6 February, 1911

Corner Camp, 6PM

We are still here, hunkered down against this unceasing blizzard. It is howling all about us, though very cozy in the tent, as it is not particularly cold. I think this spot must get the worst of the wind coming off Cape Crozier. It is awful to have to go outside, but obviously on occasion we must. I get the feeling the men would rather do their business where possible into some container in the tent, but this will not do; we are not animals, and no-one dare ask for fear of seeming too delicate to face the snow.

The dogs are perfectly content, curled under their tails (if they have them) in their snow burrows, and rather think they are having a holiday. The ponies must be in a wretched state, given that they withstood standing in a boat for 5 weeks, endured a nearly fatal gale and have since we landed been at it non-stop dragging heavy loads -- they must have done at least 200 miles alone.

So we eat and sleep, eat and sleep -- and it's surprising how much sleep can be put in.

5 February, 1911

Still at Corner Camp. The blizzard has lasted 24 hours so far. It blows very hard and out tent is being put to the test. One imagines it cannot continue long as at present, but remembers our proximity to Cape Crozier and the length of the blizzards recorded in that region. I do not know why I keep referring to myself in the third person.

Meanwhile, we sleep and eat and wonder at how the other tents are getting by. There is a rumor that Bowers's pony has eaten one of it's putties!

Two minutes outside the tent and one is turned white. Naturally, one does have to go outside a couple of times per day to do one's business. It's hell out there.

I am enjoying my pipe. If one ignores the howling wind, one can pretend one is beside one's fireplace enjoying civilized after-dinner conversation.

I wonder how long we'll be stuck here? The ponies must be absolutely miserable.

4 February, 1911

Camp Six. 8AM.

We covered 10 miles last night. We had good moonlight and soft surfaces gave way to hard ones, which was easier on the ponies. The sky looks threatening to the south; I think we're in for a blizzard.

Camp 6. 8PM.

It is blowing a blizzard. Nothing to do but lie here.

The deep, dreamless sleep that follows the long march and the satisfying supper.

The surface crust which breaks with a snap and sinks with a snap, startling men and animals.

A dog must be either eating , asleep, or interested. His eagerness to snatch at interest, to chain his attention to something, is almost pathetic. The monotony of marching kills him.

This is the fearfullest difficulty for the dog driver on a snow plain without leading marks or objects in sight. The dog is almost human in its demand for living interest, yet fatally less than human in its ability to foresee.

The dog lives for the day, the hour, even the moment. The human being can live and support discomfort for a future.

I wonder if Amundsen has dogs, and how many. I wonder where he might be.

3rd February, 1911 (part two)

6PM. I cannot believe I slept for nine hours. My tent-mates are still slumbering.

Two of Meare's white dogs have been trained to attack strangers, which is most inconvenient. I was almost taken down today.

Hunger and fear are the only realities in a dog's life: an empty stomach makes a fierce dog. There is something almost alarming in the sudden fierce display of natural instinct in a tame creature. Instinct becomes a blind, unreasoning, relentless passion. It is as well one is resigned to the sacrifice of animal life in the effort to advance such human projects as this.

Of course, one feels more easily disposed to slaughter when one has been on the receiving end of those teeth.

My companions stir: I must away.

3rd February, 1911 (part one)

Roused the camp at 10PM to begin out first night march. Set up temporary camp to feed us and the animals at 3:30 AM, then started again at 5AM and marched til 7AM. In all we covered 9 miles. The surfaces were fine until towards the end when Bowers, who was leading, suddenly plunged into soft snow, followed by several others. Soon, three of the ponies were also struggling. I brought out that one set of snow-shoes, and put them on Bowers's pony -- a complete triumph! At first he walked awkwardly, for a few minutes only, then once he was harnessed to his load was able to get over all those places he'd sunk earlier!

If only we had all our snow-shoes! It is trying to feel that so great a help to our work has been left behind at the station. It is pathetic to see the ponies floundering so in these soft patches. They heave and struggle, jumping forward with both forefeet, bringing the sledge behind them in jerks. They stand there engulfed in snow, panting, or fall, and lie there trembling with exhaustion.

