THE KING’S HIGHWAY
The next morning (July 26), being beautifully fine, was devoted to
an astronomical determination of our position and other preparations
for carrying on a survey. A preliminary expedition up the glacier
occupied the afternoon. An easy way was found on to the ice, but there
luck turned, for, as a matter of fact, we were not really on the
Kings Glacier itself, but on the foot of a small tributary flowing
round from an enclosed basin on the south and divided from the main
glacier by an immense moraine. This moraine would have to be crossed;
we knew enough of dragging sledges over moraines to foresee something
of the troubles thus provided. We wandered over the small glacier to
the foot of a peak standing in the angle between it and the Highway.
Then Garwood and Nielsen set off to climb the peak (Mount Nielsen
3120 ft.) by its rotten _arête_, whilst I with Svensen went on to
investigate the moraine and find the best way over it. Returning the
first to camp, I sat in the door, watching the wonder of the glacier’s
terminal cliff, its bold towers, tottering pinnacles, and sections
of crevasses with fallen blocks wedged into their jaws. Lumps of ice
were continually falling. Fortunate enough to be gazing in the right
direction, I saw a monster pinnacle come down. First a few fragments
were crushed out from right and left near its base; then the whole
tower seemed to sink vertically, smashing up within as it gave way,
and finally toppling over and shooting forward into the water, which
it dashed aloft. The resulting wave spread and broke around, hurling
the floating blocks against one another, and upsetting the balance of
many. Its widening undulation could be traced far away by the stately
courtesy of the rocking icebergs. The front of the cliff was barred
across with sunlight and shadow, throwing into relief this and the
other icy pinnacle, above some blue wall or gloomy cavern. Behind the
wall the glacier was not smooth, but broken into a tumult of seracs,
like the most ruinous icefall in the Alps, as far as the eye could
reach. Varying illumination on this splintered area evoked all manner
of resemblances for the play of a vagrant imagination. Sometimes the
glacier looked like an innumerable multitude of white-robed penitents,
sometimes like the tented field of a great army, sometimes like a
frozen cataract. Its suggestiveness was boundless, its beauty always
perfect; moreover, it was worthily framed. The mountains that enclose
it are fine in form, with splintered ridges, steep _couloirs_, and
countless high-placed glaciers, caught on ledges or sweeping down to
join the great ice-river.
Garwood returned full of a satisfaction which Nielsen heartily shared.
The scramble had been exhilarating, the view superb. There was no
ice-sheet visible, only mountains everywhere, with glaciers between.
The moraine once passed, our way was open ahead up ice apparently
smooth. After supper I set out alone in the opposite direction along
the shore, for the purpose of starting the plane-table survey from a
well-marked eminence near the foot of the second side-glacier, whose
black, terminal slope curves round and up with singular regularity
of form. The walk was beautiful, the ice-dappled sea being always
close at hand with noble hills beyond. There were plenty of torrents
to wade, besides one which had to be jumped. It flows down a gully
cut sharply into the dolomite rock. Below the glacier are ice-worn
rocks, both rounded and grooved; but the direction of the grooves
is at right-angles to that of the axis of the glacier, so that they
appear to have been scratched when the main Kings Glacier extended
thus much farther and higher. Returning, I kept close along the margin
of the bay. Innumerable fragments of crystal-clear ice, each filled
with sunshine, danced in the breaking ripples. The water splashed
amongst them, singing a cheerful song which was altogether new to me.
The cliff-front of the glacier ahead was darkened with shadow, and
represented a battlemented wall with deep portals leading through to a
white marble city within.
On the following day, sun brightly shining and breezes blowing fresh,
we loaded up two sledges with food for ten days, and set forth up
the King’s Highway. A laborious struggle took the sledges past the
terminal moraine, but the ice beyond was dotted with frequent stones,
so that the runners were generally foul of one or more. The slope was
very steep. Reaching a more level place, we encountered ice so humpy
that the sledges were always on their noses or their tails. Then came
a cañon, 50 feet or so deep, and about 20 feet wide. We had to track
alongside of it in an undesired direction till a doubtful-looking
bridge was found, over which a passage could be risked. More lumpy ice
followed till we were level with the foot of Mount Nielsen, where a
smoother area was entered on. Here I left the caravan and climbed to
the top of a hump on the _arête_ of the peak to continue the survey.
