and that is perhaps a fact to help. The mileage would have seemed ridiculously small on our outward journey.
Monday, March 19.—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. To-day we started in the usual dragging manner. Sledge dreadfully heavy. We are 15½ miles from the depôt 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 N.W. and −40° temp. to-day.
Wednesday, March 21.—Got within 11 miles of depôt Monday night;[1] had to lay up all yesterday in severe blizzard.27 To-day forlorn hope, Wilson and Bowers going to depôt for fuel.
Thursday, March 22 and 23.—Blizzard bad as ever—Wilson and Bowers unable to start—to-morrow last chance—no fuel and only one or two of food left—must be near the end. Have decided it shall be natural—we shall march for the depôt with or without our effects and die in our tracks.
Thursday, March 29.—Since the 21st we have had
- ↑ The 60th camp from the Pole.
