Excerpt from 9 April:
My fingers are turning black, the victim of severe frostbite. The bright sun low on the horizon causes an incessant headache that saps my resolve to carry on. All around us the ice is melting, resulting on occasion in the dogs slipping and sliding into the once frozen Polar sea. They panic, dragging the sledges which carry the meager remains of our food, shelter and moustache wax with them.
By Jupiter I am yet to be beaten. C.F.