My solitary industry was enlivened by the neighbourhood of countless
nesting birds, snow buntings, little auks, and guillemots, whose home
is in the cliffs. Thus far the big moraine was close by on our left
hand, mountains on our right; the level stretch of ice led between
the two to the meeting of moraine and mountain at the entrance of
the next side valley beyond Mount Nielsen. Here the stone-strip had
to be crossed. I came up with the others just as the crossing began.
We thought the moraine belt at this point would be but a few yards
in width. It was more than half a mile. We only found that out after
unloading the sledges and taking every man his burden. They were
carried over, a return made for more, the process repeated, and so on
for two whole hours--a heartbreaking experience. It was a hilly moraine
or set of moraines, with two main ascents and descents besides several
minor undulations. Footing was, of course, on loose stones only. In
such places laden men slip about, bark their shins, twist their ankles,
and lose their tempers. Beyond the stones came humpy ice again, ridged
into short, steep undulations. A sledge required vigorous hoisting
over each of them, the distance from trough to trough being about five
yards, and the ridges transverse to our line of route. “On every hump,”
said Nielsen, “a sledge capsizes.” Certainly one sledge or the other
was generally rolling over on its back. After six hours of hard work
we agreed to camp (460 feet)--“the hardest day’s work I’ve done in a
long time,” was Nielsen’s comment, and we believed him, for he put his
back into it with hearty goodwill. Only when the tents were pitched had
we leisure to enjoy the warm sunshine and the exhilarating, absolutely
calm air. Out on the ice we could sit in our shirt-sleeves without
being chilled. All around spread the great glacier in its beauty; the
sky overhead was blue; the bay reflected the sunshine; fleeces of mist
adorned the hilltops. In that perfect hour we craved for nothing save
the company of absent friends.
[Illustration: AN EASY PLACE.]
The next day (July 28) we made good progress, ascending 720 feet and
covering a long distance. None of it was easy-going; in fact, when you
have sledges to drag there is no easy going except on the flat. Every
stage of a glacier has its own troubles. First comes the steep snout
and its moraine, then humpy ice and open crevasses, next honeycomb ice
and water-holes, which gradually pass (in fine melting weather) into
glacier covered by waterlogged snow. We began the day with honeycomb
ice and water-holes. The honeycomb ice on the Nordenskiöld Glacier
made rather good travelling; it was otherwise on the King’s Highway.
Several fine days had flooded the surface with water, so that, where
crevasses ceased and the water had no downward outlet, it was obliged
to trickle about, forming pools, rills, and rivers, all in different
ways perplexing to the traveller. The cells of the honeycomb ice were
thus full of water, and, as they gave way under the pressure of a
tread, the foot crunched through into water at every step. By slow
degrees the honeycomb was replaced by sodden snow, which grew steadily
deeper as we advanced to higher levels. Here the whole surface shone in
the sunlight, for the water oozed about in pools and sluggish streams,
forming square miles of slush. There were brief intervals of dryness
where the surface rose in some perceptible slope, but they were short,
the almost flat waterlogged areas covered the larger part of the region
to be traversed. If the march was uncomfortable and toilsome, each
could laugh at the antics of the others. We steered a devious route,
seeking to follow the white patches and to avoid the glassy blue areas
where water actually came to the surface. But all that looked white
was not solid. You would see the leader shuffling gingerly forward on
his ski, trying to pretend that he was a mere bubble of lightness.
Suddenly, through he would go up to the knee, the points of his ski
would catch in the depths and a mighty floundering ensue. The sledges
got into similar fixes, and often added to the confusion by rolling
over most inopportunely. The leading sledge usually served to indicate
a way to be avoided, so, before very long, the two parties wandered
asunder and enjoyed one another’s struggles and perplexities from a
distance.
It is obvious that Nature must provide some sort of a drainage
system for such a quantity of water. The bogs and pools leak into
one another and by degrees cut channels with ill-defined banks of
snow, along which the current slowly crawls. By union of such streams
strong-flowing torrents are formed; these make deep cuttings into the
glacier and unite into a trunk river, deep, swift, and many yards wide.
Every uncrevassed side glacier above the snowline pours out a similar
river on to the surface of the main glacier, and these rivers in their
turns presently join the trunk stream. Thus, whatever route you take,
whether you keep near the trunk stream or far from it, the side streams
have to be crossed. The crossing of them is often a tough business.
