CHAPTER X.
JOURNEY ON THE GLACIER.—THE FIRST CAMP.—SCALING THE GLACIER.—CHARACTER OF ITS SURFACE.—THE ASCENT.—DRIVEN BACK BY A GALE.—LOW TEMPERATURE.—DANGEROUS SITUATION OF THE PARTY.—A MOONLIGHT SCENE.
Notwithstanding that we had no actual daylight even at noontime, yet it was light enough for traveling; and the moon being full, and adding its brightness to that of the retiring sun, I felt no hesitation in carrying into execution my contemplated journey upon the glacier. The severe gales appeared to have subsided, and I thought that the undertaking might be made with safety.
I could do nothing at this period that would bear directly upon my plans of exploration toward the north, and I desired to employ my time to the best advantage. The sea immediately outside of the harbor still remained unfrozen, and we were kept close prisoners within Hartstene Bay—being unable to pass around the capes which bounded it to the north and south. Both Cape Alexander and Cape Ohlsen were still lashed by the troubled sea. There was evidently a large open area in the mouth of the Sound, extending down into the "North Water." When the wind set in from that direction the ice was broken up far within the bay, to be drifted off when it changed to the eastward.
Besides this, even if the ice had closed up, so little faith had I in the autumn as a season for sledge traveling upon the sea, that I doubt if I should have attempted a journey in that quarter. In those positions most favorable to early freezing the ice does not unite firmly until the darkness has fully set in; and traveling is not only attended with much risk, but with great loss of that physical strength so necessary to resist the insidious influences of the malady, hitherto so often fatal to sojourners in the Arctic darkness. And it has been the general judgment of my predecessors in this region, that the late spring and early summer are alone calculated for successful sledge traveling. I recall but two commanders who have sent parties into the field in the autumn, and in both of these cases the attempt was, apparently, not only useless, but prejudicial. The men were broken down by the severity of the exposure—having been almost constantly wet and always cold—and when the darkness set in they were laid up with the scurvy; and in the spring it was discovered that the depots which they had established were, for the most part, either destroyed by bears or were otherwise unavailable.
JOURNEY ON THE GLACIER.
With inland traveling the case is different. There is then no risk of getting wet, and I have not ordinarily experienced serious difficulty in traveling at any temperature, however severe, provided I could keep my party dry. Some dampness is, however, almost unavoidable even on land journeys, and this is, in truth, one of the most embarrassing obstacles with which the Arctic traveler has to contend. Even at low temperatures he cannot wholly avoid some moisture to his clothes and fur bedding, caused by the warmth of his own person melting the snow beneath him while he sleeps.
This being our first journey, of course everybody was eager to go. I had at first intended to take the dogs, with Jensen as my only companion and driver; but upon talking the matter over with that individual, (in whose judgment with respect to such things I had much confidence), I yielded to his opinion that the dogs were not available for that kind of work. I had reason afterwards to regret the decision, for it was found that they might have been used during some parts of the journey with great advantage. It occurred to me, upon subsequent reflection, that for Jensen's aspersions of the dogs an ample apology might be found in Sonntag's broken barometer.
JOURNEY ON THE GLACIER.
Having concluded to make the journey with men alone, my choice fell upon Mr. Knorr, John McDonald, Harvey Heywood, Christian Petersen, and the Esquimau Peter. McDonald was one of my very best sailors—a short, well-knit fellow, always ready for work. Christian was not unlike him in make, disposition, and endurance, and, although a carpenter, was yet something of a sailor. He had lived during several years in Greenland, and had become inured to a life of exposure. Heywood was a landsman from the far-West, and had joined me from pure enthusiasm. He was full of courage and energy, and, although occupying a position in the ship's company much inferior to his deserts, yet nothing better could be done for him. He was bent upon accompanying the expedition, no matter in what capacity.[5] With Peter the reader is already acquainted.