Chapter II: Up the Nordenskiöld Glacier

Our preparations being completed, we set forth up the Nordenskiöld Glacier, toward the unknown interior, on the morning of July 13. The first struggle up the steep, moraine-faced front of the glacier involved all our forces. The stones, lying upon ice, were loose and large. They slipped from under, or fell upon us. We took one sledge at a time and lightened it of half its burden, but still it was hard to drag. It wedged itself against rocks when pulled forward, but never seemed to find a stone to stop its backsliding. Our aim was to reach a tongue of hard snow in the upper part of a gully. Coming to it from the side, the sledge swung across and almost upset us all. At last we reached the top, returned for the second sledge, then (two or three times) for the bundles, and so finally gained our end after hours of toil. Once on more level ice, things went better, though not well. To begin with, the sledges were badly loaded and had to be rearranged. Then, though the surface of the ice sloped but gently, it was very lumpy and the lumps turned the sledges this way and that. Garwood and I pulled one, the two men the other. Perspiration ran off us. Our estimate of the possible length of the day’s march diminished.

Nordenskiöld Glacier, as has been said, descends in a great curve. It comes down from the north and ends flowing west. It receives two large tributaries from the east. If we had kept right round the immense sweep of the glacier’s left bank, we should have avoided a peck of troubles, but must have travelled miles out of the way, for our destination was northward. As it was, we steered a middle course, and thereby came into a most unsafe tangle of crevasses. The step-like descent of the ice prevented seeing far ahead. We were constantly in hope that the next plateau would be smooth, but each as it came was crevassed like its predecessor, whilst the slopes between were almost impassable. Any one who knows the Gorner Glacier, below the Riffelhorn, will be able to picture this part of the Nordenskiöld Glacier. It was almost as badly broken up as that. To drag sledges up such a place is no simple job. Most of the crevasses were half full of rotten winter snow, but it was only by bridges of this unreliable substance that they could be crossed at all. Ultimately we found ourselves in a _cul-de-sac_, cut off ahead, to right, and to left by huge impassable _schrunds_. There was nothing for it but to go back a distance that had been won by more than an hour’s toil. We left the sledges lying, and scattered to prospect. A way was eventually discovered whereby, when every one was fairly worn out, the worst part of the ascent was completed. After crossing the last big crevasse, it was agreed that enough had been done. Camp was pitched about 700 feet above the level of the bay.

Now only had we leisure to look about and drink in the fine quality of the scenery; not that a man is blind to scenery when engaged in toilsome physical exertion, but he is incapable of analysing it or noticing its more delicate and evanescent qualities. For this reason I maintain that the observers in explorations should be freed as much as possible from the mere mechanical labour of making the way. Every foot-pound of energy put into sledge-hauling, for instance, precludes more important mental activities. This was not Garwood’s opinion at the beginning of our journey, but he came round to my way of thinking before the end. From the level of our camp we looked down the whole riven slope of the glacier to the broad blue bay below, dotted all over with floating ice and flashing eyes of light from the hidden sun. Farther away came the bleak recesses of the Mimesdal, and a range of snow mountains to the right. There was a level roof of cloud at an altitude of about 1000 feet, casting on the hills that richness of purple tone so characteristic of Spitsbergen’s dull days. Most beautiful was the glacier-cascade, and especially the immediate foreground of crevasses, on to, or rather into, which we looked down and beheld the splendid colour of their walls. They are far bluer than Alpine crevasses, almost purple indeed, in their depths. Here, of course, on the broken ice were no streams, though below the crevasses there had been so many that the air was filled with their tinkling, whilst the deep bass of _moulins_ was continually heard. Ahead came the clouds, into which the glacier disappeared, the last outlines visible being low white domes of the usual arctic sort. It was pleasant to sit in the still, cool air while ice-lumps were melting and other preparations making for supper. “Look! look!” cried Nielsen, “there is a bird as white as snow.” It was an ivory gull come to inspect us. The only other visitors were fulmar petrels, whose nesting-place on the cliffs of the Terrier we were to discover a few days later.

