On the top of all the anxieties which had oppressed him lately Scott had a great fear that a swell so phenomenal as to break up Glacier Tongue, a landmark which had probably been there for centuries, might have swept away our hut at Cape Evans.  He was so alarmed about it that he told Wilson and myself to prepare to form a sledging party with him to penetrate the Erebus icefalls and reach Cape Evans.  “Went yesterday to Castle Rock with Wilson to see what chance there might be of getting to Cape Evans.  The day was bright and it was quite warm walking in the sun.  There is no doubt the route to Cape Evans lies over the worst corner of Erebus.  From this distance (some 7 or 8 miles at least) the whole mountain side looks a mass of crevasses, but a route might be found at a level of 3000 or 4000 feet."[127] After some days the project was abandoned as being hopeless.

On March 8 Bowers led a party to bring in the gear and provisions which had been left at Disaster Camp, the material, that is, which had been rescued from the sea-ice.  They were away three days and found the pulling very hard.  “At the corner of the bay the Barrier was buckled into round ridges which took a couple of hours to cross.  We marched for some time alongside an enormous crevasse, which lay like a street near us.  I examined it at one point which must have been 15 feet wide, and though it was impossible to see the bottom for snow cornices it was undoubtedly open as I could hear a seal blowing below."[128]

Bowers’ letter describes them dragging their heavy load up the slope to Castle Rock:  “It took us all the morning to reach Saddle Camp with the loads in two journeys.  I found a steady plod up a steep hill without spells is better and less exhausting than a rush and a number of rests.  This theory I put into practice with great success.  I don’t know whether everybody saw eye to eye with me over the idea of getting to the top without a spell.  After the second sledge was up Atkinson said:  ’I don’t mind you as a rule, but there are times when I positively hate you.’”

Defoe could have written another Robinson Crusoe with Hut Point instead of San Juan Fernandez.  Our sledging supplies were mostly exhausted and we depended upon the seals we could kill for food, fuel and light.  We were smutty as sweeps from the blubber we burned; and a more blackguard-looking crew would have been hard to find.  We spent our fine days killing, cutting up and carrying in seal when we could find them, or climbing the various interesting hills and craters which abound here, and our evenings in long discussions which seldom settled anything.  Some looked after dogs, and others after ponies; some made geological collections; others sketched the wonderful sunsets; but before and above all we ate and slept.  We must have spent a good twelve hours asleep in our bags every day after our six weeks’ sledging.  And we rested.  Perhaps this is not everybody’s notion of a very good time, but it was good enough for us.