We had our camp that evening in the middle of a big, filled-up crevasse.  We were a trifle anxious as to what kind of surface we should find farther on; that these few hummocks and old crevasses were all the glacier had to offer us this time, was more than we dared to hope.  But the 2nd came, and brought —­ thank God! —­ no disappointment.  With incredible luck we had slipped past all those ugly and dangerous places, and now, before we knew where we were, we found ourselves safe and sound on the plain below the glacier.  The weather was not first-rate when we started at seven in the evening.  It was fairly thick, and we could only just distinguish the top of Mount Bjaaland.  This was bad, as we were now in the neighbourhood of our depot, and would have liked clear weather to find out where it lay; but instead of clearing, as we hoped, it grew thicker and thicker, and when we had gone about six and three-quarter miles, it was so bad that we thought it best to stop and wait for a while.  We had all the time been going on the erroneous assumption that we had come too far to the east-that is, too near the mountains —­ and under the circumstances —­ in the short gleams that had come from time to time —­ we had not been able to recognize the ground below the glacier.  According to our idea, we were on the east of the depot.  The bearings, which had been taken in thick air, and were now to guide us in this heavy mist, gave no result whatever.  There was no depot to be seen.

We had just swallowed the grateful warm pemmican when the sun suddenly showed itself.  I don’t think the camp was ever broken and the sledges packed in such a short time.  From the moment we jumped out of our bags till the sledges were ready, it only took us fifteen minutes, which is incredibly quick.  “What on earth is that shining over there through the fog?” The question came from one of the lads.  The mist had divided, and was rolling away on both sides; in the western bank something big and white peeped through —­ along ridge running north and south.  Hurrah! it’s Helland Hansen.  Can’t possibly be anything else.  Our only landmark on the west.  We all shouted with joy on meeting this old acquaintance.  But in the direction of the depot the fog hung thick.  We held a brief consultation, and agreed to let it go, to steer for the Butcher’s and put on the pace.  We had food enough, anyhow.  No sooner said than done, and we started off.  It rapidly cleared, and then, on our way towards Helland Hansen, we found out that we had come, not too far to the east, but too far to the west.  But to turn round and begin to search for our depot was not to our liking.  Below Mount Helland Hansen we came up on a fairly high ridge.  We had now gone our fixed distance, and so halted.