202 FOUR YEARS IN THE WHITE NORTH [Oct. 



accompanied by Arklio and Oo-bloo-ya, as I had in- 

 structed. 



On the 31st I was off for a 120-mile run to North 

 Star Bay in search of food which Doctor Hovey prom- 

 ised to land in that vicinity. A merry party we were, 

 consisting of eleven sledges and 100 dogs. Open water 

 at Cape Kendrick compelled us to go south by the ice- 

 cap route; and to gain it we descended the valley south 

 of Port Foulke, marked by the striking-looking butte 

 memorialized by Doctor Hayes as the "Sonntag Monu- 

 ment." Our camp on the summit that night was very 

 picturesque — not a breath of air, a clear, star-studded 

 sky, two illuminated tents, two blazing open fires, ten 

 dog-teams sleeping at the edge of the dimly lighted circle; 

 and, throwing out long shadows into the darkness as 

 they tumbled and fell amid shrieks of laughter, the 

 Eskimos old and young playing "blind man's buff." 

 This was followed by cross tag, and then we retired to our 

 bags for a hard day on the morrow. 



A snowstorm confronted us the next day. How could 

 we find our way with nothing to guide us.^ Impossible! 

 Within an hour we were lost and almost doubling on 

 our back trail, as was plainly evident from the wind, 

 which at the start was well to the right and now was 

 blowing behind us from the left. At length an old 

 sledge track, cutting our course at a sharp angle, was 

 discovered, and followed to rocky headlands projecting 

 from the ice-cap and leading to the Clements Markham 

 Glacier south of Cape Chalon (Peteravik). Now began 

 a wild race down the back of the glacier to the sea. The 

 whips snapping, the men yelling, the women calling to 

 one another, the children crying, the sledges jumping, 

 diving, and slewing — a veritable pandemonium! 



