blizzard was at its worst, we fought our way forward for over 16 miles.
When the blizzard eventually abated we had hazy weather, but got an
occasional glimpse of the sun, with which we corrected our course, and on
the 13th January my party found itself right above the Shackleton
Icefalls, and gazed down upon the more regular surface of the Beardmore
Glacier hundreds of feet below us.

To reach the glacier we were faced with two alternatives: either to march
right round the icefalls, as we had done coming south, and thus waste
three whole days, or to take our lives in our hands and attempt to get
the sledge slap over the falls. This would mean facing tremendous drops,
which might end in a catastrophe. The discussion was very short-lived,
and with rather a sinking feeling the descent of the great ice falls was
commenced. We packed our ski on the sledge, attached spiked crampons to
our finnesko, and guided the sledge through the maze of hummocks and
crevasses.

The travelling surface was wind-swept and consequently too easy, for the
sledge would charge down a slippery slope of blue ice and capsize time
after time. In places the way became so steep that our united efforts
were needed to avoid the yawning chasms which beset our path. We were
compelled to remain attached to the sledge by our harness, for otherwise
there was always the danger of our slipping into one of the very
crevasses that we were keeping the sledge clear of, and in this manner,
with the jumping and jolting of that awful descent, frequent cases of
over-running occurred, the sledge fouling our traces and whisking us off
our feet. We encountered fall after fall, bruises, cuts, and abrasions
were sustained, but we vied with one another in bringing all our grit and
patience to bear; scarcely a complaint was heard, although one or other
of us would be driven almost sick with pain as the sledge cannoned into