FIGHTING UP THE POLAR SEA--HELD UP BY THE "BIG LEAD"
Following the trail made by Captain Bartlett, we pushed off, every man
at the upstander of his sledge to urge his team by whip and voice. It
was only when we had perfect going over sheets of young ice that we were
able to steal a ride on the sledges.
The trail led us over the glacial fringe for a quarter of a mile, and
the going was fairly easy, but, after leaving the land ice-foot, the
trail plunged into ice so rough that we had to use pickaxes to make a
pathway. It took only about one mile of such going, and my sledge split.
"Number one," said I to myself, and I came to a halt. The gale was still
blowing, but I started to work on the necessary repairs. I have
practically built one sledge out of two broken ones, while out on the
ice and in weather almost as bad as this; and I have almost daily
during the journey had to repair broken sledges, sometimes under fiercer
conditions; and so I will describe this one job and hereafter, when
writing about repairing a sledge, let it go at that.
Cold and windy. Undo the lashings, unload the load, get out the brace
and bit and bore new holes, taking plenty of time, for, in such cold,
there is danger of the steel bit breaking. Then, with ungloved hands,
thread the sealskin thongs through the hole. The fingers freeze. Stop
work, pull the hand through the sleeve, and take your icy fingers to
your heart; that is, put your hand under your armpit, and when you feel
it burning you know it has thawed out. Then start to work again. By this
time the party has advanced beyond you and, as orders are orders, and
you have been ordered to take the lead, you have to start, catch up, and
pass the column before you have reached your station.
Of course, in catching up and overtaking the party, you have the
advantage of the well-marked trail they have made. Once again in the
lead; and my boy, Ootah, had to up and break his sledge, and there was
some more tall talking when the Commander caught up with us and left us
there mending it. A little farther on, and the amiable Kudlooktoo, who
was in my party at the time, busted his sledge. You would have thought
that Kudlooktoo was the last person in Commander Peary's estimation,
when he got through talking to him and telling him what he thought of
him. The sledge was so badly broken it had to be abandoned. The load was
left on the spot where the accident happened, and Kudlooktoo, much
chastened and crestfallen, drove his team of dogs back to the land for a
new sledge.
We did not wait for him, but kept on for about two hours longer, when we
reached the Captain's first igloo, twelve miles out; a small day's
traveling, but we were almost dead-beat, from having battled all day
with the wind, which had blown a full-sized gale. No other but a Peary
party would have attempted to travel in such weather. Our breath was
frozen to our hoods of fur and our cheeks and noses frozen. Spreading
our furs upon the snow, we dropped down and endeavored to sleep, but
sound sleep was impossible. It was a night of Plutonian Purgatory. All
through the night I would wake from the cold and beat my arms or feet to
keep the circulation going, and I would hear one or both of my boys
doing the same. I did not make any entries in the diary that day, and
there was many a day like it after that.
It was cold and dark when we left camp number one on the morning of
March 2, at half past six o'clock. Breakfast had warmed us up a bit, but
the hard pemmican had torn and cut the roofs and sides of our mouths so
that we did not eat a full meal, and we decided that at our next camp we
would boil the pemmican in the tea and have a combination stew. I will
say now that this experiment was tried, but it made such an unwholesome
mess that it was never repeated.
The Captain's and Borup's trail was still evident, in spite of the low
drifts of the snow, but progress was slow. We were still in the heavy
rubble-ice and had to continuously hew our way with pickaxes to make a
path for the sledges. While we were at work making a pathway, the dogs
would curl up and lie down with their noses in their tails, and we
would have to come back and start them, which was always the signal for
a fight or two. We worked through the belt of rubble-ice at last, and
came up with the heavy old floes and rafters of ice-blocks, larger than
very large flag-stones and fully as thick as they were long and wide;
the fissures between them full of the drifted snow. Even with our broad
snow-shoes on, we sank knee-deep, and the dogs were in up to their
breasts, the sledges up to the floors and frequently turning over, so it
was a long time before we had covered seven miles, to be stopped by open
water. I took no chances on this lead, although afterwards I did not
hesitate at more desperate looking leads than this was. Instead of
ferrying across on a block of ice, I left one of my boys to attend the
dogs and sledges, and with Ootah I started to reconnoiter. We found that
there were two leads, and the safest way to cross the first was to go
west to a point where the young ice was strong enough to bear the weight
of the sledges. We got across and had not gone very far before the other
lead, in spite of a detour to the east, effectually blocked us. Starting
back to the sledges, Ootah said he was "_damn feel good_," and in
Esquimo gave me to understand that he was going back to the ship. I
tried to tell him different, as we walked back; and when we reached camp
we found the Commander and his party, who had just come in; and the
Commander gave Ootah to distinctly understand that he was not going back
just yet. Orders were given to camp, and while the igloos were being
built, Marvin and MacMillan took soundings. There had been more daylight
than on the day before, and the gale had subsided considerably, but it
was dark when we turned in to have our evening meal and sleep.
