Sunday, January 16, 2011

16 January, 1912

Camp 68

The worst has happened, or nearly the worst.

We marched well in the morning and covered 7 1/2 miles. Noon showed us Latitude 89 degrees, 42 minutes south, and we started off in high spirits in the afternoon, feeling that tomorrow would see us at our destination. About the second hour of the march Bowers' sharp eyes detected what he thought was a cairn; he was uneasy about it, but argued that it must be sastrugus. Half an hour later he detected a black speck ahead. Soon we knew that this could not be a natural snow feature. We marched on, found that it was a black flag tied to a sledge bearer; near by the remains of a camp; sledge tracks and ski tracks going and coming and the clear trace of dog's paws—many dogs.

This told us the whole story.

The Norwegians have forestalled us and are first at the Pole.

It is a terrible disappointment and I am very sorry for my loyal companions. Many thoughts come and much discussion have we had. Tomorrow we must march on to the Pole and then hasten home with all the speed we can compass. All the day dreams must go; it will be a wearisome return. We are descending in altitude—certainly also the Norwegians found an easy way up.

I can't think of a single thing to say.

No comments:

Post a Comment