260 WORST JOURNEY IN THE WORLD 
bending to the left, when Bill fell and put his arm into a 
crevasse. We went over this and another, and some time 
after got somewhere up to the left, and both Bill and I put 
a foot into a crevasse. We sounded all about and every- 
where was hollow, and so we ran the sledge down over it 
and all was well.” + Once we got right into the pressure and 
took a longish time to get out again. Bill lengthened his 
trace out with the Alpine rope now and often afterwards, so 
he found the crevasses well ahead of us and the sledge: 
nice for us but not so nice for Bill. Crevasses in the dark 
do put your nerves on edge. 
When we started next morning (July 15) we could see 
on our left front and more or less on top of us the Knoll, 
which 1s a big hill whose precipitous cliffs to seaward form 
Cape Crozier. The sides of it sloped down towards us, and 
pressing against its ice-cliffs on ahead were miles and miles 
of great pressure ridges, along which we had travelled, and 
which hemmed us in. Mount Terror rose ten thousand 
feet high on our left, and was connected with the Knoll by 
a great cup-like drift of wind-polished snow. The slope of 
this in one place runs gently out on to the corridor along 
which we had sledged, and here we turned and started 
to pull our sledges up. There were no crevasses, only the 
great drift of snow, so hard that we used our crampons 
just as though we had been on ice, and as polished as the 
china sides of a giant cup which it resembled. For three 
miles we slogged up, until we were only 150 yards from 
the moraine shelf where we were going to build our hut of 
rocks and snow. ‘This moraine was above us on our left, 
the twin peaks of the Knoll were across the cup on our 
right; and here, 800 feet up the mountain side, we pitched 
our last camp. 
We had arrived. 
What should we call our hut? How soon could we get 
our clothes and bags dry? How would the blubber stove 
work? Would the penguins be there? “‘It seems too good 
to be true, 19 days out. Surely seldom has any one been so 
wet; our bags hardly possible to get into, our wind-clothes 
1 My own diary. 
