Through the first Antarctic night, 1898-1899

by Frederick Albert Cook

Eight Successive Phases of an Exhibit of Aurora Australis, March 19, 1898.

We have taken a few pictures of this bird’s-eye view of the site (which later proved to be our winter home), but these in black and white are poor illustrations of the pack which is always flooded with curious colours, in unique blends, and soft shades. At this time the sun burst through a torn space in a gathering blackness northward, and sent her beams lightly to the ice, making each pan as luminous as if frosted with a covering of diamonds. The edges of these pans are raised by contact with neighbouring pans. Suspended from these elevations are icicles, and over and under these the ice is charged with yellow sea algæ, making a ring of gold around the gem-strewn floes. In a few places the water is covered with a green lacework of new ice, and everywhere there is a delicate suggestion of lilac, raising the high lights, colouring the shadows, and saturating the air with a mysterious luminosity.

Our position at the top of the mast is like that of a bird far up under the heavens. The great ugly-looking, but vigorous, giant petrels are dashing past our heads with an air of inquisitiveness. The little dove-like white petrels come to us almost within reach of our arms, and the graceful brown sea-gulls rush over us and around us with a startling buzz. We are inclined to drift into poetry and philosophy this morning, and everything about encourages this mood. The day, with a temperature -9° C. (15.8° F.), is a delight, and as we look down upon the endless expanse of restless frigid ocean, with its primitive life and death-like silence, we dream of primeval nature. For here is the world nearest to its youthful character. The moving crust of the earth with which we drift, the hardy, simple life, and even the sky, all suggest a period of the earth in its infancy, long before the advent of man. It is this strange simplicity, this other-world air of terrestrial youth, which makes the polar regions so fascinating to nature-loving man. Everything about is new, yet old; every sight is simple, yet clothed in mystery; every phenomenon, like a shy maiden, is attractive but difficult of access. The haste and the bustle of the living world are far from the mental horizon, and the mind is ready to examine the new problems. It is fortunate that one can, after a little experience, here open the book of Nature and record the causes and effects of nearly all phenomena, for then the mysterious halo which surrounds everything polar disappears. Each point of attraction which at first bewilders us by its strangeness becomes a written page to be added to the future annals of science. There are a hundred things which, in this way, present new aspects daily and urge the mind out of its lethargy of monotony into a state of fascination. Now we see some peculiar strip on the sky, a striking series of clouds, a rare fog effect, an unusual sunburst, or an aurora; then it is something connected with the sea or its burden, the ice. Perhaps the surface will seem motionless, while at a little distance a small blue-ridged berg will bound and dance as if animated by some strange submarine spirit; or perhaps one of the bergs, with whose face we are familiar, will suddenly turn, offering a new face and a curious colour. Again a berg is seen with black spots and discoloured stratifications. What is the origin of this? Is it the output of a volcano, or is it natural glacial debris? We see the effects, but what are the causes? And so the questions run. Hardly have we learned one lesson when another is brought to our notice. This time, perhaps, it is some speck of life, curiously embedded in a wilderness of ice. What story has it to give? To what family does it belong? We want to know its manner of life, its food, something of its migration, and so on. There is always a stimulus for an endless series of interesting observations. It is these tempting studies which lift the spirits above the even plane of white monotony. It is this fresh interest in the unknown which makes life tolerable. We all like to ponder over the days of our youth; those of an inquiring turn of mind love to reflect upon the youthful days of the earth; and looking at the polar world, as a whole, it bears a close relation to what it must have been when man first came to it.

Shortly after noon the thermometer rose, the barometer fell, and the sky assumed a dirty gray. Out of the north came a brisk wind with a steadily increasing force. We have now learned that this is the condition for a storm. The wind increased to a half gale with snow, and continued to blow fiercely all day. At four o’clock we noticed by the squeaking of the ice that a swell was rolling under us. We did not feel its effects about the ship until seven o’clock. Then the ice cracked about us, and was forced together with a pressure which aroused considerable fear regarding the safety of the Belgica. Huge hummocks rose on every side, floes were forced over each other, and against the sides of the vessel. The paint was scraped from her, fragments of wood were gouged out of her, and she was thrown over on a floe where she lay taking the thumps and steady pressure with cracks and groans; but the good old ship fought her battle bravely. At about eight o’clock the pressure ceased and the ice separated, leaving small open leads. The Belgica settled down again into the water and sought her equilibrium, and, though there was considerable scraping and grinding against our berths later, there was no more pressure. Early in the evening there appeared a strip of blue sky in the north and in it appeared the moon, now a small crescent, a mere shadow of the huge ball of red seen a fortnight ago. The sky continued to clear during the night, but the storm increased in force.

