Through the first Antarctic night, 1898-1899

by Frederick Albert Cook

My companions on the excursion were Gerlache and Amundsen. Slowly and lazily we skated over the rough surface of the snow to the northward. We had not gone far before we discovered that the ice was cracking and large leads were cutting off our retreat. We mounted hummocks of unusual height, and there awaited the imitation of the rising of the sun. Where the ice broke it separated, leaving a lane of black sea, from which oozed a peculiar vapour—in reality a cloud of small icy crystals which fell on the neighbouring ice-fields. The countless miniature mountains, or hummocks, which covered the white fields, had their northern faces brightened by a pale yellow light and their southern shadowed by a dull blue. This gave a little light to the usual lifeless gray of the ice-fields. Along the fresh leads there were a few penguins and an occasional seal, and in the water, whales were spouting jets of breath.

The pack, with the strange play of deflected light upon it, the subdued high lights, the softened shadows, the little speck of human and wild life, and our good ship buried under its snows, should have been interesting to us; but we were interested only in the sky and in the northern portion of it. A few moments before twelve the cream-coloured zone in the north brightened to an orange hue, and precisely at noon half of the form of the sun ascended above the ice. It was a misshapen, dull semicircle of gold, heatless, rayless, and sad. It sank again in a few moments, leaving almost no colour and nothing cheerful to remember through the seventy long days of darkness which followed. We returned to the ship, and during the afternoon laid out the plans for our midwinter occupation.

May 20.—It is the fifth day of the long night and it certainly seems long, very long, since we have felt the heat of the sun. During the parting days of light the weather was exceedingly unsteady, and the sky was then constantly veiled by a frozen smoky vapour, but now a disturbing element seems to have been withdrawn. The horizon is not yet clear, but the zenith is almost always high and blue, with the Southern Cross generally visible until nine o’clock in the morning and after three o’clock in the afternoon. From eleven to one o’clock at noon to-day there was light enough thrown over the northern ice to read ordinary print outside, but in our rooms it is necessary to burn lights continually. The little midday twilight is used to make soundings and to secure the fauna and flora of the shallow sea under us. Those not engaged in this work are busied in still more snugly housing the Belgica and in shoveling pathways around the ship. I have selected this part of the day to take a daily walk over the pack to neighbouring floes, and to distant icebergs, to study the ice and the life, and to obtain sufficient physical exercise, as well as mental recreation, to retard the spell of indifference which is falling over me.

An Old Lead.

A New Crevasse.

For fifteen minutes before and after twelve o’clock the sky and the ice are flooded by a wealth of fascinating colours. The northern sky is such that one momentarily expects the sun to rise. Here are the warm shades of red and yellow and on the snow, looking in this direction, there is a noticeable flesh colour in which one sees fetching lines of lilac. In the opposite direction there are some weird shades of blue-black and a few dead sheets of gray-blue in shadowed surfaces, in the caverns of bergs, and in the fissures, but the mixed shades of green and purple and violet are also displayed with crystal purity. I cannot describe this short spell of midday glory as it impresses me. If I could wield a brush, and lay these colours on canvas I feel that one of the ambitions of my life would be accomplished. But I cannot—and what am I to do in black, with an overworked pen, frosty ink, and a mind which is wearied as soon as the cheer of noonday passes?

To the first of May our health had been fairly good. We have had little complaints and some insignificant injuries, bruises, cuts, strains, and frost bites, but there has been little of which to make a medical note. Since entering the pack our spirits have not improved. The quantity of food which we have consumed, individually and collectively, has steadily decreased and our relish for food has also slowly but steadily failed. There was a time when each man enjoyed some special dish and by distributing these favoured dishes at different times it was possible to have some one gastronomically happy every day. But now we are tired of everything. We despise all articles which come out of tin, and a general dislike is the normal air of the Belgica. The cook is entitled, through his efforts to please us, to kind consideration, but the arrangement of the menu is condemned, and the entire food store is used as a subject for bitter sarcasm. Everybody having any connection with the selection or preparation of the food, past or present, is heaped with some criticism. Some of this is merited, but most of it is the natural outcome of our despairing isolation from accustomed comforts.

I do not mean to say that we are more discontented than other men in similar conditions. This part of the life of polar explorers is usually suppressed in the narratives. An almost monotonous discontent occurs in every expedition through the polar night. It is natural that this should be so, for when men are compelled to see one another’s faces, encounter the few good and the many bad traits of character for weeks, months, and years, without any outer influence to direct the mind, they are apt to remember only the rough edges which rub up against their own bumps of misconduct. If we could only get away from each other for a few hours at a time, we might learn to see a new side and take a fresh interest in our comrades; but this is not possible. The truth is, that we are at this moment as tired of each other’s company as we are of the cold monotony of the black night and of the unpalatable sameness of our food. Now and then we experience affectionate moody spells and then we try to inspire each other with a sort of superficial effervescence of good cheer, but such moods are short-lived. Physically, mentally, and perhaps morally, then, we are depressed, and from my past experience in the arctic I know that this depression will increase with the advance of the night, and far into the increasing dawn of next summer.