Their icebanks are about twelve feet high and usually vertical; their
volume of water is too considerable to be waded, seeing that their
beds are of smooth, slippery, blue ice, on which footing cannot be
maintained for a moment. They are seldom less than four yards wide.
The blue strip with the clear water between the white walls is always
a lovely sight, but to a traveller quite as tantalising. A crossing
can only be accomplished where the water has chanced to undercut one
of the banks and at the same time to leave a level place beside it at
the foot of the other bank. You can then jump over with some hope of
gaining a footing where you land. The sledges have to follow with a
perilous bump. Rarely you may find a snow-bridge. In search of possible
crossings we had to travel alongside of these streams, time and again,
far out of our line of route, whilst, to make matters worse, it
happened that we were on the wrong side of the trunk river; thus that
also had to be crossed, a problem apparently insoluble, till a great
and well-blessed bridge was found just at the end of the day’s march.
Nielsen worked like a horse all day long, his full weight thrown
forward and his body inclined at a surprising angle. Svensen, by the
gestures of his arms and the sorry expression of his countenance,
looked as if he were labouring exceedingly, but of his towering
frame the vertical was the customary attitude, and if the one of us
who was sharing his sledge left off pulling for a moment the sledge
mysteriously stuck fast. There were, indeed, signs of a return of
Svensen’s malady; but it was explained to him that, regard being had to
the comfortable warmth of the weather and absence of wind, his health
was not to be deranged, and that, if it should happen that he could not
go on with us, doing his full share of work, he would have to find his
way back to the coast alone. Thenceforward he throve exceedingly, and
only penalised us by “sugaring” when not closely watched.
The character of the scenery changed considerably during the progress
of the march. Our first camp looked up both the Crowns and Highway
glaciers and was opposite the big nunatak which divides them. It is a
true nunatak, or hilltop rising from the bed of the glacier, not an
entire mountain surrounded by different glaciers. At one time it must
have been buried under ice, for all its top seems to be moutonnised.
The Crowns and Queens groups were both well seen from the same camp,
or would have been but for a few clouds. As we advanced, the Crowns
disappeared behind the Pretender and Queens, and we came under the
rounded and bare south slopes of these--a dull prospect. But new
objects of interest were appearing in the other direction, where the
Highway Glacier widened out and branched off into white bays and
tributaries, separated from one another by peaks of striking and
precipitous form, finely grouped. When the Three Crowns were finally
hidden, there opened out on the left side of the Highway a broad
valley, south-westward, that bent round to the west and soon reached a
wide snow pass, beyond which, still curving round, it led down to the
glacier emptying into the head of English Bay.
All day long we were rounding away from the purple fjord and visibly
leaving it behind, though the distance to the watershed in front did
not perceptibly diminish. The weather continued fine, though not clear;
the sun peeped through the mottled sky from time to time, but fogs
rolled about like big snowballs on the higher _névés_. Camp was pitched
(1180 feet) in the midst of the widest part of the glacier about a mile
below the point where it bifurcates, each branch leading up to a wide
snow pass of its own. The north branch continues the direction of the
lower part of the glacier, so we decided to go to it. A widening wedge
of peaks divides the cols, and coming down to a sharp _arête_ buries
itself beneath the ice at Junction Point (named because it must be
referred to again in the course of this narrative).
The 29th was a glorious day. Resolutions were made that we would march
on to the watershed, whatever its distance. It is as easy to change
these resolves in the afternoon as to make them in the morning. The
pools of water were now left behind, but the snow on the surface of the
ice was still sodden and slushy. In the first three-quarters of an hour
we rose 120 feet, and reached the end of the ridge at Junction Point.
Rocks were here disclosed, so Garwood went off geologising. The rest of
us plunged into an island of fog, and hauled on up a steep slope, where
the snow became good, and thenceforward remained in perfect condition
for ski at that and all higher levels. Without ski it would have been
impossible to do much, for we should have sunk up to, or above, the
knee in snow, over which, with them, we slid in luxury. Above this
slope the fog ended, and a wide, very gently sloping plain of snow
followed, stretching afar on all sides. This is the highest basin and
gathering ground of the glacier. It is almost level with the passes
that divide the mountains on the north. If we had but known that the
same is true of the _névé_ on the other side of those passes, we might
have saved ourselves the long round of a few days later. Now that
there was no water to trouble us, we suffered acutely from thirst, for
the day was quite hot and the sun burned fiercely. We peeled off our
garments one by one and rejoiced in an unwonted freedom.
