"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...
