“We had hardly reached the pit,” wrote Bowers, “when a furious wind came on again and we had to camp.  All that night the tent flapped like the noise of musketry, owing to two poles having been broken at the ends and the fit spoilt.  I thought it would end matters by going altogether and lashed it down as much as I could, attaching the apex to a line round my own bag.  The wind abated after 11/2 days and we set out, doing five or six miles before we found ourselves among crevasses."[162]

We had plugged ahead all that day (July 26) in a terrible light, blundering in among pressure and up on to the slopes of Terror.  The temperature dropped from -21 deg. to -45 deg..  “Several times [we] stepped into rotten-lidded crevasses in smooth wind-swept ice.  We continued, however, feeling our way along by keeping always off hard ice-slopes and on the crustier deeper snow which characterizes the hollows of the pressure ridges, which I believed we had once more fouled in the dark.  We had no light, and no landmarks to guide us, except vague and indistinct silhouetted slopes ahead, which were always altering and whose distance and character it was impossible to judge.  We never knew whether we were approaching a steep slope at close quarters or a long slope of Terror, miles away, and eventually we travelled on by the ear, and by the feel of the snow under our feet, for both the sound and the touch told one much of the chances of crevasses or of safe going.  We continued thus in the dark in the hope that we were at any rate in the right direction."[163] And then we camped after getting into a bunch of crevasses, completely lost.  Bill said, “At any rate I think we are well clear of the pressure.”  But there were pressure pops all night, as though some one was whacking an empty tub.

It was Birdie’s picture hat which made the trouble next day.  “What do you think of that for a hat, sir?” I heard him say to Scott a few days before we started, holding it out much as Lucille displays her latest Paris model.  Scott looked at it quietly for a time:  “I’ll tell you when you come back, Birdie,” he said.  It was a complicated affair with all kinds of nose-guards and buttons and lanyards:  he thought he was going to set it to suit the wind much as he would set the sails of a ship.  We spent a long time with our housewifes before this and other trips, for everybody has their own ideas as to how to alter their clothing for the best.  When finished some looked neat, like Bill:  others baggy, like Scott or Seaman Evans:  others rough and ready, like Oates and Bowers:  a few perhaps more rough than ready, and I will not mention names.  Anyway Birdie’s hat became improper immediately it was well iced up.