It was 1.15 a.m. when we set out.  We had not had a long sleep, but it was very important to avail ourselves of this fine, clear weather while it lasted; we knew by experience that up here in the neighbourhood of the Butcher’s the weather was not to be depended upon.  From the outward journey we knew that the distance from the beacon where our camp was to the depot at the Butcher’s was thirteen and a half miles.  We had not put up more than two beacons on this stretch, but the ground was of such a nature that we thought we could not go wrong.  That it was not so easy to find the way, in spite of the beacons, we were soon to discover.  In the fine, clear weather, and with Hanssen’s sharp eyes, we picked up both our beacons.  Meanwhile we were astonished at the appearance of the mountains.  As I have already mentioned, we thought the weather was perfectly clear when we reached the Butcher’s for the first time, on November 20.  I then took a bearing from the tent of the way we had come up on to the plateau between the mountains, and carefully recorded it.  After passing our last beacon, when we were beginning to approach the Butcher’s —­ as we reckoned —­ we were greatly surprised at the aspect of our surroundings.  Last time —­ on November 20 —­ we had seen mountains on the west and north, but a long way off:  Now the whole of that part of the horizon seemed to be filled with colossal mountain masses, which were right over us.  What in the world was the meaning of this?  Was it witchcraft?  I am sure I began to think so for a moment.  I would readily have taken my most solemn oath that I had never seen that landscape before in my life.  We had now gone the full distance, and according to the beacons we had passed, we ought to be on the spot.  This was very strange; in the direction in which I had taken the bearing of our ascent, we now only saw the side of a perfectly unknown mountain, sticking up from the plain.  There could be absolutely no way down in that precipitous wall.  Only on the north-west did the ground give the impression of allowing a descent; there a natural depression seemed to be formed, running down towards the Barrier, which we could see far, far away.

We halted and discussed the situation.  “Hullo!” Hanssen suddenly exclaimed, “somebody has been here before.” —­ “Yes,” broke in Wisting; “I’m hanged if that isn’t my broken ski that I stuck up by the depot.”  So it was Wisting’s broken ski that brought us out of this unpleasant situation.  It was a good thing he put it there —­ very thoughtful, in any case.  I now examined the place with the glasses, and by the side of a snow mound, which proved to be our depot, but might easily have escaped our notice, we could see the ski sticking up out of the snow.  We cheerfully set our course for the spot, but did not reach it until we had gone three miles.