The next morning (July 26), being beautifully fine, was devoted to an astronomical determination of our position and other preparations for carrying on a survey. A preliminary expedition up the glacier occupied the afternoon. An easy way was found on to the ice, but there luck turned, for, as a matter of fact, we were not really on the Kings Glacier itself, but on the foot of a small tributary flowing round from an enclosed basin on the south and divided from the main glacier by an immense moraine. This moraine would have to be crossed; we knew enough of dragging sledges over moraines to foresee something of the troubles thus provided. We wandered over the small glacier to the foot of a peak standing in the angle between it and the Highway. Then Garwood and Nielsen set off to climb the peak (Mount Nielsen 3120 ft.) by its rotten arÊte, whilst I with Svensen went on to investigate the moraine and find the best way over it. Returning the first to camp, I sat in the door, watching the wonder of the glacier’s terminal cliff, its bold towers, tottering pinnacles, and sections of crevasses with fallen blocks wedged into their jaws. Lumps of ice were continually falling. Fortunate enough to be gazing in the right direction, I saw a monster pinnacle come down. First a few fragments were crushed out from right and left near its base; then the whole tower seemed to sink vertically, smashing up within as it gave way, and finally toppling over and shooting forward into the water, which it dashed aloft. The resulting wave spread and broke around, hurling the floating blocks against one another, and upsetting the balance of many. Its widening undulation could be traced far away by the stately courtesy of the rocking icebergs. The front of the cliff was barred across with sunlight and shadow, throwing into relief this and the other icy pinnacle, above some blue wall or gloomy cavern. Behind the wall the glacier was not smooth, but broken into a tumult of seracs, like the most ruinous icefall in the Alps, as far as the eye could reach. Varying illumination on this splintered area evoked all manner of resemblances for the play of a vagrant imagination. Sometimes the glacier looked like an innumerable multitude of white-robed penitents, sometimes like the tented field of a great army, sometimes like a frozen cataract. Its suggestiveness was boundless, its beauty always perfect; moreover, it was worthily framed. The mountains that enclose it are fine in form, with splintered ridges, steep couloirs, and countless high-placed glaciers, caught on ledges or sweeping down to join the great ice-river.

Garwood returned full of a satisfaction which Nielsen heartily shared. The scramble had been exhilarating, the view superb. There was no ice-sheet visible, only mountains everywhere, with glaciers between. The moraine once passed, our way was open ahead up ice apparently smooth. After supper I set out alone in the opposite direction along the shore, for the purpose of starting the plane-table survey from a well-marked eminence near the foot of the second side-glacier, whose black, terminal slope curves round and up with singular regularity of form. The walk was beautiful, the ice-dappled sea being always close at hand with noble hills beyond. There were plenty of torrents to wade, besides one which had to be jumped. It flows down a gully cut sharply into the dolomite rock. Below the glacier are ice-worn rocks, both rounded and grooved; but the direction of the grooves is at right-angles to that of the axis of the glacier, so that they appear to have been scratched when the main Kings Glacier extended thus much farther and higher. Returning, I kept close along the margin of the bay. Innumerable fragments of crystal-clear ice, each filled with sunshine, danced in the breaking ripples. The water splashed amongst them, singing a cheerful song which was altogether new to me. The cliff-front of the glacier ahead was darkened with shadow, and represented a battlemented wall with deep portals leading through to a white marble city within.

