GREENLAND REVISITED
Along the Labrador Coast—Strange Passengers on the
“Falcon”—Holsteinborg and Godhavn—The Quickest Passage of Melville
Bay—Meeting with Old Friends—No Tidings of Verhoeff—Establishing
Ourselves at Bowdoin Bay—Deaths among the Eskimos—A Rich Walrus
Hunt—Smith Sound and the Northern Ice-pack—Polaris House—Departure
of the “Falcon.”
Anniversary Lodge, Bowdoin Bay, Greenland, August 20, 1893. The reader
who has followed me through my Arctic experiences of 1891–92 may be
interested to know how we found our Eskimo friends upon our return to
them after an absence of nearly a year.
On July 8 the steamship “Falcon,” carrying north the members of Mr.
Peary’s new Arctic expedition, left Portland, and headed for St. John’s,
where we landed on the 13th. We had with us a conglomerate cargo,
including, in addition to the ordinary paraphernalia of an Arctic
expedition, eight little Mexican burros or donkeys, two St. Bernard
dogs, the Eskimo dogs which Mr. Peary had brought down from Greenland,
and numerous homing pigeons, kindly presented to us by friends
interested in the expedition. At St. John’s we added a few Newfoundland
dogs, and then proceeded north along the Labrador coast, touching at
several of the missionary stations, where we obtained about thirty dogs
from the Eskimos. It was a pitiable sight to see how famished these poor
Moravian missionaries were for news from the old as well as the new
country. They have direct mail communication with Europe only once a
year.
I was told that although they have only three months in the year when
frost is out of the ground, yet they all cultivate small gardens, and
the most delicious dish of stewed rhubarb that I ever tasted was
prepared from a bundle sent to me by one of the missionaries. It was
interesting to note that while the appearance of the Labrador Eskimos is
very similar to that of the natives of South Greenland, yet their mode
of dress is different in both pattern and material. The undershirts,
instead of being made of the skins of birds, are made of blanketing, and
instead of being the same length back and front, are fashioned with a
long tail; over this is worn a garment of the same pattern, made of
drilling. The trousers are also of woven material. Of course this was
their summer costume. The women all wore blanket skirts, and had woolen
shawls about their shoulders.
After following the coast of Labrador for ten days, we headed across
Davis Strait for Holsteinborg, on the Greenland shore. It took us about
twelve hours to steam through the stream of ice which was flowing
southward, but only once did the “Falcon” have to go astern in order to
move a pan of ice and make a passageway for herself. Steadily she
steamed on, butting against the cakes and floes until her timbers
quivered and creaked. At last we were in clear water again, and then our
vessel fairly bounded over the waves.
Arrived at Holsteinborg, we found a pretty, clean little village. There
are more wooden houses here than at Godhavn, and altogether the place
looks more thrifty. We found the governor absent, but the assistant
governor, a young Danish officer who spoke a little English, did the
honors, and he procured twenty-three dogs from the natives for us. Among
other attentions, he sent to me a basket of radishes, fresh from his
garden.
Business completed, the “Falcon” steamed north for Godhavn. On our
arrival at this little hamlet we found everything apparently unchanged,
but, to our great disappointment, our pilot informed us that Inspector
Anderssen was absent on a tour of inspection, accompanied by his
daughter, and that Governor Joergensen and family had gone to Denmark.
We found Mrs. Anderssen as rosy-cheeked and as youthful as when we first
saw her. She made our visit very pleasant, rounding it off with one of
her delightful little dinners on the evening of our departure. We
requited her hospitality by presenting her with various kinds of
fruit—pineapples, lemons, oranges, and a watermelon. The natives
expressed great pleasure on seeing us, and old Frederick, who had
accompanied Mr. Peary on the ice in 1886, after shaking hands with me,
said, “Very gude, you look all samee,” rubbing his hands over his face
and then pointing to mine to show me that I had not changed in looks
since last he saw me.
Our next stopping-place was Upernavik, where we remained just long
enough to pick up a few dogs, after which we put in at Tassiusak, the
most northerly inhabited spot in the world belonging to any government.
This place boasts of but a single wooden house. We here still further
increased our stock of dogs, and then left. The next day we revisited
the Duck Islands, but this year the sport did not compare with that of
two years ago, when the birds were so plentiful that one could hardly
walk without fear of stepping on them. This year it was a month later in
the season, and not only were the young ducks hatched, but the old
mother ducks were out teaching the ducklings to swim, and the islands
consequently were all but deserted. I devoted my time to the gathering
of down for the bedding in our Arctic home, and secured about thirty
pounds.
