Scott's Last Blog

Kathleen's Letter

2011-03-31T10:38:00.000-04:00

Scott will not get this letter from Kathleen:

174 Buckingham Palace Road  October 8 1912

To think that you will get this in quite a reasonably few months! Last night I had a party! To show your films at the tiny theatre of the Gaumont Co, very elect indeed!!! It houses 24 people & I'll tell you who they were, & will you please say I'm a good wife!

There was Lord Curzon & Prince Louis of Battenberg & his princess & his son, & Sir Francis and Lady Bridgeman & Sir George & Lady Egerton & Mrs McKenna (an excitement in the House of Commons prevented Mr McKenna & Winston Churchill coming, the latter sent a nice telegram) and Sir Henry Clissold & Gertrude Bell & Leonard Darwin & Mr Longstaff & Willy and Ettie & the Baroness Erlenger & Sir Henry Galway & Admiral Parry Cust and Mr Newell and Peter!!

Don't you think that was a nice party, & everybody was so thrilled. They are the most wonderful thing I ever saw, the ones in the tent are so splendid. Sir George Egerton was so excited he could scarcely contain himself, & Prince Louis hopped about & asked questions. I got Ponting to come & introduced him to everyone & made a great fuss of him & was ever so elated.

It really was lovely, & Peter was so adorable & sensible. He said 'The motor sledge' — can't imagine how he knew. It is the first time in his life he has been up after 6.30 & he was out till 11.30 & this morning looks fitter than ever, apparently he is like his mother & thrives on dissipation!

I'm going to have another little show on Sat. afternoon, the Gaumont people love it & I think it does good. They are so wonderful.

Lambie dear, there's another thing I want to impress upon you — I don't know whether you have just heard the Amundsen news or whether you learnt it at the Pole (neither bear thinking of) but I want to tell you with six months knowledge of it upon one that it matters very very little — so far less than one thought at first — indeed in some respects it has done good for it has laid great stress on the differences of the two ventures & the greater scientific importance of yours is percolating in to the public mind in a manner it never would have done had not contrast been shown — upon my word I don't think it has made a scrap of difference. I couldn't have believed it would matter so little.

Of course everybody says he didn't play the game, but I can make myself see another point of view — If a man is doing anything that only one man can do — be the first man to invent anything, first man to find gold, first man to perform some long thought of operation etc etc galore. Anything wherein the main shout is in being first he does not perhaps apprise all the people working along the same lines as his progress and intents, and yet no one thinks his gains ill gotten — It is only a point of view.

Oh my darling how I love you and long to talk with you and know that you are content. You're not going to let the little Amundsen pinprick (upon my word it's no more) worry you, are you? It looked huge when it first met the eye and has now dwindled into nothing.

You are loved and respected in England in a way that makes me very happy. To see your little face in the Cinematograph last night, almost like a stranger after all these years, and your dear toes when you took off your socks then to feel that in a few short months —!

Don't ever be sad, my darling, life is ever so glorious. I'm so happy everybody is so nice to me for your sake I like to know and our little home's so nice and my work prospers and I'm so well and Peter so magnificent & you're coming home to us.

Message To The Public

2011-03-30T11:48:00.000-04:00

MESSAGE TO THE PUBLIC

The causes of the disaster are not due to faulty organisation, but to misfortune in all risks which had to be undertaken.

1. The loss of pony transport in March 1911 obliged me to start later than I had intended, and obliged the limits of stuff transported to be narrowed.

2. The weather throughout the outward journey, and especially the long gale in 83º S., stopped us.

3. The soft snow in lower reaches of glacier again reduced pace.

We fought these untoward events with a will and conquered, but it cut into our provision reserve.

Every detail of our food supplies, clothing and depôts made on the interior ice-sheet and over that long stretch of 700 miles to the Pole and back, worked out to perfection. The advance party would have returned to the glacier in fine form and with surplus of food, but for the astonishing failure of the man whom we had least expected to fail. Edgar Evans was thought the strongest man of the party.

The Beardmore Glacier is not difficult in fine weather, but on our return we did not get a single completely fine day; this with a sick companion enormously increased our anxieties.

 As I have said elsewhere we got into frightfully rough ice and Edgar Evans received a concussion of the brain – he died a natural death, but left us a shaken party with the season unduly advanced.

But all the facts above enumerated were as nothing to the surprise which awaited us on the Barrier. I maintain that our arrangements for returning were quite adequate, and that no one in the world would have expected the temperatures and surfaces which we encountered at this time of the year. On the summit in lat. 85º 86º we had -20º, -30º. On the Barrier in lat. 82º, 10,000 feet lower, we had -30º in the day, -47º at night pretty regularly, with continuous head wind during our day marches. It is clear that these circumstances come on very suddenly, and our wreck is certainly due to this sudden advent of severe weather, which does not seem to have any satisfactory cause. I do not think human beings ever came through such a month as we have come through, and we should have got through in spite of the weather but for the sickening of a second companion, Captain Oates, and a shortage of fuel in our depots for which I cannot account, and finally, but for the storm which has fallen on us within 11 miles of the depot at which we hoped to secure our final supplies. Surely misfortune could scarcely have exceeded this last blow. We arrived within 11 miles of our old One Ton Camp with fuel for one last meal and food for two days. For four days we have been unable to leave the tent – the gale howling about us. We are weak, writing is difficult, but for my own sake I do not regret this journey, which has shown that Englishmen can endure hardships, help one another, and meet death with as great a fortitude as ever in the past. We took risks, we knew we took them; things have come out against us, and therefore we have no cause for complaint, but bow to the will of Providence, determined still to do our best to the last. But if we have been willing to give our lives to this enterprise, which is for the honour of our country, I appeal to our countrymen to see that those who depend on us are properly cared for.

Had we lived, I should have had a tale to tell of the hardihood, endurance, and courage of my companions which would have stirred the heart of every Englishman. These rough notes and our dead bodies must tell the tale, but surely, surely, a great rich country like ours will see that those who are dependent on us are properly provided for.

R. SCOTT.

29 March, 1912

2011-03-29T10:17:00.000-04:00

Since the 21st we have had a continuous gale from W.S.W. and S.W. We had fuel to make two cups of tea apiece and bare food for two days on the 20th. Every day we have been ready to start for our depot, 11 miles away, but outside the door of the tent it remains a scene of whirling drift. I do not think we can hope for any better things now. We shall stick it out to the end, but we are getting weaker, of course, and the end cannot be far.

It seems a pity, but I do not think I can write more.

R. Scott.

Last Entry

For God's sake look after our people.

28 March, 1912

2011-03-29T09:55:00.000-04:00

Kathleen and I

Have been writing this to Kathleen for a while now.

To my widow,

Dearest Darling – we are in a very tight corner and I have doubts of pulling through – In our short lunch hours I take advantage of a very small measure of warmth to write letters preparatory to a possible end – the first is naturally to you on whom my thought mostly dwell waking or sleeping – if anything happens to me I shall like you to know how much you have meant to me and that pleasant recollections are with me as I depart.

I should like you to take what comfort you can from these facts also – I shall not have suffered any pain but leave the world fresh from harness and full of good health and vigour – this is dictated already, when provisions come to an end we simply stop where we are within easy distance of another depot.

Therefore you must not imagine a great tragedy — we are very anxious of course and have been for weeks but in splendid physical condition and our appetites compensate for all discomfort. The cold is biting and sometimes angering but here again the hot food which drives it forth is so wonderfully enjoyable that we would scarcely be without it.

We have gone down hill a good deal since I wrote the above. Poor Titus Oates has gone — he was in a bad state — the rest of us keep going and imagine we have a chance to get through but the cold weather doesn't let up at all – we are now only 20 miles from a depot but we have very little food or fuel.

Well dear heart I want you to take the whole thing very sensibly as I am sure you will — the boy will be your comfort. I had looked forward to helping you to bring him up but it is a satisfaction to feel that he is safe with you. I think both he and you ought to be specially looked after by the country for which after all we have given our lives with something of spirit which makes for example — I am writing letters on this point in the end of this book after this. Will you send them to their various destinations?

I must write a little letter for the boy if time can be found to be read when he grows up — dearest that you know I cherish no sentimental rubbish about re marriage — when the right man comes to help you in life you ought to be your happy self again.

I hope I shall be a good memory certainly the end is nothing for you to be ashamed of and I like to think that the boy will have a good start in parentage of which he may be proud. Dear it is not easy to write because of the cold — 70 degrees below zero and nothing but the shelter of our tent.

You know I have loved you, you know my thoughts must have constantly dwelt on you and oh dear me you must know that quite the worst aspect of this situation is the thought that I shall not see you again. The inevitable must be faced — you urged me to be leader of this party and I know you felt it would be dangerous — I've taken my place throughout, haven't I?

God bless you my own darling I shall try and write more later — I go on across the back pages. Since writing the above we have got to within 11 miles of our depot with one hot meal and two days' cold food and we should have got through but have been held for four days by a frightful storm — I think the best chance has gone. We have decided not to kill ourselves but to fight it to the last for that depot but in the fighting there is a painless end so don't worry.

I have written letters on odd pages of this book — will you manage to get them sent? You see I am anxious for you and the boy's future — make the boy interested in natural history if you can, it is better than games — they encourage it at some schools — I know you will keep him out in the open air — try and make him believe in a God, it is comforting.

Oh my dear my dear what dreams I have had of his future and yet oh my girl I know you will face it stoically — your portrait and the boy's will be found in my breast and the one in the little red Morocco case given by Lady Baxter. There is a piece of the Union flag I put up at the South Pole in my private kit bag together with Amundsen's black flag and other trifles — give a small piece of the Union flag to the King and a small piece to Queen Alexandra and keep the rest a poor trophy for you!

What lots and lots I could tell you of this journey. How much better it has been than lounging in comfort at home — what tales you would have for the boy but oh what a price to pay — to forfeit the sight of your dear dear face.

Dear you will be good to the old mother. I write her a little line in this book. Also keep in with Ettie and the others — oh but you'll put on a strong face for the world — only don't be too proud to accept help for the boy's sake — he ought to have a fine career and do something in the world.

I haven't time to write to Sir Clements — tell him I thought much of him and never regretted him putting me in command of the Discovery.

27 March, 1912

2011-03-28T19:34:00.000-04:00

Letter to my Mother, Hannah Scott:

My Own Darling Mother,

The Great God has called me and I fear it will add a fearful blow to the heavy ones that have fallen on you in life. But take comfort that I die in peace with the world and I myself am not afraid—not perhaps believing in all that you hold so splendidly, but still believing there is a God—a merciful God. I wish I could remember that I had been a better son to you, but I think you will know that you were always very much in my heart, and that I strove to put you into more comfortable circumstances....

For myself I not unhappy, but for Kathleen, you and the rest of my family my heart is very sore.

Your ever loving son,
Con

26 March, 1912

2011-03-28T18:26:00.000-04:00

Henry Robertson "Birdie" Bowers

Letter to Birdie's mother:

My Dear Mrs. Bowers,

I am afraid this will reach you after one of the heaviest blows of your life.

I write when we are very near the end of our journey, and I am finishing it in company with two gallant, noble gentlemen. One of these is your son. He had come to be one of my closest and soundest friends, and I appreciate his wonderful upright nature, his ability and energy. As the troubles have thickened his dauntless spirit ever shone brighter and he has remained cheerful, hopeful, and indomitable to the end.

The ways of Providence are inscrutable, but there must be some reason why such a young, vigorous and promising life is taken.

My whole heart goes out in pity for you.

Yours,
R. Scott.

To the end he has talked of your and his sisters. One sees what a happy home he must have had and perhaps it is well to look back on nothing but happiness.

Birdie and Bill having a lark on the ship

25 March, 1912

2011-03-25T09:19:00.002-04:00

Edward Adrian Wilson

Letter to Oriana Wilson. Looks like Bill can't go on much more.

My Dear Mrs. Wilson,

If this letter reaches you Bill and I will have gone out together. We are very near it now and I should like you to know how splendid he was at the end—everlastingly cheerful and ready to sacrifice himself for others, never a word of blame to me for leading him into this mess. He is not suffering, luckily, at least only minor discomforts.

His eyes have a comfortable blue look of hope and his mind is peaceful with the satisfaction of his faith in regarding himself as part of the great scheme of the Almighty. I can do no more to comfort you than to tell you that he died as he lived, a brave, true man—the best of comrades and staunchest of friends.

My heart goes out to you in pity,

Yours,
R. Scott.

Oates wanted him to visit his mother if we returned and to give her his things, but he's had to write to her instead.

Here it is:

This is a sad ending to our undertaking. Your son died a very noble death, God knows. I have never seen or heard of such courage as he showed from first to last with his feet both badly frostbitten—never a word of complaint or of the pain. He was a great example. Dear Mrs. Oates, he asked me at the end, to see you and give you this diary of his—You, he told me, are the only woman he has ever loved.