On the following day, sun brightly shining and breezes blowing fresh, we loaded up two sledges with food for ten days, and set forth up the King’s Highway. A laborious struggle took the sledges past the terminal moraine, but the ice beyond was dotted with frequent stones, so that the runners were generally foul of one or more. The slope was very steep. Reaching a more level place, we encountered ice so humpy that the sledges were always on their noses or their tails. Then came a caÑon, 50 feet or so deep, and about 20 feet wide. We had to track alongside of it in an undesired direction till a doubtful-looking bridge was found, over which a passage could be risked. More lumpy ice followed till we were level with the foot of Mount Nielsen, where a smoother area was entered on. Here I left the caravan and climbed to the top of a hump on the arÊte of the peak to continue the survey. My solitary industry was enlivened by the neighbourhood of countless nesting birds, snow buntings, little auks, and guillemots, whose home is in the cliffs. Thus far the big moraine was close by on our left hand, mountains on our right; the level stretch of ice led between the two to the meeting of moraine and mountain at the entrance of the next side valley beyond Mount Nielsen. Here the stone-strip had to be crossed. I came up with the others just as the crossing began. We thought the moraine belt at this point would be but a few yards in width. It was more than half a mile. We only found that out after unloading the sledges and taking every man his burden. They were carried over, a return made for more, the process repeated, and so on for two whole hours—a heartbreaking experience. It was a hilly moraine or set of moraines, with two main ascents and descents besides several minor undulations. Footing was, of course, on loose stones only. In such places laden men slip about, bark their shins, twist their ankles, and lose their tempers. Beyond the stones came humpy ice again, ridged into short, steep undulations. A sledge required vigorous hoisting over each of them, the distance from trough to trough being about five yards, and the ridges transverse to our line of route. “On every hump,” said Nielsen, “a sledge capsizes.” Certainly one sledge or the other was generally rolling over on its back. After six hours of hard work we agreed to camp (460 feet)—“the hardest day’s work I’ve done in a long time,” was Nielsen’s comment, and we believed him, for he put his back into it with hearty goodwill. Only when the tents were pitched had we leisure to enjoy the warm sunshine and the exhilarating, absolutely calm air. Out on the ice we could sit in our shirt-sleeves without being chilled. All around spread the great glacier in its beauty; the sky overhead was blue; the bay reflected the sunshine; fleeces of mist adorned the hilltops. In that perfect hour we craved for nothing save the company of absent friends.

The next day (July 28) we made good progress, ascending 720 feet and covering a long distance. None of it was easy-going; in fact, when you have sledges to drag there is no easy going except on the flat. Every stage of a glacier has its own troubles. First comes the steep snout and its moraine, then humpy ice and open crevasses, next honeycomb ice and water-holes, which gradually pass (in fine melting weather) into glacier covered by waterlogged snow. We began the day with honeycomb ice and water-holes. The honeycomb ice on the NordenskiÖld Glacier made rather good travelling; it was otherwise on the King’s Highway. Several fine days had flooded the surface with water, so that, where crevasses ceased and the water had no downward outlet, it was obliged to trickle about, forming pools, rills, and rivers, all in different ways perplexing to the traveller. The cells of the honeycomb ice were thus full of water, and, as they gave way under the pressure of a tread, the foot crunched through into water at every step. By slow degrees the honeycomb was replaced by sodden snow, which grew steadily deeper as we advanced to higher levels. Here the whole surface shone in the sunlight, for the water oozed about in pools and sluggish streams, forming square miles of slush. There were brief intervals of dryness where the surface rose in some perceptible slope, but they were short, the almost flat waterlogged areas covered the larger part of the region to be traversed. If the march was uncomfortable and toilsome, each could laugh at the antics of the others. We steered a devious route, seeking to follow the white patches and to avoid the glassy blue areas where water actually came to the surface. But all that looked white was not solid. You would see the leader shuffling gingerly forward on his ski, trying to pretend that he was a mere bubble of lightness. Suddenly, through he would go up to the knee, the points of his ski would catch in the depths and a mighty floundering ensue. The sledges got into similar fixes, and often added to the confusion by rolling over most inopportunely. The leading sledge usually served to indicate a way to be avoided, so, before very long, the two parties wandered asunder and enjoyed one another’s struggles and perplexities from a distance.