Our camp consisted of two small tents, one an old Mummery tent of Willesden drill, the other six inches larger in all directions, and made of a slightly stronger canvas. Both tents had floors of the same material sewn in--an excellent arrangement, rendering them perfectly safe in any gale that blew. They served us well throughout the summer, and are still in almost as good condition as when they came from Edgington’s hands. Long I sat in silence and alone, watching the opalescent bay with its ever-varying colours and floating icebergs, the purple hills striped and capped with snow, the wide, deeply-penetrating, mysterious valleys, the great ice-field sloping down in front, and the frame of cloud arching in the whole. The crunching of snow and ice by human feet and the sound of voices showed that the others were returning from their ramble, hungry and with good news, as it proved, for the way was open ahead.

Next morning (14th) we pursued our onward journey, still struggling through crevasses for about an hour, then finding a fairly even though none too gentle slope, up which it was possible to advance steadily. So far the hard ice of the glacier had formed the surface. It gradually became less and less firm, and turned into a kind of icy honeycomb, built of a granular fabric that crushed together ankle-deep under the foot. The cells of this honeycomb ice were of all sizes, some as big as a lead-pencil, others large enough to hold the foot, others again to fall into bodily. Each cell was more or less filled with water, whilst the top was often disguised by a lid of ice with a little snow on it, so that the existence of the water-hole was not suspected till one trod through into the freezing puddle. We came to understand what to look out for, at this level of Spitsbergen glaciers, and to walk warily; but at first we plunged and stumbled about in the most annoying fashion, becoming very wet, cold, and out of temper. Further up, the snow covering was more continuous, till, at a level of about 1000 feet above the sea, we were no longer walking upon ice, but upon frozen snow. In fact, here was true _névé_, the like of which our last year’s experiences had led us to believe did not exist in Spitsbergen.

This is only one of many differences observed between the strangely temperate region south of Ice Fjord, explored by us in 1896, and the region north of Ice Fjord, and so close to it, explored in 1897. The former is to be described as sub-arctic, the latter is truly arctic in every sense. The Sassendal region is a land of bogs and disintegrating hillsides, with cataracts and many waters. The Klaas Billen and King’s Bay area is ice-covered at levels which are ice-free so few miles away. The causes of this great contrast are obscure.

All too soon the cloud-roof descended upon us, or rather we ascended into it. Rain began to fall. The snow being soft and the slope continuing steep, our work waxed laborious again, and so continued. We steered, by compass, a little east of north, the direction of the east foot of the group of mountains against which the glacier, in bending round, leans its right bank. The highest of these was known to us as De Geer Peak, because it was ascended by De Geer in 1882. In the thickening fog our men began to betray unwillingness to proceed. They mistrusted us and our compass. At sea, they said, a man could steer by compass, but this was not sea, and they had never heard of going overland after a magnetic needle. Four hours’ marching preceded a halt for lunch in the midst of the undulating white desert, which stretched away on all sides into clouds. Not far off was a blue lake, like a sapphire set in silver--a lovely object, and the only thing clearly visible except a single crevasse and the ghosts of the bases of the mountains. At times the clouds parted a little, and then we could discover a sea-fog creeping up from below. In the gap between it and the lower level of the clouds was a far-off glimpse of Ice Fjord, with the hills of Advent Bay beyond.

When fog and clouds joined we set forward again, and worked on steadily uphill. The snow grew softer and softer. We fastened one sledge behind the other, and harnessed ourselves all four to the front one, but the change profited little. Hour now succeeded hour, and nothing came in sight. The only variation was in the degree of slope. Every few minutes we stopped to observe the compass, and always found that we had bent away to left or right of the proper track; sometimes we were even going at right angles to it. When all were tired, we pitched camp on a flat place, which we thought might prove to be the plateau at the foot of De Geer Peak. The tents were set up with some difficulty, in a fluster of wind, upon the soft snow, and moored ahead and astern to the two sledges, the site being about 1500 feet above sea-level. The temperature was a few degrees below freezing. The oil-stove burning in the tent was a comforting companion, though we changed our opinion about it when the steam from the pot condensed on the roof and fell in rain all over our things.