What extraordinary uncertainties this work exhibits! Every day some new fact comes to light—some new obstacle which threatens the gravest obstruction. I suppose this is the reason which makes the game so well playing.

I'm lying here unable to sleep. It takes some getting used to, this night-marching.

The more I think of our sledging outfit the more certain I am that we have arrived at something near a perfect equipment for civilised man under such conditions. The border line between necessity and luxury is vague enough. Suppose, for example, we were in a grim struggle for existence and were forced to drop everything but the barest necessities; the most we could save would be 375lbs, or half of one of the ten sledge loads. That's only a twentieth of the total weight carried. So it is without guilt that I enjoy my reading and my pipe.

We have 32oz or food a day, which is more than enough. I remember ho hard it was back in 1903 when we were on 26oz for five weeks, and it nearly did us in. The main thing to remember is that the men should be kept in prime condition so long as the animals are pulling their loads.

I could go on and on, but I suppose I must try to sleep.

2nd February, 1911

Am writing this in the tent waiting for night to fall. Of course, this being Antarctic summer, it doesn't get dark. What we're waiting for is for the temperatures to drop -- minus six, last night -- so we can begin marching the ponies then instead of the daytime when it is too warm for them. Better they rest during the warmth of the sun than build up a froth of heat.

The trouble for us chaps though is that it is almost impossible to sleep until we get used to the switch.

Left Atkinson behind with Crean. I feel sorry for them both, but Crean most of all. Atkinson is a damn fool for not having told us about the state of his foot sooner. Crean, meanwhile, has the ignomy of looking after him and fetching fodder instead of making this historic march. Meanwhile, I am handling Atkinson's pony.

I inquired after out one set of snow-shoes only to find they had been left behind. And after they had proved so useful! It does make me wonder if someone's not trying to sabotage our efforts. Gran volunteered to ski back to fetch them, which was very good of him. Oates will not use two poles when he skis, insisting on using only one, like some glaciated gondolier.

I thought I might as well do something useful while I'm lying here so wrote this:

The seductive folds of the sleeping-bag.

The hiss of the primus and the fragrant steam of the cooker issuing from the tent ventilator.

The small green tent and the great white road.

The whine of a dog and the neigh of our steeds.

The driving cloud of powdered snow.

The crunch of footsteps which break the surface crust.

The wind blown furrows.

The blue arch beneath the smoky cloud.

The crisp ring of the ponies’ hoofs and the swish of the following sledge.

The droning conversation of the march as driver encourages or chides his horse.

The patter of dog pads.

The gentle flutter of our canvas shelter.

Its deep booming sound under the full force of a blizzard.

The drift snow like finest flour penetrating every hole and corner – flickering up beneath one’s head covering, pricking sharply as a sand blast.

The sun with blurred image peeping shyly through the wreathing drift giving pale shadowless light.

The eternal silence of the great white desert. Cloudy columns of snow drift advancing from the south, pale yellow wraiths, heralding the coming storm, blotting out one by one the sharp-cut lines of the land.

The blizzard, Nature’s protest – the crevasse, Nature’s pitfall – that grim trap for the unwary – no hunter could conceal his snare so perfectly – the light rippled snow bridge gives no hint or sign of the hidden danger, its position unguessable till man or beast is floundering, clawing and struggling for foothold on the brink.

The vast silence broken only by the mellow sounds of the marching column.

1st February, 1911

A day of comparative inactivity and some disappointment. Wilson and Meares returned at noon reporting that the ice is out and therefore passage to Cape Evans is impossible. We shall have to proceed with just the one pair of snow-shoes.

Atkinson's foot isn't getting any better and he shan't be able to walk on it for some days. I must leave him here, and have asked Crean to stay with him. He can fetch loads of fodder from the last camp and dig a big hole in the Barrier ice for observations. That'll keep him busy while playing nursemaid.

I sent Gran to the Discovery Hut with our last mail. The Terra Nova will pick it up and take it back to New Zealand for us. He was gone 4 hours in ski, and as the wind had sprung up I was most anxious to get him back.

The good news, I suppose, is that our food allowance seems to be very ample, and if we go on as at present we shall thrive amazingly.