Is there some widespread atmospheric disturbance which will be felt everywhere in this region as a bad season, or are we merely the victims of exceptional local conditions?  If the latter, there is food for thought in picturing our small party struggling against adversity in one place whilst others go smilingly forward in the sunshine.  How great may be the element of luck!  No foresight—­no procedure—­could have prepared us for this state of affairs.  Had we been ten times as experienced or certain of our aim we should not have expected such rebuffs.

11 P.M.—­It has blown hard all day with quite the greatest snowfall I remember.  The drifts about the tents are simply huge.  The temperature was + 27 deg. this forenoon, and rose to +31 deg. in the afternoon, at which time the snow melted as it fell on anything but the snow, and, as a consequence, there are pools of water on everything, the tents are wet through, also the wind clothes, night boots, &c.; water drips from the tent poles and door, lies on the floorcloth, soaks the sleeping-bags, and makes everything pretty wretched.  If a cold snap follows before we have had time to dry our things, we shall be mighty uncomfortable.  Yet after all it would be humorous enough if it were not for the seriousness of delay—­we can’t afford that, and it’s real hard luck that it should come at such a time.  The wind shows signs of easing down, but the temperature does not fall and the snow is as wet as ever—­not promising signs of abatement.

Keohane’s rhyme!

The snow is all melting and everything’s afloat, If this goes on much longer we shall have to turn the tent upside down and use it as a boat.

Wednesday, December 6.—­Camp 30.  Noon.  Miserable, utterly miserable.  We have camped in the ‘Slough of Despond.’  The tempest rages with unabated violence.  The temperature has gone to 33 deg.; everything in the tent is soaking.  People returning from the outside look exactly as though they had been in a heavy shower of rain.  They drip pools on the floorcloth.  The snow is steadily climbing higher about walls, ponies, tents, and sledges.  The ponies look utterly desolate.  Oh! but this is too crushing, and we are only 12 miles from the Glacier.  A hopeless feeling descends on one and is hard to fight off.  What immense patience is needed for such occasions!

11 P.M.—­At 5 there came signs of a break at last, and now one can see the land, but the sky is still overcast and there is a lot of snow about.  The wind also remains fairly strong and the temperature high.  It is not pleasant, but if no worse in the morning we can get on at last.  We are very, very wet.