We now headed for the ever-dreaded Melville Bay, my first experience
with which I shall never forget. We were then three weeks in crossing,
and it was during that time that Mr. Peary had the misfortune to have
his leg broken. This time everything looked favorable; we had no fog,
and there was no ice in sight from the crow’s-nest. Captain Bartlett was
determined to break the record in the crossing of this water—thirty-six
hours—on this his first voyage to the Arctic regions. In twenty-four
hours and fifty minutes we reached the Eskimo settlement at Cape York,
Melville Bay behind us and still no ice to be seen.
At this settlement, where formerly so many natives lived, we found only
three families, all of them strange to us; they could tell us nothing
about our acquaintances in the tribe, not having seen any of the
inhabitants to the north of them since the time we left McCormick Bay.
We pushed on along the Greenland coast until we rounded Cape Parry, and
then steamed into Barden Bay, stopping at the Eskimo village of
Netchiolumy. Here, too, instead of finding about sixty natives, as was
the case a year ago, we found only two families. Mr. Peary with two men
went ashore at once, and before their boat reached the land I heard one
of the natives shout “Chimo Peary,” and saw him dance up and down for
joy. On his return Mr. Peary informed me that the natives were Keshu,
_alias_ the Smiler, and Myah, the White Man, with their families. They
were wild with delight, and begged to be allowed to accompany us to the
site of our new house and pitch their tents beside it. They were stowed
with all their belongings into Mr. Peary’s boat, and in a short time
both families with their houses and their chattels were on board the
“Falcon.” They gave us all the news and gossip of the tribe. Naturally,
we first questioned them about our lost companion, Mr. Verhoeff. There
never was a doubt in our minds that Mr. Verhoeff lost his life in
crossing the glacier at the head of Robertson Bay; but his friends at
home took a different view of the matter, and were confident that we
would find him alive and well. These natives say that nothing has been
seen or heard of him, and they hesitate to speak of him, as they never
speak of their dead. Mr. Peary thought perhaps some article of his
clothing had been found by the Eskimos that might throw some light on
the disappearance of our unfortunate associate; but nothing whatever has
been found. We next inquired about our Eskimo friends, and were grieved
to hear that the little five-year-old, bright-eyed, mischievous Anadore,
daughter of our henchman Ikwa and his wife Mané, had died in the early
spring. We learned that Redcliffe House had been destroyed by a few of
the natives, led on by the famous angekok, Kyoahpadu, and that he had
also destroyed the provisions which were cached at Cairn Point by Mr.
Peary.
[Illustration:
The Cliffs of Karnah.
]
We arrived at our destination, at the head of Bowdoin Bay, on August 3d,
without any difficulty, the ice having almost completely left the bay
and sound. The Sculptured Cliffs of Karnah, forming the cape of Bowdoin
Bay, stood out sharp and clear in the early morning sunlight, while the
towering red Castle Cliffs frowned down upon the bay from the opposite
cape.
The site selected for our new home is only a few feet from where we
pitched our tent last year when engaged in the exploration of Inglefield
Gulf, and where, amidst a furious rainstorm, we celebrated our wedding
anniversary. As we shall celebrate at least two more such anniversaries
here, we have christened our new home “Anniversary Lodge.” The great
cliff which mounts guard over us Mr. Peary has named Mt. Bartlett, in
honor of our gallant young skipper, Captain Harry Bartlett, of St.
John’s. Our snug and picturesque harbor is to be known as Falcon Harbor,
named after the little bark which brought us here in safety, and which
is the first ship to anchor in these waters.
The day after we dropped anchor in Falcon Harbor we were visited by five
of our former Eskimo acquaintances, who had paddled at least twenty-five
or thirty miles in their kayaks on seeing the ship pass their
settlement. Two of them, Kulutingwah and Annowkah, were residents of
Redcliffe, and it really seemed like meeting old neighbors, although I
must confess that they appear even dirtier than they did a year ago.
Annowkah told me that his wife, M’gipsu, who was our most skilful
seamstress, was ill; but it is impossible to get these people to talk
much about their sick, and so I was unable to find out what really ailed
the poor woman.
