Secrets of Polar Travel

by Robert E. Peary

During the winter months the whole surface of the inland ice is covered with a layer of fine, dry snow. The noonday sun of the late spring causes the snow along the edge of the ice to become soft, and the freezing of this at night makes a thin crust. As this layer of crust creeps into the interior with the approach of summer, the snow on the edge of the ice-cap turns to slush and finally melts, forming pools and streams which eat into the ice, opening up old crevasses and new ones as well. This condition likewise extends into the interior in the wake of the crust and the summer heat, and eroding streams, working on the border of the cap, make it so rough as to be in places quite impassable.

Traveling into the interior for fifteen or twenty miles, one finds that the mountains along the coast have quite disappeared under the landward convexity of the ice-cap, and the surface, which near the coast is composed of many hummocks, gradually merges into long, flat swells, which in turn merge into a gently rising plain and finally into a level surface.

In my journey across the ice-cap of northern Greenland in 1891 I was continually turned from my course on the upward march by numerous crevasses and steep slopes which occur along the edge of the inland ice. These crevasses sometimes cover a tract several miles wide, and are usually marked by peculiar ice-mounds two or three feet in height. Covered with a light crust, the crevasses are difficult to detect, and one must be constantly on the alert to avoid getting into them. At times it is necessary to reconnoiter for hours before safe snow-bridges across these treacherous places can be found, and on several occasions I nearly lost all our provisions and dogs when the sledges broke through.

Determined to avoid such conditions on the return trip, I traveled well inland. Here, however, deep, soft snow makes sledge-traveling difficult; so on my second journey across Greenland, in 1895, I chose an intermediate route, hoping to avoid crevasses and slopes and slippery ice as well as soft going. This route proved to be by far the best one, the surface being much better, and the distance a few miles less than by either of the other two routes.

In addition to the wind there is another peculiarity of the inland ice which adds to the difficulties to be encountered in this work. That is the extreme intensity of the sunlight, which can be realized only by those who have experienced it. During the summer months the sun shines continuously, and this continuous brilliancy is intensified a hundredfold by the reflection from endless fields of glistening, sparkling snow, unrelieved by a single object. The strongest eyes can stand such a blinding glare only a few hours without protection. We always wore heavy-smoked glasses, and when in camp found it impossible to sleep without still further protecting our eyes by tying a narrow band of fur about them to exclude the light. Only when a storm is brewing does this intense light become subdued. At such times, however, the sky and snow take on a peculiar gray, opaque light which is even more trying than the sunlight.

To direct a course across unbroken fields of snow, with absolutely nothing to guide or fix the eye, is a task which requires a good deal of experience. And to force a team of dogs dragging a heavy sledge-load into blank nothingness is still more difficult. During dull or foggy weather the work of keeping a direct course becomes particularly arduous. For days I have traveled into gray nothingness, feeling, but unable to see, the snow beneath my snow-shoes, and the long days and nights of marching when it was almost impossible to see the length of the sledge were among the most trying experiences I had on the inland ice.

On both my journeys across the ice-cap I was accompanied by only one man, and with compass in hand one of us would take the lead, go ahead as far as it was possible without losing sight of the party, (and at times this would be only a matter of a few yards), put himself on the course, and then wait for the other to come up with the dogs and sledges. At other times we devised a wind-vane and used the wind as a guide, taking a compass direction of it every quarter- or half-hour, keeping the wind-vane at the proper angle, and in this way making a fair course. The endeavor to keep a direct course for any length of time under such conditions imposes such a strain on mind and body that travel sometimes becomes impossible. In addition to this, the feeling of fatigue and heaviness which are the result of the fog and altitude make traveling still more difficult.

A severe and protracted storm is one of the most disagreeable features of sledge-traveling whether over land or sea ice, and preparations should be immediately made to camp as soon as one is seen to be approaching. If the equipment does not include a tent, a snow igloo should be built as quickly as possible. If there is not time for this, then a dugout can be made in a snow-bank or a snow-wall erected as a shelter from the wind and driving snow. Everything possible should be carried inside the tent or igloo, and the dogs securely fastened outside. Storms on the ice-cap are so severe that, when possible, the dogs should be protected from them by a snow-wall. I have been confined to tent or igloo for days at a time by these storms, but the most accursed hours I ever spent on the ice-cap were those spent in a small tent six long days and nights, five thousand feet above sea-level, during a furious storm which I knew was destroying my last chances for finding a ton and a half of supplies, including all my pemmican and alcohol, which I had cached the year before for my spring work in 1895.

Any one seeing our camp at the end of one of these storms would believe us buried alive, the only signs of our presence being the snow-mounds covering us and the dogs.