342 FOUR YEARS IN THE WHITE NORTH 



in the lee of the shore at the head of Flagler Fjord. When 

 we broke camp the next morning, Easter Sunday, I was 

 profoundly impressed with the magnificent view that 

 lay before us as we started up the valley. The scenery 

 was superb. Like great walls on either side, the pre- 

 cipitous mountains rose to guard the pass that we 

 intended to go through. Never in all my Arctic experi- 

 ence have I been so thrilled, so excited, so exhilarated 

 as I was during our drive up the valley to the pass, that 

 glorious Easter Sunday. The sun shone clear, and the 

 weather was so warm that we di'ove all day without 

 our caribou-skin kooletahs; the ease and pleasure of 

 this route, compared with the Beitstad Fjord way of the 

 year before, delighted me; the going was good, the 

 scenery unsurpassed; on every side we saw game or 

 traces of game; and late in the afternoon, just after 

 we had passed through the narrow gateway into a broad 

 valley in the heart of the hills, we saw and killed our 

 first musk-ox, a fitting close to an explorer's lucky day. 

 I could have hugged Esayoo for guiding me by this 

 pass. I named the gateway Sverdrup Pass, in honor 

 of the stalwart old Norwegian explorer who had first 

 seen it. 



A storm kept us camped in this valley at Camp Green 

 until the evening of April 7th. Then Oobloyah and 

 Okpuddyshao helped us up the glacier as a last evidence 

 of friendly interest and kind regard, and turned back 

 toward Etah. We crossed the ice-cap in a few hours. 

 I shall never forget my surprise when suddenly the 

 black, serrated cordillera north of Bay Fjord burst upon 

 the view as we reached the crest of the divide; I had not 

 expected to see it for many hours. The descent to Bay 

 Fjord was rapid and easy; when we struck the sea ice 



