THE NEW YEAR
The New Year Ushered in with a Fierce Storm—Return of the Noon
Twilight—We fail to feel the Intense Cold—Native Seamstresses and
their Babies—Some Drawbacks to Arctic Housekeeping—Peculiar Customs
of the Natives—Close of the Winter Night.
Saturday, January 9. The storm which began December 29 has continued
until this morning. Now it looks as though it might clear off. The new
snow is about twenty-four inches deep on a level, and there are drifts
as high as I am.
Fortunately we had a good ice supply on hand, and no native visitors,
for they drink twice as much water as we use for cooking, drinking, and
toilet purposes combined. The boys have been busy on their individual
ski and sledges; Mr. Peary has been fitting and cutting fur clothing and
sleeping-bags; and the “Daisy” has been sewing as hard as she can. The
wind is still blowing in squalls, and of course the snow is still
drifting, but the moon came out for a little while to-day, and we think
and hope the storm is over.
Monday, January 11. At last clear and cold, and the twilight is very
pronounced in the middle of the day. Everybody is still busy sewing or
carpentering. Each one of the party is desirous of having his ski
lighter and stronger than those of the others, except Verhoeff, whose
whole interest is divided between the thermometer and the tide-gage. The
words of the physicians on board the “Kite” six months ago have come
true—Mr. Peary’s leg is practically as sound as it ever was.
[Illustration:
In my Kooletah.
]
Saturday, January 16. During the last week we have had beautiful
weather—calm, clear, and cold. Every day we have a more decided light,
and I take advantage of it by indulging in long snow-shoe tramps. I can
walk for hours without tiring if a single snow-shoer has gone before me;
but if I attempt to break the path alone I soon get exhausted. I have
been busy making foot-wraps out of blanketing, and have also made myself
some articles of clothing out of the same material. We find that mittens
made out of blanketing and worn inside the fur mittens absorb the
moisture and add to the warmth and comfortable feeling.
My room has looked more like a gun-shop than anything else for the last
few days; Mr. Peary has been putting a new spring in his shot-gun and
overhauling an old rifle.
Sunday, January 17. To-day at 2 P. M. Mr. Peary and I went out for our
tramp. The temperature was –45°, and the only chance to walk was along
the pathway made through the twenty-inch depth of snow three quarters of
the way to the iceberg. It is astonishing how little I feel these low
temperatures: Mr. Peary, however, always sees that I am properly
protected. In many of the little details I should be negligent, and
would probably suffer in consequence, but I have to undergo an
inspection before he will let me go out.
The daylight was bright enough to-day to enable us to read ordinary
print, and we feel that ere long we shall have the sun with us again for
at least a portion of the twenty-four hours. We stayed out only half an
hour, but my dress for about two feet from the bottom was frozen stiff
as a board, my kamiks were frozen to the stockings, and the stockings to
the Arctic socks next my feet; yet I have felt much colder at home when
the temperature was only a little below the freezing-point.
The remainder of the day we spent in marking, clipping, and sorting
newspaper cuttings. This occupation we found so interesting that we
prolonged it until after midnight.
Monday, January 18. The day has been bright and calm. Mr. Peary, with
Dr. Cook and Astrup, took his first snow-shoe tramp of the season, and
went nearly to the berg. This is the first time the broken leg has been
given such vigorous exercise, but it stood the strain remarkably well. I
have been busy on the sleeping-bag cover all day. I find it very
inconvenient, not to say disagreeable, sewing in a temperature of 44°;
but as I am dependent on the stoves in the other room for my heat, it
cannot be helped. Verhoeff has a mania for saving coal, and keeps
everybody half frozen. He kept the fire to-day on six tomato-cans of
coal. Water spilled near the stove froze almost instantly.
Tuesday, January 19. Somewhat cloudy to-day, but after lunch Mr. Peary
and I went out to the berg on snow-shoes. I did not get a single tumble,
and Mr. Peary said I managed my snow-shoes very well. I was as warm as
any one could wish to be, although the thermometer registered 44° below
zero. We took our time, not hurrying at all, and so prevented
perspiration, which always makes one uncomfortable in these low
temperatures. I had no shoes or kamiks on, only the deerskin stockings,
and a pair of long knit woolen ones over them, yet my feet were warmer
than ever before on these outdoor tramps.
