These high temperatures, combined with the strong
changeable winds that we had had of late, led me to conclude that the
ice all around us was rotting and breaking up and that the moment of
our deliverance from the icy maw of the Antarctic was at hand.
On December 20, after discussing the question with Wild, I informed
all hands that I intended to try and make a march to the west to reduce
the distance between us and Paulet Island. A buzz of pleasurable
anticipation went round the camp, and every one was anxious to get on
the move. So the next day I set off with Wild, Crean, and Hurley, with
dog teams, to the westward to survey the route. After travelling about
seven miles we mounted a small berg, and there as far as we could see
stretched a series of immense flat floes from half a mile to a mile
across, separated from each other by pressure-ridges which seemed
easily negotiable with pick and shovel. The only place that appeared
likely to be formidable was a very much cracked-up area between the old
floe that we were on and the first of the series of young flat floes
about half a mile away.
December 22 was therefore kept as Christmas Day, and most of our small
remaining stock of luxuries was consumed at the Christmas feast. We
could not carry it all with us, so for the last time for eight months
we had a really good meal--as much as we could eat.
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