Wednesday, December 8, 2010

8 December, 1911

Camp 30. Still.

Hoped against hope for better conditions, to wake to the mournfullest snow and wind as usual. After breakfast, we set about digging out the sledges, no light task. We then shifted our tent sites. All tents had been reduces to the smallest volume by the gradual pressure of the snow. The old sites are deep pits with hollowed-in wet centers. The wind has dropped.

Alas, as I write, the sun has disappeared and snow is again falling. Our case is growing desperate. Evans and his manhaulers tried to pul la load this afternoon; they managed to move a sledge with four people on it, pulling on ski.  Pulling on foot they sank to the knees. The snow is terribly deep. We tried Nobby but he plunged to his belly in it.

Wilson thinks the ponies finished, but Oates thinks they could do another march in spite of the surface, but only if it comes tomorrow. If not, we must kill the ponies tomorrow and get on as best we can with men on ski and dogs. One wonders what dogs can do on such a surface. I much fear they will also prove inadequate. Oh! For fine weather.

Everything disgustingly wet.


The temperature is falling. We might get off tomorrow! The poor ponies look wistfully for the food of which so little remains, yet they are not hungry, as recent savings have resulted from food left in their nosebags. They look wonderfully fit, all things considered.

1 comment:

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