  Probably no part of the Southern journey was enjoyed more thoroughly than that stage which embraced the ascent of the Beardmore Glacier. Those who survive it can only have refreshing reminiscences of this bright chapter in our great sledge excursion. Scientifically it was by far the most interesting portion travelled over, and to the non-scientific it presented something interesting every day, if only in the shape, colour, and size of the fringing rocks and mountains—a vast relief from the monotony of the Barrier travel. First we had Mount Hope at the lower end of the Glacier. Mount Hope is a nunatak of granite, about 2800 feet in height, of which the summit is strewn with erratics, giving evidence of former glaciation of far greater extent. This was the first land we had passed close to since leaving Hut Point six weeks previously, and now we had roughly 150 miles of travelling, with something to look at, some relief for the eyes to rest on in place of that dazzling white expanse of Barrier ice, with its glitter and sparkle, so tiring to the eyes. We knew that we must expect crevasses now, hidden and bare, and we also knew that we must every day rise our camps until we reached the plateau summit in 10,000 feet. The Beardmore itself is about 120 miles in length and from 10 to 30 miles wide. We had no geologist with us, but specimens have been collected by Shackleton's people, and our own members, particularly Scott's Polar sledge party, which are sufficient to give a history of this part of Antarctica. December 10 showed our party on to the Glacier, but we were not "out of the wood" by this date. For we had some hard graft marching up the steep incline called by Shackleton the Southern Gateway. We had made a depot of three ten-foot sledges in good condition to be used for the homeward journey over the Barrier by each returning unit—realising that the descent of the Glacier would knock our sledges about and most likely break them up to some extent. We were now organised into three teams of four, pulling 170 lb. per man, and in this formation we made the advance up the Glacier. The teams were as follows: 1.—Scott. 2.—Evans (Lieut.) 3.—Bowers. With us we kept the dog teams pulling 600 lb. of our own weights and the 200 lb. gross for placing in the Lower Glacier Depot. Soft snow made the dragging very heavy, and in the afternoon, working on ski, I am sorry to say my party dropped astern and got into camp an hour late—it could not be helped, we had borne the brunt of the hard work; Lashly and I had man-hauled daily for five weeks, and Atkinson and Wright for some time also. I had a long talk next morning after breakfast with Captain Scott. He was disappointed with our inability to keep up with the speed of the main party, but I pointed out that we could not expect to do the same as fresh men—the other eight had only put on the sledge harness for the first time on December 10: Scott agreed, but seemed worried and fretful. However that may be, we got into the lunch camp first of the three sledges, to have our short-lived triumph turned to disaster by a very poor show after the meal—Scott was much disappointed and dissatisfied: he appeared to think Atkinson was done; Wilson said Wright was played out and Lashly tired. They both seemed to think I was all right, but all the same I felt that my unit had been called on to do more than its share and was suffering as a natural consequence. The depot was built in a conspicuous position, and this done, Meares's work ended. He and Dimitri came along with us for a while and then turned back for a long, lonely run over the inhospitable Barrier. To help us Meares and the Russian dog-boy had travelled farther South than their return rations allowed for, and for the 450 mile Northward march to Cape Evans the two of them went short one meal a day rather than deplete the depots. It is a dreadful thing on an Antarctic sledge journey to forfeit a whole meal daily, and Meares's generosity should not be forgotten. The advance of Scott's men up the Beardmore was retarded considerably by the deep, wet snow which had accumulated in the lower reaches of the Glacier. Panting and sweating we could only make 4 mile marches until the 13th December, and even then the soft snow was 18 inches deep. On the 14th we made a good 9 miles, but only by dint of our utmost efforts—we worked on ski, and I tremble to think what we should have done here without them. The aneroids gave us a rise of about 500 feet a day. Things were improving now, and on December 15 we passed the 84 degree parallel—about this time we succeeded in covering 9 to 10 miles daily, and to do this we marched that same number of hours. A