Thursday, January 21. A clear and perceptibly lighter day than
yesterday; indeed, it seems as if it grew lighter now, a month after the
shortest day, much more rapidly than it grew darker a month before the
shortest day. Mr. Peary, the doctor, and Astrup started a path with
their snow-shoes toward Cape Cleveland, and made about half the
distance. The doctor and Astrup took our sledge, the “Sweetheart,” to
the iceberg, intending to bring in a load of ice, but as they reached
the berg they heard the howling of dogs ahead of them and saw a dark
object on the snow some distance away. They started for it, and found a
party of huskies plowing their way through the snow. The party consisted
of Keshu, his wife and child of three years, his brother, Ahninghahna,
older than he, and Magda, a boy of twelve. They were on their way to
Redcliffe. They had been staying with Keshu’s father, Arrotochsuah, but
as the food was giving out over there, and as the old people were not
able to travel, they thought it desirable to look elsewhere. They all
have frost-bites except the little child, and were very grateful for the
assistance given them by the doctor and Astrup in getting to the house.
They tell us that they have been on the way for five days and nights,
the distance being about fifteen miles. To-night the woman was
photographed, and her portrait added to our ethnological series.
[Illustration:
AMPHITHEATRE BERG—MCCORMICK BAY.
]
Friday, January 22. Another clear, cold day; the temperature, –39°. The
addition of the new Eskimos makes the settlement much more lively. In
the house I wear a knit kidney-protector, a Jaros combination suit, two
knit skirts, a flannel wrapper, and a pair of knit stockings, together
with a pair of deerskin ones in place of kamiks. When going out I only
add my snow-shoes, my kooletah (great fur overall), and muff. In this
rig I can stay out and walk for hours, and feel more comfortable than I
have felt while shopping in Philadelphia or New-York on a winter’s day.
This evening Mané No. 2 (wife of Keshu) and M’gipsu have been at work in
my room, both sitting flat on the floor, the former cutting and fitting
two pairs of kamiks for us from a skin brought here by herself, for
which she will receive a clasp-knife. The bargain pleases her greatly.
These women are both good sewers, and it would interest some of our
ladies to watch them at their work. They, as well as all the other
native women, usually take off their kamiks and stockings while in the
house, so that almost the entire leg is bare, their trousers being mere
trunks. They sit flat on the floor, using their feet and legs to hold
the work, and their mouths to make it pliable; the thimble is worn on
the forefinger, and they sew from right to left. The thread is made as
they need it by splitting the deer or narwhal sinews and moistening them
in the mouth. While at this work the babies are being continually rocked
or shifted on their backs without the aid of the hands. The children are
carried in the hood constantly, whether awake or asleep, for the first
year, and only taken out when fed. They are tiny, ugly creatures, and
until they are able to walk never wear anything but a sealskin cap which
fits close about the face, where it is edged with fox, and a foxskin
jacket reaching to the waist.
Saturday, January 23. I cleaned “house,” which means our little room,
seven by twelve. This in itself would be no task, but we have no brooms,
and every inch of my floor is swept with a whisk-broom and on my knees.
As I have only one whisk, and that a silver-handled one, I can afford to
sweep thoroughly only once a week. I have put an old blanket down which
covers the carpet in the middle of the room, where all the walking and
working is done. This blanket is shaken every day and the room brushed
up, giving us a fairly clean apartment. I also finished the sleeping-bag
cover. Now at midnight the temperature is –30½°, and the doctor and
Astrup have taken their sleeping-bags out under the boat as an
experiment in sleeping in the open air.
Monday, January 25. A clear, calm day, with the very bright daylight
tipping all the bergs and crests of the cliffs with silver. The
temperature is –29°, and the landscape is a cold-looking one, but its
aspect does not chill us. It is certainly novel to feel so decidedly hot
in a temperature of –30°, while my handkerchief freezes stiff before I
get through using it. I have been busy cutting and sewing a flannel
lining for my reindeer knickerbockers, for which I utilized my old gray
eider-down wrapper. I also made out a schedule or bill of fare for the
week, arranging the _menu_ for each day, so as to get the greatest
benefit from the patent-fuel stove and save as much oil as possible.
[Illustration:
A Winter Recreation.—My Cross-matched Team.
]
Thursday, January 28. About five o’clock I was called out to see the
brightest aurora we had yet seen. It extended over us almost due east
and west.[4] This night we succeeded in obtaining an observation of
Arcturus.