24 March, 1912

2011-03-24T14:58:00.000-04:00

Letter to J. J. Kinsey, my agent in New Zealand — Christchurch

My Dear Kinsey,

I'm afraid we are pretty well done — four days of blizzard just as we were getting to the last depot. My thoughts have been with you often. You have been a brick. You will pull the expedition through, I'm sure.

My thoughts are for my wife and boy. Will you do what you can for them if the country won't.

I want the boy to have a good chance in the world, but you know the circumstances well enough.

If I knew the wife and boy were in safe keeping I should have little regret in leaving the world, for I feel that the country need not be ashamed of us — our journey has been the biggest on record, and nothing but the most exceptional hard luck at the end would have caused us to fail to return. We have been to the South Pole as we set out. God bless you and dear Mrs. Kinsey. It is good to remember you and your kindness.

Your friend,
R. Scott.

23 March, 1912

2011-03-23T09:47:00.000-04:00

Tomorrow is our only chance for Wilson and Bowers to make a dash for it. We have no fuel and only one or two rations of food left — must be near the end. Have decided it shall be natural — we shall march for the depot with or without our effects and die in our tracks.

Addendum to letter to J. M. Barrie:

We are very near the end, but have not and will not lose our good cheer. We have four days of storm in our tent and nowhere's food or fuel. We did intend to finish ourselves when things proved like this, but we have decided to die naturally in the track.

As a dying man, my dear friend, be good to my wife and child. Give the boy a chance in life if the State won't do it. He ought to have good stuff in him....I never met a man in my life whom I admired and loved more than you, but I never could show you how much your friendship meant to me, for you had much to give and I nothing.

22 March, 1912

2011-03-22T09:21:00.000-04:00

The blizzard still rages outside. Had a cup of tea. Eaking out what food remains.

21 March, 1912

2011-03-21T09:23:00.000-04:00

Today forlorn hope. The blizzard still rages. Wilson and Bowers discussing going to depot for fuel.

Nothing I can do but write letters.

This is to Vice-Admiral Sir George le Clerc Egerton, KCB:

My Dear Sir George,

I fear we have shot our bolt—but we have been to the Pole and done the longest journey on record.

I hope these letters may find their destination some day.

Subsidiary reasons for our failure to return are due to the sickness of different members of the party, but the real thing that has stopped us is the awful weather and unexpected cold towards the end of the journey.

This traverse of the Great Barrier has been quite three times as severe as any experience we had on the summit.

There is no accounting for it, but the result has thrown out my calculations, and here we are little more than 100 miles from the base and petering out.

Goodbye. Please see my widow is looked after as far as Admiralty is concerned.

R. Scott.

My kindest regards to Lady Egerton. I can never forget all your kindness.

Hardest of all are the ones to my loved ones. James Barrie (you know him from Peter Pan) is Peter's Godfather.

My Dear Barrie,

We are pegging out in a very comfortless spot. Hoping this letter may be found and sent to you, I write a word of farewell....More practically I want you to help my widow and my boy—your godson. We are showing that Englishmen can still die with a bold spirit, fighting it out to the end. It will be known that we have accomplished our object of reaching the Pole, and that we have done everything possible, even to sacrificing ourselves in order to save sick companions, I think this makes an example for Englishmen of the future, and that the country ought to help those who are left behind to mourn us. I leave my poor girl and your godson, Wilson leaves a widow, and Edgar Evans also a widow in humble circumstances. Do what you can to get their claims recognized. Goodbye. I am not at all afraid of the end, but sad to miss many a humble pleasure which I had planned for the future on our long marches. I may not have proved a great explorer, but we have done the greatest march ever made and come very near to great success. Goodbye, my dear friend,

Yours,
R. Scott.

W are in a desperate state, feet frozen, etc. No fuel and a long way from food, but it would do your heart good to be in our tent, to hear our songs and the cheery conversation as to what we will do when we get to Hut Point.

20 March, 1912

2011-03-20T13:43:00.001-04:00

Yesterday afternoon we did another 4 miles which has brought us to this spot, 11 miles from One Ton Depot. Here we have sat all day while a blizzard has raged outside. The sun does not come up over the horizon now, with ever decreasing periods of daylight. It is very dim in the tent.

I have been taking the opportunity of our being held up to write letters. Here's one I wrote to our Expedition Treasurer, The Right Honorable Sir Edgar Speyer on March 16.

My Dear Sir Edgar,

I hope this may reach you. I fear we must go and that it leaves the Expedition in a bad muddle. But we have been to the Pole and we shall die like gentlemen. I regret only for the women we leave behind.

I thank you a thousand times for your help and support and your generous kindness. If this diary is found it will show how we stuck by our dying companions and fought the thing out well to the end. I think this will show that the Spirit of pluck and the power to endure has not passed out of our race....

Wilson, the best fellow that ever stepped, has sacrificed himself again and again to the sick men of the party....

I write to many friends hoping the letters will reach them some time after we are found next year.

We very nearly came through, and it's a pity to have missed it, but lately I have felt that we have overshot our mark. No one is to blame and I hope no attempt will be made to suggest that we have lacked support.

Goodbye to you and your dear kind wife.

Yours ever sincerely,

R. Scott.

And here's one to another Expedition supporter, Vice-Admiral Sir Francis Charles Bridgeman, KCVO, KCB:

My Dear Sir Francis,

I fear we have shipped up; a close shave; I am writing a few letters which I hope will be delivered some day. I want to thank you for the friendship you gave me of late years, and to tell you how extraordinarily pleasant I found it to serve under you. I want to tell you that I was not too old for this job. It was the younger men that went under first....After all we are setting a good example to our countrymen, if not by getting into a tight place, by facing it like men when we were there. We could not have come through had we neglected the sick.

Goodbye, and goodbye to dear Lady Bridgeman.

Yours ever,
R. Scott.

Excuse writing—it is -40, and has been for nigh a month.

19 March, 1912

2011-03-19T10:03:00.000-04:00

Lunch.

We camped with difficulty last night and were dreadfully cold till after our supper of cold pemmican and biscuit and a half a pannikin of cocoa cooked over the spirit. Then, contrary to expectation, we got warm and all slept well.

Today we are 15 1/2 miles from the depot and ought to get there in three days. What progress! We have two days' food but barely a day's fuel.

All our feet are getting bad—Wilson's best, my right foot worst, left all right. There is no chance to nurse one's feet till we can get hot food into us. Amputation is the least I can hope for now, but will the trouble spread? That is the serious question.

The weather doesn't give us a chance—the wind from N to NW and the temperature -40 today.

18 March, 1912

2011-03-18T13:17:00.000-04:00

Today, at lunch, we are 21 miles from the depot. Ill fortune presses, but better may come. W have had more wind and drift from ahead yesterday; had to stop marching; wind NW, force 4, temperature -35. No human being could face it, and we are worn out nearly.

My right foot has gone, nearly all the toes—two days go I was proud possessor of best feet. These are the steps of my downfall. Like an ass I mixed a small spoonful of curry powder with my melted pemmican—it gave me violent indigestion. I lay awake and in pain all night; woke and felt done on the march; foot went and I didn't know it. A very small measure of neglect and have a foot which is not pleasant to contemplate.

Bowers takes first place in condition, but there is not much to choose after all. The others are still confident of getting through—or pretend to be—I don't know!

We have the last half fill of oil in our primus and a very small quantity of spirit—this alone between us and thirst.

The wind is fair for the moment, and that is perhaps a fact to help. The mileage would have seemed ridiculously small on our outward journey.

17 March, 1912

2011-03-17T11:45:00.000-04:00

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.

16 March, 1912

2011-03-16T10:12:00.001-04:00

Tragedy all along the line.

Oates gamely struggled on a few miles yesterday afternoon, in spite of the awful nature for him. At night he was worse and we knew the end had come.

I want these facts recorded.

Oates' last thoughts were of his Mother, but immediately before he took pride in thinking that his regiment would be pleased with the bold way in which he met his death. We can testify to his bravery. He has borne intense suffering for weeks without complaint, and to the very last was able and willing to discuss outside subjects. He did not — would not — give up hope to the very end. He was a brave soul.

This was the end. He slept through the night hoping not to wake; but he woke this morning. It was blowing a blizzard. He said "I am just going outside and may be some time." He went out into the blizzard and we have not seen him since.

I take this opportunity of saying that we have stuck to our sick companions to the last. In the case of Edgar Evans, when absolutely out of food and he lay insensible, the safety of the remainder seemed to demand his abandonment, but Providence mercifully removed him at this critical moment. He died a natural death, and we did not leave him till two hours after his death.

We knew that poor Oates was walking to his death, but though we tried to dissuade him, we knew it was the act of a brave man and an English gentleman. We all hope to meet the end with a similar spirit, and assuredly the end is not far.

15 March, 1912

2011-03-15T13:33:00.000-04:00

Lunch

Poor Oates says he can't go on. He has proposed that we leave him in his sleeping bag when we move off for our afternoon march. I told him we could not do that. He must be in the most unimaginable agony, but he will join us, I think.

It is so terribly cold and looks like a blizzard.

14 March, 1912

2011-03-14T09:16:00.000-04:00

Everything wrong for us. This morning started with a southerly breeze, set sail and passed another cairn at good speed; half way, however, the wind shifted to W by S or WSW, blew through our wind clothes and into our mitts. Poor Wilson horribly cold, could not get off ski for some time. Bowers and I practically made camp, and when we got into the tent at last we were all deadly cold.

The temperature now at midday down to -43 and the wind strong. We must go on, but now the making of every camp must be more difficult and dangerous.

It must be near the end, but a pretty merciful end.

Poor Oates got it again in the foot. I shudder to think what it will be like tomorrow. It is only with greatest pains the rest of us keep off frostbites. No idea there could be temperatures like this at this time of year with such winds. Truly awful outside the tent. Must fight it out to the last biscuit, but can't reduce rations.

13 March, 1912

2011-03-13T13:16:00.000-04:00

Woke to a strong northerly wind, with -37 temperature. We couldn't face it, so remained in camp until 2. Set out on the march and did 5 1/4 miles. Wanted to march later, but we are feeling the cold badly, as the breeze never took off entirely, and as the sun sank the temperature fell.

It's taken us a long time getting supper in the dark.

12 March, 1912

2011-03-12T10:52:00.000-05:00

We did 6.9 miles yesterday, under our necessary average. Things are left pretty much the same, Oates not pulling much, and now his hands as well as feet pretty well useless.

We did 4 miles this morning in 4 hours 20 minutes — we may hope for 3 this afternoon, 7 X 6 = 42. We shall be 47 miles from the depot. I doubt if we can possibly do it. The surface remains awful, the cold intense, and our physical condition running down.

God help us! Not a breath of favorable wind for more than a week, and apparently liable to head winds at any moment.

11 March, 1912

2011-03-11T09:36:00.000-05:00

Titus Oates is very near the end, one feels. What we or he will do, God only knows.

We discussed the matter after breakfast; he is a brave and fine fellow and understands the situation, but he practically asked for advice. Nothing could be said but to urge him to march as long as he could.

One satisfactory result to the discussion: I practically ordered Wilson to hand over the means of ending our trouble to us, so that any one of us may know how to do so. Wilson had no choice between doing so and our ransacking the medicine case. We have 30 opium tabloids apiece and he is left with a tube of morphine. So far, the tragical side of our story.

The sky completely overcast when we started this morning. We could see nothing, lost the tracks, and doubtless have been swaying a good deal since —3.1 miles for the forenoon — terribly heavy dragging — expected it. Know that 6 miles is about the limit of our endurance now, if we get no help from wind or surfaces. We have 7 days' food and should be about 55 miles from One Ton Camp tonight. 6 X 7 = 42, leaving us 13 miles short of our distance, even if things get no worse.

Meanwhile the season rapidly advances.

10 March, 1912

2011-03-10T10:44:00.000-05:00

Things steadily downhill. Oates' foot worse. He has rare pluck and must know that he can never get through. He asked Wilson if he had a chance this morning, and of course Bill had to say he didn't know. In point of fact he has none. Apart from him, if he went under now, I doubt whether we could get through. With great care we might have a dog's chance, but no more.

The weather conditions are awful, and our gear gets steadily more icy and difficult to manage. At the same time of course poor Titus is the greatest handicap. He keeps us waiting in the morning until we have nearly lost the warming effect of our good breakfast, when the only wise policy is to be up and away at once; again at lunch. Poor chap! It is too pathetic to watch him; one cannot but try to cheer him up.

This morning it was calm when we breakfasted, but the wind came in as we broke camp. It rapidly grew in strength. After traveling for half an hour I saw that none of us could go on facing such conditions. We were forced to camp and are spending the rest of the day in a comfortless blizzard camp, wind quite foul.

9 March, 1912

2011-03-09T11:03:00.000-05:00

Marched up on Mt. Hooper depot. Cold comfort. Shortage on our allowance all round. I don't know that anyone is to blame. The dogs which would have been our salvation have evidently failed.

I wonder if anyone is awaiting us at One Ton Camp? I had said we were due back around this time to meet the ship.

Don't really feel like writing today.

8 March, 1912

2011-03-08T09:56:00.000-05:00

Worse and worse in the morning; poor Oates' left foot can never last out, and time over foot gear something awful. Have to wait in night foot gear for nearly an hour before I start changing, and then am generally first to be ready.