good deal of snow covering the mountain ranges, but some remarkable outcrops of rock to vary the scenery. The temperature was very high, and we were punished severely on this account, for the snow was like beef dripping, and we flopped about in it and hove our sledges along with no glide whatever to help us move forward. Such panting, puffing, and sweating, but all in good humour and bent on doing our best. Snowing hard in the latter part of the afternoon just as the surface was improving—we were forced to camp before the proper time on this account. On camping we calculated that we were 2500 feet above the Barrier, the surface promising better things, for there was hard blue ice six inches from the surface, and the snow itself was fairly close-packed and good for ski. On December 16 we were out of our sleeping bags at 5 and we were under way by 7 a.m., marching till noon, when we lunched and took sights and angles. The surface remained fairly good until 2 p.m., when it took an unaccountable turn for the worse. We covered 12 miles. Several of us dropped a leg down crevasses here and there, nothing alarming. We reached 3000 feet altitude, and the day ended in the most perfect weather. For the first time since leaving Corner Camp we felt that our ration was sufficient; we had now commenced the "Summit ration," which contained considerable extra fats. Snow-blindness caused trouble here and there, due principally to our removing our goggles when they clouded up—due to sweating so much in the high temperature. The goggles, which Wilson was responsible for, served excellently. Yellow and orange glasses were popular, but some preferred green. As we progressed and our eyes had to be used for long periods without glasses for clearing crevasses, etc., we found that a double glass acted best, and used this whenever the going was easy and goggles could be used. The contrast between the goggled and the ungoggled state was extraordinary—when one lifted one's orange-tinted snow glasses it was to find a blaze of light that could scarcely be endured. Snow-blindness gave one much the same sensations as those experienced by standing over a smoking bonfire keeping eyes open. Sunday, December 17, differed from the preceding days, for we got into huge pressure ridges—we hauled our sledges up these and tobogganed down the other sides, progressing half the forenoon thus. We wore our excellent crampons and made lighter work of our loads than we had done since facing the Beardmore, and now that the summer season was well advanced the surface snow on the Glacier had mostly disappeared through the effects of the all day sun added to the early summer winds. The clouding of our goggles made the crevasses more difficult to spot, and one or other of the party got legs or feet down pretty often. This and the following day were precursors to good marches and easy times. We made the Mid-Glacier Depot in Latitude 84 degrees 33 minutes 6 seconds S., Longitude 169 degrees 22 minutes 2 seconds E., and set therein one half-week's provision. We marked the depot cairn with bamboo and red flag to show up against the ice as well as to contrast with the land. Hitherto only black flags had been employed to mark depots. The weather and surface were both in our favour at last. It was sunny, warm, and clear now, and there was nothing to impede us. Wilson did a large amount of sketching on the Beardmore—his sketches, besides being wonderful works of art, helped us very much in our surveys. Fringing the great glittering river of ice were dark granite and dolerite hills, some were snow-clad and some quite bare, for their steepness resisted the white cloak of this freezing clime. The new hills were surveyed, headlands plotted, and names bestowed where Shackleton had not already done so. Of course we had Shackleton's charts, diaries, and experience to help us. We often discussed Shackleton's journey, and were amazed at his fine performance. We always had full rations, which Shackleton's party never enjoyed at this stage. After December 17 our marches worked up from 13 to 23 miles a day. Shackleton bestowed the name of Queen Alexandra Range on the huge mountains to the westward of the Beardmore. The most conspicuous is the "Cloudmaker," which he gives as 9.971—I like the 1 foot when heights are so hard to determine hereabouts! To the three secondary ranges, on the S.W. extreme of the Beardmore, nearly in 85 degrees, he gave the names Adams, Marshall, and Wild, after his three companions on the farthest South march. To get into one's head what we had to look at on the upper half of the Beardmore, imagine a moderate straight slope: this is the Glacier like a giant