It is obvious that Nature must provide some sort of a drainage system for such a quantity of water. The bogs and pools leak into one another and by degrees cut channels with ill-defined banks of snow, along which the current slowly crawls. By union of such streams strong-flowing torrents are formed; these make deep cuttings into the glacier and unite into a trunk river, deep, swift, and many yards wide. Every uncrevassed side glacier above the snowline pours out a similar river on to the surface of the main glacier, and these rivers in their turns presently join the trunk stream. Thus, whatever route you take, whether you keep near the trunk stream or far from it, the side streams have to be crossed. The crossing of them is often a tough business. Their icebanks are about twelve feet high and usually vertical; their volume of water is too considerable to be waded, seeing that their beds are of smooth, slippery, blue ice, on which footing cannot be maintained for a moment. They are seldom less than four yards wide. The blue strip with the clear water between the white walls is always a lovely sight, but to a traveller quite as tantalising. A crossing can only be accomplished where the water has chanced to undercut one of the banks and at the same time to leave a level place beside it at the foot of the other bank. You can then jump over with some hope of gaining a footing where you land. The sledges have to follow with a perilous bump. Rarely you may find a snow-bridge. In search of possible crossings we had to travel alongside of these streams, time and again, far out of our line of route, whilst, to make matters worse, it happened that we were on the wrong side of the trunk river; thus that also had to be crossed, a problem apparently insoluble, till a great and well-blessed bridge was found just at the end of the day’s march.

Nielsen worked like a horse all day long, his full weight thrown forward and his body inclined at a surprising angle. Svensen, by the gestures of his arms and the sorry expression of his countenance, looked as if he were labouring exceedingly, but of his towering frame the vertical was the customary attitude, and if the one of us who was sharing his sledge left off pulling for a moment the sledge mysteriously stuck fast. There were, indeed, signs of a return of Svensen’s malady; but it was explained to him that, regard being had to the comfortable warmth of the weather and absence of wind, his health was not to be deranged, and that, if it should happen that he could not go on with us, doing his full share of work, he would have to find his way back to the coast alone. Thenceforward he throve exceedingly, and only penalised us by “sugaring” when not closely watched.

The character of the scenery changed considerably during the progress of the march. Our first camp looked up both the Crowns and Highway glaciers and was opposite the big nunatak which divides them. It is a true nunatak, or hilltop rising from the bed of the glacier, not an entire mountain surrounded by different glaciers. At one time it must have been buried under ice, for all its top seems to be moutonnised. The Crowns and Queens groups were both well seen from the same camp, or would have been but for a few clouds. As we advanced, the Crowns disappeared behind the Pretender and Queens, and we came under the rounded and bare south slopes of these—a dull prospect. But new objects of interest were appearing in the other direction, where the Highway Glacier widened out and branched off into white bays and tributaries, separated from one another by peaks of striking and precipitous form, finely grouped. When the Three Crowns were finally hidden, there opened out on the left side of the Highway a broad valley, south-westward, that bent round to the west and soon reached a wide snow pass, beyond which, still curving round, it led down to the glacier emptying into the head of English Bay.

All day long we were rounding away from the purple fjord and visibly leaving it behind, though the distance to the watershed in front did not perceptibly diminish. The weather continued fine, though not clear; the sun peeped through the mottled sky from time to time, but fogs rolled about like big snowballs on the higher nÉvÉs. Camp was pitched (1180 feet) in the midst of the widest part of the glacier about a mile below the point where it bifurcates, each branch leading up to a wide snow pass of its own. The north branch continues the direction of the lower part of the glacier, so we decided to go to it. A widening wedge of peaks divides the cols, and coming down to a sharp arÊte buries itself beneath the ice at Junction Point (named because it must be referred to again in the course of this narrative).

The 29th was a glorious day. Resolutions were made that we would march on to the watershed, whatever its distance. It is as easy to change these resolves in the afternoon as to make them in the morning. The pools of water were now left behind, but the snow on the surface of the ice was still sodden and slushy. In the first three-quarters of an hour we rose 120 feet, and reached the end of the ridge at Junction Point. Rocks were here disclosed, so Garwood went off geologising. The rest of us plunged into an island of fog, and hauled on up a steep slope, where the snow became good, and thenceforward remained in perfect condition for ski at that and all higher levels. Without ski it would have been impossible to do much, for we should have sunk up to, or above, the knee in snow, over which, with them, we slid in luxury. Above this slope the fog ended, and a wide, very gently sloping plain of snow followed, stretching afar on all sides. This is the highest basin and gathering ground of the glacier. It is almost level with the passes that divide the mountains on the north. If we had but known that the same is true of the nÉvÉ on the other side of those passes, we might have saved ourselves the long round of a few days later. Now that there was no water to trouble us, we suffered acutely from thirst, for the day was quite hot and the sun burned fiercely. We peeled off our garments one by one and rejoiced in an unwonted freedom.

