fur boots to give us grip in places where the ice was blue and slippery.
By 6 a.m. the little green tent was struck, the sledge securely packed,
and the three of us commenced a day's march, the details of which,
although it occurred over nine years ago, are so fresh in my memory that
I have not even to refer to my sledging diary.

We commenced the day unluckily, for a low Stratus cloud had spread like a
tablecloth over the Beardmore and filled up the glacier with mist. This
added tremendously to our difficulties in steering, for we had no
landmarks by which to set our course, although I knew the approximate
direction of descent and could make this by means of a somewhat
inadequate compass. The refinements in steering were not sufficient to
keep us on the good blue ice surface down which we could have threaded
our way had we commanded a full view of the glacier. Our route led us
over rougher ice than we should normally have chosen, and the outlook was
distinctly displeasing. The air was thick with countless myriads of tiny
floating ice crystals, and the great hummocks of ice stood weirdly shapen
as they loomed through the frozen mist. I appreciated that we were
getting into trouble, but hoped that the fog would disperse as the sun
increased its altitude. We fell about a good deal, and to my
consternation the surface became worse and worse. We were, however,
covering distance in an approximately northward direction, and our team
achieved with stubborn purpose what would have appeared impossible to us
when we first visited this great, white, silent continent.

It was no good going back, and we could not tell whether the good track
was to the right or the left of our line of advance. As new and more
troublesome obstacles presented themselves, the more valiantly did my
companions set themselves to win through. Crean and Lashly had the hearts
of lions. The uncertain light of the mist worried us all three, and we