road, white except where the sun has melted the snow and bared the blue ice. Looking up the Glacier an overhang of ice-falls and disturbances, with three nunataks or mountains sticking through the ice-sheet like islands—the disturbance is mostly to the left (Eastwards) of these, and the road here looks cruelly steep even where it is not broken up. Down the Glacier the great white way is broken here and there where tributary glaciers join it, and above the Cloudmaker the glacier is cut up badly in several places, how badly we were not to know until the middle of January, 1912—but of that more anon. To the left (S.E.) a great broad river of ice, the Mill Glacier, and so on. The land is extraordinary—gigantic snow drifts like huge waves breaking against a stone pier beset the lower cliff faces and steeper slopes, then dark red-brown rock carved by glaciers long since vanished, and above this rocky bands of limestone, sandstone; and dolerite. Some rocky talus showing through the big snow drifts, and in some cases talus alone. From my letter to be taken by the next homeward party in case I missed the ship: "The Wild range is extraordinary in its curious stratification, and one feels when gazing at it some-thing of a wish to scramble along the crests, if only to feel land underfoot instead of ice, ice, ice. "The prevailing colours here are blacks, grays, reds, like the cliffs at Teignmouth and Exmouth, and another more chocolate red. Then the whites in all kind of shade—fancy different shades of white, but there are here any amount of them, and a certain sparkle of blue ice down the Glacier where the sun is shining on it that reminds one of a tropical sea. Except when marching we don't spend much time out of our tents, but I take a breather now and again when surveying, and then I sit on a sledge-box and wonder what is in store for us and where all this will lead us. Amundsen has certainty not come this way, although dogs could work here easily enough." On December 20 Scott came into our tent after supper and told us that the first return party would be Atkinson (in charge), Wright, Cherry-Garrard, and Keohane, and that they would turn back after the next day's march. We were all very sad, but each one thus detailed loyally abided by the decision of our chief. I worked till nearly midnight getting out copy of route and bearings for Wright to navigate back on. Here is a specimen page of my diary: "December 21. "Out at 5.45 a.m. and away at 8. Had a very heavy pull up steep slope close to S.E. point of Buckley Island. Passed over many crevasses and dropped into some. Once I fell right down in a bottomless chasm to the length of my harness. I was pulled out by the others, Bowers and Cherry helping with their Alpine rope. Not hurt but amused. All of us dropped often to our waists and Atkinson completely disappeared once, but we got him out. We got into a very bad place at noon, and a fog coming on had to stop and lunch as one could not see far. This has been our worst day for crevasses up to now, some of them are 100 feet across, but well bridged. "It was very cold, with a sharp southerly wind when we started, but later on got quite warm. We rose 1130 feet in the forenoon and made 5 miles 1565 yards up to lunch. We started again at 3 o'clock, and the fog lifting, we made a good march for the day: 11 miles 200 yards geographical (Stat. 12 miles 1388 yards). In the afternoon we had a very heavy drag and did not camp till 7.30 p.m., about 4 miles S. 30 degrees W. of Mount Darwin (summit), Latitude 85 degrees 7 minutes S., Longitude 163 degrees 4 minutes E. "Our height above the Barrier is 7750 feet by aneroid. "Had a fine hoosh with a full pannikin of pony meat added to celebrate our 'De-tenting,' which takes place to-morrow morning. We make a depot here with half a week's provision for two parties." We repacked the sledges after breakfast. This place was called the Upper Glacier Depot—and it marked the commencement of the third and final stage of the Poleward Journey. We said good-bye to Atkinson's party, and they started down the Glacier after depositing the foodstuffs they had sledged up the Beardmore for the Polar Party and the last supporting party. Atkinson and his tent-mates now had to face a homeward march of 584 miles. They spent Christmas Day collecting geological specimens, and reached Cape Evans on January 28. They had some sickness in the shape of enteritis and slight scurvy, but Dr. Atkinson's care and medical knowledge brought them through safely. Captain Scott with his two sledge teams now pushed forward, keeping an average speed of 15 miles per day, with full loads of 190 lb. a man. When we started off we were: Scott. Self. We steered S.W. to begin with to avoid the great pressure ridges and ice falls which barred our way to the South. We began to rise very perceptibly, and, looking back after our march, realised what enormous frozen falls stretch across the top of the Beardmore. I noted that these, with Scott's consent should be called "The Shackleton Ice Falls," according to his track he went up them. When we looked back on starting our march we could see the depot cairn with a black flag tied to a pair of 10 foot sledge runners for quite three miles—it promised well for picking up. Next day we were away early, marching 8 1/2 miles to lunch camp, and getting amongst crevasses as big as Regent Street, all snow bridged. We rushed these and had no serious falls; the dangerous part is at the edge of the snow bridge, and we frequently fell through up to our armpits just stepping on to or leaving the bridge. We began now to experience the same tingling wind that Shackleton speaks of, and men's noses were frequently frost-bitten. On Christmas Eve we were 8000 feet above the Barrier, and we imagined we were clear of crevasses and pressure ridges. We now felt the cold far more when marching than we had done on the Beardmore. The wind all the time turned our breath into cakes of ice on our beards. Taking sights when we stopped was a bitterly cold job: fingers had to be bared to work the little theodolite screws, and in the biting wind one's finger-tips soon went. Over 16 miles were laid behind us on Christmas Eve when we reached Latitude 85 degrees 35 minutes S., Longitude 159 degrees 8 minutes E. I obtained the variation of the compass here—179 degrees 35 minutes E., so that we were between the Magnetic and Geographical Poles. The temperature down to 10 degrees below zero made observing unpleasant, when one had cooled down and lost vitality at the end of the day's march. Christmas Day, 1911, found our two tiny green tents pitched on the King Edward VII. Plateau—the only objects that broke the monotony of the great white glittering waste that stretches from the Beardmore Glacier Head to the South Pole. A light wind was blowing from the South, and little whirls of fine snow, as fine as dust, would occasionally sweep round the tents and along the sides of the sledge runners, streaming away almost like smoke to the Northward. Inside the tents breathing heavily were our eight sleeping figures—in these little canvas shelters soon after 4 a.m. the sleepers became restless and occasionally one would wake, glance at one's watch, and doze again. Exactly at 5 a.m. our leader shouted "Evans," and both of us of that name replied, "Right-o, sir." Immediately all was bustle, we scrambled out of our sleeping-bags, only the cook remaining in each tent. The others with frantic haste filled the aluminium cookers with the gritty snow that here lay hard and windswept. The cookers filled and passed in, we, gathered socks, finnesko, and putties off the clothes lines which we had rigged between the ski which struck upright in the snow to save them from being drifted over in the night. The indefatigable Bowers swung his thermometer in the shade until it refused to register any lower, glanced at the clouds, made a note or two in his miniature meteorological log book, and then blew on his tingling fingers, noted the direction of the wind, and ran to our tent. Inside all had lashed up their bags and converted them into seats, the primus stove burnt with a curious low roar, and peculiar smell of paraffin permeated the tent. By the time we had changed our footgear the savoury smell of the pemmican proclaimed that breakfast was ready. The meal was eaten with the same haste that had already made itself apparent. A very short smoke sufficed, and Captain Scott gave the signal to strike camp. Out went everything through the little round door, down came both tents, all was packed in a jiffy on the two 12-foot sledges, each team endeavouring to be first, and in an incredibly short space of time both teams swung Southward, keeping step, and with every appearance of perfect health. But a close observer, a man trained to watch over men's health, over athletes training, perhaps, would have seem something amiss. The two teams, in spite of the Christmas spirit, and the "Happy Christmas" greetings, they exchanged to begin with, soon lost their springy step, the sledges dragged more slowly, and we gazed ahead almost wistfully. Yes, the strain was beginning to tell, though none of us would have confessed it. Lashly and I had already pulled a sledge of varying weight—but mostly a loaded one—over 600 miles, and all had marched this distance. During the forenoon something