The mountains bordering the King’s Highway average somewhat over 3000 feet in height. As the level of the glacier rises, the lower slopes are more deeply covered and the visible remainder of the peaks comes to be not much above 1000 feet. They appear, moreover, to stand wider apart from one another, and the glacier, filling the valley more deeply, becomes itself considerably wider. Nevertheless, such is the fine form of the mountains that they still appear large, especially to an eye trained in greater ranges. Being themselves magnified, they proportionally magnify the aspect of the glacial expanse, which pretends to be of quite enormous extent—a spotless desert of purest white. The views on all sides were of entrancing beauty, especially the view back down the blue vista of Kings Bay. The broad white col ahead seemed for hours little elevated above us. There were far, coy, tantalising peaks over and beyond. From the col itself rose a small mound, perhaps 500 feet high, by the foot of which it was our intention to camp, but hour passed after hour, and it never seemed nearer.

Busied with the survey, perforce I lagged behind and was alone in the midst of a world of whiteness. A lengthening shadow was my sole moving companion, save when some stray fulmar petrel came whizzing by, en route from Kings Bay to Ice Fjord. The tracks of foxes were crossed not infrequently, but no fox did I actually see. At 9 P.M. the col was apparently as far off as ever, and Nielsen had done as much work as a man could be expected to do in a day. Svensen didn’t count, as he always put on the aspect of a moribund person. He expressed a full agreement with Nielsen’s ejaculation, “We’ll have to have plenty of soup for this.” Ultimately we gave up till the morrow the resolved pursuit of the pass and camped at a height of 2170 feet, having risen about 1000 feet during the day. The first thing done was to melt snow for a debauch. Deep were our potions; the insipid draught tasted for once like divine nectar. The sun continued his bright shining and the tents were warm within. We lay on our bags, enjoying the simple beauty of the view seen through the open door. Each deep-trodden footprint in front was a cup filled with a shadow of purest blue, pale like the sky. A white expanse followed, slightly mottled with blue in the foreground and sparkling as with diamonds; it stretched away for about five miles to the great blue shadow, which the wall of rocks and ridge of snow in the north cast wide from the low-hanging sun. There was not a sound, not a breath of moving air; no bird came by; not an insect hummed. It was an hour of absolute stillness and perfect repose.

We tried to sleep, but in the bright sunshine no ghost of slumber would consent to visit the camp, till clouds at last came up which barred snow and sky across in grey and silver, robbing the shadows of their blue, and lowering the temperature to a comfortable degree. Then sleep descended, and coming late lingered with us all too long, so that it was noon of the 30th before we were again on the way. The snow was now soft and the apparent level proved, by the evidence of the sledges, to be a steady uphill slope. For an hour the pass kept its distance; then, on a sudden, it was near. Excitement rose. What should we see? What was beyond? We knew that the slope on the other side must be toward Ice Fjord, but that was all. The east coast of what I have named King James Land[7] is well seen from Advent Bay and other parts of Ice Fjord. It consists of the fronts of a series of big glaciers and of the ends of the mountain ranges dividing them. The glaciers and ranges are approximately parallel to one another, running from north-west to south-east. We therefore thought it probable that we should look down some glacier from the col, but doubted which. Arrived on the pass (2500 feet), there, in fact, was a glacier directly continuing the King’s Highway down to the eastern waters, for it apparently ended in the fjord. Far off, and still in the same line, was the purple recess of Advent Bay. A beautiful row of peaks, pleasantly varied in form (for there were needles and snowy domes and pyramids among them), lined the glacier on either side, the last on both hands being bolder and more massive towers of rock than the rest. We afterward easily identified these peaks from Advent Bay, whence also on a clear morning I confirmed our observations by looking straight up this same glacier and recognising Highway Pass.

