The Geographical Journal (Journal of the Royal Geographical Society): Volume IX, No. 4 [‎182r] (34/172)

THE FIRST CROSSING OF SPITSBERGEN.
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seemed obviously the right route to take. An endless procession of
fulmar petrels, flying up the Sassendal from Ice fjord, all turned up
this valley, evidently on their way to the east coast. We named it
Fulmar valley, and determined to follow their lead. Mile after mile
we advanced, yet never a pass came in sight, nor any sign of an ice-
sheet. We began to think we might reach Foul bay without crossing
ice at all. Coming to a place where there were old moraines and a
change in the aspect of the valley, we pitched camp.
Next day we entered the moraines a short distance beyond camp.
They belonged to a set of side glaciers. They formed a hideous chaos
of broken rocks, and heaps of mud piled upon ice. The river flowed in
an ice gorge, with ice cliffs on either hand and the sloping moraine and
ice chaos above. To drag the sledges over this was a terrible job. Once a
sledge and pony began sliding down sideways, and were only just arrested
at the edge of the ice-cliff. The torrent had to be crossed, various ascents
and descents made. Stones were constantly giving way, ponies sprawl
ing about, and almost every accident happened that one can imagine.
Ultimately we emerged into an almost level valley, closed at the far
end by a wall of ice, which proved to be the side of a great glacier
flowing across the valley. The last reach of Fulmar valley was the
worst. It was a bog of incredible nastiness. We tried high up, and
we tried low down ; it was equally bad everywhere. There was always
one pony stuck, and often both. How we got through I don’t know.
At last we did reach the ice-wall, and camped (370 feet) at the
foot of it.
While the others were pitching camp, looking after the ponies, and
cooking, I went on and climbed the hill to our left of the glacier. An
ascent of only 600 feet placed me on the crest of a ridge, which I presently
followed for a mile or two to its highest point. The moment I reached
the ridge, the great glacier—Ivory glacier—appeared spread out at my
feet, pouring down in a wide stream from the inland ice-sheet, whose
wide low domes limited the view upwards. Below, it spread out into
a vast oval-domed termination, a portion of whose side was the wall
that overhung our camp. The whole of this oval-domed end has come
down since the year 1871, when Heuglin records the main valley as
having been a flat green swamp. In the other direction beyond and
above this icy dome I saw Foul bay and Wybe Jans Water, with quan
tities of ice upon the sea, all glittering in sunshine; and then, on
the remote horizon, the snow-decked mountain front of Edges land,
supporting a brilliant cushion of white cloud. I yelled the good
news to my companions below, and went on up the ridge. A gale
of wind blew, making wild music in the crags. On I went, passing
shoulder after shoulder, and ever finding another ahead, till the last
one came, and I looked abroad over the noble ice-sheet, and beheld it
swelling up and up to the hurrying clouds or the blue sky. Sunshine