was seen ahead like the tide race over a rocky ledge—it was another ice fall stretching from East to West, and it had to be crossed, there could be no more deviation, for since Atkinson's party turned we had been five points West of our course at times. Alas, more wear for the runners of the sledge, which meant more labour to the eight of us, so keen to succeed in our enterprise—soon we are in the thick of it; first one slips and is thrown violently down, then a sledge runs over the slope of a great ice wave. The man trying to hold it back is relentlessly thrown, and the bow of the sledge crashes on to the heel of the hindermost of those hauling ahead with a thud that means "pain." But the victim utters no sound, just smiles in answer to the anxious questioning gaze of his comrades. Something happened in the last half of that Christmas forenoon. Lashly, whose 44th birthday it was, celebrated the occasion by falling into a crevasse 8 feet wide. Our sledge just bridged the chasm with very little to spare each end, and poor Lashly was suspended below, spinning round at the full length of his harness, with 80 feet of clear space beneath him. We had great difficulty in hauling him upon account of his being directly under the sledge. We got him to the surface by using the Alpine rope. Lashly was none the worse for his fall, and one of my party wished him a "Happy Christmas," and another "Many Happy Returns of the Day," when he had regained safety. Lashly's reply was unprintable. Soon after this accident we topped the ice fall or ridge, and halted for lunch—we had risen over 250 feet, according to aneroid; it seemed funny enough to find the barometer standing at 21 inches instead of 30. Lunch camp, what a change. The primus stove fiercely roaring, the men light up their pipes and talk Christmas—dear, cheery souls, how proud Scott must have been of them; no reference to the discomforts of the forenoon march, just brightness and the nicest thoughts for one another, and for "those," as poor Wilson unconsciously describes them, by humming: "Keep our loved ones, now far absent, 'neath Thy care." After a mug of warming tea and two biscuits we strike camp, and are soon slogging on. But the crevasses and icefalls have been overcome, the travelling is better, and with nothing but the hard, white horizon before us, thoughts wander away to the homeland—sweet little houses with well-kept gardens, glowing fires on bright hearths, clean, snowy tablecloths and polished silver, and then the dimpled, smiling faces of those we are winning our spurs for. Next Christmas may we hope for it? Yes, it must be. But with the exception of Lashly and Crean that daydream never came true, for alas, those whose dearest lived for that Christmas never came home, and the one other spared lost his wife, besides his five companions. The two teams struggled on until after 8 p.m., when at last Scott signalled to camp. How tired we were—almost cross. But no sooner were the tents up than eyes looked out gladly from our dirty, bearded faces. Once again the cooker boiled, and for that night we had a really good square meal—more than enough of everything—pemmican with pieces of pony meat in it, a chocolate biscuit, "ragout" raisins, caramels, ginger, cocoa, butter, and a double ration of biscuits. How we watched Bowers cook that extra thick pemmican. Had he put too much pepper in? Would he upset it? How many pieces of pony meat would we get each? But the careful little Bowers neither burnt nor upset the hoosh: it was up to our wildest expectations. No one could have eaten more. After the meal we gasped, we felt so comfortable. But we had such yarns of home, such plans were made for next Christmas, and after all we got down our fur sleeping-bags, and for a change we were quite warm owing to the full amount of food which we so sorely needed. After the others in my tent were asleep, little Birdie Bowers, bidding me "Good-night," said, "Teddy, if all is well next Christmas we will get hold of all the poor children we can and just stuff them full of nice things, won't we?" It was unthinkable then that five out of the eight of us would soon be lying frozen on the Great Ice Barrier, their lives forfeited by a series of crushing defeats brought about by Nature, who alone metes out success or failure to win back for those who venture into the heart of that ice-bound continent. Our Latitude was now 85 degrees 50 minutes S., we were 8000 feet above the Barrier. Temperature -8 degrees, with a fresh southerly wind, but we didn't care that night how hard it blew or whether it was Christmas or Easter. We had done 17 miles distance and success lay within our grasp apparently. On