The mountains bordering the King’s Highway average somewhat over 3000
feet in height. As the level of the glacier rises, the lower slopes
are more deeply covered and the visible remainder of the peaks comes
to be not much above 1000 feet. They appear, moreover, to stand wider
apart from one another, and the glacier, filling the valley more
deeply, becomes itself considerably wider. Nevertheless, such is the
fine form of the mountains that they still appear large, especially
to an eye trained in greater ranges. Being themselves magnified,
they proportionally magnify the aspect of the glacial expanse, which
pretends to be of quite enormous extent--a spotless desert of purest
white. The views on all sides were of entrancing beauty, especially
the view back down the blue vista of Kings Bay. The broad white col
ahead seemed for hours little elevated above us. There were far,
coy, tantalising peaks over and beyond. From the col itself rose a
small mound, perhaps 500 feet high, by the foot of which it was our
intention to camp, but hour passed after hour, and it never seemed
nearer.
Busied with the survey, perforce I lagged behind and was alone in the
midst of a world of whiteness. A lengthening shadow was my sole moving
companion, save when some stray fulmar petrel came whizzing by, _en
route_ from Kings Bay to Ice Fjord. The tracks of foxes were crossed
not infrequently, but no fox did I actually see. At 9 P.M. the col
was apparently as far off as ever, and Nielsen had done as much work
as a man could be expected to do in a day. Svensen didn’t count, as
he always put on the aspect of a moribund person. He expressed a full
agreement with Nielsen’s ejaculation, “We’ll have to have plenty of
soup for this.” Ultimately we gave up till the morrow the resolved
pursuit of the pass and camped at a height of 2170 feet, having risen
about 1000 feet during the day. The first thing done was to melt snow
for a debauch. Deep were our potions; the insipid draught tasted for
once like divine nectar. The sun continued his bright shining and the
tents were warm within. We lay on our bags, enjoying the simple beauty
of the view seen through the open door. Each deep-trodden footprint in
front was a cup filled with a shadow of purest blue, pale like the sky.
A white expanse followed, slightly mottled with blue in the foreground
and sparkling as with diamonds; it stretched away for about five miles
to the great blue shadow, which the wall of rocks and ridge of snow in
the north cast wide from the low-hanging sun. There was not a sound,
not a breath of moving air; no bird came by; not an insect hummed. It
was an hour of absolute stillness and perfect repose.
We tried to sleep, but in the bright sunshine no ghost of slumber would
consent to visit the camp, till clouds at last came up which barred
snow and sky across in grey and silver, robbing the shadows of their
blue, and lowering the temperature to a comfortable degree. Then sleep
descended, and coming late lingered with us all too long, so that it
was noon of the 30th before we were again on the way. The snow was now
soft and the apparent level proved, by the evidence of the sledges, to
be a steady uphill slope. For an hour the pass kept its distance; then,
on a sudden, it was near. Excitement rose. What should we see? What
was beyond? We knew that the slope on the other side must be toward
Ice Fjord, but that was all. The east coast of what I have named King
James Land[7] is well seen from Advent Bay and other parts of Ice
Fjord. It consists of the fronts of a series of big glaciers and of
the ends of the mountain ranges dividing them. The glaciers and ranges
are approximately parallel to one another, running from north-west
to south-east. We therefore thought it probable that we should look
down some glacier from the col, but doubted which. Arrived on the pass
(2500 feet), there, in fact, was a glacier directly continuing the
King’s Highway down to the eastern waters, for it apparently ended in
the fjord. Far off, and still in the same line, was the purple recess
of Advent Bay. A beautiful row of peaks, pleasantly varied in form
(for there were needles and snowy domes and pyramids among them),
lined the glacier on either side, the last on both hands being bolder
and more massive towers of rock than the rest. We afterward easily
identified these peaks from Advent Bay, whence also on a clear morning
I confirmed our observations by looking straight up this same glacier
and recognising Highway Pass.
