THE VOYAGE OVER THE PACK ICE 227 



the presence of land which keeps them year after year in 

 Beaufort Sea ? 



We view the question from all sides, but are forced to give it 

 up; the ice speaks for the existence of land, but the narrow 

 Continental Shelf for the non-existence. 



In spite of facts, however, we hope that land is somewhere in 

 Beaufort Sea and on our path. And in spite of facts against its 

 existence, our hearts flutter whenever we climb a ridge to look 

 out over this immense waste of ice flutter not because of the 

 ice which we may see, but because, in spite of facts, we yet 

 hope some time to see the tops of land looming up beyond the 

 farthest pressure-ridge on the horizon. 



And this hope, perhaps a foolish one, serves at least to keep 

 our spirits high and gives interest to our work. It makes us put 

 up cheerfully with the hard, the very discouraging going, which, 

 so much against our expectations, has been our lot here on 

 the icefields -of Beaufort Sea. And again in spite of facts, we 

 cherish the hope for better times, the hope which means every- 

 thing for men travelling over the pack ice of the Polar ocean, 

 and without which we would soon give up fighting against odds. 



And thus we hope, day after day, and every night when 

 nature has been against us, when the pressure-ridges have lain 

 across our trail and delayed our progress, when open water has 

 forced us to make detours or risk a dangerous jump, when salt 

 ice has almost sapped the life out of us with hard work, when 

 we are finally lying in our tent, comparatively warm and well 

 fed, then we say, " Well, to-day has been bad, but let us hope 

 for to-morrow; to-morrow is sure to bring a change." And so 

 we go on, day after day ; the ice is still bad, nature is still 

 against us, but we keep on hoping for to-morrow. And while 

 we are talking in a warm and comfortable tent, our poor dogs, 

 our faithful companions, curl themselves up, seeking shelter 

 wherever they can find it against the icy gale sweeping over 

 this desert of ice, shift themselves, dig a small hole, and try to 

 cover their noses by means of their tails. Faithful little dogs 1 

 They stand rough treatment, whipping, beating, and kicking, 

 they are underfed, and against their better nature forced to eat 

 a killed or diseased comrade, and still they love us, still they are 

 ready to send forth a howl of joy, whenever we pet them or show 

 them a little appreciation for their hard and tiresome work. 



G 2 



