OFF FOR THE INLAND ICE
The First Detachment of the Inland Ice-party leaves
Redcliffe—Departure of the Leader of the Expedition—Rest after the
Excitement—Arrival of the Ravens—Return of Gibson and Matt—Gloomy
Weather—Daily Incidents at Redcliffe—Spring Arrivals of
Eskimos—Eskimos imprisoned in their Igloos by a May Snow-storm—The
First Little Auks—Open Water off Cape Cleveland—Harbingers of
Summer—Myriads of Auks and Seals—Snow-buntings—Green Grass and
Flies—Kyo, the Angekok.
Saturday, April 30. The past week has been one of hustle and bustle. The
overland ice journey has been uppermost in our minds and actions, and
this morning the real start was made. All the boys except Verhoeff, with
the dogs and five natives, left with three loaded sledges for the head
of the bay, whither several loads of provisions had already been
transported. Mr. Peary is to follow in a few days.
[Illustration:
Preparing for the Start.
]
Wednesday, May 4. At 8.30 P. M. yesterday, Mr. Peary with Matt, who had
returned for additional equipment, started for the head of the bay to
join Gibson, Astrup, and Dr. Cook, who have been there since Saturday. I
watched him out of sight, and then returned to the house, where Mr.
Verhoeff and I will keep bachelor and maid’s hall. For three full months
I shall be without my husband—a year of anxiety and worry to me. It has
been arranged to have two of the boys accompany the expedition, merely
as a “supporting-party,” and their farthest point will probably be the
Humboldt Glacier; I can therefore expect news from the interior in three
weeks or less. The last ten days have been one continuous rush for me,
and part of the time I hardly knew where I was. After I am rested I
shall begin a thorough overhauling of everything, and get things ready
for packing. As I write, 11.45 P. M., the sun is shining, and as I think
Mr. Peary will begin his march to-night, I hope this morning’s
snow-storm has cleared the weather for some time to come. Strange
coincidence: just six years ago I bade Mr. Peary good-by as he started
on his first Greenland trip. May it be a good omen, and he return as
successful as he did then!
Saturday, May 7. The weather continues alternately dreary and pleasant,
but the approach of springtime is unmistakable. Already the ravens have
arrived, and moderate thaws have begun to loosen our covering of snow
and ice. Shortly after six this morning I was awakened by hearing one of
the huskies cry, “My tigalay, my tigalay” (Matt has returned), and in a
minute later Matt and Gibson came in. The former had returned on account
of a frozen heel, while Gibson came back for additional alcohol. In a
note to me Mr. Peary stated that he had met with a severe obstacle in
the way of heavy snow and steep up-grades, and therefore had not made
the distance that he had hoped to cover in a week’s time.
Sunday, May 8. At last it seems to have cleared, but still the head of
the bay is enveloped in mist. Gibson left us again yesterday, and he is
probably with his party this evening. The thermometer is steadily
rising, and with a temperature to-day of 28° everything has been
dripping. I got all the snow off the roof of the house and the
canvas-covered annex on the west side, as water had begun running down
between the tarred paper.
Tuesday, May 10. All night the wind blew a gale from the east and
northeast, and all day the snow has been flying in clouds so thick that
at times we could not see the tide-gage, a hundred yards distant. My
thoughts have been continually with the little party on the ice. I know
who will have the worst time, who will have to look out for everything,
and it worries me because I know he is not as well as he ought to be.
Everything around Redcliffe is hidden in the snow-drifts, and the snow
has been coming in under the canvas until we have three feet of it in
front of our door inside the inclosure, in spite of Matt’s blocking all
the openings in the walls. With Matt’s help the range and lockers were
moved out of my room to-day, and we found the wall and floor covered
with ice. I knocked off as much as I could, and removed the cardboard
from the floor, and to-night the blanket and carpet at that end of the
room have thawed and are dripping wet. This evening Kyo wanted to know
if we would permit him to go with us beyond Cape York, to where the
other Eskimos live (Upernavik, or Disko). I told him he could; then he
wanted to know if I would draw a map of Greenland, and mark our route
upon it. He seemed to understand, and was pleased to know that he could
go.
Wednesday, May 11. A beautiful day. The drifts are hard as marble. Matt
shoveled the snow out of the entrance, and we once more opened our
windows. The drip from the roof has forced us to remove all the snow and
ice, and we are thus recovering our non-wintry appearance.
Friday, May 13. Contrary to all expectations, last night and to-day have
been warm and bright. All the huskies gathered on our roof, which is dry
and retains the sun’s heat. Noyah, the baby, rolled about entirely naked
in a temperature of 22°, except for a cap, which was nothing more or
less than the toe of one of Mr. Peary’s cast-off blue socks. Verhoeff,
who has made a tour to one of the neighboring icebergs, reports that the
snow has been swept from the ice in the middle of the bay, and that the
ice has commenced to melt.