Our Eskimos stayed with us a few days and assisted us in landing our
supplies. They were vastly amused at the burros, which they persist in
calling “big dogs”; and I can hardly blame them, for my St. Bernard dog
is almost as large and tall as some of these little animals. After the
provisions were all ashore, each native took a load of about fifty
pounds on his back and carried it to the ice-cap; but this was the last
straw, and every man decided that he really must return to his family at
once.
On August 12, the work on the house being well advanced, Mr. Peary
decided to make a trip after walrus for dog-food, intending to proceed
as far as Smith Sound, if possible. It takes quite a little pile of meat
to feed eighty-three Eskimo dogs. Accompanied by the two natives, Keshu
and Myah, we started for Karnah, the nearest settlement, where we had
intended to pick up one or two additional hunters; but on reaching the
place we were shocked to hear that M’gipsu had died “two sleeps ago.”
Mr. Peary went to Annowkah’s tent, and there sat the bereaved husband,
with his sealskin hood pulled over his head, looking straight before
him, saying nothing and doing nothing, apparently knowing nothing of
what was going on about him. It is the custom with these people to act
in this way for a certain length of time after a death, and then they
desert the hut or tent in which the death has taken place, and it is
never again occupied. M’gipsu’s little six-year-old boy, whose father
died when he was very small, also sat in the tent all huddled up in one
corner. Poor little fellow! I do not know what will become of him now,
for it is an open secret that his stepfather, Annowkah, does not like
him.
As we proceeded up the sound we saw the cakes of ice thickly sprinkled
with walrus, which had come out of the water and were taking a sun-bath.
The boats were lowered, and the men started after them. In a few hours
we had twenty-four of the monsters on board. Their average weight was
estimated at not less than fifteen hundred pounds. There were several
cold baths taken by the hunters, and some narrow escapes, but nothing
serious occurred, and we continued on our course, heading for Cape
Alexander. Once around the cape, we steamed half-way across the sound
toward Cape Sabine, where we were stopped by the ice-pack, which
stretched in an unbroken plain as far as we could see. Turning back, we
visited the site of the Polaris House, where a portion of Captain Hall’s
party wintered after the “Polaris” was wrecked. We picked up a number of
souvenirs in the shape of bolts, hooks, hinges, even buttons and leaves
from books. A quantity of rope was found on the border of a little pond
just back of where the house stood, and it seemed to be in a state of
perfect preservation. We also stopped at Littleton Island, and on the
adjoining McGary Island some of the party indulged in a little shooting.
A few ducks and guillemots were shot; four additional walrus and an
oogzook seal were also obtained in this vicinity. The weather then
became thick and a strong wind sprang up, which put an end to the sport.
All night we steamed toward Hakluyt Island, but on reaching it we could
not make a landing on account of the gale. We lay in the shelter of the
cliffs of Northumberland, and when the storm abated steamed along its
shore, and, crossing Whale Sound, entered Olrich’s Bay, the scenery of
which surpasses that of any of the other Greenland bays that I have
seen. Our party scattered at once in search of reindeer, which we were
told were numerous here, and in a few hours we had seventeen on board
ship.
Our house is up, and promises to be very cozy. The good ship “Falcon”
sails for home to-morrow, taking with her the last messages which we can
send our dear ones for some time.
Everything points to the success which Mr. Peary hopes for. What the
future will bring, however, no one can tell.
THE GREAT WHITE JOURNEY
FROM McCORMICK BAY TO THE NORTHERN SHORE OF GREENLAND AND RETURN
BY
ROBERT E. PEARY
[Illustration:
SAILING OVER THE INLAND ICE.
]
According to my program, the 1st of May was to be the time for the start
on the inland ice, and on the 28th of April, Astrup, Gibson, Dr. Cook,
and the native men then at Redcliffe left with the last load of supplies
for the head of McCormick Bay. The natives were to return after helping
the boys carry the supplies to the top of the bluff; the boys themselves
were to push forward with the work until I joined them. This I did on
the 3d of May. When I left Redcliffe the number of natives there had
dwindled very materially; some drawn away to the seal-hunt, but more
driven away by their superstitious feeling in regard to my going upon
the great ice. We had the most exceptionally fine weather all through
April, but on the very night that I reached the head of the bay a sullen
sky over the ice-cap betokened a change. From this night until the
morning of the 6th of August, when Astrup and myself clambered down the
flower-strewn bluffs again, my couch was the frozen surface of the
inland ice, and my canopy the blue sky.