Camp was pitched on the pass and preparations made for a day’s
exploring in the neighbourhood. It was warm, the temperature in the
tents being 59° Fahr., whilst the direct rays of sunshine really
scorched. The condition of the snow may be imagined. Without ski,
progress in any direction would have involved intolerable discomfort
and labour. Close at hand on the north was a hill about 500 feet high,
to which we gave the name Highway Dome. It was the obvious point to be
ascended for a panoramic view. There was a _bergschrund_ at the foot of
it, and then a long snow slope up which we had to zigzag. Unfortunately
by the time the summit had been gained the sun was obscured by clouds,
which were boiling in the north as though for a thunderstorm. The hills
of known position near Advent Bay were likewise obscured by cloud, so
that my three-legged theodolite had made this ascent to little purpose,
but the panorama was clear in the main and the colouring all the richer
for the cloud-roof.
We were standing at an altitude of about 3000 feet,[8] surrounded by
peaks of similar, or rather greater, elevation. Let no one fancy that
because these heights are insignificant there was any corresponding
insignificance in the view. The effect produced by mountains depends
not upon their altitude, but upon their form, colour, and grouping.
There are no features in a mountain, standing wholly above the
snowline, whereby its absolute magnitude can be estimated by mere
inspection. You may judge of its relative magnitude compared with its
neighbours, but of its absolute magnitude you can only judge when you
have acquired experience of the district. A native of the Himalayas
coming to the Alps would see them double their true size. A Swiss would
halve the Himalayas. A slope of stone _débris_ is the best guide to eye
measurement, because stones break up into small fragments everywhere;
but in these high arctic regions, far within the glaciers, there are no
such slopes. It is only the multitude of mountains seen in any extended
panorama of Spitsbergen that suggests the smallness of the individual
peaks; but this very multitude is itself impressive. To the south, for
instance, we looked across at least five parallel ridges; and there
were indications of others beyond, a very tumult and throng of hills,
none of which could we identify. The opposite direction interested us
more at the moment, for our idea was that we might find there a route
round to the Three Crowns. There was, in fact, a large _névé_ basin,
but so intricately crevassed as to be practically impassable in fog.
One way was discoverable through the labyrinth, and apparently one
only. The weather looked so threatening that we incontinently decided
against making the attempt. This _névé_ was one of several that fed
the next big glacier to the north, which empties into the sea at Ekman
Bay. Beyond it came a chaos of peaks; we learned to know them by sight
well enough a few days later. The waters of Ekman Bay were in view,
and the depression containing Dickson Bay could be traced, then the
wall-fronted mass of the Thordsen Peninsula, and, far off, the high
snow plateau, where we had wandered in the fog a few days before.
Looking back the way we had come, we saw Kings Bay apparently very far
off, much farther than Ice Fjord, which seemed, comparatively speaking,
to lie at our feet. Differences of atmospheric transparency had some
share in producing this effect.
A cold wind diminished our pleasure on the summit and shortened our
stay. The descent presented problems to inexperienced skisters. The
snow-slope dropped vertically from the summit crest for a yard or so,
and was then very steep. Svensen, an expert on ski, tried to shoot
down, but came a cropper before reaching the gentler incline. We,
of course, fell headlong in hopeless fashion, and all attempts at
glissading failed. Where the slope began to ease off a little a start
was finally made, and a long curving shoot of about a mile carried
us with exhilarating swiftness down to camp. Later on in the day the
ascent was repeated, but with no useful result, for clouds still masked
the important points of reference in the panorama. Excursions were
also made in other directions, and a plan decided on for the morrow.
Clouds kept forming, but only to fade again; by evening the weather was
satisfactorily re-established. The play of shadow on the wide glacial
expanse was inexpressibly lovely. Under full sunshine any very large
_névé_ appears a mere uniform sheet of white, admirable for brilliancy
but lacking in detail. When shadows come, the undulation of the surface
is disclosed by long curves--infinitely delicate and fine in form.
Of course, however bright the sun, there must really be a difference
in the intensity of the light reflected at different points owing
to variations of slope, but this difference is slight, and the eye,
astonished by the brilliancy of sunshine upon snow, is not conscious
of it. But when a cloud comes over the sun and casts a broad shadow
on the _névé_, the varying illumination of the bending field becomes
readily perceptible, though still faint and of marvellous delicacy, and
a new order of beauty is revealed. He would be but a starved lover of
mountain beauty whose eyes should desire to behold the regions of snow
always beneath a cloudless heaven.