Beardmore Glacier next year.

We turn out of our sleeping-bags about 9 P.M. Somewhere about 11.30 I
shout to the Soldier 'How are things?' There is a response suggesting
readiness, and soon after figures are busy amongst sledges and
ponies. It is chilling work for the fingers and not too warm for the
feet. The rugs come off the animals, the harness is put on, tents and
camp equipment are loaded on the sledges, nosebags filled for the next
halt; one by one the animals are taken off the picketing rope and yoked
to the sledge. Oates watches his animal warily, reluctant to keep such
a nervous creature standing in the traces. If one is prompt one feels
impatient and fretful whilst watching one's more tardy fellows. Wilson
and Meares hang about ready to help with odds and ends. Still we wait:
the picketing lines must be gathered up, a few pony putties need
adjustment, a party has been slow striking their tent. With numbed
fingers on our horse's bridle and the animal striving to turn its
head from the wind one feels resentful. At last all is ready. One says
'All right, Bowers, go ahead,' and Birdie leads his big animal forward,
starting, as he continues, at a steady pace. The horses have got cold
and at the word they are off, the Soldier's and one or two others
with a rush. Finnesko give poor foothold on the slippery sastrugi,
and for a minute or two drivers have some difficulty in maintaining
the pace on their feet. Movement is warming, and in ten minutes the
column has settled itself to steady marching.

The pace is still brisk, the light bad, and at intervals one or another
of us suddenly steps on a slippery patch and falls prone. These are
the only real incidents of the march--for the rest it passes with
a steady tramp and slight variation of formation. The weaker ponies
drop a bit but not far, so that they are soon up in line again when