March 3: Right after breakfast, my party immediately started, taking the
trail I had found the day previous. Examining the ice, we went to the
westward, until we came to the almost solid new ice, and we took a
chance. The ice commenced to rafter under us, but we got across safely
with our loads, and started east again, for two miles; when we found
ourselves on an island of ice completely surrounded by the heavy
raftered ice. Here we halted and mended sledges and in the course of an
hour the whole party had caught up. The ice had begun to rafter and the
shattering reports made a noise that was almost ear-splitting, but we
pushed and pulled and managed to get out of the danger-zone, and kept
going northwestward, in the hope of picking up the trail of the Captain
and Borup, which we did after a mile of going. Close examination of the
trail showed us that Borup and his party had retraced their steps and
gone quite a distance west in order to cross the lead. It was on this
march that we were to have met Borup and his party returning, so Marvin
and his boy Kyutah were sent to look them up. The rest of the party kept
on in the newly found trail and came to the igloo and cache that had
been left there by Borup. The Commander went into the igloo, and we made
the dogs fast and built our own igloos, made our tea and went to sleep.
March 4: Heavy snow fall; but Commander Peary routed out all hands, and
by seven o'clock we were following the Captain's trail. Very rough
going, and progress slow up to about nine o'clock, when conditions
changed. We reached heavy, old floes of waving blue ice, the best
traveling on sea ice I had ever encountered in eighteen years'
experience. We went so fast that we more than made up for lost time and
at two o'clock, myself in the lead, we reached the igloo built by
Captain Bartlett. It had been arranged that I should stop for one sleep
at every igloo built by the Captain, and that he should leave a note in
his igloo for my instructions; but, in spite of these previous
arrangements, I felt that with such good traveling it would be just as
wise to keep on going, and so we did, but it was only about half or
three-quarters of an hour later when we were stopped by a lead, beside
which the Captain had camped. With Ootah and Tommy to help, we built an
igloo and crawled inside. Two hours later, the Commander and his party
arrived, and we crawled out and turned the igloo over to him. Tommy,
Ootah, and I then built another igloo, crawled inside, and blocked the
doorway up with a slab of snow, determined not to turn out again until
we had had a good feed and snooze.
From my diary, the first entry since leaving the land; with a couple of
comments added afterward:
March 5: A clear bright morning, 20° below zero; quite comfortable.
Reached here yesterday at two-forty-five P. M., after some of the finest
going I have ever seen. Commander Peary, Captain Bartlett, and Dr.
Goodsell here, and fourteen Esquimos. First view of the sun to-day, for
a few minutes at noon, makes us all cheerful. It was a crimson sphere,
just balanced on the brink of the world. Had the weather been favorable,
we could have seen the sun several days earlier. Every day following he
will get higher and higher, until he finally swings around the sky above
the horizon for the full twenty-four hours.
Early in the morning of the 5th, Peary sent a detachment of three
Esquimos, in charge of MacMillan, back to bring in Borup's cache, left
by him at the point where he turned back to return to the land for more
loads. This detachment was back in camp by four o'clock in the afternoon
of the same day. Nothing left to do but to rearrange the loads and wait
for the lead to close.
The land is still in sight. Professor Marvin has gone back with two boys
and is expected to keep on to the alcohol cache at Cape Columbia, turn
back and meet us here, or, if the ice freezes, to follow us until he
catches up with us. We are husbanding our fuel, and two meals a day is
our programme. We are still south of the Big Lead of 1906, but to all
intents and purposes this is it. I am able to recognize many of the
characteristics of it, and I feel sure it is the same old lead that gave
us many an anxious hour in our upward and downward journey three years
ago.
Fine weather, but we are still south of the 84th parallel and this open
water marks it. 8° below zero and all comfortable. We should be doing
twenty or twenty-five miles a day good traveling, but we are halted by
this open water.