Wilson's feet giving trouble now, but this mainly because he gives so much help to others.

We did 4 1/2 miles this morning and are now 8 1/2 miles from the depot — a ridiculously small distance to feel in difficulties, yet on this surface we know we cannot equal half our old marches, and that for that effort we expend nearly double the energy. The great question is: What shall we find at the depot? If the dogs have visited it we may get along a good distance, but if there is another short allowance of fuel, God help us indeed.

We are in a very bad way, I fear, in any case.

7 March, 1912

2011-03-07T12:58:00.000-05:00

A little worse I fear. One of Oates' feet very bad this morning; he is wonderfully brave. We still talk of what we will do at home.

We only made 6 1/2 miles yesterday. This morning, in 4 1/2 hours we did just over 4 miles. We are 16 from our depot. If we only find the correct proportion of food there and this surface continues, we may get to the next depot (Mt. Hooper, 72 miles farther) but not to One Ton Camp. We hope against hope that the dogs have been to Mt. Hooper; then we might pull through. If there is a shortage of oil again we can have little hope.

One feels that for poor Oates the crisis is near, but none of us are improving, though we are wonderfully fit considering the really excessive work we are doing. We are only kept going by good food. No wind this morning till a chill northerly air came ahead. Sun bright and cairns showing up well.

I should like to keep the track to the end.

6 March, 1912

2011-03-06T10:14:00.000-05:00

Lunch.

We did a little better with help of wind yesterday afternoon, finishing 9 1/2 miles for the day, and 27 miles from the depot. But this morning things have been awful. It was warm in the night and for the first time during the journey I overslept myself by more than an hour; then we were slow with foot gear; then, pulling with all our might (for our lives) we could scarcely advance at a rate of a mile an hour; then it grew thick and three times we had to get out of harness to search for tracks. The result is something less than 3 1/2 miles for the forenoon. The sun is shining now and the wind gone.

Poor Oates is unable to pull, sits on the sledge when we are track-searching—he is wonderfully plucky, as his feet must be giving him great pain. He makes no complaint, but his spirits only come up in spurts now, and he grows more silent in the tent.

We are making a spirit lamp to try to replace the primus when our oil is exhausted.. It will be a very poor substitute and we've not got much spirit.

If we could keep up our 9-mile days we might have got within reasonable distance of the depot before running out, but nothing but a strong wind and good surface can help us now, and though we had quite a good breeze this morning, the sledge came as heavy as lead.

If we were all fit I should have hopes of getting through, but the poor Soldier has become a terrible hindrance, though he does his utmost and suffers much, I fear.

5 March, 1912

2011-03-05T09:10:00.000-05:00

Lunch

Regret to say going from bad to worse.

We got a slant of wind yesterday afternoon, and going on 5 hours we converted our wretched morning run of 3 1/2 miles into something over 9. We went to bed on a cup of cocoa and pemmican solid with the chill off. The result is telling on all, but mainly on Oates, whose feet are in a wretched condition. One swelled up tremendously last night and he is very lame this morning.

We started march on tea and pemmican as last night—we pretend to prefer the pemmican this way.

Marched for 5 hours this morning over a slightly better surface. Sledge capsized twice; we pulled on foot, covering 5 1/2 miles. We are two pony marches and 4 miles from our depot. Our fuel dreadfully low and the poor Soldier (Oates) nearly done. It I pathetic enough because we can do nothing for him; more hot food might do a little, but only a little, I fear. We none of us expected these low temperatures, and of the rest of us Wilson is feeling them most, mainly, I fear, from his self-sacrificing devotion to doctoring Oates' feet.

We cannot help each other, each has enough to do to take care of himself. We get cold on the march when the trudging is heavy, and the wind pierces our warm garments. The others, all of them, are unendingly cheerful when in the tent.

We mean to see the game through with a proper spirit, but it's tough work to be pulling harder than we ever pulled in our lives for long hours, and to feel that the progress is so slow. One can only say "God help us!" and plod on our weary way, cold and very miserable, though outwardly cheerful.

We talk of all sorts of subjects in the tent, not much of food now, since we decided to take the risk of running a full ration. We simply couldn't go hungry at this time.

4 March, 1912

2011-03-04T13:25:00.000-05:00

Lunch

Things looking very black indeed. As usual we forgot our trouble last night, got into our bags, slept splendidly on good hoosh, woke and had another, and started marching. Sun shining brightly, tracks clear, but surface covered with sandy frost-rime. All the morning we had to pull with all our strength, and in 4 1/2 hours we covered 3 1/2 miles.

Last night was overcast and thick, surface bad; this morning sun shining and surface as bad as ever. One has little to hope for except perhaps strong dry wind—an unlikely contingency at this time of the year. We are about 42 miles form the next depot and have a week's food, but only about 3 to 4 days' fuel—we are as economical of the latter as one can possibly be, and we cannot afford to save food and pull as we are pulling.

We are in a very tight place indeed, but none of us are despondent yet, or at least we preserve every semblance of good cheer, but one's heart sinks as the sledge stops dead at some sastrugi behind which the surface sand lies thickly heaped.

For the moment the temperature is on the -20 — an improvement which makes us much more comfortable, but a colder snap is bound to come again soon. I fear that Oates at least will weather such an event very poorly.

Providence to our aid!

We can expect little from man now except the possibility of extra food at the next depot. It will be real bad if we get there and find the same shortage of oil. Shall we get there? Such a short distance it would have appeared to us on the summit! I don't know what I should do if Wilson and Bowers weren't so determinedly cheerful over things.

3rd March, 1912

2011-03-03T10:43:00.001-05:00

Lunch

We picked up the track again yesterday, finding ourselves to the east. Did close on 10 miles and things looked a trifle better; but this morning the outlook is blacker than ever.

Started well with a good breeze; for an hour made good headway; then the surface grew awful beyond words. The wind drew forward; every circumstance was against us.

After 4 1/2 hours things got so bad that we camped, having covered just 4 1/2 miles. One cannot consider this a fault of our own—certainly we were pulling hard this morning—it was more than three parts surface which held us back—the wind at strongest, powerless to move the sledge. When the light is good it is easy to see the reason. The surface, lately a very good hard one, is coated with a layer of woolly crystals, formed by radiation no doubt. These are too firmly fixed to be removed by the wind and cause impossible friction on the runners.

God help us, we can't keep up this pulling, that is certain. Amongst ourselves we are unendingly cheerful, but what each man feels in his heart I can only guess.

Pulling on foot gear in the morning is getting slower and slower, therefore every day more dangerous.

2nd March, 1912

2011-03-02T10:33:00.000-05:00

Lunch.

Misfortunes rarely come singly.

We marched to the Middle Barrier depot fairly easily yesterday afternoon, and since we have suffered three distinct blows which have placed us in a bad position.

First we found a shortage of oil; with most rigid economy it can scarce carry us to the next depot on this surface (71 miles away).

Second, Titus Oates disclosed his feet, the toes showing very bad indeed, evidently bitten by the late temperatures.

The third blow came in the night, when the wind, which we had hailed with some joy, brought dark overcast weather. It fell below -40 in the night, and this morning it took 1 1/2 hours to get our foot gear on, but we got away before eight.

We lost cairn and tracks together and made as steady as we could North by West, but have seen nothing. Worse was to come—the surface is simply awful. In spite of strong wind and full sail we have only done 5 1/2 miles.

We are in a very queer street since there is no doubt we cannot do the extra marches and feel the cold horribly.

1st March, 1912

2011-03-01T11:56:00.000-05:00

Lunchtime.

Very cold last night—minimum -41.5 degrees.

Cold start to the march, too, as usual now. Got away at 8 and have marched within sight of the depot; flag something under 3 miles away. Marched 6 miles this morning. Apart from sledging considerations the weather is wonderful. Cloudless days and nights and the wind trifling. Worse luck, the light airs come from the north and keep us horribly cold. For this lunch hour the exception has come: there is a bright and comparatively warm sun. All our gear is out drying.

28 February, 1912

2011-02-28T17:33:00.001-05:00

Lunch

Thermometer went below -40 last night; it was desperately cold for us, but we had a fair night. I decided to slightly increase food; the effect is undoubtably good. Started marching in -32 with a slight north-westerly breeze—blighting. Many cold feet this morning; long time over foot gear, but we are earlier. Shall camp earlier and get the chance of a good night, if not the reality of one. Things must be critical till we reach the depot, and the more I think of matters, the more I anticipating their remaining so after the event.

Only 24 1/2 miles from the depot. The sun shines brightly, but there is little warmth in it. There is no doubt the middle of the Barrier is a pretty awful locality.

Night

A splendid pony hoosh sent us to bed and to sleep happily after a horrid day, with wind continuing. Did 11 1/2 miles. Temperature -27. We are in for another cold night.

27 February, 1912

2011-02-28T13:44:00.000-05:00

Lunch

Desperately cold last night: -33 when we got up, with -37 minimum. Some suffering from cold feet, but all got good rest. We must open out on food soon. But we have done 7 miles this morning and hope for some 5 this afternoon. Overcast sky and good surface till now, when the sun shows again. It is good to be marching the cairns up, but there is still so much to be anxious about.

We talk of little but food, except after meals. Land disappearing in satisfactory manner. Pray God we have no further setbacks. We are naturally always discussing possibility of meeting dogs (I gave instructions that they be brought out to meet us), where and when, etc. It is a critical position. We may find ourselves in safety at the next depot, but there is a horrid element of doubt.

Night Camp

Temperature -32.

Still fine clear weather but very cold—absolutely calm tonight. 31 miles to the next depot, 3 days' fuel at a pinch, and 6 days' food. Things begin to look a little better; we can open out a little on food from tomorrow night, I think.

26 February, 1912

2011-02-26T11:48:00.001-05:00

Lunch: temperature minus 17

Sky overcast at start, but able to see tracks and cairn distinct at long distance. Did a little better, 6 1/2 miles. Bowers and Wilson now in front. Find great relief pulling behind with no necessity to keep attention on track. Very cold nights now and cold feet starting march, as day footgear doesn't get dry at all. We are doing well on our food, but we ought to have yet more. I hope the next depot, now only 50 miles, will find us with enough surplus to open out. The fuel shortage still an anxiety.

Night: temperature minus 21

Nine solid hours' marching has given us 11 1/2 miles. Only 43 miles from the next depot. Wonderfully fine weather but cold, very cold. Nothing dries and we get our feet cold too often. We want more food yet and especially more fat. Fuel is woefully short. We can scarcely hope to get a better surface at this season, but I wish we could have some help from the wind, though it might shake us badly if the temp. didn't rise.

25 February, 1912

2011-02-25T09:12:00.000-05:00

Lunch. Temperature minus 12.

Managed just 6 miles this morning. Started somewhat despondent; not relieved when pulling seemed to show no improvement. Bit by bit surface grew better, less sastrugi, more glide, slight following wind for a time. Then we began to travel a little faster. But the pulling is still very hard.

Evans' tracks are very conspicuous ahead. This is somewhat in favor, but the pulling is tiring us, though we are getting into better ski drawing again. Bowers hasn't quite the trick and is a little hurt at my criticisms, but I never doubted his heart. Very much easier—write diary at lunch—excellent meal—now one pannikin very strong tea—four biscuits and butter.

Hope for better things this afternoon, but no improvement apparent. Oh! for a little wind. Evans evidently had plenty.

Night. Temperature minus 20.

Better march in afternoon. Day yields 11.4 miles—the first double figure of steady dragging for a long time, but it meant and will mean hard work if we can't get a wind to help us. Evans evidently had strong wind here. The temperature goes very low at night now when the sky is clear as at present. As a matter of fact this is wonderfully fair weather—the only drawback is the spoiling of the surface and the absence of wind.

Some kind people substituted a cairn at the last camp. I must remember to thank them.

24 February, 1912

2011-02-24T09:18:00.000-05:00

Lunchtime:

Beautiful day —too beautiful—an hour after starting loose ice crystals spoiling surface. Found store in order except for shortage of oil. We shall have to be very saving with fuel—otherwise have ten full days' provision from tonight and shall have less than 70 miles to go.

Picked up notes from the returning parties. Evans's note sounds a little anxious. I wonder can he be ill?

It is an immense relief to have picked up this depot, and, for the first time, anxieties are thrust aside. There is a great difference now between night and day temperatures. It is quite warm as I write in the tent. Poor Wilson has a fearful attack of snow blindness consequent upon yesterday's efforts. Wish we had more fuel.

Nighttime:

Temperature minus 17.

A little despondent again. We had a really terrible surface this afternoon and only covered 4 miles. We are on the track just beyond a lunch cairn. It will really be a bad business if we are to have pulling like this all through. I don't know what to think, but the rapid closing of the season is ominous. It is great luck having the horsemeat to add to our ration. Tonight we have had a real fine hoosh.

It is a race between the season and hard conditions and our fitness and good food.

