Altogether we marched eleven miles this day, and camped right in front of the Gateway, which we reckoned to be some thirteen miles away.  We saw no crevasses but crossed ten or twelve very large undulations, and estimated that the dips between them were twelve to fifteen feet.  Mount Hope was bigger than we expected, and beyond it, stretching out into the Barrier as far as we could see, was a great white line of jagged edges, the chaos of pressure which this vast glacier makes as it flows into the comparatively stationary ice of the Barrier.

My own pony Michael was shot after we came into camp.  He was as attractive a little beast as we had.  His light weight helped him on soft surfaces, but his small hoofs let him in farther than most and I notice in Scott’s diary that on November 19 the ponies were sinking half-way to the hock, and Michael once or twice almost to the hock itself.  A highly strung, spirited animal, his off days took the form of fidgets, during which he would be constantly trying to stop and eat snow, and then rush forward to catch up the other ponies.  Life was a constant source of wonder to him, and no movement in the camp escaped his notice.  Before we had been long on the Barrier he developed mischievous habits and became a rope eater and gnawer of other ponies’ fringes, as we called the coloured tassels we hung over their eyes to ward off snow-blindness.  However, he was by no means the only culprit, and he lost his own fringe to Nobby quite early in the proceedings.  It was not that he was hungry, for he never quite finished his own feed.  At any rate he enjoyed the few weeks before he died, pricking up his ears and getting quite excited when anything happened, and the arrival of the dog-teams each morning after he had been tethered sent him to bed with much to dream of.  And I must say his master dreamed pretty regularly too.  Michael was killed right in front of the Gateway on December 4, just before the big blizzard, which, though we did not know it, was on the point of breaking upon us, and he was untying his cloth and chewing up everything he could reach to the last.  “It was decided after we camped, and he had his feed already on:  Meares reported that he had no more food for the dogs.  He walked away, and rolled in the snow on the way down, not having done so when we got in.  He was just like a naughty child all the way, and pulled all out.  He has been a good friend, and has a good record, 82 deg. 23’ S. He was a bit done to-day:  the blizzard had knocked him.  Gallant little Michael!"[213]

As we got into our bags the mountain tops were fuzzy with drift.  We wanted one clear day to get across the chasm:  one short march and the ponies’ task was done.  Their food was nearly finished.  Scott wrote that night:  “We are practically through with the first stage of our journey."[214]