the following day we were up at six and marched a good 15 miles south with no opposition from crevasses or pressure ridges. The march over the Plateau continued without incident—excepting that on December 28 my team had a great struggle to keep up with Captain Scott's. The surface was awfully soft, and though we discarded our outer garments we sweated tremendously. At about 11 a.m. Scott and I changed places. I found his sledge simply glided along whereas he found no such thing. The difference was considerable. After lunch we changed sledges and left Scott's team behind with ease. We stopped at the appointed time, and after supper Captain Scott came into our tent and told us that we had distorted our sledge by bad strapping or bad loading. This was, I think, correct, because Oates had dropped his sleeping-bag off a few days back through erring in the other direction and not strapping securely—we meant to have no recurrence and probably racked our sledge by heaving too hard on the straps. The 29th was another day of very hard pulling. We were more than 9000 feet up—very nearly at the "summit of the summit." Quoting my diary I find set down for December 30 and 31 as follows. "Saturday, December 30. "Away at 8 a.m. Had a hell of a day's hauling. We worked independently of the other sledge, camping for lunch at 1 p.m. about half a mile astern of them. Then off again, and hauled till 7.15 p.m., when we reached Captain Scott's camp, he being then stopped 3/4-hour. The surface was frightful and they had a heavy drag. Our distance to-day was 12 miles 1200 yards statute. We all turned in after our welcome hoosh, too tired to write up diaries even. "Bill came in and had a yarn while we drank our cocoa. "We are now about 9200 feet above the Barrier, temperature falls to about -15 degrees now. Position 86 degrees 49 minutes 9 seconds S., 162 degrees 50 minutes E." "December 31. "Out at 5.45, and then after a yarn with Captain Scott and our welcome pemmican, tea and biscuit. We in our tent depoted our ski, Alpine rope, and ski shoes, saving a considerable weight. We then started off a few minutes ahead of Captain Scott, and his team never got near us, in fact they actually lost ground. We marched for 5 1/2 hours solid, and had a good heavy drag, but not enough to distress us. We stopped at 1.30 p.m., having done 8 miles 116 yards statute. After our lunch we made a depot and put two weekly units in the snow cairn, which we built and marked with a black flag. The seamen (Evans and Crean) and Lashly spent the afternoon converting the 12 foot sledges to 10 foot with the spare runners, while the remainder of us foregathered in Captain Scott's tent, which Evans fitted with a lining to-day, making it beautifully warm. We sat in the tents with the door open and the sun shining in—doing odd jobs. I worked out sights and wrote up this diary, which was a few days adrift. Temperature -10 degrees. "We are now Past Shackleton's position for December 31, and it does look as if Captain Scott were bound to reach the Pole. Position 86 degrees 55 minutes 47 minutes S., 175 degrees 40 minutes E. "At 7 p.m. Captain Scott cooked tea for all hands. "At 8 p.m. the first sledge was finished and the men went straight on New Year's Day found us in Latitude 87 degrees 7 minutes S. Height, 9300 feet above Barrier—a southerly wind, with temperature 14 degrees below zero. On 2nd January I found the variation to be exactly 180 degrees. A skua gull appeared from the south and hovered round the sledges during the afternoon, then it settled on the snow once or twice and we tried to catch it. Did 15 miles with ease, but we were now only pulling 130 lb. per man. On January 3 Scott came into my tent before we began the day's march and informed me that he was taking his own team to the Pole. He also asked me to spare Bowers from mine if I thought I could make the return journey of 750 miles short-handed—this, of course, I consented to do, and so little Bowers left us to join the Polar party. Captain Scott said he felt that I was the only person capable of piloting the last supporting party back without a sledge meter. I felt very sorry for him having to break the news to us, although I had foreseen it—for Lashly and I knew we could never hope to be in the Polar party after our long drag out from Cape Evans itself. We could not all go to the Pole—food would not allow this. Briefly then it was a disappointment, but not too great to bear; it would have been an unbearable blow to us had we known that almost in sight were Amundsen's tracks, and that all our dragging and straining at the trace had been in vain. |
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