23 February, 1912

2011-02-23T09:28:00.000-05:00

Started in sunshine, wind almost dropped. Luckily Bowers took a round of angles and with the help of the chart we fogged out that we must be inside rather than outside the tracks. The data were so meagre that it seemed a great responsibility to march out and we were none of us happy about it.

But just as we decided to lunch, Bowers' wonderful sharp eyes detected an old double lunch cairn, the theodolite telescope confirmed it, an our spirits rose accordingly.

This afternoon we marched on and picked up another cairn; then on and camped 2 1/2 miles from the depot. We cannot see it, but, given fine weather, we cannot miss it.

We are, therefore, extraordinarily relieved.

Covered 8.2 miles in 7 hours, showing we can do 10 to 12 on this surface. Things are again looking up, as we are on the regular line of cairns, with no gaps right home, I hope.

22 February, 1912

2011-02-22T16:32:00.000-05:00

There is little doubt we are in for a rotten critical time going home, and the lateness of the season may make it really serious.

Shortly after starting today the wind grew very fresh from the SE, with strong surface drift. We lost the faint track immediately, though covering ground fairly rapidly. Lunch came without sight of the cairn we had hoped to pass. In the afternoon, Bowers being sure we were too far to the west, steered out. Result: we have passed another pony camp without seeing it.

Looking at the map tonight there is no doubt we are too far to the east. With clear weather we ought to be able to correct the mistake,but will the weather get clear? It's a gloomy position, especially as one sees the same difficulty returning even when we have corrected the error.

The wind is dying down tonight and the sky clearing in the south, which is hopeful. Meanwhile it is satisfactory to note that such untoward events fail to damp the spirit of the party. Tonight we had a pony hoosh so excellent and filling that one feels really strong and vigorous again.

21 February, 1912

2011-02-21T20:15:00.000-05:00

Gloomy and overcast when we started; a good deal warmer. The marching almost as bad as yesterday. heavy toiling all day, inspiring gloomiest thoughts at times. Rays of comfort when we picked up tracks and cairns.

At lunch we seemed to have missed the way, but an hour or two after we passed the last pony walls. There is a critical spot here with a long stretch between cairns. If we can tide that over we get on the regular cairn route, and with luck should stick to it; but everything depends on the weather. We never won a march of 8 1/2 miles with greater difficulty, but we can't go on like this. We are drawing away from the land and perhaps may get better things in a day or two.

I devoutly hope so.

20 February, 1912

2011-02-20T10:02:00.000-05:00

Temperature minus 15

Same terrible surface; four hours' hard plodding in morning brought us to our Desolation Camp, where we had the four-day blizzard. We looked for more pony meat, but found none.

After lunch we took to ski with some improvement of comfort. Total mileage for the day: 7 — the ski tracks pretty plain and easily followed this afternoon. We have left another cairn behind.

Terribly slow progress, but we hope for better things as we clear the land. At present our sledge and ski leave deeply ploughed tracks which can be seen winding for miles behind.

It is distressing, but as usual trials are forgotten when we camp, and good food is our lot. Pray God we get better traveling as we are not so fit as we were, and the season is advancing apace.

19 February, 1912

2011-02-19T09:06:00.000-05:00

It was late (past noon) before we got away today, as I gave nearly 8 hours sleep, and much camp work was done shifting sledges (we picked up a new one at the depot), fitting up the new one with mast, packing horsemeat and personal effects.

The surface was every bit as bad as I expected, the sun shining brightly on it and its covering of soft loose sandy snow. Perhaps lucky to have a fine day for this and out camp work, but we shall want wind or change of sliding conditions to do anything on such a surface as we have got. I fear there will not be much change for 3 or 4 days.

We struggled out 4.6 miles in a short day over a really terrible surface—it has been like pulling over desert sand, not the least glide in the world. If this goes on we shall have a bad time, but I sincerely trust it is only the result of this windless area close to the coast and that, as we are making steadily outwards, we shall shortly escape it.

It is perhaps premature to be anxious about covering distance. In all other respects things are improving. We have our sleeping bags spread on the sledge and they are drying, but, above all, we have our full measure of food again. Tonight we had a sort of stew fry of pemmican and horseflesh, and voted it the best hoosh weever had on a sledge journey.

The absence of poor Evans is a help to the commissariat, but if he had been here in a fit state we might have got along faster.

I wonder what is in store for us, with some little alarm at the lateness of the season.

18 February, 1912

2011-02-18T17:45:00.000-05:00

We are back at Shambles Camp, where we killed the horses.

We gave ourselves 5 hours' sleep at the lower glacier depot after the horrible night, and came on at about 3 today to this camp, coming fairly easily over the divide. Here with plenty of horsemeat we have had a fine supper, to be followed by others such, and so continue a more plentiful era if we can keep good marches up.

New life seems to come with greater food almost immediately, but I am anxious about the Barrier surfaces.

17 February, 1912

2011-02-17T09:20:00.000-05:00

A very terrible day.

Evans looked a little better after a good sleep, and declared, as he always did, that he was quite well. He started in his place on the traces, but half an hour later worked his ski shoes adrift, and had to leave the sledge. The surface was awful, the soft recently fallen snow clogging the ski and runners at every step, the sledge groaning, the sky overcast, and the land hazy.

We stopped after about one hour, and Evans came up again, but very slowly. Half an hour later he dropped out again on the same plea. He asked Bowers to lend him a piece of string. I cautioned him to come on as quickly as he could, and he answered cheerfully as I thought. We had to push on, and the remainder of us were forced to pull very hard, sweating heavily. Abreast of Monument Rock we stopped, and seeing Evans a long way astern, I camped for lunch.

There was no alarm at first, and we prepared tea and our own meal, consuming the latter. After lunch, and Evans still not appearing, we looked out, to see him still afar off. By this time we were alarmed, and all four stepped back on ski.

I was first to reach the poor man and shocked at his appearance; he was on his knees with clothing disarranged, hands uncovered and frostbitten, and a wild look in his eyes. Asked what was the matter, he replied with a slow speech that he didn't know, but thought he must have fainted. We got him on his feet, but after two or three steps he sank down again. He showed every sign of complete collapse. Wilson, Bowers and I went back for the sledge, whilst Oates remained with him.

When we returned he was practically unconscious, and when we got him into the tent quite comatose.

He died quietly at 12:30 AM.

On discussing the symptoms we think he began to get weaker just before we reached the Pole, and that his downward path was accelerated first by the shock of his frostbitten fingers, and later by falls during rough traveling on the glacier, further by the loss of all confidence in himself. Wilson thinks it certain he must have injured his brain by a fall.

It is a terrible thing to lose a companion in this way, but calm reflection shows that there could not have been a better ending to the terrible anxieties of the past week. Discussion of the situation at lunch yesterday shows us what a desperate pass we were in with a sick man on our hands at such a distance from home.

At 1 AM we packed up and came down over the pressure ridges, finding our depot easily.

16 February, 1912

2011-02-16T08:59:00.000-05:00

A rather trying position. Evans has nearly broken down in brain, we think. He is absolutely changed from his normal self-reliant self. This morning and this afternoon he stopped the march on some trivial excuse.

We are on short rations with not very short food; spin out till tomorrow night. We cannot be more than 10 or 12 miles from the depot, but the weather is all against us. After lunch we were enveloped in a snow sheet, land just looming.

Memory should hold the events of a very troublesome march with more troubles ahead. Perhaps all will be well if we can get to our depot tomorrow fairly early, but it is anxious work with a sick man.

But it's no use meeting troubles half way, and our sleep is all too short to write more.

15 February, 1912

2011-02-15T10:02:00.000-05:00

Again we are running short of provision. We don't know our distance from the depot, but imagine about 20 miles.

Heavy march -- did 13 3/4 miles. We are pulling for food and not very strong evidently. In the afternoon it was overcast; land blotted out for a considerable interval.

We have reduced food, also sleep; feeling rather done. Trust 1 1/2 days or 2 at most will see us at the depot.

If only I'd placed them closer together. Oh well, nothing I can do about it now.

14 February, 1912

2011-02-14T09:31:00.000-05:00

A fine day with wind on and off down the glacier, and we have done a fairly good march. We started a little late and pulled on down the moraine. At first I thought of going right, but soon, luckily, changed my mind and decided to follow the curving lines of the moraines. This course has brought us well out onto the glacier. Started on crampons; one hour after, hoisted sail; the combined efforts produced only slow speed, partly due to the sandy snowdrifts similar to those on the summit, partly to our torn sledge runners. At lunch these were scraped and sand-papered. We only did 6 1/2 miles today.

There is no getting away from the fact that we are not going strong. Probably none of us: Wilson's leg still troubles him and he doesn't like to trust himself on ski; but the worst case is Evans, who is giving us serious anxiety. This morning he suddenly disclosed a huge blister on his foot. It delayed us on the march, when he had to have his crampon readjusted. Sometimes I fear he is going from bad to worse, but I trust he will pick up again when we come to steady work on ski like this afternoon.

He is hungry and so is Wilson. We can't risk opening out our food again, and as cook at present I am serving something under full allowance. We are inclined to get slack and slow with our camping arrangements, and small delays increase. I have talked of the matter tonight and hope for improvement. We cannot do distance without the ponies.

The next depot is some 30 miles away and nearly 3 days' food in hand.

13 February, 1912

2011-02-13T10:08:00.000-05:00

We are camped beside the Cloudmaker. Temperature minus 10.

Last night we all slept well in spite of our grave anxieties. For my part these were increased by my visits outside the tent, when I saw the sky gradually closing over and snow beginning to fall. By our ordinary time for getting up it was dense all around us. We could see nothing, and we could only remain in our sleeping bags. At 8:30 I dimly made out the land of the Cloudmaker. At 9 we got up, deciding to have tea, and with one biscuit, no pemmican, so as to leave our scanty meal for eventualities.

We started marching, and at first had to wind our way through an awful turmoil of broken ice, but in about an hour we hot an old moraine track, brown with dirt. Here the surface was much smoother and improved rapidly. The fog still hung all over and we went on for an hour, checking our bearings. Then the whole place got smoother and we turned outward a little. Evans raised our hopes with a shout of a depot ahead, but it proved to be a shadow on the ice.

Then Wilson saw the actual depot flag. It was an immense relief, and we were soon in possession of our 3 1/2 days' food. The relief to all is inexpressible; needless to say, we camped and had a good meal.

Marching in the afternoon I kept to the left, and closed the mountain till we fell on the stone moraines. Here Wilson detached himself and made a collection, whilst we pulled the sledge on. We camped late, abreast of the lower end of the mountain, and had nearly our usual satisfying supper.

Yesterday was the worst experience of the trip and gave a horrid feeling of insecurity. Now we are right up, we must march. In the future food must be worked so that we do not run so short if the weather fails us. We mustn't get into a hole like this again.

Greatly relieved to find that both the other parties got through safely. It promises to be a fine day tomorrow. The valley is gradually clearing. Bowers has had a bad attack of snow blindness, and Wilson another almost as bad. Evans has no power to assist with camping work.

Wish I didn't have to keep getting up to relieve myself so often in the night.

12 February, 1912

2011-02-12T10:55:00.000-05:00

In a very critical situation.

All went well in the forenoon, and we did a good long march over a fair surface. Two hours before lunch we were cheered by the sight of our night camp of Dec 18th, the day after we made our depot—this showed we were on the right track.

In the afternoon, refreshed by tea, we went forward, confident in covering the remaining distance, but by a fatal chance we kept too far to the left, and then we struck uphill and, tired and despondent, arrived in a horrid maze of crevasses and fissures. Divided councils caused our course to be erratic after this, and finally 1t 9P PM we landed in the worst place of all.

After discussion we decided to camp, and here we are, after a very short supper and one meal only remaining in the food bag; the depot doubtful in locality. We must get there tomorrow. Meanwhile we are cheerful with an effort. It's a tight place, but luckily we've been well fed up to the present. Pray God we have fine weather tomorrow.

11 February, 1912

2011-02-11T11:31:00.000-05:00

The worst day we have had during the trip and greatly owing to our own fault.

We started on a wretched surface with light SW wind, sail set, and pulling on ski—horrible light, which made everything look fantastic. As we went on light got worse, and suddenly we found ourselves in pressure. Then came the fatal decision to steer east. We went on for 6 hours, hoping to do a good distance, which in fact I suppose we did, but for the last hour or two we pressed on into a regular trap. Getting on to a good surface we did not reduce our lunch meal, and thought all was going well, but half an hour after lunch we got into the worst ice mess I have ever been in. For three hours we plunged on on ski, first thinking we were too much to the right, then too much to the left; meanwhile the disturbance got worse and my spirits received a very rude shock. There were times when it seemed almost impossible to find a way out of the awful turmoil in which we found ourselves.

At length, arguing that there must be a way on our left, we plunged in that direction. It got worse, harder, more icy and crevassed. We could not manage our ski and pulled on foot, falling into crevasses every minute—most luckily no bad accident. At length we saw a smoother slope towards the land, pushed for it, but knew it was a woefully long way form us. The turmoil changed in character, irregular crevassed surface giving way to huge chasms, closely packed and most difficult to cross. It was very heavy work, but we had grown desperate.

