FROM FLAXMAN ISLAND TO ICY CAPE 343 



had come into by mistake, and although we had no slush ice 

 there, the snow was so deep that we sank almost knee deep at 

 every step. The sledges dragged hard, the dogs could not 

 pull in the deep snow, and the small caravan moved over the 

 ice at a pace which might almost have been beaten by a 

 snail. 



Of wood we had very little. One night (the 28th) we had to 

 search through the whole neighbourhood to find sticks enough 

 to cook our supper, but, although our search was continued for 

 more than an hour, we hardly found enough to prepare two 

 meals. Hipana did not like our way of travelling, and once 

 when we were crossing a wide bay and had to sleep on thin ice 

 he told us that he had had enough of it and wanted to go home. 

 I laughed at him, thinking it was an empty threat, but the boy 

 (he was only about fifteen years old) put his clothing into a sack, 

 took provisions for about three days, and then proposed to run 

 home to Flaxman Island, more than one hundred and eighty miles 

 distant. Of course I had to interfere and tell him to stop, but 

 he wept and wanted to go. To pacify him I brought out some 

 extra food, but from that day we were careful to let him sleep 

 furthest away from the door, so that he would have to wake us 

 in case he tried to escape during the night. 



The worst of it was that we were now entirely lost. We knew 

 that we had to go west and north, so we kept along the shore 

 in that direction until October 29, when we came to a grave 

 which I knew by hearsay. We immediately struck out over 

 the ice, heading for Cape Halkett, but we did not reach it till 

 the following day. The weather was now beautiful, perfectly 

 clear and cold, the going was good, or at least comparatively 

 good, and on October 30 we made twenty-four miles in eight 

 hours. 



On October 31 we were out on the coast, well past Cape 

 Halkett, and although the wind was blowing right into our 

 faces and the temperature was low, 29 C., we made good 

 progress. That day we cached the last of the food for Axel's 

 return, and the sledges were getting lighter. Four miles west 

 of where we came out upon the coast we passed the ruins of 

 an old house which once had belonged to John Grubben. The 

 house was well built, but the wear and tear of the Arctic climate 

 was telling sadly upon it ; part of the roof had fallen in, the door 