All night long the wind howled, the clouds grew denser, and snow fell with increasing heaviness. When we looked forth in the morning nothing was visible, beyond our camp, in any direction. The tents and sledges were almost snowed under. As we had no notion in what direction to bend our steps, nor what any part of the interior might be like, it was necessary to wait for a clearance; so we lay in our sleeping-bags, cooked, played dominoes with numbered scraps of paper, and otherwise killed time. The men, I fear, were pretty miserable, for the expedition had no interest to them and they were full of all sorts of vain terrors. They confessed that for fear of bears they had been unable to sleep! They hourly expected to be buried under some avalanche of snow or to fall into some hidden pit. Nielsen soon got over his terrors, but they increased upon Svensen to our no small discomfort. As Nielsen said: “Svensen has never been away from his old woman before. He is accustomed to go fishing in the morning, and then to come home for his dinner. He isn’t used to the kind of food that you give him, and he isn’t used to this sort of place.” The more we knew of Nielsen the better we liked him. He talked excellent English, with a smack of the sea in every phrase. He was always on the alert to be helpful, and had plenty of conversation and some good stories. Svensen knew no English, except a few seamen’s phrases. He was a good enough fellow, but he hated his novel surroundings, and was only counting the days till he should reach his home again.

Not till 7 o’clock in the evening did the fog lift, and then it disclosed no very distant view. Close at hand were the rocks at the foot of De Geer Peak; we were encamped at the exact point we had meant to reach--a small plateau or shelf of snow on the glacier’s extreme right margin, just where the rock slope of the mountain begins. In all other directions the white _névé_ went undulating away, trending in the main uphill to north and east, downhill to the south. There was no definite object in sight when we turned our backs to the tent and the crags; elsewhere vaguely outlined clouds drifted about, brushing the snow with apparent aimlessness. It was a view composed of different tones of white. Ice-blink filled the air. It was impossible to estimate distances with the smallest degree of accuracy. Looking out of the tent-door, I saw what I thought was a bear moving along--most improbable of beasts at such an altitude. I was in dread lest the men should see it, and become yet more unwilling to face the lonely interior. A moment later the light changed, and the bear was revealed as a bit of waste paper fluttering along in the breeze. In a few minutes the fog came down again, not very densely. Garwood and I were for starting on at once, but the men considered that it was time for supper, with bed to follow. On the whole we decided to let them have their wish, and to use the hours for trying the _ski_.

Ski (pronounced _shee_) are the snowshoes of Norway and Sweden, which Nansen’s books have been chiefly instrumental in making known to Englishmen. They may be described as thin boards, six feet or more long, and about five inches wide, curved up and brought to a point in front (like the shoes of a fifteenth-century dude), and cut off square behind. Nansen has told how the Scandinavians are accustomed to the use of them from childhood up, what facility they attain, and the wonderful feats they become able to perform with them. We were concerned to discover how far an untaught Englishman could use them at all, and how long was needed for learning to get about on them. We were entirely ignorant about them, so that we started with every disadvantage. To begin with, there are all sorts and kinds of ski--long and narrow, short and broad, polished and unpolished, grooved below in different ways, attachable to the foot by different systems, made of different sorts and kinds of wood. Of all this we knew nothing. We went into the first shop we saw in Bergen and bought the first pair of ski that were offered to us, with a loop arrangement of cane covered with leather to attach them to the feet. As it turned out our choice was pretty lucky. I shall hereafter devote a chapter to ski, so more need not be said about them in this place.

With great deliberation, and after many blunders, we inserted our feet into the loops, one loop or wide strap going firmly over the toe, the other passing round the heel, so that the foot can be easily bent and that when it is turned to right or left the ski turns with it. Then we gingerly straightened ourselves up and prepared to shuffle away, each clutching an ice-axe for a third leg. It became immediately apparent that our plateau was not quite flat, for we began to slide downhill. Our legs separated from one another and over we fell. It is easier to fall down than to get up again. Our feet were twisted out of the loops and had to be brought back into place. Endeavouring to arrange matters, I loosened one of my ski, and off it started on its own account downhill. I saw it disappear into the fog, and sent Svensen after it. He was gone half an hour or more, and came back shuffling on it. Then I tried again, this time uphill.

