On the 8th we again covered this distance, although the weather was so bad that we entirely lost the track, and on the following day, when the blizzard was at its worst, we fought our way forward for over 16 miles. When the blizzard eventually abated we had hazy weather, but got an occasional glimpse of the sun, with which we corrected our course, and on the 13th January my party found itself right above the Shackleton Icefalls, and gazed down upon the more regular surface of the Beardmore Glacier hundreds of feet below us.
To reach the glacier we were faced with two alternatives: either to march right round the icefalls, as we had done coming south, and thus waste three whole days, or to take our lives in our hands and attempt to get the sledge slap over the falls. This would mean facing tremendous drops, which might end in a catastrophe. The discussion was very short-lived, and with rather a sinking feeling the descent of the great ice falls was commenced. We packed our ski on the sledge, attached spiked crampons to our finnesko, and guided the sledge through the maze of hummocks and crevasses.
The travelling surface was wind-swept and consequently too easy, for the sledge would charge down a slippery slope of blue ice and capsize time after time. In places the way became so steep that our united efforts were needed to avoid the yawning chasms which beset our path. We were compelled to remain attached to the sledge by our harness, for otherwise there was always the danger of our slipping into one of the very crevasses that we were keeping the sledge clear of, and in this manner, with the jumping and jolting of that awful descent, frequent cases of over-running occurred, the sledge fouling our traces and whisking us off our feet. We encountered fall after fall, bruises, cuts, and abrasions were sustained, but we vied with one another in bringing all our grit and patience to bear; scarcely a complaint was heard, although one or other of us would be driven almost sick with pain as the sledge cannoned into this or that man's heel with a thud that made the victim clench his teeth to avoid crying out.
The whole forenoon we worked down towards the more even surface of the great glacier itself, but the actual descent of the steep part of the Shackleton Icefalls was accomplished in half an hour. We came down many hundred feet in that time.
None of us can ever forget that exciting descent. The speed of the sledge at one point must have been 60 miles an hour. We glissaded down a steep blue ice slope; to brake was impossible, for the sledge had taken charge. One or other of us may have attempted to check the sledge with his foot, but to stop it in any way would have meant a broken leg. We held on for our lives, lying face downwards on the sledge. Suddenly it seemed to spring into the air, we had left the ice and shot over one yawning crevasse before we had known of its existence almost—I do not imagine we were more than a second in the air, but in that brief space of time I looked at Crean, who raised his eyebrows as if to say, "What next!" Then we crashed on to the ice ridge beyond this crevasse, the sledge capsized and rolled over and over, dragging us three with it until it came to a standstill.
How we ever escaped entirely uninjured is beyond me to explain. When we had recovered our breath we examined ourselves and our sledge. One of my ski-sticks had caught on a piece of ice during our headlong flight and torn itself from the sledge. It rolled into the great blue-black chasm over which we had come, and its fate made me feel quite cold when I thought of what might have happened to us. When my heart had stopped beating so rapidly from fright, and I had recovered enough to look round, I realised that we were practically back on the Beardmore again, and that our bold escapade had saved us three days' solid foot slogging and that amount of food. So we pitched our little tent, had a good filling meal, and then, delighted with our progress, we marched on until 8 p.m. That night in our sleeping-bags we felt like three bruised pears, but being in pretty hard condition in those days, our bruises and slight cuts in no way kept us from hours of perfect, contented slumber.
I see in my diary for January 13, 1912, I have noted that we came down 2000 feet, but I doubt if it really was as much—we then had no means of measuring.
January 14 found us up at 5.45 (really only 4.45, because in order not to make my seamen companions anxious I handicapped my watch after first day's homeward march, putting the hands on one hour each morning before rising, and back when I got the chance, so that we marched from 10 to 12 hours a day). We hauled our sledge for six hours until we reached the Upper Glacier Depot under Mount Darwin. Here we took 3 1/2 days' stores as arranged, and after sorting up and repacking the depot had lunch and away down the Glacier, camping at 7.30 p.m. off Buckley Island, fairly close to the land. Temperature rose above zero that night.
Next day we were away at 8 a.m. with our crampons on, we came down several steep ice slopes, blue ice like glass, Lashly hauling ahead and Crean and I holding on to the sledge. We bumped a lot, and occasionally the sledge capsized. But we made good nearly 22 miles. We covered between 18 and 20 miles on January 16, and were in high glee at our progress. We camped, however, in amongst pressure ridges and huge crevasses, 14 miles from the Cloudmaker or mid-glacier depot. We hoped next day to reach this depot. January 16 was a pleasant day, its ending peaceful, with a sufficiency of excellent sledging rations and the promise of a similar day to succeed it. On this day hopes had run high; our clothes were dry, the weather mild and promising, besides which, we were camped in the full satisfaction of having a good many miles in hand. We cheerfully discussed our arrival at the next depot, after which we knew that no anxieties need be felt, given even moderately good luck and weather, that did not include too great a proportion of blizzard days. The musical roar of the primus and the welcome smell of the cooking pemmican whetted our appetites deliciously, and as the three of us sat around the cooker on our rolled up fur bags, the contented expression on our dirty brown faces made our bearded ugliness almost handsome. We built wonderful castles in the air as to what luxuries Lashly, who was a famous cook, should prepare on our return to winter quarters. There we had still some of the New Zealand beef and mutton stored in my glacier cave, and one thing I had set my heart on was a steak and kidney pudding which my friend Lashly swore to make me.
After the meal we unrolled our sleeping-bags and luxuriantly got into them, for the recent fine weather had given us a chance to dry thoroughly the fur and get the bags clear of that uncomfortable clamminess due to the moisture from our bodies freezing until the sleeping-bags afforded but little comfort. The weather looked glorious, there was not a cloud in the sky, and towards 10 o'clock the sun was still visible to the S.S.W. We could see it through the thin, green canvas tent wall as we turned in, still in broad daylight, and the warmth derived from it made sleep come to us quite easily.