We won through at 10 PM, and I write after 12 hours on the march. I think we are on or about the right track now, but we are still a good number of miles from the depot, so we reduced rations tonight. We had three pemmican meals left and decided to make them into four. Tomorrow's lunch must serve for two if we do not make big progress.

Of course, we pick up rations for four, not five, which is what we left at the depots before I decided to take five men to the Pole. Best not mention that.

It was a test of our endurance on the march and our fitness with small supper. We have come through well. A good wind has come down the glacier which is clearing the sky and surface. Pray God the wind holds tomorrow. Short sleep tonight and off first thing, I hope.

10 February, 1912

2011-02-10T10:19:00.001-05:00

Got off to a good march in spite of keeping too far east and getting in rough, cracked ice. Had a splendid night's sleep, showing great change in all faces, so didn't get away till 10 AM. Lunched just before 3. After lunch the land began to be obscured. We held a course for 2 1/2 hours with difficulty, the the sun disappeared, and snow drove in our faces with northerly wind—very warm and impossible to steer, so camped. After supper, still very thick all around, but sun showing and less snow falling. The fallen snow crystals are quite feathery like thistledown.

We have two days' food left, and though our position is uncertain, we are certainly within two outwards marches from the middle Glacier Depot. However, if the weather doesn't clear by tomorrow, we much either march blindly on or reduce food. It is very trying.

Another night to make up for arrears of sleep.

The ice crystals that first fell this afternoon were very large. Now the sky is clearer overhead, the temperature has fallen slightly, and the crystals are minute.

9 February, 1912

2011-02-09T10:24:00.000-05:00

Height 5,210 feet. Temperature +12

Did about 13 miles. Kept along the edge of the moraine to the end of Mt. Buckley. Stopped and geologized. Wilson got great find of vegetable impression in piece of limestone. Too tired to write geological notes.

We all felt very slack this morning, partly rise of temperature, partly reaction, no doubt. We evidently got amongst bad ice pressure and had to come down over an ice-fall. The crevasses were much firmer than expected and we got down with some difficulty. Found our night camp of Dec. 20th and lunched an hour after.

Did pretty well in the afternoon. The sledgemeter is unshipped, so cannot tell distance traversed. Very warm on the march and we are all pretty tired. Tonight it is wonderfully calm and warm, though it has been overcast all afternoon. It is remarkable to be able to stand outside the tent and sun oneself. Our food satisfies now, but we much march to keep in the full ration, and we want rest, yet we shall pull through all right, Deo volente.

We are by no means worn out.

8 February, 1912

2011-02-08T09:48:00.000-05:00

Started from the depot rather late owing to weighing biscuit, etc., and rearranging matters. Had a beastly morning. Wind very strong and cold.

Steered in for Mt. Darwin to visit rock. Sent Bowers on, on ski, as Wilson can't wear his at present. He obtained several specimens, all of much the same type, a close-grained granite rock which weathers well. Hence the pink limestone. After he rejoined we skidded downhill pretty fast, leaders on ski, Oates and Wilson on foot alongside the sledge—Evans detached.

We lunched at 2 well down towards Mt. Buckley, the wind half a gale and everybody very cold and cheerless. However, better things were to follow. We steered for the moraine under Mt. Buckley which was obviously so interesting that when we had advanced some miles and got out of the wind, I decided to camp and spend the rest of the day geologizing. It has been extremely interesting. Wilson has picked up several plant impressions, the last a piece of coal with beautifully traced leaves in layers. In one place we saw the cast of small waves on the sand. Tonight Bill has got a specimen of limestone with archeo-cyanthus—the trouble is one cannot imagine where the stone comes from; it is evidently rare, as few specimens occur in the moraine. There is a good deal of pure white quartz.

Altogether we have had a most interesting afternoon, and the relief of being out of the wind and in a warmer temperature is inexpressible. I hope and trust we shall buck up again now that the conditions are more favorable. We have been in the shadow all afternoon, but the sun has just reached us, a little obscured by night haze.

A lot could be written on the delight of setting foot on rock after 14 weeks of snow and ice and nearly 7 out of sight of aught else. It's like going ashore after a sea voyage. We deserve a little good bright weather after all our trials, and hope to get a chance to dry our sleeping bags and generally make our gear more comfortable.

7 February, 1912

2011-02-07T12:02:00.000-05:00

Mount Darwin (Upper Glacier) Height 7100 feet.

A wretched day with satisfactory ending. First panic: certainty that the biscuit box was short. Great doubt as to how this has come about, as we certainly haven't over-issued allowances. Bowers is dreadfully disturbed about it. The shortage is a full day's allowance.

We started our march at 8:30, and traveled down slopes and over terraces covered with hard sastrugi—very tiresome work—and the land didn't seem to come any nearer. At lunch the wind increased, and what with hot tea and good food, we started the afternoon in a better frame of mind, as it soon became obvious we were nearing our mark. Soon after 6:30 we saw our depot easily and camped next to it at 7:30.

Found note from Evans to say the second return party passed through safely on January 14.

The temperature is higher but there is a cold wind tonight.

Well, we have come through our 7 weeks' ice camp journey and most of us are fit, but I think another week might have had a very bad effect on Petty Officer Evans, who is going steadily downhill.

It is satisfactory to recall that these facts give absolute proof of both expeditions having reached the Pole and placed the question of priority beyond discussion. Unlike the North Pole fiasco.

6 February, 1912

2011-02-07T10:30:00.000-05:00

Temperature: -15.

We've had a horrid day and not covered good mileage. On turning out found sky overcast; a beastly position amidst crevasses. Luckily it cleared just before we started. We went straight for Mt. Darwin, but in half an hour found ourselves amongst huge open chasms, unbridged, but not very deep, I think. We turned to the north between two, but to our chagrin they converged into chaotic disturbance. We had to retrace our steps for a mile or so, then struck to the west. We put up sail, and Evans' nose suffered, Wilson very cold, everything horrid.

Towards the end of the afternoon march we realized the certainty of maintaining a more or less straight course to the depot, and estimate distance is 10 to 15 miles.

Food is low and weather uncertain, so that many hours of the day were anxious; but this evening, though we are not as far advanced as I expected, the outlook is much more promising.

Evans is the chief anxiety now; his cuts and wounds suppurate, his nose looks very bad, and altogether he shows considerable signs of being played out. Things may mend for him on the glacier, and his wounds get some respite under warmer conditions.

I am indeed glad to think we shall so soon have done with plateau conditions. It took us 27 days to reach the Pole and 21 days back—in all 48 days—nearly 7 weeks in low temperatures with almost incessant wind.

I wonder How long Amundsen was up here?

5 February, 1912

2011-02-07T10:29:00.000-05:00

Temperature -17.

A good forenoon, few crevasses; we covered 10.2 miles. In the afternoon we soon got into difficulties. We saw the land very clearly, but the difficulty is to get at it. An hour after starting we came on huge pressures and great street crevasses partly open. We had to steer more and more to the west, so that our course was very erratic. Late in the march we turned more to the north and again encountered open crevasses across our track. It is very difficult maneuvering amongst these and I should not like to do it without ski.

We are camped in a very disturbed region, but the wind has fallen very light here, and our camp is comfortable for the first time for many weeks. We may be anything from 25 to 30 miles from our depot, but I wish to goodness we could see a way through the disturbances ahead.

Our faces are much cut up by all the wind we have had, mine least of all; the others tell me they feel their noses more going with than against wind. Evans' nose is almost as bad as his fingers. He is a good deal crocked up.

4 February, 1912

2011-02-04T11:02:00.000-05:00

Temperature: -23

Pulled on foot in the morning over good hard surface and covered 9.7 miles. Just before lunch unexpectedly fell into crevasses, Evans and I together—a second fall for Evans, and I camped.

We have come down some hundreds of feet on a good hard surface. Half way in the march the land showed up splendidly, and I decided to make straight for Mt. Darwin, which we are rounding. Every sign points to getting away off this plateau. The temperature is 20 degrees lower than when we were here before; the party is not improving in condition, especially Evans, who is becoming rather dull and incapable.

Thank the Lord we have good food at each meal, but we get hungrier in spite of it.

Bowers is splendid, full of energy and bustle all the time.

I hope we are not going to have trouble with ice falls.

3rd February, 1912

2011-02-03T14:02:00.000-05:00

Temperature: -20.

Started pretty well on foot; came to steep slope with crevasses (few). I went on ski to avoid another fall, and we took the slope gently with our sail, constantly losing the track, but picked up a much weathered cairn on our right. Vexatious delays, searching for tracks, etc, reduced morning march to 8.1 miles. Afternoon came along a little better, but again lost tracks on hard slope.

Tonight we are near camp of December 26, but cannot see cairn. Have decided it is a waste of time looking for tracks and cairn, and shall push on due north as fast as we can.

The surface is greatly changed since we passed outward, in most places polished smooth, but with heaps of new toothed sastrugi which are disagreeable obstacles.

Evans' fingers are going on as well as can be expected, but it will be long before he is able to help properly with the work. Wilson's leg is much better, and my shoulder also, though it gives bad twinges.

The extra food is doing us all good, but we ought to have more sleep. Very few more days on the plateau hope.

2nd February, 1912

2011-02-02T09:56:00.000-05:00

We started well on a strong southerly wind. Soon got to a steep grade, when the sledge overran and upset us one after another. We got off our ski, and pulling on foot reeled off 9 miles by lunch at 1:30. Started in the afternoon going very strong. We came across a steep slope and all went well till, in trying to keep the track at the same time as my feet, on a very slippery surface, I had a nasty fall on my shoulder. It is horribly sore tonight and another sick person added to our tent—three out of five injured, and the most troublesome surfaces to come.

We shall be lucky if we get through without serious injury.

Wilson's leg is better, but might easily get bad again, and Evans' fingers are beyond the pale.

We managed to get in 17 miles today. The extra food is certainly helping us, but we are getting pretty hungry. The weather is already a trifle warmer and the altitude lower, and only 80 miles or so to Mount Darwin. It is time we were off the summit—Pray God another four days will see us pretty well clear of it. Our bags are getting very wet and we ought to have more sleep.

1st February, 1912

2011-02-01T11:28:00.000-05:00

Heavy collar work most of the day. Wind light. Did 8 miles. Started well in the afternoon and came down a steep slope in quick time; then the surface turned real bad—sandy drifts—very heavy pulling.

Working past 8PM we just fetched a lunch cairn of Dec 29, when we were only a week out from the depot. It ought to be easy to get in with a margin, having 8 days' food in hand (full feeding). We have opened out on the increase in food and it makes a lot of difference.

Wilson's leg much better. Evans' fingers now very bad, two nails coming off, blisters burst.

31 January, 1912

2011-01-31T09:55:00.000-05:00

Temperature: -20.

The day opened up fine with a fair breeze; we marched on the depot, picked it up, and lunched an hour later. In the afternoon the surface became fearfully bad, and the wind dropped. Ill luck that this should happen just when we have only four men to pull. Wilson rested his leg as much as possible by walking quietly beside the sledge; the result has been good, and tonight there is much less inflammation. I hope he will be all right again soon, but it is trying to have an injured limb in the party.

This afternoon we picked up Bowers' ski—the last thing we have to find on the summit, thank Heaven! Now we have only to go north and so shall welcome strong winds.

Evans does grimace so.

30 January, 1912

2011-01-30T11:25:00.000-05:00

Temperature -25.

Thank the Lord, another fine march—19 miles. We have passed the last cairn before the depot, the track is clear ahead, the weather fair, the wind helpful, the gradient down—with any luck we should pick up our depot in the middle of the morning march.

This is the bright side; the reverse of the medal is serious. Wilson has strained a tendon in his leg; it has given pain all day and is swollen tonight. Of course, he is full of luck over it, but I don't like the idea of an accident here. To add to the trouble Evans has dislodged two fingernails tonight; his hands are really bad, and to my surprise he shows signs of losing heart over it. He hasn't been cheerful since the accident. We can get along with bad fingers, but it will be a mighty serious thing if Wilson's leg doesn't improve.

29 January, 1912

2011-01-29T18:57:00.000-05:00

Temperature: - 25. Height: 10,000 feet.

Excellent march of 19 1/2 miles. Wild helped greatly, considerable drift, tracks for the most part, very plain. Some time before lunch we picked up the return track of the returning party, so that there are now three distinct sledge impressions. We are only 24 miles from our depot—an easy day and a half. Given a fine day tomorrow we ought to get it without difficulty. If the weather holds we ought to do the rest of the inland ice journey in little over a week.

The surface very much altered since we passed out. The loose snow has been swept into heaps, hard and wind-tossed. The rest has a glazed appearance, the loose drifting snow no doubt acting on it, polishing it like a sand blast. The sledge with our good wind behind runs splendidly on it; it is all soft and sandy beneath the glaze.

We are certainly getting hungrier every day. The day after tomorrow we should be able to increase allowances. It is monotonous work, but, thank God, the miles are coming fast at last. We ought not to be delayed much now with the down-grade in front of us.

