Off Milne Bay, July 11th.—Another day of watery hell, beating out in fog and driving snow, through the devil-inspired labyrinth of lakes and rivers set in a morass of knee-deep slush which fills this bay.
Nine and one-half hours of uninterrupted travel brought us out to the series of “rafters” which form the line of demarcation between the edge of the bay-ice and the pack. Here the roar of some river or lake which was pouring through a crack to the sea, filled our ears.
Whatever obstacles may be in our way now along this rafter (and God knows there will be enough of them of one kind or another) there should be no rivers to ford and such lakes as there are will in all probability be parallel to our route.
This going is as yet not quite as bad as the return from the July trip in Princess Marie Bay in 1899, but there is plenty of room for it to become a good deal worse in the miles between here and the Roosevelt.
Fifteen years ago to-day, I broke my right leg in Melville Bay.
Two played-out dogs killed and fed to the others.
Near Cape Richards, July 13th.—At last we are round the corner (Cape Fanshawe Martin) which we have been struggling toward for four days (including to-day) and which has seemed to recede as fast as we advance.
The going to-day much the same as yesterday, perhaps a little better at the end, but I got my worst wetting, a slip of my feet while pushing the sledges over a bad place, sending me into the water up to my waist. This rendered the latter part of the march somewhat uncomfortable.
But one gets used to this constant wetting (as they say one gets used to anything) and I no longer mind my saturated clothing.
I wring it out when I turn in, and give it another twist when I turn out. It has reminded me of my Nicaraguan experiences, but the temperature of both air and water is somewhat different here.