Footnote 4:
This was the only aurora observed by us during our entire stay in the
Arctic regions which was bright enough to cast a shadow.
Friday, January 29. To-day we went out to the “amphitheater berg,”
breaking a new path part of the distance—warm as well as hard work. This
evening, for the first time in our house, one of the women (Mané)
stripped herself to the waist; there she sat sewing away, in the midst
of a crowd of huskies as well as our boys, just as unconcerned as if she
were clad in the finest raiment. The men do this frequently when it gets
too warm for them, but I never saw a woman do it before. It is true they
are nearly always entirely nude in their igloos, and visiting Eskimos,
as soon as they enter an igloo, take off every stitch, just as we lay
aside our wraps and overcoats at home. This is done by both sexes.
Sunday, January 31. Another month has slipped away, and I can say, “One
month nearer home.” I must admit I am very homesick at times. Hardly a
night passes that I do not dream of some of my home folks. The bill of
fare which I made out for last week, giving the times for cooking each
dish on the patent-fuel stove, worked very well, and I can save about
one quart of oil a day; this will be of considerable help to us in case
we shall be obliged to go to south Greenland in our boats. I walked down
to the two first fox-traps, but found them completely snowed under. In
places the snow-crust is hard enough to bear the weight of the body, but
oftener one sinks in six or eight inches, and in places the surface snow
has drifted considerably deeper. The temperature is about –20°, and it
has been thick and dark all day. Yesterday Verhoeff went upon the cliffs
and found the minimum thermometer registering only –24° as the lowest
for the month, while at Redcliffe we have had it down to –53°. Strange
that on the hill-tops it should be so much warmer than here below.
Tuesday, February 2. A beautiful, clear, cold day; temperature, –35°. We
now have daylight from ten A. M. until three P. M., while there is a
decided twilight from nine to ten and from three to four. We were
inspected in daylight by the doctor, and we all show the effects of the
long dark night; Mr. Peary and Astrup, being the two fairest ones in the
party, look the most sallow. We walked out to the amphitheater berg
without snow-shoes. The left-hand column at the entrance to the theater
is a massive pillar of ice, like the whitest marble, about a hundred
feet high; inside the berg the snow was very deep. The right-hand side
of the entrance had recently broken, and tons of the splintered ice were
lying around. We saw the new moon one quarter full for the first time
over the cliffs to the north, while the glow from the setting sun to the
southwest made a most beautiful picture; the tops of the bergs in the
distance were completely hidden in the low line of mist rising from the
cracks in the ice, which gave them the appearance of long flat rocks in
the midst of the snow-plain.
Friday, February 5. This morning all our Eskimo visitors left us, and
things are once more running in the old groove. I have not been out for
several days in consequence of a sore toe. I have finished blanket
sleeves for all the sleeping-bags, and yesterday boiled my first
pudding. To-night about eight o’clock noises were heard out on the ice,
and in a little while Arrotochsuah and his wife arrived, with one large
dog and one puppy. They were very much fatigued, having been five days
and four nights on their way over. These old people seem very fond of
each other, and share whatever they get. Their food-supply having given
out, they are on their way to their son’s igloo at Netchiolumy,
forty-five miles distant, whither they intend to travel on foot, part of
the way through snow two feet deep. The woman, seemingly sixty years of
age, says they tumble into the snow every few steps, but up they get and
stagger on, and in this way they make the trip with packs on their
backs.
Thursday, February 11. Just seven months ago to-day Mr. Peary broke his
leg, and he celebrated the event by taking a ten-mile tramp on the bay
ice. His leg did not trouble him at all, and did not swell very much.
To-day we have been married three years and a half. It seems as if I had
been away from home as long as that, and yet it was only eight months on
the 6th of February since I left Washington.
Saturday, February 13. We are making preparations to witness the return
of the sun. Gibson and Verhoeff have erected a snow-house on the
ice-cap, and Mr. Peary has invited us all to accompany him to-morrow to
the summit, and welcome the reappearing luminary. My head has been
aching very badly all day, and I do not feel in condition to spend the
night in a snow-hut, so I shall stay at home and keep house. It will be
pleasant to exchange the strange daylights we have been having for
weeks—daylights without a sun—for the vivifying glow of direct sunlight.