The first two weeks after leaving the little house upon the shores of
McCormick Bay were occupied in transporting the supplies—which at
various times during the preceding month had been carried by the members
of my party and helping natives to the crest of the bluffs at the head
of the bay—to the edge of the true inland ice, some miles distant, and
then in dragging them over and among the succession of the great domes
of ice which extend inward some fifteen miles to the gradual slope of
the vast interior snow-plain. One or two snow-storms and the constant
violent wind rushing down from the interior to the shore, combined with
the difficulties of the road and the constant annoyance from our team of
twenty savage and powerful Eskimo dogs, entirely unaccustomed to us and
to our methods, made these two weeks a time of unremitting and arduous
labor for myself. The only pleasant break in this work was the
occurrence of my own birthday, and the unexpected appearance from among
the medical stores, in charge of Dr. Cook, of a little box from the
hands of the dear one left behind, containing a bottle of Château Yquem,
a wine endeared to both of us by many delightful associations, a cake,
and a note containing birthday wishes for success and continued health.
Once on the true ice-cap, two good marches brought us to the divide,
from which, as from the ridge of a great white-roofed house, the ice-cap
slopes north to the shores of Kane Basin and historic Renssellaer
Harbor, where Kane and his little party passed so many Arctic months,
and southward to the shores of Whale Sound and our own little home. From
this divide we had a slight descent in our favor, and we kept on from
the edge of the basin of the Humboldt Glacier, where the great mass of
the inland ice, like very cold molasses, hollows itself slowly down to
the mighty glacier itself. Here the fiercest storm that we had
encountered thus far burst upon us, and for three days we were confined
to our snow shelter, getting out as best we could in occasional lulls in
the storm to secure loose dogs and endeavor to protect the loads upon
the sledges from their ravages. In this we were fairly successful,
though we did not succeed in preventing them from devouring some six
pounds of cranberry jam, and eating the foot off Gibson’s sleeping-bag.
This storm over, we were not again troubled by really violent storms
during our northward march.
[Illustration:
The Land beyond the Ice.
]
On the 24th of May Dr. Cook and Gibson, who had formed our supporting
party, left us to return to Redcliffe, leaving Astrup as my sole
companion for the remainder of the journey. On the last day of May, from
the dazzling surface of the ice-cap we looked down into the basin of the
Petermann Glacier—the grandest amphitheater of snow and ragged ice that
human eye has ever seen, walled in the distance by a Titan dam of black
mountains, and all lit by the yellow midnight sunlight. Still keeping on
to the northward, navigating the ice as does the mariner the sea along
an unknown coast, we were befogged for two or three days in clouds and
mists which prevented us from seeing to any distance. As a result, we
approached too near the mountains of the coast, and got entangled in the
rough ice and crevasses of the Sherard Osborne Glacier system. Here we
lost twelve or fourteen days in our efforts to get back to the smooth,
unbroken snow-cap of the interior. Once there, we continued our march,
always northeastward, till on the 27th of June I discerned black
mountain-summits rising above the horizon of the ice-cap, directly ahead
of us. Then the northwest entrance of a fjord came into view, and we
could trace its course southeasterly just beyond the nearer mountains of
the land north and northeast. I changed my course to east, when I was
soon confronted by the land and the fjord beyond. Then I turned to the
southeast, and traveled in that direction until the 1st of July, when
we, after fifty-seven days of journeying over a barren waste of snow,
stepped upon the rocks of a strange new land, lying red-brown in the
sunlight, and dotted with snow-drifts here and there. The murmur of
rushing streams, the roar of leaping cataracts from the ice-cap, and the
song of snow-buntings made the air musical. Leaving the sledge and our
supplies at the very edge of the rocks, leading our dogs, and with a few
days’ supplies upon our backs, Astrup and myself started on over this
strange land, bound for the coast, which we knew could not be far
distant. Four days of the hardest traveling, over sharp stones of all
sizes, through drifts of snow and across rushing torrents, and we came
out at last upon the summit of a towering cliff, about 3500 feet high,
now known as Navy Cliff, from which we overlooked the great and hitherto
undiscovered Independence Bay.