The first thing to do was to turn round. Of course I trod with one ski on the top of the other, and tumbled over again. When one paid attention to the forward halves of the ski the hind halves got mixed, and _vice versâ_. Uphill, however, we advanced well enough, as long as there was a crust of snow to go upon, but where the ice was blown bare by the wind we slid about helplessly, for the boards do not bite like skates. Of course on such places ski are seldom needed, the crust of ice being usually strong enough to support the foot. Having reached the foot of the rocks we tried sliding down. After two or three attempts we found our balance; the process is similar to a standing glissade, only that the motion is quicker. Any good glissader can soon learn to slide down a moderately steep slope on ski. When the snow is uneven, still more when it is of varying textures (soft in one place, slippery in another), new difficulties of balancing arise. After an hour’s practice we found our feet well enough, and were assured of being able to cover the ground at a reasonable rate.

Next we tried the Canadian snowshoes, and found them easy enough to work, but very clumsy compared with the ski. We afterwards learnt that our principal trouble with the latter was caused by the unsuitability of our footgear. We had been told to wear large fur boots of the kind called Finnsku, with hay packed in them. They may be well enough if you know how to pack them, and if they are of the right dimensions. Ours were wrong every way. It was only when we gave them up and took to our ordinary Swiss climbing-boots that we became really comfortable as well as firm on our feet. To this important question of footgear reference will also be made hereafter.

If the weather had been fine, or the least chance of a view could have been discerned, we should have delayed to repeat the ascent of De Geer Peak. Luck, however, was against us. As De Geer’s account of his climb is buried, for English readers, in a Swedish scientific publication,[1] a translation of it is here inserted:

“On the morning of August 2, 1882, I set forth from the
coast, in company with Lund and the ship’s boy, on an
expedition up the little valley bordering the north side of
Nordenskiöld Glacier. The bottom of this valley, with its
small hills and little lakes, resembled some unwooded tract of
Sweden.… Arrived at the head of the valley, we put on the rope
and struck across the first side glacier. We had now reached
the inland ice and were about 600 metres above sea-level.
As there was no time for a long expedition over the ice, we
decided to climb the mountain near at hand. The only plants
found on its slope were some mosses and lichens. Of birds we
only saw one fulmar petrel, which came flying over the inland
ice. The top of the mountain was covered with old hard-packed
snow. Its altitude according to the barometer was over 1200
metres above the sea. It is therefore, after Hornsunds Tind,
the highest mountain hitherto measured in Spitsbergen, though
there appear to be other mountains in its neighbourhood at
least as high.

“The view was remarkably comprehensive. In the south-west was
a long stretch of Ice Fjord’s south coast. In clear weather
it would probably have been possible to see both the mouth
of the fjord and Mount Nordenskiöld, the high mountain west
of Advent Bay which Nathorst afterwards climbed. We had an
uninterrupted view over a great part of the broken hill-country
west of Klaas Billen Bay, which appears to be devoid of big
glaciers. Eastward the inland ice stretched away from the foot
of the mountain, spreading out its gently undulating surface
away to a remote mountain group, situated between N. 69½° E.
and N. 101° E., probably identical with the range marked on
the map ending westward in Mount Edlund, near Wybe Jans Water.
Yet further away appeared a sunlit streak, and beyond that
again a line of mountains, certainly very remote. These were
quite clear and distinct for a long time till clouds covered
them up. Perhaps they lie along the west coast of Barents
Land.… In the north-east the interior of the ice was covered
with clouds, so that Mount Chydenius could not be seen, which
otherwise would probably have been visible. Most striking was
the view to the north-west, in which direction we recognised,
on first arriving at the top, a large piece of water, doubtless
the West Fjord of Wijde Bay. Its innermost part lay in the
direction between N. 39° W. and N. 27½° W., and was only hidden
for a short distance by a mountain (the compass deviation is
assumed to have been N. 14° W.).[2] Between us and Wijde Bay no
mountains were seen, but only big, apparently level glaciers,
filling the bottom of the great valley and seeming to form an
ice-divide. It is worth mention that no ice was seen in the
blue waters of Wijde Bay, although unbroken sea-ice is reported
to have invested at least the western part of Spitsbergen’s
north coast throughout the whole summer.

