Thursday, March 17, 2011

17 March, 1912

I can only write at lunch, and then only occasionally. The cold is intense: -40 at midday. My companions are unendingly cheerful, but we are all on the verge of serious frostbites, and though we constantly talk of fetching through I don't think any one of us believes it in his heart.

We are cold on the march now, and at all times except meals. Yesterday we had to lay up for a blizzard and today we move dreadfully slowly. We are at #14 Pony Camp and are only two marches from One Ton Depot. We leave here our theodolite, a camera, and Oates' sleeping bags. Diaries etc., and geological specimens carried at Wilson's special request, will be found with us on our sledge.

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