Before us stretched new lands and waters, to which, with the explorer’s
prerogative, I gave names, as follows: the bay at our feet, opening into
the Arctic Ocean half-way between the 81st and 82d parallels of
latitude, was named Independence Bay in honor of the day, July 4th; the
red-brown land beyond the fjord which had stopped our forward northward
progress was called Heilprin Land; and a still more distant land beyond
the entrance of a second fjord, Melville Land. The enormous glacier at
our right, flowing due north into Independence Bay, received the name of
Academy Glacier, and the bold rugged land beyond it, Daly Land.
It was almost impossible for us to believe that we were standing upon
the northern shore of Greenland as we gazed from the summit of this
bronze cliff, with the most brilliant sunshine all about us, with yellow
poppies growing between the rocks around our feet, and a herd of
musk-oxen in the valley behind us. Two of these animals we had killed,
and their bodies were now awaiting our return for a grand feast of fresh
meat. Down in that same valley I had found an old friend, a dandelion in
bloom, and had seen the bullet-like flight and heard the energetic buzz
of the bumble-bee.
[Illustration:
The Academy Glacier.
]
For seven days we remained in this northern land, more than six hundred
miles of pathless icy sea separating us from the nearest human being,
and then we began our return march. This return march, much shorter than
the upward one, was uneventful and monotonous. For about two weeks we
were about a mile and a half above the sea-level, literally in the
clouds, and day after day, in every direction, stretched only the
steel-blue line of the snow horizon. The snow was soft and light, and
without our “ski,” or Norwegian snow-skates, and Indian snow-shoes we
should have been almost helpless in it; but at last, after passing the
latitude of the Humboldt Glacier, when we were only about a mile above
the sea-level, the traveling became better. The slight downgrade
assisted us, and for seven days we averaged thirty miles a day,
increasing our distance on each successive day, showing that both men
and dogs were in perfect training, and, like the scientific athlete, had
still the reserve force necessary for a grand spurt on the home stretch.
[Illustration:
MAP OF
INDEPENDENCE BAY
EAST COAST OF GREENLAND
JULY 4^{TH} 1892
R. E. PEARY, U.S. NAVY
OBSERVATION SPOT ON NAVY CLIFF
LAT. 81° 37′ 5″ N.
LONG. 34° 5′ W.
]
The night of the 5th to the 6th of August was an exquisitely clear and
perfect one. From eight to eleven Astrup and myself and our remaining
five dogs toiled up the north slope of the largest of the ice-domes
between the head of McCormick Bay and the edge of the true interior
ice—one to which I had given the name “Dome Mountain.” As I rose over
the crest of the great white mass and looked down and forward upon our
course, there, some two miles away, upon the slope of the next dome,
were two or three dark, irregular objects. Even as I looked at them they
moved and separated, until I could count several detached bodies. They
could be but one thing—men; and as there were so many of them, and as I
was sure that none of the Eskimos could have been persuaded by my boys
to set foot upon the inland ice, I knew in an instant that some ship was
lying in the bay waiting for us. It was but a little while later, both
parties descending rapidly toward each other, that we met in the
depression between the two domes, and I grasped again the hand of
Professor Heilprin, who had been the last to say good-by to me a year
before, as I lay a cripple in my tent, and who now had come again to
meet me and bring us back. It was a strange and never-to-be-forgotten
meeting. In the ship lying at anchor at the very head of the bay I found
the woman who had been waiting for me for three months, and two days
later we were back again in the little house which had sheltered us
through a year of Arctic vicissitudes.
Such, in brief, is the outline of the inland-ice journey from McCormick
Bay to the northern shore of Greenland and back. Its important results
are already well known, and it is not necessary to revert to them here.
I will attempt, however, to give some adequate impression of the unique
surroundings in which our work was done, and also to make clear the real
character of this great interior ice-plateau, a natural feature so
entirely different from any with which we are acquainted in better known
portions of the globe that I have sometimes found it difficult to
convey, even to the most cultivated minds, a really adequate conception
of what the great ice-cap is like.
