27 February, 1911

Awoke to find it blowing a howling blizzard. Winds blowing force 8 or 9. Absolutely confined to tent at present; to step outside is to be covered with drift in a minute. We managed to get our cooking supplies inside and have a meal.

Am very anxious about the ponies that were sent back: did they find shelter in time?

How frustrating it is to be stuck here without being able to do anything. How shall we spend our time? It is cold. This is poor luck.

I don't suppose Amundsen is sitting in a freezing tent buried up to his eyes in snow.

I shall have a smoke.