366 FOUR YEARS IN THE WHITE NORTH 



South of this ridge the ice was thrown up in great moun- 

 tain-like ridges and cordilleras of ice-piles, the most 

 chaotic expanse of rough ice I have ever seen. We 

 tumped our loads and sledges over the first barrier ridge. 

 After we hitched our dogs to the sledges again, we pro- 

 ceeded toward Hans Island; after three hours' toilsome 

 work we had not yet reached the island. 



We made camp on a flat floeberg that afforded us a 

 large enough smooth surface to set up a tent. After 

 supper we all climbed to the top of the island to survey 

 the route ahead. The prospect was anything but 

 pleasant. As far as we could see with our glasses, the 

 ice was as rough as that we had just passed through. 

 Finally we decided to drive around the west end of the 

 island and head for Franklin Island, in the lee of which 

 we might find some smooth ice. 



The next morning we again broke camp early. By 

 carefully picking our way we got to the southwest cor- 

 ner of Franklin Island about two o'clock. Along the 

 west and south sides we encountered such rough ice 

 that I despaired of getting through. E-took-a-shoo took 

 the lead and picked the way. I remember that part of 

 the trail as a bad dream. We pulled and pushed and 

 tugged at our sledges; sometimes we had to lift them 

 over almost sheer walls; sometimes we had to pull them 

 out of pools of water; sometimes we had to dig them 

 out of soggy drifts of snow. We were stripped down to 

 essentials so far as clothes went, reeking with per- 

 spiration, thoroughly soaked from falling into or wading 

 through numerous pools. There was no ice-foot along 

 the island, for the ice was pushed up over a hundred 

 feet on the slopes. In seven hours of utmost exertion 

 we made only three miles. 