The terms “inland ice” and “great interior frozen sea,” two of the more
common names by which the region traversed by us is generally known,
both suggest to the majority of people erroneous ideas. In the first
place, the surface is not ice, but merely a compacted snow. The term
“sea” is also a misnomer in so far as it suggests the idea of a sometime
expanse of water subsequently frozen over. The only justification for
the term is the unbroken and apparently infinite horizon which bounds
the vision of the traveler upon its surface. Elevated as the entire
region is to a height of from 4000 to 9000 feet above the sea-level, the
towering mountains of the coast, which would be visible to the sailor at
a distance of sixty to eighty miles, disappear beneath the landward
convexity of the ice-cap by the time the traveler has penetrated fifteen
or twenty miles into the interior, and then he may travel for days and
weeks with no break whatever in the continuity of the sharp, steel-blue
line of the horizon.
The sea has its days of towering, angry waves, of laughing, glistening
whitecaps, of mirror-like calm. The “frozen sea” is always the
same—motionless, petrified. Around its white shield the sun circles for
months in succession, never hiding his face except in storms. Once a
month the pale full moon climbs above the opposite horizon, and circles
with him for eight or ten days.
Sometimes, though rarely, cloud shadows drift across the white expanse,
but usually the cloud phenomena are the heavy prophecies or actualities
of furious storms veiling the entire sky; at other times they are merely
the shadows of dainty, transparent cirrus feathers. In clearest weather
the solitary traveler upon this white Sahara sees but three things
outside of and beyond himself—the unbroken, white expanse of the snow,
the unbroken blue expanse of the sky, and the sun. In cloudy weather all
three of these may disappear.
Many a time I have found myself in cloudy weather traveling in gray
space. Not only was there no object to be seen, but in the entire sphere
of vision there was no difference in intensity of light. My feet and
snow-shoes were sharp and clear as silhouettes, and I was sensible of
contact with the snow at every step. Yet as far as my eyes gave me
evidence to the contrary, I was walking upon nothing. The space between
my snow-shoes was as light as the zenith. The opaque light which filled
the sphere of vision might come from below as well as above. A curious
mental as well as physical strain resulted from this blindness with
wide-open eyes, and sometimes we were obliged to stop and await a
change.
The wind is always blowing on the great ice-cap, sometimes with greater,
sometimes with less violence, but the air is never quiet. When the
velocity of the wind increases beyond a certain point it scoops up the
loose snow, and the surface of the inland ice disappears beneath a
hissing white torrent of blinding drift. The thickness of this drift may
be anywhere from six inches to thirty or even fifty feet, dependent upon
the consistency of the snow. When the depth of the drift is not in
excess of the height of the knee, its surface is as tangible and almost
as sharply defined as that of a sheet of water, and its incessant dizzy
rush and strident sibilation become, when long continued, as maddening
as the drop, drop, drop, of water on the head in the old torture-rooms.
While traversing the inland ice our hours of marching were those
corresponding to what here would be night—that is, when the sun was
above the northern horizon. In our line of march I took the lead, on
snow-shoes or ski as the condition of the snow demanded, setting the
course by compass, or by time, and the shadow cast by my bamboo staff.
The dogs, a few yards in the rear, followed my trail, and Astrup
traveled on ski beside the sledge, encouraging the dogs and keeping them
up to their work.
Our daily routine was as follows: When the day’s march (measured
sometimes by the hours we had been on the move and sometimes by the
distance covered) was completed, I began sounding the snow with the
light bamboo staff to which my little silken guidon was attached, until
I found a place where it was firm enough to permit of blocks being cut
from it. This done, the guidon-staff was erected in the snow, and at the
shout of “Tima” from me, my dogs, no matter how long or how hard the day
had been, would prick up their ears and come hurrying up to me until
they could lie down around my feet, glad that the day’s work was done.
As soon as the sledge came to a standstill I read the odometer, aneroid,
and thermometer; then Astrup and myself undid the lashings, and as soon
as the lines were loose Astrup took the saw-knife and began excavating
for our kitchen, while I took the short steel-pointed stake to which we
fastened our dogs and drove it firmly into the snow in front, and some
fifty feet to leeward, of the kitchen site. I then untangled the dogs’
traces, detached the animals from the sledge, and made them fast to the
stake. I next got out a tin of pemmican, a can-opener, and a heavy
hunting-knife, and, kneeling behind the sledge, prepared the dogs’
rations, which consisted of a pound of pemmican each. I then fed the
hungry creatures, standing over them meanwhile with the whip, to see
that the weaker ones were not deprived of their share.
