In the Land of White Death: An Epic Story of Survival in the Siberian Arctic by Jon Krakauer, David Roberts, Alison Anderson, Valerian Albanov Page B
myself. Life on land, with all its comforts and charms, seems so magnificent and enticing that I begin to doubt whether we shall ever reach that happy place.
Why are all these delights of life on land so clear before my eyes right now, like hallucinations? Is this the end already? Is this a premonition of our deaths? No, it cannot be! I am convinced that we will reach land sooner or later. On the march I have become religious as never before, almost superstitious. My icon of Nicholas the Miracle-worker is always in my pocket. But my men grow abject and despondent, no matter how I try to cheer them up.
A northerly wind began to blow toward evening. The ice seems to be on the move again: We have blundered off route into very unpleasant terrain. Soft snow and a great many pools of water did not make our task any easier. Nilsen and I have been trying to level the track out for those following us. It was hard work, and we are exhausted. I need to change our methods: Henceforth three men will pull the first sledge and the others will follow immediately behind. They will move faster in the tracks of those ahead, and will not have to pull so hard.
DRIFTING SOUTHWARD
The first of June is my saint’s day. What a wonderful gift of Providence it would be if we could reach the 82nd parallel by that day!
MAY 24
During a dead calm, a thick fog rolled in during the night. Earlier I had noticed vast patches of water sky, while a remarkably luminous cloud floated above the horizon to the south and south-southeast. The cloud was concave in the middle and its edges blended into the horizon but it stood out very clearly. I observed it attentively through the binoculars but finally gave up all hopes of discerning land. And yet this unusual cloud might have been the reflection of a glacier lying on solid earth!
Yesterday evening I decided to increase our speed, but I must concede already that the best intentions do not automatically bring the desired results. The conditions have deteriorated so dramatically that it now requires a superhuman effort to force the sledges through the snow, which has become extremely slushy underneath. If that were not bad enough, wretched polynyas constantly hinder our sluggish progress, forcing us to make huge detours that do nothing to keep us from sinking into the slush. The kayaks are useless for crossing the polynyas, moreover, because of dangerous chunks of floating ice. Despite untold efforts we have advanced little more than two and a half miles to the south. We halted at the edge of a particularly bad stretch of open water and set up camp.
Fog all day long, with that dull light that makes one’s eyes so terribly painful. At the moment mine hurt so much that I see this diary only as through a veil, and hot tears run down my cheeks. From time to time I have to stop writing and bury my head in my malitsa. Only in complete darkness does the pain gradually abate, allowing me to open my eyes again.
In the morning the wind was out of the northwest, but veered to the northeast in the afternoon, and the horizon was quite dark. We tried to gauge the depth of the water, but our sounding line was too short. This abortive effort nevertheless allowed us to conclude that we were drifting noticeably southward, for the plumb line was definitely tilted toward the north. We also tried to shoot a few auks and a seal; but Diana must not have been pleased with us, for our prey escaped and we were left empty-handed.
Tomorrow the civilized world will be celebrating Pentecost. How delightful it must be in the south, while we languish here so miserably, drifting at latitude 82°30´ north.
SUNDAY, MAY 25
Whitsunday: Today we were overjoyed. First of all we came upon the sort of lead that is normally difficult to cross, and yet we managed to dispatch it with relative ease and advance nearly two miles toward the south. One of the men came with me in my kayak. As soon as we had crossed the channel
Why are all these delights of life on land so clear before my eyes right now, like hallucinations? Is this the end already? Is this a premonition of our deaths? No, it cannot be! I am convinced that we will reach land sooner or later. On the march I have become religious as never before, almost superstitious. My icon of Nicholas the Miracle-worker is always in my pocket. But my men grow abject and despondent, no matter how I try to cheer them up.
A northerly wind began to blow toward evening. The ice seems to be on the move again: We have blundered off route into very unpleasant terrain. Soft snow and a great many pools of water did not make our task any easier. Nilsen and I have been trying to level the track out for those following us. It was hard work, and we are exhausted. I need to change our methods: Henceforth three men will pull the first sledge and the others will follow immediately behind. They will move faster in the tracks of those ahead, and will not have to pull so hard.
DRIFTING SOUTHWARD
The first of June is my saint’s day. What a wonderful gift of Providence it would be if we could reach the 82nd parallel by that day!
MAY 24
During a dead calm, a thick fog rolled in during the night. Earlier I had noticed vast patches of water sky, while a remarkably luminous cloud floated above the horizon to the south and south-southeast. The cloud was concave in the middle and its edges blended into the horizon but it stood out very clearly. I observed it attentively through the binoculars but finally gave up all hopes of discerning land. And yet this unusual cloud might have been the reflection of a glacier lying on solid earth!
Yesterday evening I decided to increase our speed, but I must concede already that the best intentions do not automatically bring the desired results. The conditions have deteriorated so dramatically that it now requires a superhuman effort to force the sledges through the snow, which has become extremely slushy underneath. If that were not bad enough, wretched polynyas constantly hinder our sluggish progress, forcing us to make huge detours that do nothing to keep us from sinking into the slush. The kayaks are useless for crossing the polynyas, moreover, because of dangerous chunks of floating ice. Despite untold efforts we have advanced little more than two and a half miles to the south. We halted at the edge of a particularly bad stretch of open water and set up camp.
Fog all day long, with that dull light that makes one’s eyes so terribly painful. At the moment mine hurt so much that I see this diary only as through a veil, and hot tears run down my cheeks. From time to time I have to stop writing and bury my head in my malitsa. Only in complete darkness does the pain gradually abate, allowing me to open my eyes again.
In the morning the wind was out of the northwest, but veered to the northeast in the afternoon, and the horizon was quite dark. We tried to gauge the depth of the water, but our sounding line was too short. This abortive effort nevertheless allowed us to conclude that we were drifting noticeably southward, for the plumb line was definitely tilted toward the north. We also tried to shoot a few auks and a seal; but Diana must not have been pleased with us, for our prey escaped and we were left empty-handed.
Tomorrow the civilized world will be celebrating Pentecost. How delightful it must be in the south, while we languish here so miserably, drifting at latitude 82°30´ north.
SUNDAY, MAY 25
Whitsunday: Today we were overjoyed. First of all we came upon the sort of lead that is normally difficult to cross, and yet we managed to dispatch it with relative ease and advance nearly two miles toward the south. One of the men came with me in my kayak. As soon as we had crossed the channel
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