“Tuesday, December 5.  Camp 30.  Noon.  We awoke this morning to a raging howling blizzard.  The blows we have had hitherto have lacked the very fine powdering snow, that especial feature of the blizzard.  To-day we have it fully developed.  After a minute or two in the open one is covered from head to foot.  The temperature is high, so that what falls or drives against one sticks.  The ponies—­heads, tails, legs and all parts not protected by their rugs—­are covered with ice; the animals are standing deep in snow, the sledges are almost covered, and huge drifts above the tents.  We have had breakfast, rebuilt the walls, and are now again in our bags.  One cannot see the next tent, let alone the land.  What on earth does such weather mean at this time of year?  It is more than our share of ill-fortune, I think, but the luck may turn yet....

“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, etc.; water drips from the tent poles and door, lies on the floor-cloth, 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.

“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 floor-cloth.  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!"[215]

Bowers describes the situation as follows: 

“It is blowing a blizzard such as one might expect to be driven at us by all the powers of darkness.  It may be interesting to describe it, as it is my first experience of a really warm blizzard, and I hope to be troubled by cold ones only, or at least moderate ones only, in future as regards temperature.