“When we first arrived on the top I took some photographs and
observed a number of angles, besides making some sketches,
but little by little our peak became enveloped in clouds
which swept over from the inland ice. We waited four hours on
the top, hoping it would clear, but the weather only became
thicker and a wind sprang up, so that we were compelled to
begin the descent. We followed the south-west ridge, which is
certainly the best route for the ascent, in case this point
of view should be revisited as a station of the proposed
meridian-arc measurement. The return to the tent was made by
the afore-mentioned valley.”

From this description it appears that the part of the country we intended to traverse was hidden from De Geer by clouds. We had no information whatever, therefore, as to the lie of the land or the direction in which we should steer. Next morning was somewhat clearer. The Terrier range on the further side of the glacier was disclosed, as well as some snowy domes inland, apparently very remote, but really not far off. The glacier was perceived to trend back in a direction somewhat east of north, and to widen out greatly. It seemed as though this were a true sheet of inland ice of the Greenland sort. We set forward hopefully in a clear interval, so laying our course as to keep up the glacier’s right side.

During the first hour Garwood’s snowshoes gave him great trouble, for he had chosen the Canadian pair. When he had changed them with Nielsen for ski, of which unfortunately we had only three pairs with us, and after a series of halts for readjustments, we got fairly under way. It was a steady uphill pull for about three hours. The fog soon came down, denser than ever, and lasted the rest of the day. Only by the resistance of the sledges could the steepness of the slope be inferred. There was absolutely nothing to be seen. It is hard for any one who has not experienced it to conceive the absolute invisibility of everything in the rather dazzling light that pervades a fog upon snow. The effect is thus described by Mr. Peary, writing about Greenland:[3]

“Not only was there no object to be seen, but in the entire
sphere of vision there was no difference in intensity of light.
My feet and snowshoes were sharp and clear as silhouettes, and
I was sensible of contact with the snow at every step. Yet, as
far as my eyes gave me evidence to the contrary, I was walking
upon nothing. The space between my snowshoes was as light as
the zenith. The opaque light which filled the sphere of vision
might come from below as well as above. A curious mental as
well as physical strain resulted from this blindness with
wide-open eyes, and sometimes we were obliged to stop and await
a change.”

Of course, in such a vague illumination there are no shadows. The light comes equally from everywhere. To keep a straight course requires continual attention. The compass must be referred to continually.

When the sledges felt heavier we knew that the slope steepened. About three miles, as we guessed, from camp, they suddenly took a plunge forward on their own account and were with difficulty restrained. We had crossed a watershed, and the slope was downhill. One sledge knocked Svensen off his feet and sent his ski flying. He captured the right, but the left vanished hissing into the fog. He followed it, and became utterly invisible a few yards away. While we awaited his return, a ghostly sun appeared for a moment, but was swallowed up again. Absolute silence reigned. The air was motionless. We could just see one another, and that was all. At the foot of the hill came a level area, then uphill again, steeper than before. Fortunately for us novices on ski the snow was not in a slippery condition. On the contrary, it tended to adhere to the ski, so that they held the ground well without backsliding. It was deep, soft snow, into which we should have sunk at least to the knee had we been merely walking in boots. As it was, we did not sink into it at all, and could drag the sledges with our full weight. Nielsen was the only miserable one of the party, for he had the Canadian snowshoes. His feet kept slipping out of the straps when he strained upon them in pulling. Moreover, he could not accustom himself to keep his legs wide enough apart, and so was always tripping up or treading with one shoe on the other. All day the cold was considerable, the air full of frozen vapour which incrusted us over, so that heads, hair, and clothes became a mass of icicles tinkling as we walked. After making about seven miles, chiefly uphill, we camped at a height of some 2500 feet. It was pleasant to feel the shelter of the tents, pleasanter still to get the stove going and gain a drink of water to slake the parching thirst from which all were suffering.

