BROKEN SLEDGES.
Another edition of all the other days. We have made but little progress, to reward us for a most energetic day's labor, and are flat down with two broken sledges. Of one a runner is split, and Jensen declares that he has mended it so often that he can mend it no more; but a few hours' sleep will sharpen his wits, I hope. We are a rather lamentable-looking set of travelers. With too little energy to build a snow-hut, we have drawn the sledges together and are going to sleep on them, in the open air. The night is reasonably warm,—temperature above zero, and sleeping may be managed; but we miss the grateful warmth of the snow-hut. The truth is, that the labors of the day cause us to perspire as if we were in the tropics, and hence our clothing becomes wet through and through; the coat freezes stiff and solid as sheet-iron as soon as we halt, and we experience all over the uncomfortable sensation of "packing" in wet sheets at a water-cure.
May 8th.
Battling away as before. I felt sure that we would reach the land to-day, but it appears no nearer than when we set out this morning. Sledges, harness, dogs and men are all tumbling to pieces.
May 9th.
Still battling away; but, this time, through fog and snow, bedeviled all the day in a lifeless atmosphere, thick as the gloom of Hades.
May 10th.
At the same hopeless work again; and again we go into camp among the hummocks. I dare not hope that we will reach the shore to-morrow, for I have been so often disappointed; but the shore will be reached some time, if there is an ounce of food left or a dog left alive to drag it with. I have settled down into a sort of dogged determination.
May 11th.
In camp at last, close under the land; and as happy as men can be who have achieved success and await supper.