Already we were as regards clothes down to the limit, but at this time we decided also to dump a lot of spare gear—and risk it.
Pulling 150 lb. per man, we spent our Boxing Day among ridges and crevasses. Every time we reached the top of a ridge we said to ourselves, "Perhaps this is the last," but the last was long in coming. And in the meantime our maize was nearly finished, and our rations were bound to be shorter than ever. Considering that hard half-cooked maize gave us indigestion, it is, perhaps, curious that we were very sorry that there was so little of it left, but those who have suffered from both hunger and indigestion know too well which is the harder to endure.
On December 28 we reached 10,199 ft. above sea-level and a latitude of 86° 31', and bad headaches—which were, I think, a form of mountain sickness—began to attack us. The sensation was as though the nerves were being twisted up with a corkscrew and then pulled out. Our sledge was by this time badly strained, and on the dreadful bad surface of soft snow was very hard to move; and when it is remembered that physical labour of any kind is always trying at a great height, it is not to be wondered at that we were beginning to feel nearly spent.
If the rise would only have stopped we could have endured the cold, but the two together were terribly trying; and then, to add to our unhappiness, the last day but one of the old year brought with it such a blizzard from the south that we had to spend nearly the whole of it in our sleeping-bags.
There we lay while precious time and food were going, and tried to think how we could improve the situation, but all we could find to console us was the resolution that if we could get near enough to the Pole to rush for it, we would leave almost everything behind us and make the attempt. The last day of the year brought us eleven miles nearer to our goal, and although our heads were aching and the shortness of food was telling on us terribly, we were, in spite of everything, cheered by the thought that we were still getting south.
Facsimile or Page of Shackleton's Diary
CHAPTER XXVII
FARTHEST SOUTH
By the evening of New Year's Day we were within 172½ miles of the Pole, so we had managed to beat all records North and South, and we also had hopes of a better surface—which were, unfortunately, not fulfilled. Again we had to battle over very soft snow, and the cold wind seemed to go right through us, weakened as we were from want of food.
Impossible as it was to think of failure yet, I compelled myself to look at the matter sensibly and to consider the lives of those who were with me. I felt indeed that if we went on too far it would be impossible to get back over such a surface, and then all the results of our efforts would be lost to the world.