March 7: Professor MacMillan came into camp to-day with the cache he had
picked up. There was quite a hullabaloo among the boys, and a great deal
of argument as to who owned various articles of provender and equipment
that had been brought into camp by MacMillan, and even I was on the
point of jumping into the fracas in order to see fair play, until a wink
from MacMillan told me that it was simply a put-up job of his to
disconcert the Esquimos. Confidentially and on the side he has been
dressing his heel, which in spite of all keeps on freezing, and is in
very bad shape. His kamiks stick to the loose flesh and the skin will
not form. All of the frost has been taken out, but I think skin-grafting
is the only thing that will cure it. He wants to keep on going and asks
me how far we have gone and wants to know if he shall tell Commander
Peary about his injury. I have advised him to make a clean breast of it,
but he feels good for a week or so more, and it is up to him.
We eat, and sleep, and watch the lead, and wonder. Are we to be repulsed
again? Is the unseen, mysterious guardian of this mist-covered region
foiling us? The Commander is taking it with a great deal more patience
than he usually has with obstacles, but in the face of this one he
probably realizes the necessity of a calm, philosophic mood.
Captain Bartlett has been here longer than any of us, and he is
commencing to get nervous. Commander Peary and he have done what is
nautically known as "swinging the ship," for the purpose of correcting
compass errors, and after that there is nothing for them to do but
wait. Captain Bartlett describes it as "Hell on Earth"; the Commander
has nothing to say, and I agree with him. Dr. Goodsell reads from his
little books, studies Esquimo language, writes in his diary and talks to
me and the rest of the party, and waits.
Professor MacMillan, with his eye ever to the south, and an occasional
glance at his frozen heel, cracks a joke and bids us be cheerful. He is
one _man_, and has surely made good. His first trip to this forsaken
region, yet he wakes up from his sleep with a smile on his face and a
question as to how a nice, large, juicy steak would go about now. This
is no place for jokes, yet his jokes are cheering and make us all feel
more light-hearted. He is the "life of the funeral" and by his
cheerfulness has kept our spirits from sinking to a dead level, and when
the Esquimos commenced to get cranky, by his diplomacy he brought them
to think of other subjects than going back to the ship.
He has started to kid us along by instituting a series of competitions
in athletic endeavors, and the Esquimos fall for it like the Innocents
that they are, and that is the object he is after. They have tried all
of their native stunts, wrestling, boxing, thumb-pulling, and
elbow-tests; and each winner has been awarded a prize. Most of the
prizes are back on the ship and include the anchors, rudders, keel, and
spars. Everything else has long since been given away, and these people
have keen memories.
The Big Lead has no attraction for the Esquimos and the waiting for a
chance to cross it has given them much opportunity to complain of cold
feet. It is fierce, listening to their whines and howls. Of all
yellow-livered curs deliver me. We have the best Esquimos in the tribe
with us, and expect them to remain steadfast and loyal, but after they
have had time to realize their position, the precariousness of it begins
to magnify and they start in to whimper, and beg to be allowed to go
back. They remember the other side of this damnable open water and what
it meant to get back in 1906. I do not blame them, but I have had the
Devil's own time in making my boys and some of the others see it the way
the Commander wants us to look at it.
Indeed, two of the older ones, Panikpah and Pooadloonah, became so
fractious that the Commander sent them back, with a written order to
Gushue on the ship, to let them pack up their things and take their
families and dogs back to Esquimo land, which they did. When the
_Roosevelt_ reached Etah the following August, on her return, these two
men were there, fat and healthy, and merrily greeted us. No hard
feelings whatever.
March 10: We could have crossed to-day, but there was a chance of Marvin
and Borup catching up with their loads of alcohol, etc. Whether they
catch up or not, to-morrow, early, we start across, and the indications
are that the going will be heavy, for the ice is piled in rafters of
pressure-ridges.
* * * * *
It was exasperating; seven precious days of fine weather lost; and fine
weather is the exception, not the rule, in the Arctic. Here we were
resting in camp, although we were not extremely tired and nowhere near
exhausted. We were ready and anxious to travel on the 5th, next morning
after we reached the "Big Lead," but were perforce compelled to
inaction. And so did we wait for nearly seven days beside that lead,
before conditions were favorable for a crossing.
But early in the morning of March 11th the full party started; through
the heaviest of going imaginable. Neither Borup nor Marvin had caught
up, but we felt that unless something had happened to them, they would
surely catch up in a few more days.