Wednesday, December 8, 2010

6 December, 1911

Camp 30. Noon.

Miserable, utterly miserable.

We have camped in the "Slough of Despond." The tempest rages with unabated violence.  The temperature has gone to +33, so everything in the tent is soaking. People returning from the outside look exactly as though they have been in a heavy shower of rain. They drip pools on the floorcloth. The snow is steadily climbing about walls, ponies, tents and sledges. The ponies look utterly desolate. Oh! But this is too crushing, and we are only 12 miles from the Glacier. A hopeless feeling descends on one and is hard to fight off. What immense patience is needed for such occasions!


At 5 the skies cleared a bit but it is still overcast. It is not pleasant, but if no worse in the morning we can get away at last. We are very very wet.

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