Many a mile we thus traveled, mostly up and down, making but little real
headway in crossing, running instead of walking most of the time as the
danger of being compelled to spend the night on the glacier became
threatening. Stickeen seemed able for anything. Doubtless we could have
weathered the storm for one night, dancing on a flat spot to keep from
freezing, and I faced the threat without feeling anything like despair;
but we were hungry and wet, and the wind from the mountains was still
thick with snow and bitterly cold, so of course that night would have
seemed a very long one. I could not see far enough through the blurring
snow to judge in which general direction the least dangerous route lay,
while the few dim, momentary glimpses I caught of mountains through
rifts in the flying clouds were far from encouraging either as weather
signs or as guides. I had simply to grope my way from crevasse to
crevasse, holding a general direction by the ice-structure, which was
not to be seen everywhere, and partly by the wind. Again and again I was
put to my mettle, but Stickeen followed easily, his nerve apparently
growing more unflinching as the danger increased. So it always is with
mountaineers when hard beset. Running hard and jumping, holding every
minute of the remaining daylight, poor as it was, precious, we doggedly
persevered and tried to hope that every difficult crevasse we overcame
would prove to be the last of its kind. But on the contrary, as we
advanced they became more deadly trying.

At length our way was barred by a very wide and straight crevasse, which
I traced rapidly northward a mile or so without finding a crossing or
hope of one; then down the glacier about as far, to where it united with
another uncrossable crevasse. In all this distance of perhaps two miles
there was only one place where I could possibly jump it, but the width
of this jump was the utmost I dared attempt, while the danger of
slipping on the farther side was so great that I was loath to try it.