My impressions of that day are of groping our way, for Bowers and I were pulling a light sledge ahead to make the track, through a vague white wall.  First a confused crowd of men behind us gathered round the leading pony sledge, pushing it forward, the poor beast barely able to struggle out of the holes it made as it plunged forward.  The others were induced to follow, and after a start had been made the regular man-hauling party went back to fetch their load.  There was not one man there who would willingly have caused pain to a living thing.  But what else was to be done—­we could not leave our pony depot in that bog.  Hour after hour we plugged on:  and we dare not halt for lunch, we knew we could never start again.  After crossing many waves huge pressure ridges suddenly showed themselves all round, and we got on to a steep rise with the coastal chasm on our right hand appearing as a great dip full of enormous pressure.  Scott was naturally worried about crevasses, and though we knew there was a way through, the finding of it in the gloom was most difficult.  For two hours we zig-zagged about, getting forward it is true, but much bewildered, and once at any rate almost bogged.  Scott joined us, and we took off our ski so as to find the crevasses, and if possible a hard way through.  Every step we sank about fifteen inches, and often above our knees.  Meanwhile Snatcher was saving the situation in snow-shoes, and led the line of ponies.  Snippets nearly fell back into a big crevasse, into which his hind quarters fell:  but they managed to unharness him, and scramble him out.

I do not know how long we had been going when Scott decided to follow the chasm.  We found a big dip with hard ice underneath, and it was probably here that we made the crossing:  we could now see the ring of pressure behind us.  Almost it was decided to make the depot here, but the ponies still plugged on in the most plucky way, though they had to be driven.  Scott settled to go as far as they could be induced to march, and they did wonderfully.  We had never thought that they would go a mile:  but painfully they marched for eleven hours without a long halt, and covered a distance which we then estimated at seven miles.  But our sledge-meters were useless being clogged with the soft snow, and we afterwards came to believe the distance was not so great:  probably not more than five.  When we had reached a point some two miles from the top of the snow divide which fills the Gateway we camped, thankful to rest, but more thankful still that we need drive those weary ponies no more.  Their rest was near.  It was a horrid business, and the place was known as Shambles Camp.

Oates came up to Scott as he stood in the shadow of Mount Hope.  “Well!  I congratulate you, Titus,” said Wilson.  “And I thank you, Titus,” said Scott.

And that was the end of the Barrier Stage.

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