By this time Astrup had completed an excavation in the snow, about eight
feet long by three feet wide and a foot and a half deep, and with the
snow blocks obtained from this excavation had formed a wall a foot or a
foot and a half high across one end and half-way down each side. Across
this wall was put one, and sometimes both, of the ski, and over this was
spread a light cotton sail, weighted down with blocks of snow. This was
known as our kitchen, and at the innermost end was placed the
kitchen-box, containing our milk, tea, pea-soup, Liebig’s Extract,
drinking-cups, can-opener, knives, spoons, and the day’s rations of
pemmican and biscuit; also the alcohol-stove and a box of matches, done
up in a waterproof package.
Then, if it was Astrup’s turn as cook he immediately began the
preparations for dinner by lighting the alcohol-lamp and filling the
boiler with snow, while I lay down in the lee of the sledge and made my
notes of the day’s work. If it was my turn as _chef_, as soon as the
kitchen was finished I took possession of it, and Astrup retreated to
the shelter of the sledge. While the snow was melting I wrote up my
notes, Astrup usually devoting this time to rubbing vaseline into his
face to repair the ravages of the sun and wind. As soon as sufficient
water had been melted, two cupfuls of pea-soup were made, and this, with
a half-pound lump of pemmican, formed our first course. While we were
enjoying this the water for our tea was brought to the boiling-point.
Pea-soup and pemmican finished, we each had a cupful of cold milk, and
when this had disappeared the tea was made; six biscuits apiece formed
our dessert.
When our luxurious repast was over, what was left of our day’s allowance
of alcohol was allowed to expend itself on a fresh boilerful of snow for
our morning tea, while the cook made his preparations for the night by
changing his footgear and tightening the drawstrings of his furs. In
addition to his other duties, the cook of the day had the entire
responsibility, from dinner-time until breakfast, of the dogs, and it
was the first rigid regulation of the journey that he should always be
so dressed that he could at a moment’s notice jump from his shelter and
capture a loose dog. The dogs were always fastened directly in front of
the opening of the kitchen, so that the occupant, by raising his head,
could see at once if his presence were needed. During the first portion
of our journey this duty was an onerous one, and frequently meant a
sleepless night; but later on, after several of the dogs had received
some severe discipline for attempted thefts, and particularly after we
had adopted the plan of muzzling them every night as soon as they had
finished their dinner, we had but little trouble.
In the morning I was generally the one to waken first, and would either
start the alcohol-lamp myself or else call Astrup for that purpose. Our
morning meal consisted of a lump of pemmican, six biscuits, two ounces
of butter, and two cups of tea each. As soon as this was finished
everything was repacked on the sledge, and while Astrup was completing
the lashing, I removed the dogs’ muzzles, untangled their traces, and
attached them to the sledge. I then read the odometer, aneroid, and
thermometer, and, taking the guidon, which had waved and fluttered over
the kitchen throughout our hours of rest, from its place, stepped
forward, and the next march was commenced. After from four to six hours
of marching we would halt for half an hour to eat our simple lunch of
pemmican and give the dogs a rest, and then, after another four to six
hours of traveling, halt again and repeat the already described routine.
[Illustration:
DRIFTED IN.
]
The three sledges used on our journey were the survivors of a fleet of
ten, comprising seven different styles. They consisted simply of two
long, broad wooden runners curved at both ends, with standards
supporting light but strong crossbars. The largest sledge was thirteen
feet long and two feet wide, with runners four inches wide and standards
six inches high; this sledge had no particle of metal in its
construction, being composed entirely of wood, horn, and rawhide
lashings. It weighed forty-eight pounds, and carried easily a load of a
thousand pounds. After a two hundred and fifty mile trip round
Inglefield Gulf, it made the long journey to the north and return to
within two hundred miles of McCormick Bay, when it was abandoned for a
lighter sledge. The second sledge was eleven feet by two, with three and
one-half inch runners and six-inch standards. It weighed thirty-five
pounds, and carried a load of over five hundred pounds. It broke down on
the upward trip and was abandoned. The third sledge, made by Astrup, was
ten feet by sixteen inches, with three-inch runners and two-inch
standards; it weighed thirteen pounds, and carried a load of four
hundred pounds. This sledge made the round trip of thirteen hundred
miles, though carrying a load for only about eight hundred miles.
