The big question was whether the trail could be followed with the amount of light there would be in July. On account of the danger of crevasses, particularly those lying in the valley just beyond 50-Mile Depot, this journey would be no straight compass run from Little America. The tractor must hold to the trail flagged by the Southern Party, if it expected to negotiate safely the detour beyond 50-Mile Depot. On the way back to Little America from Advance Base in March, the tractor party had doubled the flags, spacing them at intervals of one-sixth of a mile. The danger was that the blizzards might have blown down or obliterated scores of them, leaving big gaps in the 123-mile line.
There was no sure way to judge this, short of attempting the journey. True, the results of Poulter's trial run had been encouraging; and in the vicinity of Advance Base the flags, when I had last seen them by moonlight, had appeared to be standing all right. Drift hadn't mounted more than five or six inches around the staffs, although in one or two cases the edges of the flags had been caught and pinned down, making them hard to see. [The flags on the straightaway were rectangular pieces of cloth about a foot wide. They were dyed orange, and mounted on 24-inch split bamboo sticks. Besides these, of course, were pennants and burgees running out at right angles from the depots.] Hereabouts, however, the Barrier was flat, and the drift didn't pile up so much. In the hollows and troughs the flags might be entirely buried. Well, if the flags were buried and the trail couldn't be followed, that would end the matter, at least until after the sun returned.
I really tried hard to be impersonal in my calculations, and so the difficulties confronting the journey began to loom larger. The great hope unloosed in the afternoon slowly died, and a reaction set in. I blew out the candle, depressed and infinitely weary.
June went out on a shrinking moon with rising cold. On Thursday the 28th the pin in the minimum thermometer went to 59 degrees below zero; on Friday, 55 degrees below; and Saturday, 56 degrees below. The film of ice on the walls crept to within three feet of the ceiling, following a zigzag line that reminded me of the charts in schoolbooks showing how the Ice Ages encroached upon the earth.
The last relapse had awakened the original fear that weakness might one day make it impossible for me to bring in fuel. Now, in my stronger moments, I started to build up an emergency supply in the shack, filling all the empty food tins with kerosene. Most of these I stored in the corners of the room; and the overflow, covered with discarded undershirts to keep the snow off, was stored on the veranda, just outside the door. To provide additional containers, I emptied the big tins holding lima beans and rice; as for the beans and rice, they were dumped into a sack — a U.S. mail pouch, of all things. Doubtless the supply officer had thought of that, too.
At midnight, the last hour in the last night of the longest month I have ever known, I started to turn June back behind the other sheets. Then I did a queer thing. I measured the sheet. It was twelve inches high by fourteen inches long. The numerals, white blocks on a blue background, stood one inch high.
ARL. Hislop, Ltd.
Engineers' Supplies
Wellington, N.Z.
said the legend; and down the sides were ranged in neat little frames the other months of the year.
Even now I have only to close my eyes to see in complete detail this calendar which confronted me, the first thing in the morning and the last thing at night, for 204 days. A white border ran around the edges. On this I had scrawled marginal notes: Barrels not full of fuel. . Keep ventilator open. . Radio schedule. . The dates I filled the stove tank. But, whereas in April and May each day had been crossed off or blocked out with red pencil, in June fully half the days had passed without similar notice. What was a day in an eternity?
Chapter Ten — JULY I: COLD
July 1
It is getting cold again — 65 degrees below zero today by the minimum thermometer. I have a feeling that it is going to be a very cold month, to make up for June. It was a great piece of luck that June was relatively so warm. [The records show that in June the cold crossed 40 degrees below zero on thirteen days; 50 degrees below on five days, and never once crossed 60 degrees below.] I could not have survived otherwise. Now, when the stove is going, I keep the door cracked as wide as I can stand it; and, when it has been out long enough for the fumes to dissipate, I stuff rags (worn-out shirts and underwear, to be exact) up the engine ventilator in the tunnel and into the intake ventilator, so that the tunnel and shack won't get too cold. As a matter of fact, I do without the stove anywhere from twelve to fourteen hours a day. Believe me, it is a strain on the fortitude. Last night I froze an ear in the sleeping bag.
I'm worried about drift. Ever since I've been unable to attend to it, the drift has been deepening over the roof. This morning, when I went topside for the observations, I noticed how high the ridges were over the Escape Tunnel and the tunnels west of the shack. However, I may be able to do something about this before long. Advancing the radio schedules to the afternoon has been an immense help in bringing me back to my feet. With more time to prepare, the drain on me is not quite so heavy. Today's schedule, though tiring, did not knock me out as the others did.
There was no news to speak of from Little America. Hutcheson said that Charlie and John Dyer were out skiing, and the «Doc» Poulter was with the meteor observers. Lord, how I envy them the multitudinous diversions of Little America; even, I suppose, as they must on their side envy the people home with whom they chat on the radio. .
I sent a message approving the meteor journey, subject to its being made with full regard for its hazards.
July 2
. . I've begun to read again — two chapters from The House of Exile, which I hope to continue with tonight. It's the best thing imaginable for me — takes me out of myself for a blessed hour or two. And tonight, also, I played the phonograph after supper — «In a Monastery Garden,» «Die Fledermaus,» «Tales from the Vienna Woods,» and «The Swan.» As I listened the hope swept over me that I have a good chance to pull through, unless another serious setback comes. Although still stupidly weak, I have made real progress the past week. The knowledge is exhilarating. .
July 3
. . Cold spell still holding — 62 degrees below zero today. The ice is a foot higher on the walls. I have at last managed to get rid of a good deal of the frozen slop which for the most part I've been dumping into the tunnel — just outside the door. Sitting on the rim of the hatch, I've been hauling the stuff topside with a bucket and line, and dumping it a little to leeward. Of course, this meant half a dozen trips up and down the ladder to fill the bucket; and I thought how wonderful it would be if I had a Man Friday topside and had only to shout: «Take a strain, Friday, it's full.» As it is, I have to sit down and rest after every trip. However, the job was well worth doing. The tunnels are much tidier.
July 4
I was greatly encouraged over finding myself able to level some of the drifts. Yet, I had to drive myself, for the temperature was in the minus 50's; and, animal-like, I seem to shrink instinctively from anything that hurts. It's odd that I should have changed so much. The cold never used to bother me. I rather liked it for its cleansing, antiseptic action. But now I seem to have very little resistance. This afternoon, for example, I froze my nose rather severely; and, in the minute or two I had my hands out of my gloves to attend to it, I nipped five fingers.