Early next morning (17th) the clouds broke for a brief interval, as they have a way of doing about 6 A.M., even in the worst weather. Looking back we saw the watershed crossed the previous day, and learnt that we had (unnecessarily) descended into the head of a big valley trending west, that we had crossed this and reascended its northern side to the place of encampment. Had we been able to see ahead, both the descent and the reascent might have been avoided. De Geer Peak was in sight to the south; westward, as we looked down the valley, a single, or perhaps a double, row of hills intervened between us and Dickson Bay. They were all white with permanent snow. Not a patch of open country was visible there. One of these hills, apparently the Lyktan, was capped with a limestone crown. In the silence and stillness of the cold morning these mountains, for all their relative littleness, looked singularly dignified. They were so grey and shaggy, creatures of storm and everlasting winter, things utterly remote from all association with man, even as the very mountains of the moon. While we were watching them, clouds came up again in the lap of the south-west wind. The milky fog settled down before we started on, and nothing more was seen that day.

Svensen began to complain of feeling unwell, talked of pains in his inside, of numbness in feet and legs, and so forth. For the matter of that, no one felt particularly bright, the process of coming into condition being always laborious. The only thing to be done was to push on. It was uphill all the time, often up slopes so steep that one sledge had to be left while all four concentrated their efforts on raising the other. Now and then the slope bent away down to the west, showing that we were keeping close along the watershed. The course taken was a little east of north. The work was harder than ever. Hour after hour passed, and yet the hoped-for high plateau was not found. Snow fell heavily and the wind became violent. It had its compensations, however, for we could steer by it. The fresh snow was unsuited for ski. It froze on beneath them and balled, an impediment to the shuffling action of the feet.

As the fresh snow accumulated, the surface of the old snow beneath became so hard that ultimately ski could be discarded. A final long tug up a very steep slope completed the morning’s march. At the top Svensen threw himself down and said he could go no further. He certainly looked ill. His face was ghastly grey, his cheeks sunken, his eyes staring out of his head and bloodshot. The storm was raging furiously, driving the fresh snow along, like a waist-deep stream of opaque white fluid, with a loud hissing noise that mingled in the roar of the wind. It was decided to pitch one of the tents and take shelter in it, while a hot lunch was cooked; but to carry out the plan was not easy in the teeth of the gale. When the tent was at last set up, Svensen was pushed in and the rest of us crowded after. The sick man began to tremble all over and moaned horribly. He pitied himself in broken accents. There was nothing for it but to pitch the second tent, unpack his fur sleeping-bag and stow him away to warm up. While this was being done I rubbed him hard all over to restore circulation.

Before we had been halted half an hour tents and sledges were almost buried beneath the drifting snow. The gale was getting worse every minute, making the roofs boom and flap so that we feared they would rip asunder. Meanwhile cooking went forward, and then all slept, awaiting a change of weather. Late in the evening there was no improvement, and Svensen said he was going to die. By morning the wind had dropped, but the fog was yet denser. The sledges were not to be seen. The tents were hidden from one another behind walls and heaps of drifted snow. Nielsen shouted that Svensen was “all broken up,” and could not be moved. I went to see him, and found a miserable-looking object. He said he had swellings in his middle and talked about an old sprain and the cold. His legs were senseless below the knees. Here was a pretty mess, if his story were true! We had suspicions that fright was a large factor in his trouble; but if it were not, and we made the man go on, what a responsibility would lie upon us! He was emphatic that he could not stir a yard that day, and that if we insisted on his moving we must carry him, son of Anak that he was. There still remained food for six days, so we could afford to wait twenty-four hours at any rate. Practically we had no option.