March 17.—The storm is still raging; the sky, and even the snow seems black under the inky gloom. The temperature has risen nearly twenty degrees in twenty-four hours, which is a very remarkable phenomenon for the antarctic. The sky in the north-north-east is almost constantly black, indicating what we believe to be open water in that direction. From the ease with which the swell comes in under the pack, and the frequent zones of water-sky, we estimate that we are within fifty miles of the open ice-free ocean; but to reach it is at present impossible. The Commandant and the captain still entertain hopes of getting out, and if our engines were stronger and our efforts to gain freedom were more prolonged we might. The majority, however, are now resigned to the fate of a year on a field of drifting ice, though Gerlache still talks of going to Buenos Aires, and Lecointe discusses a long list of needful things which he wishes to purchase for the next campaign. The days are growing rapidly shorter and the nights, only too noticeably longer. The nights have not now that white glow which they had a few weeks ago. It is this discouraging veil of blackness, falling over the sparkling whiteness of earlier nights, which sends a vein of despair running through our souls.

March 18.—The storm persists with its hellish howl, but the wind is veering easterly. The temperature remains near zero and this, with the saturation of the atmosphere and almost continuous fall of snow, makes everything about wet and slushy. The decks are covered with a mixture of wet snow and soot and heterogeneous masses of wood. The surface of the pack is wet and the snow on it is soaked with water. We cannot travel on it without snowshoes, and we cannot use snowshoes because the snow adheres to the wood. We must in consequence remain on board in our cabins and listen to the maddening howl of the tempest, as it plays on the ropes and masts and deck over us. Nothing could be more uncomfortable than this thaw coming, as it does, while the winter is well advanced. We are now prepared for cold weather. Steady low temperatures would be our delight, but these wet, warm days bring out a grunt and a complaint from everybody, and when a wet snow-charged tempest drives the slush into our faces and through every break in our clothing, as we make the necessary observations, the situation becomes befitting to the sulphureous epithets which one hears from stem to stern.

About a week ago we killed a seal. The skin and blubber were removed, but the balance of the carcass was left on the floe, about one hundred yards westward. This carcass has attracted great numbers of giant petrels. All the birds about except the penguins are scavengers, but the giant petrel is the king of all. We have had an excellent opportunity for the past few days to study these ugly creatures. In size they are about as large as a goose, but the spread of wing is greater and the body smaller. Their usual colour is sooty-brown with a grayish head. There is, however, considerable difference in colour; for they range from fawn to chocolate, and from black to a silvery gray; occasionally one sees an albino, and also some white, spotted with black feathers. In habits they are gluttons. Many of these about us now have eaten so much that they are unable to rise into the air, but sit on the ice with head and feet tucked into their rough, bushy feathers. If we approach them they run along a few hundred feet and then, if we persist in the chase, the birds vomit great quantities, after which they rise into the air and hover above us in a threatening manner. When we first entered the pack we thought, as did Captain Cook and other early navigators, that these huge, coarse, and ugly petrels were indicative of a nearness to land, but we have now abandoned this idea. The giant petrel is a pack animal, and seemingly prefers the pack-edge, where it can fish in the open leads and light upon the carcass of an occasional seal or penguin. We learned to like this bird for its noticeable, uncouth ugliness. It was, indeed, our most constant companion during the twelve long months following, while we were frozen to a piece of drifting ice.

March 19.—The tempest still continues, but it is coming from the north in doleful wails, like the moans of a dying soul, which indicate that its force is nearly spent. The low, gray sky, the dead white of the ice, and the general monotone of neutral colours is still our cheerless outlook. We are indescribably tired of these seemingly ceaseless storms. It is not possible to work outside, and interior occupations fatigue us so much that we soon weary of regular work.

5 P. M.—The storm has at last abated. It has left us so suddenly that the calm is as unexpected as it is appreciated. The barometer is steady and the temperature is falling fast. It is already -9°C., and is still falling. The scene now before us is full of new delights. The ice is spread out again, bright, soft and tinted with delicate colours. Every time the thick air and the gloomy clouds of storm are brushed away, the pack, white and sparkling, has a new story to tell. It brings to us moods like a cheerful page in a sad story. Under the influence of this spell everybody is singing, whistling, and humming familiar tunes; all are planning new work and nursing big ambitions. In the cabin the music-boxes are grinding out favourite music, which rings over the pack with a new joy. In the forecastle the men are dancing and playing the accordion with telling effect. From some invisible point of the pack there comes a weird response to every discord of the music. It is the gha-a-ah, gha-a-ah of the penguins. We have had a peep at the sun and this has brought about an intoxication akin to alcoholic stimulation, and well it might, for the brief period of its visibility has been a dream of charms. The great twilight zone of purple fringed with violet and orange and rose is rising over the east. The zenith is pale blue studded with a few scarlet and lavender clouds, and the sun, a great ball of old gold, is sinking under the pearly rose-tinged line of the endless expanse of ice.