Bowers doesn't seem to be writing in his journal tonight. He usually does like clockwork. I wonder why he has stopped? Evans looks miserable and keeps grimacing.

28 January, 1912

2011-01-28T17:35:00.000-05:00

Little wind and heavy going in forenoon. It is very difficult to day if we are going up hill or down hill. We are 43 miles from the depot, with six day's food in hand. We are camped opposite our lunch cairn of the 4th, only half a day's march from the point at which the last supporting party left us.

I wonder how they are getting on.

Three articles were dropped on our outward march—Oates' pipe, Bowers' fur mitts, and Evans' night boots. We picked up the boots and mitts on the track, and tonight found the pipe lying placidly in sight on the snow. The sledge tracks were very easy to follow today; they are becoming more and more raised, giving a good line shadow often visible half a mile ahead. If this goes on and the weather holds we shall get our depot without trouble. I shall indeed be glad to get it on the sledge. We are getting more hungry, there is no doubt. The lunch meal is beginning to seem inadequate. We are pretty thin, especially Evans, but none of us are feeling worked out. I doubt if we could drag heavy loads, but we can keep going well with our light one.

We talk of food a good deal more, and shall be glad to open out on it.

27 January, 1912

2011-01-27T14:00:00.001-05:00

Called the hands half an hour late, but we got away in good time. The forenoon march was over the belt of storm-tossed sastrugi; it looked like a rough sea. Wilson and I pulled in front of ski, the remainder on foot. It was very tricky work following the track, which pretty constantly disappeared, and in fact only showed itself by faint signs anywhere -- a foot or two of raised sledge track, a dozen yards of the trail of the sledgemeter wheel, or a spatter of hard snow-flicks where feet had trodden.Sometimes none of these were distinct, but one got an impression of lines which guided. The trouble was that on the outward track one had to shape course constantly to avoid the heaviest mounds, and consequently there were many zig-zags. We lost a good deal over a mile by these halts, in which we unharnessed and went on the search for signs. However, by hook or crook, we managed to stick on the old track.

Came on the cairn quite suddenly, marched past it, and camped for lunch at 7 miles. In the afternoon the sastrugi diminished in size and now we are on fairly level ground to day, the obstruction practically at an end, and, to our joy, the tracks showing up much plainer again.

For the last two hours we had no difficulty at all in following them. There has been a nice helpful southerly breeze all day, a clear sky and comparatively warm temperature. The air is dry again, sop that tents and equipment are gradually losing their icy condition imposed by the blizzard conditions of last week.

Our sleeping bags are slowly but surely getting wetter and I'm afraid it will take a lot of this weather to put them right. However, we all sleep well enough in them, the hours allowed being now on the short side.

We are slowly getting more hungry, and it would be an advantage to have a little more food, especially for lunch. If we get to the next depot in a few marches (it is now less than 60 miles and we have a full week's food) we ought to be able to open out a little, but we can't look for a real feed till we get to the pony food depot.

A long way to go, and, by Jove, this is tremendous labor.

26 January, 1912

2011-01-26T09:51:00.000-05:00

Started late, for no reason, as I called the hands rather early. We must have fewer delays. There was a good stiff breeze and plenty of drift, but the tracks held. To our old Blizzard Camp of the 7th we got on well, 7 miles. But beyond the camp we found the tracks completely wiped out. We searched for some time, then marched on a short way and lunched, the weather gradually clearing though the wind holding. Knowing there were two cairns at 4 miles intervals, we had little anxiety till we picked up the first far on our right, then steering right by a stroke of fortune. and Bowers' sharp eyes caught a glimpse of the second on the far left.

I hope to goodness we can follow tracks tomorrow.

Am dreaming of steak and kidney pie and a whiskey.

25 January, 1912

2011-01-25T13:17:00.000-05:00

Thank God we found our Half Degree Depot.

After lying in our bags yesterday afternoon and all night, we debated breakfast; decided to have it later and go without lunch. At the time the gale seemed as bad as ever, but during breakfast the sun showed and there was light enough to see the old track. It was a long and terribly cold job digging out our sledge and breaking camp, but we got through and on the march without sail, all pulling. This was about 11, and at about 2:30, to our joy, we saw the red depot flag. We had lunch and left with 9 1/2 days' provisions, still following the track—marched till 8 and covered 5 miles, over 12 in the day.

Only 89 miles to the next depot, but it's time we cleared off this plateau.

We are not without ailments: Oates suffers from a very cold foot; Evans' fingers and nose are in a bad state, and tonight Wilson is suffering tortures from his eyes. Bowers and I are the only members of the party without troubles just at present.

The weather still looks unsettled, and I fear a succession of blizzards at this time of year; the wind is strong from the south, and this afternoon has been very helpful with the full sail. Needless to say I shall sleep much better with our provision bag full again. The only real anxiety now is finding the Three Degree Depot. The tracks seem as good as ever so far; they reappear quite clearly raised above the surface. If the light is good there is not the least difficulty in following. Blizzards are our bugbear, not only stopping our marches, but the cold damp air takes it out of us.

Bowers has been on ski today whilst Wilson walked by the sledge or pulled ahead of it.

24 January, 1912

2011-01-24T12:10:00.000-05:00

Things beginning to look a little serious.

A strong wind at the start has developed into a full blizzard at lunch, and we have had to get into our sleeping bags.

It was a bad march this morning, but we covered 7 miles. At first Evans, and then Wilson went ahead to scout for tracks. Bowers guided the sledge alone for the first hour, then both he and Oates remained alongside it; they had a fearful time trying to make the pace between the soft patches. At 12:30 the sun coming ahead made it impossible to see the tracks further, and we had to stop. By this time the gale was at its height and we had the dickens of a time getting up the tent, cold fingers all round.

We are only 7 miles from our depot, but I made sure we should be there tonight. This is the second full gale since we left the Pole. I don't like the look of it. Is the weather breaking up? If so, God help us, with the tremendous summit journey and scant food. Wilson and Bowers are my standby. I don't like the easy way in which Oates and Evans get frostbitten.

23 January, 1912

2011-01-23T15:55:00.000-05:00

Lowest minimum temperature last night: -30.

Little wind and heavy marching at start. Then wind increased and we did 8.7 miles by lunch, when it was practically blowing a blizzard. The old tracks show so remarkably well that we can follow them without much difficulty—a great piece of luck.

In the afternoon we had to reorganize. Could carry a whole sail. Bowers hung onto the sledge, Evans and Oates had to lengthen out. We came along at a great rate and should have got within an easy march of our depot had not Wilson suddenly discovered that Evans' nose was frostbitten—it was white and hard. We thought it best to camp at 6:45 pm. Got the tent up with some difficulty, and now pretty cozy after some hoosh.

There is no doubt Evans is a good deal run down—his fingers are badly blistered and his nose is rather seriously congested with frequent frostbites. He is very much annoyed with himself, which is not a good sign. I think Wilson, Bowers and I are as fit as possible under the circumstances. Oates gets cold feet. One way and another, I shall be glad to get off the summit!

We are only about 13 miles from our Degree and a Half depot and should get there tomorrow. The weather seems to be breaking up. Pray God we have something of a track to follow to the Three Degree Depot—once we pick that up we ought to be right.

22 January, 1912

2011-01-22T14:35:00.000-05:00

Temp -21.

I think about the most tiring march we have had; solid pulling the whole way, in spite of the light sledge and some little helping wind at first. Then in the last part of the afternoon the sun came out, and almost immediately we had the whole surface covered in soft snow.

We got away sharp at 8 and marched a solid 9 hours, and thus we have covered 14.5 miles, but, by Jove! it has been a grind. We are just about on the 89th parallel.

We are within 2 1/2 miles of the 64th camp cairn, 30 miles form our depot, and with 5 days' food in hand. Ski boots are beginning to show signs of wear; I trust we shall have no giving out of ski or boots, since there are yet so many miles to go.

This is no fun.

21 January, 1912

2011-01-21T10:11:00.000-05:00

Awoke to a stiff blizzard, air very thick with snow and sun very dim. We decided not to march owing to likelihood of losing track; expected at least a day of lay up, but whilst at lunch there was a sudden clearance and wind dropped to light breeze. We got ready to march, but gear was so iced up we did not get away till 3:45. Marched till 7:40 -- a terribly weary four-hour drag; even with helping wind we only did 5 1/2 miles. The surface bad, horribly bad on new sastrugi, and decidedly rising again in elevation.

We are going to gave a pretty hard time this next 100 miles I expect. If it was difficult to drag downhill over this belt, it will probably be a good deal more difficult to drag up. Luckily the cracks are fairly distinct, though we only see our cairns when less than a mile away; 45 miles to the next depot and 6 day's food in hand -- then we pick up 7 days' food and 90 miles to the Three Degree Depot. Once there we ought to be safe, but we ought to have a day or two in hand on arrival and may have difficulty with following the tracks.

20 January, 1912

2011-01-21T10:03:00.000-05:00

Lunch Camp.

We have come along very well this morning, although the surface was terrible bad. This has brought us to our Southern Depot, so we pick up 4 days' food. We carry on 7 days from tonight with 55 miles to go to the Half Degree Depot made on Jan. 10th.

Night Camp.

It was blowing quite hard and drifting when we started our afternoon march. At first with full sail we went along at a great rate; then we got on to an extraordinary surface, the drifting snow lying in heaps; it clung to the ski, which could only be pushed forward with an effort. The pulling was really awful, but we went steadily on and camped a short way beyond our cairn of the 14th. I'm afraid we are in for a bad pull again tomorrow, luckily, the wind holds.

I shall be very glad when Bowers gets his ski; I'm afraid he must find these long marches very trying with short legs, but he is an undefeated little sportsman.

I think Oates is feeling the cold and fatigue more than most of us.

It is blowing pretty hard tonight, but with a good march we have earned one good hoosh and are comfortable in the tent. It is everything now to keep up a good marching pace; I trust we shall be able to do so and catch the ship.

Total: 18 1/2 miles.

19 January, 1912

2011-01-19T09:35:00.000-05:00

Early in the march we picked up a Norwegian cairn and our outward tracks. We followed these to the ominous black flag which had first apprised us of our predecessors' success. We have picked this flag up, using the staff for our sail, and are now camped for lunch about 1 1/2 miles further back on our tracks. So that is the last of the Norwegians for the present.

Came along well this afternoon for three hours, then a rather dreary finish for the last 1 1/2. Weather very curious, snow clouds, looking very dense and spoiling the light, pass overhead from the South dropping very minute crystals. The fine crystals absolutely spoil the surface, we had heavy dragging during the last hour in spite of the light load and full sail. Our old tracks are drifted up, deep in places, and toothed sastrugi have formed over them. It looks as though this sandy snow was drifted about like sand from place to place.

How to account for the present state of our three day old tracks and the month old ones of the Norwegians?

It is warmer and pleasanter marching with the wind, but I'm not sure we don't feel the cold more when we stop and camp than we did on the outward march. We pick up our cairns easily, and ought to do so right through I think; but, of course, one will be a bit anxious till the Three Degree Depot is reached. I'm afraid the return journey is going to be dreadfully tiring and monotonous.

18 January, 1912

2011-01-18T16:06:00.000-05:00

Decided we were 3.5 miles away from the Pole -- one mile beyond it and 3 to the right. More or less in this direction, Bowers saw a cairn or tent.

We have just arrived at this tent. It it we found a record of five Norwegians having been here:

Roald Amundsen

Olav Olavson Bjaaland

Hilmer Hanssen

Sverre H. Hassel

Oscar Wisting

16 December, 1911

Their tent is fine — a small compact affair supported by a single bamboo. They have called it "Polheim" meaning Pole Home. A note from Amundsen, which I keep, asks me to forward a letter to King Haakon.

Look: it has a flag with the name of their ship, "Fram" on it.

The following articles have been left in the tent: 3 half bags of reindeer containing a miscellaneous assortment of mitts and sleeping socks, very various in description, a sextant, a Norwegian artificial horizon and a hypsometer without boiling point thermometers, a sextant and hypsometer of English make.

I left a note to say I had visited the tent with companions. Bowers is photographing and Wilson is sketching.

We built out Pole camp and put up our poor slighted Union Jack, and photographed ourselves—mighty cold work all of it.

From left: Oates, Bowers(seated) , Me, Wilson (seated) , Evans.

Less than a 1/2 mile south we saw stuck up an old underrunner of a sledge. This we commandeered as a yard for a floorcloth sail. I imagine it was intended to mark the exact spot of the Pole as near as the Norwegians could fix it. A note attached talked of the tent as being 2 miles from the Pole. Wilson keeps the note.

There is no doubt that our predecessors have made thoroughly sure of their mark and fully carried out their programme. I think the Pole is about 9500 feet in height; this is remarkable, considering that in Latitude 88 degrees we were about 10,500 feet.

