning, and he came along splendidly for about 4 miles, then the wretched affairs racked and had to be taken off. There is no doubt that these shoes are the thing for ponies, and had ours been able to use them from the beginning they would have been very different. I like to think the sight of land has helped the animals, but not much. I've been observing rocks.
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