Saturday, May 21. The past week has seen our home again converted into
an Eskimo encampment. There have been numerous arrivals of old and new
faces, representing all conditions of age from the tiniest baby to
Tahtara’s mother. The simple folk have come as heralds of the
approaching spring, some to stay and others to proceed farther. They
report the return of the little auk at Keati. Yesterday and to-day have
been wild, stormy days, the wind blowing a gale from the southeast
nearly all the time, and when it was not actually snowing the snow was
flying so furiously that it was all but impossible to face it. The two
Eskimo families in the snow-igloos experienced much discomfort, and this
morning Kyo called for Matt to dig him out. The snow had drifted in the
entrance to his igloo until it had filled and piled up higher than the
house, and he had had great difficulty in keeping an air-hole open
during the night.
Monday, May 23. A beautiful day. I hoisted a new flag on Redcliffe House
in honor of my sister Mayde’s birthday. Yesterday was the anniversary of
my own birth, the first of my life when I did not receive a birthday
wish from my dear mother, and the first which I spent without receiving
a loving greeting from some dear one. I was obliged to go through the
routine formality of setting out the wine, but I felt neither like
eating nor drinking. Yesterday morning the first little auks were seen
flying over Redcliffe House, some in the direction of the head of the
bay, others in the opposite direction.
Kyo, Matt, and I indulged in a little target-shooting to-day with my
revolver. We put up a tin at forty feet distance and fired six shots
each. In the first round Matt scored nothing, Kyo hit the target 3
times, while I hit it 5 times. I then stepped out, and Matt and Kyo
tried again, the former scoring 5 and the latter 4.
Thursday, May 26. A perfect day, clear, calm, and warm. Nearly four
weeks have elapsed since Mr. Peary left me, and yet no news. For a full
week, day by day, I have been expecting the supporting-party, and am now
nearly desperate. Being in no mood for writing, reading, or sewing, I
called Jack and started for Cape Cleveland, where open water had been
reported. For a quarter of a mile before reaching the Cape I sank into
water almost to my boot-tops, but I felt fully repaid for my trouble by
the beautiful sight which met my gaze. The water, of deepest blue and
clear as crystal, sparkled and danced in the sunlight, as if it were
overjoyed to have broken loose from its long imprisonment, and once more
have the countless birds sporting on its bosom. The water and the air
above it were at times black with birds, the majority being little auks.
There was, however, a goodly sprinkling of black guillemots and gulls. I
also saw a pair of eider-ducks. I watched this scene for some time. Two
stately, massive bergs in the center of the pool of dancing water
imparted grandeur to the picture—now glistening with the dazzling white
of marble, and a moment later black with the myriads of feathered
creatures that had settled on them. The sight of the water made me feel
more homesick than ever, so I continued my walk around the Cape. At
every step I broke into the snow nearly to my hips, and sometimes there
was water under it. I saw four pairs of snow-buntings chirping and
flitting about among the rocks and patches of grass where the snow had
disappeared. They were evidently getting acquainted with each other, and
looking for a place in which to make their home. Almost half-way between
the trap-dyke and Three-Mile Valley I came upon the place where
Kulutunah had formerly had his tupic, and where he had left nearly one
half of a last summer’s seal lying exposed on the ice. About this had
gathered hundreds upon hundreds of flies, some large and some small, the
first I have seen since leaving Upernavik, I think. I brought some back
as specimens. The air was filled with the chirping of birds, the buzz of
flies, the drip, drip, drip of the snow and ice everywhere about, and
the odor of decaying seal. On my return I climbed over the Cape in
preference to rounding it, as I had seen large pieces of ice break off
and float out into the dark water. From my elevated position the surface
of the ice around and beyond the water looked as if it had had its face
badly freckled, so covered was it with black specks; each speck
represented a seal taking his sun-bath. Yet it is very difficult for the
natives to catch these creatures, as the ice is rotten and will not bear
their weight.
On reaching Redcliffe House I saw Kyo dressed in a pair of woven
trousers, a blue flannel shirt, and a pair of suspenders given him by
Matt, and Mr. Peary’s old gray felt hat, which I gave him a day or two
ago, and which he hesitated to take, because, he said, it was not mine
to give, and Mr. Peary would say on his return, “Ibly tiglipo, ibly
peeuk nahme” (you steal, you are no good). He looked precisely like an
Indian as he stood there, busy putting up his tent on the brow of the
hill directly back of the house. This place has been free of snow for
some time and is perfectly dry, while his igloo, as well as the other
two, is constantly wet from the melting snow. He is filled with the idea
of going to America. Every night he comes for a magazine to look at
after he has gone to bed, as he has seen some of the boys do. He says
Mr. Peary will be his “athata” (father) and Missy Peary his “ahnahna”
(mother) on the ship, and when he gets to America he will learn how to
read, and then he won’t have to select books with pictures. Whatever he
sees he wants to know if he will see it made in America. He tells me
that he is an “angekok” (doctor), and that he always cures the people.
They never die where he is, and he can make them do just as he chooses.
His wife does not seem to care to go to America, so for the last few
days he has borrowed two or three magazines to take into his igloo,
where for three or four hours at a stretch he has sat with his wife in
front of him and the book between them, swaying himself from side to
side, and singing a monotonous sort of tune at the top of his voice. In
this way, the other natives assure me, he works a spell over her, and
she willingly consents to go with him.
[Illustration:
Cape Cleveland.
]