We carried the Union Jack about 3/4 of a mile north with us and left it on a piece of stick as near as we could fix it. I fancy the Norwegians arrived at the Pole on the 15th December, and left on the 17th, ahead of a date quoted by me in London as ideal, viz. Dec. 22. It looks as though the Norwegian party expected colder weather on the summit than they got; it could scarcely be otherwise from Shackleton;s account. Well, we have turned out back now on the goal of our ambition and must face 800 miles of solid dragging—and goodbye to most of the day-dreams!

17 January, 1912

2011-01-17T09:12:00.000-05:00

Camp 69.

The Pole.

Yes, but under very different circumstances from those expected. We have had a horrible day—add to our disappointment a head wind 4 to 5, with a temperature of -22, and companions laboring on with cold feet and hands.

We started at 7:30, none of us having slept much after the shock of our discovery. We followed the Norwegian sledge tracks for some way; as far as we make out there are only two men. (Really?)

At 12:30 Evans had such cold hands we camped for lunch—an excellent weekend one. Tonight little Bowers is laying himself out to get sights in terrible difficult circumstances; the wind is blowing hard, and there is that curious damp, cold feeling in the air which chills one to the bone in no time.

Great God! this is an awful place and terrible enough for us to have labored to it without the reward of priority. Well, it is something to have got here, and the wind may be our friend tomorrow. We have had a fat Polar hoosh in spite of our chagrin, and feel comfortable inside—added a small stick of chocolate and the queer taste of a cigarette brought by Wilson.

Now for the run home and a desperate struggle. I wonder if we can do it.

16 January, 1912

2011-01-16T14:12:00.000-05:00

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.

15 January, 1912

2011-01-15T16:43:00.000-05:00

Camp 67

During the night the air cleared entirely and the sun shone in a perfectly clear sky. We made our last depot at lunch. Only four days' food and a sundry or two. The load is now very light. The light wind dropped and the temperature fell to -27. I guessed this meant a hard pull, and guessed right. The surface was terrible.

It is wonderful to think that two long marches would land us at the Pole. It ought to be a certain thing now, and the only appalling possibility is the sight of the Norwegian flag forestalling ours. Little Bowers continues his indefatigable efforts to get good sights, and it is wonderful how he works them up in his sleeping bag in our congested tent.

Only 27 miles from the Pole. We ought to do it now.

14 January, 1912

2011-01-14T17:15:00.000-05:00

Camp 66

Sun showing mistily through overcast sky all day. Bright southerly wind with very low drift. In consequence the surface was a little better, and we came along very steadily, 6.3 miles in the morning and 5.5 in the afternoon, the the steering was awfully difficult and trying; very often I could see nothing, and Bowers on my shoulders directed me. Under such circumstances it is an immense help to be pulling on ski. Tonight it is looking very thick. The sun can barely be distinguished, the temperature has risen, and there are some serious indications of a blizzard. Meanwhile, less than 40 miles to the Pole.

Again we noticed the cold; at lunch today all our feet were cold, but this was mainly due to the bald state of our finnesko. I put some grease under the base skin and found it made all the difference.

Oates seems to be feeling the cold and fatigue more than the rest of us, but we are all very fit. It is a critical time, but we ought to pull through. Oh! for fine days! So close it seems and only the weather to baulk us.

Keep wondering where Amundsen is. I keep expecting to look up and see him. How nice it would be to be done with this and back at the cozy hut!

13 January, 1912

2011-01-13T13:56:00.000-05:00

Camp 65
Height 10,270 Temperature: -22.5 Latitude: 89 degrees 9 minutes south.

Just over 11 miles for the day. Another day with double figures and a bit over. The chance holds.

It looks as though we are descending slightly. It is wearisome work this tugging and straining to advance a light sledge. Still, we get along. I did manage to get my thoughts off the work for a time today, which is very restful. We should be in a poor way without our ski, though Bowers manages to struggle through the soft snow without tiring his short legs.

Only 51 miles from the Pole tonight. If we don't get to it we shall be damned close.

12 January, 1912

2011-01-12T20:26:00.000-05:00

Camp 64

Another heavy march with snow getting softer all the time. Sun very bright, calm at start; first two hours terribly slow. Only 10.7 miles.

In the afternoon we seemed to be going better; clouds spread over from the west with light chill wind and for a few brief minutes we tasted the delight of having the sledge following free. Alas! in a few minutes it was worse than ever, in spite of the sun's eclipse. However the short experience was salutary. I had got to fear that we were weakening badly in our pulling; those few minutes showed me that we only want a good surface to get along as merrily as of old. With the surface as it is, one gets horribly sick of the monotony and can imagine oneself getting played out, were it not that at the lunch and night camps one so quickly forgets all one's troubles and bucks up for a fresh effort. It is an effort to keep up the double figures, but if we can do so for another four marches we ought to get through. It is going to be a close thing.

At camping tonight everyone was chilled and we guessed a cold snap, but to our surprise the actual temperature was higher than last night, when we could dawdle in the sun. It is most unaccountable why we should suddenly feel the cold in this manner; partly the exhaustion of the march, but partly some damp quality in the air, I think. Little Bowers is wonderful; in spite of my protest he would take sights after we had camped tonight, after marching in the soft snow all day where we have been comparatively restful on ski.

Only 63 miles to the Pole tonight. We ought to do the trick, but oh! for a better surface.

Of course, the fact that we feel the cold more keenly could be due to a lack of nutritious food for so long, but that would be too easy an answer. No: I will blame it on the damp, like a good Englishman.

11 January, 1912

2011-01-11T20:27:00.000-05:00

Camp 63

The afternoon was agonizing. I never had such pulling; all the time the sledge rasps and creaks. We have covered 11 miles, but at fearful cost to ourselves.

We are about 74 miles from the Pole -- can we keep this up for seven days? It takes it out us like anything. None of us ever had such hard work before. Snow crystals falling all the time. The sun so bright and warm tonight that it is almost impossible to imagine a minus temperature. The snow seems to get softer as we advance.

Our chance still holds good if we can put the work in, but it's a terribly trying time.

10 January, 1912

2011-01-10T17:35:00.000-05:00

Camp 62

Terrible hard march in the morning; only covered 5.1 miles. Decided to leave depot at lunch camp. Built cairn and left one week's food together with sundry articles of clothing. We are down as close as we can go in the latter. We go forward with eighteen days' food. Yesterday I should have said certain to see us through, but now the surface is beyond words, and if it continues we shall have the greatest difficulty to keep our march long enough.The surface is quite covered with sandy snow, and when the sun shines it is terrible.

Only 85 miles to the Pole, but it is going to be a stiff pull both ways apparently; still we do make progress, which is something. Very difficult steering in uncertain light and with rapidly moving clouds. The clouds don't seem to come from anywhere, form and disperse without visible reason. The surface seems to be growing softer. The meteorological conditions seem to point to an area of variable light winds, and that plot will thicken as we advance.

Could murder a curry.

9 January, 1912

2011-01-09T17:28:00.000-05:00

Camp 61 - RECORD!
Lat. 88 degrees 25 minutes south. Height 10,270 feet. Temperature -4.

We are beyond Shackleton's furthest south! All is new ahead.

The marching is growing terribly monotonous, but one cannot grumble as long as the distance can be kept up. It can, I think, if we leave a depot, but a very annoying thing has happened. Bowers's watch has suddenly dropped 26 minutes; it may have stopped from being frozen outside his pocket, or he may have inadvertently touched the hands. Any way it makes one more chary of leaving stores on this great plain, especially as the blizzard tended to drift up our tracks. We could only just see the back track when we started, but the light was extremely poor.

8 January, 1912

2011-01-08T12:32:00.000-05:00

Our first summit blizzard.

Evans's hand was dressed this morning, and the rest ought to be good for it. I am not sure it will do us all good as we lie so very comfortably, warmly clothed in our comfortable bags, within our double-walled tent. However, we do not want more than a day's delay at most, both on account of lost time and food and the slow accumulation of ice. It has grown much thicker during the day, from time to time obscuring the sun for the first time. The temperature is low for a blizzard, but we are very comfortable in our double tent and the cold snow is not sticky and not easily carried into the tent, so that sleeping bags remain in good condition.

It is quite impossible to speak too highly of my companions. Each fulfills his office to the party; Wilson, first as doctor, ever on the lookout to alleviate the small pains and troubles incidental to the work; now as cook, quick, careful and dexterous, ever thinking of some fresh expedient to help the camp life; tough as steel on the traces, never wavering from start to finish.

Evans, a giant worker with a really remarkable headpiece. It is only now I realize how much has been due to him. Our ski shoes and crampons have been absolutely indispensable, and if the original ideas were not his, the details of manufacture and design and the good workmanship are his alone. He is responsible for every sledge, every sledge fitting, tents, sleeping bags, harness, and when one cannot recall a single expression of dissatisfaction with any one of these items, it shows what an invaluable asset he has been. Now, besides superintending the putting up of the tent, he thinks out and arranges the packing of the sledge; it is extraordinary how neatly and handily everything is stowed, and how much study has been given to preserving the suppleness and good running qualities of the machine. On the Barrier, before the ponies were killed, he was ever roaming around, correcting faults of stowage.

Little Bowers is a marvel—he is thoroughly enjoying himself. I leave all the provision arrangement in his hands, and at all times he knows exactly how we stand, or how each returning party should fare. It has been a complicated business to redistribute stores at various stages of reorganization, but not one single mistake has been made. In addition to the stores, he keeps the most thorough and conscientious meteorological records, and to this he now adds the duty of observer and photographer. Nothing comes amiss to him, and no work is too hard. It is a difficulty to get him into the tent; he seems quite oblivious to the cold, and he lies coiled in his bag writing and working out sights long after the others are asleep.

Of these three it is a matter for thought and congratulation that each is sufficiently suited for his own work, and would not be capable of doing that of the others as well as it is done. Each is invaluable. Oates had his invaluable period with the ponies; now he is a foot slogger and goes hard the whole time, does his share of camp work, and stands the hardship as well as any of us. I would not like to be without him either.

So our five people are perhaps as happily selected as it is possible to imagine.

7 January, 1912

2011-01-07T19:59:00.000-05:00

Camp 60

The vicissitudes of this work are bewildering. Last night we decided to leave our ski on account of the sastrugi. This morning we marched out a mile in 40 minutes and the sastrugi gradually disappeared. I kept debating the ski question and at this point stopped, and after discussion we went back and fetched the ski; it cost us 1 1/2 hours nearly. Marching again, I found to my horror we could scarcely move the sledge on ski; the first hour was awful owing to the wretched coating of loose sandy snow. However, we persisted, and towards the latter end of our tiring march we began to make better progress, but the work is still awfully heavy.

I must stick to ski after this.

I am awfully glad we have hung on to the ski; hard as the marching is, it is far less tiring on ski. Bowers has a heavy time on foot, but nothing seems to tire him. Evans has a nasty cut on his hand from the sledge-making. I hope it won't give trouble.

Our food continues to amply satisfy. What luck to have hit on such an excellent ration. We really are an excellently found party.

Except for Bower's lack of ski, Oates's limp, and Evans's cut hand, of course. And my damned indecision. I mean indigestion.

6 January, 1912

2011-01-06T17:31:00.001-05:00

Camp 59

A fearfully hard pull again, and when we had marched about an hour we discovered that a sleeping bag had fallen off the sledge. W had to go back and carry it on. It cost us over an hour and disorganized our party. We have only covered 10 1/2 miles and it's been about the hardest pull we've had. We think of leaving our ski here, mainly because of the risk of breakage. Over the sastrugi it is all up and down hill, and the covering of ice crystals prevents the sledge from gliding even on the down-grade. The sastrugi, I fear, have come to stay, and we must be prepared for heavy marching, but in two days I hope to lighten loads with a depot. We are south of Shackleton's last camp, so I suppose, have made the most southerly camp.

Assuming, of course, that Amundsen isn't ahead of us.

5 January, 1912

2011-01-05T17:13:00.001-05:00

Camp 58
87 degrees 57 minutes South; 159 degrees 13. Minimum Temperature: -23.5.

A dreadfully trying day. Light wind from the NNW bringing detached cloud and constant fall of ice crystals. The surface, in consequence, as bad as could be after the first hour. This is the hardest we have yet done on the plateau. In the afternoon a good deal of confusing cross sastrugi, and tonight a very rough surface with evidences of hard southerly wind. Luckily the sledge shows no signs of capsizing yet.

We sigh for a breeze to sweep the hard snow, but tonight the outlook is not promising better things. However, we are very close to the 88th parallel, a little more than 120 miles from the Pole, only a march from Shackleton's final camp, and in a general way 'getting on.'

We go a little over a mile and a quarter an hour now it is a big strain as the shadows creep slowly around form our right through ahead to our left. What lots of things we think on these monotonous marches! What castles one builds now hopefully that the Pole is ours.

We feel the cold very little, the great comfort of our situation is the excellent drying effect of the sun. Our socks and finnesko are almost dry each morning. Cooking for five takes a seriously longer time than cooking for four; perhaps half an hour on the whole day.

It is an item I had not considered when reorganizing.

I wonder where Amundsen is. I haven't seen any sign of him anywhere. He must be behind us.