Camp was pitched on the pass and preparations made for a day’s exploring in the neighbourhood. It was warm, the temperature in the tents being 59° Fahr., whilst the direct rays of sunshine really scorched. The condition of the snow may be imagined. Without ski, progress in any direction would have involved intolerable discomfort and labour. Close at hand on the north was a hill about 500 feet high, to which we gave the name Highway Dome. It was the obvious point to be ascended for a panoramic view. There was a bergschrund at the foot of it, and then a long snow slope up which we had to zigzag. Unfortunately by the time the summit had been gained the sun was obscured by clouds, which were boiling in the north as though for a thunderstorm. The hills of known position near Advent Bay were likewise obscured by cloud, so that my three-legged theodolite had made this ascent to little purpose, but the panorama was clear in the main and the colouring all the richer for the cloud-roof.

We were standing at an altitude of about 3000 feet,[8] surrounded by peaks of similar, or rather greater, elevation. Let no one fancy that because these heights are insignificant there was any corresponding insignificance in the view. The effect produced by mountains depends not upon their altitude, but upon their form, colour, and grouping. There are no features in a mountain, standing wholly above the snowline, whereby its absolute magnitude can be estimated by mere inspection. You may judge of its relative magnitude compared with its neighbours, but of its absolute magnitude you can only judge when you have acquired experience of the district. A native of the Himalayas coming to the Alps would see them double their true size. A Swiss would halve the Himalayas. A slope of stone dÉbris is the best guide to eye measurement, because stones break up into small fragments everywhere; but in these high arctic regions, far within the glaciers, there are no such slopes. It is only the multitude of mountains seen in any extended panorama of Spitsbergen that suggests the smallness of the individual peaks; but this very multitude is itself impressive. To the south, for instance, we looked across at least five parallel ridges; and there were indications of others beyond, a very tumult and throng of hills, none of which could we identify. The opposite direction interested us more at the moment, for our idea was that we might find there a route round to the Three Crowns. There was, in fact, a large nÉvÉ basin, but so intricately crevassed as to be practically impassable in fog. One way was discoverable through the labyrinth, and apparently one only. The weather looked so threatening that we incontinently decided against making the attempt. This nÉvÉ was one of several that fed the next big glacier to the north, which empties into the sea at Ekman Bay. Beyond it came a chaos of peaks; we learned to know them by sight well enough a few days later. The waters of Ekman Bay were in view, and the depression containing Dickson Bay could be traced, then the wall-fronted mass of the Thordsen Peninsula, and, far off, the high snow plateau, where we had wandered in the fog a few days before. Looking back the way we had come, we saw Kings Bay apparently very far off, much farther than Ice Fjord, which seemed, comparatively speaking, to lie at our feet. Differences of atmospheric transparency had some share in producing this effect.

A cold wind diminished our pleasure on the summit and shortened our stay. The descent presented problems to inexperienced skisters. The snow-slope dropped vertically from the summit crest for a yard or so, and was then very steep. Svensen, an expert on ski, tried to shoot down, but came a cropper before reaching the gentler incline. We, of course, fell headlong in hopeless fashion, and all attempts at glissading failed. Where the slope began to ease off a little a start was finally made, and a long curving shoot of about a mile carried us with exhilarating swiftness down to camp. Later on in the day the ascent was repeated, but with no useful result, for clouds still masked the important points of reference in the panorama. Excursions were also made in other directions, and a plan decided on for the morrow. Clouds kept forming, but only to fade again; by evening the weather was satisfactorily re-established. The play of shadow on the wide glacial expanse was inexpressibly lovely. Under full sunshine any very large nÉvÉ appears a mere uniform sheet of white, admirable for brilliancy but lacking in detail. When shadows come, the undulation of the surface is disclosed by long curves—infinitely delicate and fine in form. Of course, however bright the sun, there must really be a difference in the intensity of the light reflected at different points owing to variations of slope, but this difference is slight, and the eye, astonished by the brilliancy of sunshine upon snow, is not conscious of it. But when a cloud comes over the sun and casts a broad shadow on the nÉvÉ, the varying illumination of the bending field becomes readily perceptible, though still faint and of marvellous delicacy, and a new order of beauty is revealed. He would be but a starved lover of mountain beauty whose eyes should desire to behold the regions of snow always beneath a cloudless heaven.