UP TO CAPE YORK 37 



This little refuge is about a 3,000 mile sail from 

 New York and about 2,000 miles as the bird flies. It 

 is about 600 miles north of the Arctic Circle and about 

 half way from that great latitudinal mark to the Pole 

 itself. Here the great arctic night averages one hundred 

 and ten days in winter, during which time no ray of 

 light falls upon the sight, save that of the moon and the 

 stars, while in summer the sun is visible every moment 

 for an equal number of days. Within the limits of 

 this little country is found the favorite haunt of the 

 reindeer, which find sufficient pasturage. But we are 

 interested for the present in this unique spot only in 

 passing and for the reason that here we picked up the 

 little denizens of the frigid zone who were to help us 

 in our struggle farther north. 



Before we reached this odd little oasis, but several 

 hundred miles beyond the Arctic Circle, we came to 

 a most significant point in our upward journey, mark- 

 ing as it did the grimness of the task before us. No 

 civilized man can die in this savage Northland 

 without his grave having a deep meaning for those 

 who come afterwards; and constantly, as we sailed 

 on, these voiceless reminders of heroic bones told their 

 silent but powerful story. 



At the southern limit of Melville Bay we passed 

 the Duck Islands, where is the little graveyard of the 

 Scotch whalers who were the pioneers in forcing the 

 passage of Melville Bay and who died there, waiting 

 for the ice to open. These graves date back to the 

 beginning of the nineteenth century. From this point 

 on, the arctic highway is marked by the graves of 

 those who have fallen in the terrible fight with cold 