4 January, 1912

2011-01-05T17:00:00.001-05:00

Camp 57

We were naturally late getting away this morning, the sledge having to be packed and arrangements completed for separation of parties. It is wonderful to see how neatly everything stows on a little sledge, thanks to PO Evans. (He's still favoring one hand._ I was anxious to see how we could pull it, and glad to find we went easy enough. Bowers on foot pulls between, but behind, Wilson and myself; he has to keep his own pace and luckily does not throw us out at all. Oates looks grumpy and limps a little.

The second party had followed us in case of accident, but as soon I was certain we could get along we stopped and said farewell. Teddy Evans is terribly disappointed but has taken it very well and behaved like a man. Poor old Crean wept and even Lashly was affected. I was glad to find their sledge is a mere nothing to them, and thus, no doubt, they will make a quick journey back. (Assuming of course that none of them gets Scurvy like bloody Shackleton!)

In the afternoon the wind died away, and tonight it is flat calm; the sun so warm that in spite of the temperature we can stand about outside with the greatest comfort. It is amusing to stand thus and remember the constant horrors of our situation as they were painted for us; the sun is melting the snow on the ski, etc. The plateau is now very flat, but we are still ascending slowly.

I wonder what is in store for us.At present everything seems to be going with extraordinary smoothness, and one can scarcely believe that obstacles will not present themselves to make our task more difficult.

Perhaps the surface will be the element to trouble us.

Or maybe not.

3rd January, 1912

2011-01-05T16:48:00.001-05:00

Camp 56
Height lunch: 10,110; Night: 10,180.

Last night I decided to reorganize, and this morning told off Teddy Evans, Lashly, and Crean to return. They are disappointed, but take it well. Bowers is to come into our tent, and we proceed as a five-man unit tomorrow. We have 5 1/2 units of food—practically over a month's allowance for five people—it ought to see us through.

We came along well on ski today, but the foot haulers were slow, and so we only got a trifle over 12 miles. Very anxious to see how we shall manage tomorrow; if we can march well with the full load we shall be practically safe, I take it.

The surface was very bad in patches today and the wind was strong.

Have sent back my last letters, and told Kathleen that we are in a very hopeful position, and that I think it's going to be alright. I told her we have a fine party and that arrangements are going well.

Going ahead with five instead of four will be alright, won't it? Everyone looked pretty startled when I announced that, but I have my reasons. And that's all I am going to say on the matter.

Poor Bowers, of course, has no ski, so he shall be slogging it on foot.

2nd January, 1912

2011-01-05T16:41:00.002-05:00

Camp 55
Height about 9980.

The foot party went off early, before 8, and marched till 1. Again from 2:35 to 6:30. We started more than half an hour later on each march and caught the others easy. It's been a plod for the foot people and pretty easygoing for us, and we have covered 13 miles.

The sky is slightly overcast for the first time since we left the glacier'; the sun can be seen already through a veil of stratus, and blue sky around the horizon. I hope the clouds do not mean wind or a bad surface. The latter became poor towards the end of the afternoon. We have not risen much today and the plain seems to be flattening out. A skua gull visited us on the march this afternoon—it was evidently curious, kept alighting on the snow ahead. and fluttering a few yards as we approached. It seemed to have had little food—an extraordinary visitor considering our distance from the sea.

Have been doing a lot of thinking about which of us will be going on with me to the Pole. I know that for two years I have been planning on a group of four; indeed, all of our provisions and equipment are designed for that—but I'm just now thinking of taking five. That won't effect us much, will it?

1st January, 1912 New Year's Day

2011-01-01T17:35:00.000-05:00

Camp 54

Roused hands at 7:30 and got away at 9:30. Evan's party going ahead on foot. We followed on ski. We stupidly had not seen to our ski shoes beforehand, and it took a good half-hour to get them right. Wilson especially had trouble. When we did get away, to our surprise the sledge pulled very easily, and we made fine progress, rapidly gaining on the foot-haulers.

We have scarcely exerted ourselves all day. We are very comfortable in our double tent. Stick of chocolate to celebrate the new year. The supporting party not in very high spirits, they have not managed matters well for themselves. Prospects seem to get brighter -- only 170 miles to go and plenty of food left.

31 December, 1911 New Year's Eve

2011-01-01T17:30:00.000-05:00

Camp 53

The second party deposited its ski and some other weights equivalent to 100 lbs. I sent them off first; they marched, but not fast. We have been rising all day.

We had a good full brew of tea and then set to work stripping the sledges. That didn't take long, but the process of building up the 10-feet sledges now in operation in the other tent is a long job. Evans PO and Crean are tackling it, and it is a very remarkable piece of work. Certainly PO Evans is the most invaluable asset to our party. To build a sledge under these conditions is a fact for special record.

We will put a depot here and call it the 3 Degree Depot, since we are so close to the 87th parallel.

There is extraordinarily little mirage up here and the refraction is very small. Except for the four seamen we are all sitting in a double tent—the first time we have put up the inner lining to the tent; it seems to make us much snugger.

10pm.

The job of rebuilding is taking longer than I expected but now it is almost done. The 10-feet sledges look very handy. We had an extra drink of tea and are now turned into our bags in the double tent (five of us) as warm as toast, and just enough light to write or work with.

Evans couldn't say what took them so long, and was acting very gingerly with his hand. Very curious.

30 December, 1911

2010-12-30T18:38:00.000-05:00

Camp 52

A very trying, tiring march, and only 11 miles covered. Tomorrow, I'm going to march half a day, make a depot, and build the 10-feet sledges. The second party is certainly tiring; it remains to be seen how they will manage with the smaller sledge and lighter load. The surface is certainly much worse than it was 50 miles back. We have caught up with Shackleton's dates. Everything would be cheerful if I could persuade myself that the second party were quite fit to go forward.

I hope no-one cuts themselves on the sledge runners tomorrow. That would be awful.

29 December, 1911

2010-12-30T18:33:00.000-05:00

Camp 51

It's been a struggle all day over very bad surfaces. The weather looks a little doubtful. The marches are terribly monotonous. One's thoughts wander occasionally to pleasanter scenes and places, but the necessity to keep the course, or some hitch in the surface, quickly brings them back. There have been hours of very steady plodding to day; these are the best part of the business, they mean forgetfulness and advance.

28 December, 1911

2010-12-28T19:58:00.000-05:00

Camp 50

I start cooking again tomorrow morning. We have had a troublesome day but have completed our 13 miles. My unit pulled away easy this morning and stretched out for two hours—the second unit made heavy weather. I changed with Evans and found the second sledge heavy—could keep up, but the team was not swinging with me as my own team swings. Then I changed P.O. Evans for Lashly. We seemed to get on better, but we then came up over a rise with hard sastrugi. At the top we camped for lunch. What was the difficulty? One theory was that some members of the second party were stale. Another that all was due to the bad stepping and want of swing; another that the sledge pulled heavy.

In the afternoon we exchanged sledges, and at first went off well, but getting into soft snow, we found a terrible drag, the second party coming quite easily with our sledge. So the sledge is the cause of the trouble, and talking it out, I found that all is due to want of care.The runners ran excellently, but the structure has been distorted by bad strapping, bad loading, 7c. The party are not done, and I have told them plainly that they must wrestle with the trouble and get it right for themselves. There is no possible reason they should not get along as easily as we do.

Oh, and the fact that they have been manhauling for weeks longer than we have on shorter rations is no excuse. No excuse at all.

27 December, 1911

2010-12-28T19:51:00.000-05:00

Camp 49

Damn Bowers. This morning he broke the only hypsometer thermometer. This means we can't measure our altitude. I really let him have it, too.

We got into abominable crevasses this afternoon. Steering the party is no light task. One cannot allow one's thoughts to wander as others do, and when, as this afternoon, one gets amongst disturbances, I find it is very worrying and tiring. I do trust we shall have no more of them. We have not lost sight of the sun since we came on the summit; we should get an extraordinary record of sunshine. It is monotonous work, this; the sledgemeter and theodolite govern the situation.

26 December, 1911 Boxing Day

2010-12-26T13:40:00.000-05:00

Camp 48

We were perhaps a little slow today after the plum pudding, but I think we are getting onto the surface which is likely to continue the rest of the way.

It seems astonishing to be disappointed with a march of 15 miles, when I had contemplated doing little more than 10 with full loads.

We are on the 86th parallel.

I wonder where Amundsen spent his Christmas?

25 December, 1911 Christmas Day

2010-12-25T11:51:00.000-05:00

The wind was strong last night and this morning; a light snowfall in the night; a good deal of drift, subsiding when we started, but still about a foot high. It was fine for a while but then we got amongst crevasses again. Got our ski sticks out, which improved matters, but we had to tack a good deal and several of us went half down. After half an hour of this I looked round and found the second sledge halted some way in rear -- evidently someone had gone into a crevasse. We saw rescue work going on, but had to wait half an hour for the party to come up, and got mighty cold. It appears that Lashly went down very suddenly, nearly dragging the crew with him. The sledge ran on and jammed the span so that the Alpine rope had to be got out and used to pull him to the surface again. He said the crevasse was 50 feet deep and 8 feet across, showing that the word "unfathomable" can rarely be applied. It's his birthday today too - he is 44 and hard as nails. Damned annoying to make us all cold, though.

Camp 47.

I am so replete that I can scarcely type. After sundry luxuries, such as chocolate and raisins at lunch, we started off well, but soon got among crevasses again. I marched on till 7:30. We covered 15 miles.

I knew that supper was going to be a "tightener" and indeed it has been -- we had four courses. The first, pemmican, full whack, with slices of horse meat flavored with onion and curry powder and thickened with biscuit; then an arrowroot, cocoa and biscuit hoosh sweetened; then a plum pudding; then cocoa with raisins; and a finally a dessert of caramels and ginger.

After hte feast it was difficult to move. Wilson and I couldn't finish our share of the plum pudding. This full feeding will keep us wonderfully warm tonight.

This time last year we were stuck in ice at sea! How time flies!

24 December, 1911 Christmas Eve

2010-12-24T19:35:00.000-05:00

Camp 46

We are now marching in our wind blouses. The first two hours of the afternoon march went very well. Then the sledges hung a bit, and we plodded on and covered something over 14 miles in the day. The only inconvenience of the wind is the extent to which our faces get iced up. The temperature hovers about zero. We have not struck a crevasse all day, which is a good sign. The sun continues to shine in a cloudless sky, and the wind rises and falls, and about us is a scene of the wildest desolation, but we are a very cheerful party and tomorrow is Christmas Day, with something extra in he hoosh.

I wonder how Peter and Kathleen are spending the day?

23 December, 1911

2010-12-23T19:44:00.000-05:00

Lunch. Started well, but soon came upon bad crevasses and hard waves. We pushed on to the SW, but things went from bad to worse, and we had to haul out to the north, then west. West looks clear for the present, but it is not a very satisfactory direction. The comfort is that we are rising.

Night: Camp 45 Height about 7750

Great vicissitudes of fortune in the afternoon march. Came upon an area with the most extraordinary surface -- narrow crevasses ran in all directions. They were quite invisible, being covered with a thin crust of hardened neve without a sign of a crack in it. We all fell in one after the other, and sometimes two together. We have had many unexpected falls before, but usually through being unable to mark the run of the surface appearances of cracks, or where such cracks are covered with soft snow. How a hard crust can form over a crack is a real puzzle—it seems to argue extremely slow movement.

At 5 pm everything changed. The hard surface gave place to regular sastrugi and our horizon leveled in every direction. We camped with a delightful feeling of security that we had at length reached the summit proper. I am feeling very cheerful about everything tonight. We marched 15 miles.

My determination to keep mounting irrespective of course is fully justified and I shall indeed be surprised is we have any further difficulty with crevasses or steep slopes. To me for the first time our goal seems really in sight. We can pull our loads and pull them much faster and farther than I expected in my most hopeful moments. I only pray for a fair share of good weather. There is a cold wind now as expected, but with good clothes and well fed as we are, we can stick a lot worse than we are getting. I trust this may prove the turning point in our fortunes for which we have waited so patiently.

2 December, 1911

2010-12-23T19:31:00.000-05:00

Camp 44 About 7100 feet

Self: 43, Wilson 39, Evans (PO) 37, Oates 32, Bowers 28. Average 36.

This, the third stage of our journey, is opening with good promise. We made our depot this morning, then said an affecting farewell to the returning party, who have taken things very well, dear good fellows that they are. Cherry teared up a little.

We marched 7 hours and covered 10.5 miles. Tomorrow we march longer hours, about 9 I hope. Every day the loads will lighten, and so we ought to make the requisite progress. I think we have climbed 250 feet today, but thought it more on the march. Ahead of us is a stiffish incline and it looks as though there might be pressure behind it. It is very difficult to judge how matters stand, however, in such a confusion of elevations and depressions. This course doesn't work wonders in change of latitude, but I think it is the right track to clear the pressures -- at any rate I shall hold it for the present.

The weather has been beautifully fine all day as it was last night. This morning there was an hour or so of haze due to clouds from the north. Now it is perfectly clear, and we get a fine view of the mountain behind which Wilson has just been sketching.