The result of this extended practical experience with sledges has been
to show me that my previous ideas as to the great superiority of the
toboggan type of sledge for inland-ice work (ideas gained during my
reconnoissance in 1886, east of Disko Bay) were erroneous, and that the
sledge with broad runners and standards is _the_ sledge. Also, that the
wear upon the runners is practically _nil_, and that shoes of steel or
ivory are not only useless, but actually increase the tractive
resistance.
Of even greater importance to our successful progress during the
inland-ice journey than our sledges were the ski, or Norwegian
snow-skates. Valuable as are the Indian snow-shoes for Arctic work, the
ski far surpass them in speed, ease of locomotion, and reduced chances
of chafing or straining the feet. On the upward journey I alternated
between the snow-shoes and the ski, but while descending the northern
ice-slope I had the misfortune to break one of the ski, and on the
return trip was obliged to use the snow-shoes only. Astrup used ski
entirely from start to finish.
I am satisfied that the only material for the clothing of men traveling
upon the inland ice is fur, and that the man who dispenses with it adds
to the weight he has to carry, and compels himself to endure serious
drafts upon his vitality, to say nothing of deliberately choosing
discomfort instead of comfort. The great objection urged against fur
clothing is that, allowing the evaporation from the body no opportunity
to escape, the clothing beneath it gets saturated while the wearer is at
work, and then, when he ceases, he becomes thoroughly chilled. This
trouble is, in my opinion, due entirely to inexperience and ignorance of
how to use the fur clothing. It was a part of my plan to obtain the
material for my fur clothing and sleeping-bags in the Whale Sound
region, and I was entirely successful in so doing. My boys shot the
deer, the skins were stretched and dried in Redcliffe, I devised and cut
the patterns for the suits and sleeping-bags, and the native women sewed
them. As a result of my study of the Eskimo clothing and its use, I
adopted it almost _literatim_, and my complete wardrobe consisted of a
hooded deerskin coat weighing five and one-fourth pounds, a hooded
sealskin coat weighing two and one-half pounds, a pair of dogskin
knee-trousers weighing three pounds nine ounces, sealskin boots with
woolen socks and fur soles, weighing two pounds, and an undershirt;
total, about thirteen pounds. With various combinations of this outfit,
I could keep perfectly warm and yet not get into a perspiration, in
temperatures from +40° F. to –50°, whether at rest, or walking, or
pulling upon a sledge.
The deerskin coat, with the trousers, footgear, and undershirt, weighed
eleven and one-fourth pounds, or about the same as an ordinary winter
business suit, including shoes, underwear, etc., but not the overcoat.
In this costume, with the fur inside and the drawstrings at waist,
wrists, knees, and face pulled tight, I have seated myself upon the
great ice-cap four thousand feet above the sea with the thermometer at
–38°, the wind blowing so that I could scarcely stand against it, and
with back to the wind have eaten my lunch leisurely and in comfort;
then, stretching myself at full length for a few moments, have listened
to the fierce hiss of the snow driving past me with the same pleasurable
sensation that, seated beside the glowing grate, we listen to the roar
of the rain upon the roof.
Our sleeping-bags, also of the winter coat of the deer, with the fur
inside, were, I think, the lightest and warmest ever used. In my own
bag, weighing ten and one-fourth pounds, I have slept comfortably out
upon the open snow, with no shelter whatever and the thermometer at
–41°, wearing inside the bag only undergarments. During the inland-ice
journey, throughout which the temperature was never more than a degree
or two below zero, our sleeping-bags were discarded, our fur clothing
being ample protection for us when asleep, even though I carried no
tent.
While the variety of food was not as great as it has been on some other
expeditions, I doubt if any party ever had more healthy or nutritious
fare. A carefully studied feature of my project was the entire
dependence upon the game of the Whale Sound region for my meat supply;
and though I took an abundance of tea, coffee, sugar, milk, flour,
corn-meal, and evaporated fruits and vegetables, my canned meats were
only sufficient to carry us over the period of installation, with a
small supply for short sledge journeys. In this respect, as in others,
my plans were fortunate of fulfilment, and we were always well supplied
with venison. With fresh meat and fresh bread every day we could smile
defiance at scurvy.
[Illustration:
SKETCH MAP showing route of the
NORTH GREENLAND EXPEDITION
OF 1891–’92
R. E. PEARY, U.S.N.
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.
2. Archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed.
3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
4. Superscripts are denoted by a caret before a single superscript
character or a series of superscripted characters enclosed in
curly braces, e.g. M^r. or M^{ister}.