Scott’s Last Expedition, vol. i. pp. 180-81.
 Scott’s Last Expedition,
vol. i. pp. 187-188. Scott
started for the Pole on November 1, 1911. Amundsen started
on September 8, 1911, but had to turn back owing to low
temperatures; he started again on October 19.
 Priestley’s diary.
 Scott’s Last Expedition, vol. i. p. 185.
 See p. 123.
 Scott’s Last Expedition, vol. i. pp. 190-191.
 Scott’s Last Expedition, vol. i. pp. 191-192.
 Wilson camped with the two
dog-teams on the land, and in the
morning saw us floating on the ice-floes through his
field-glasses. He made his way along the peninsula until he
could descend on to the Barrier, where he joined Scott.
 I think he was stiff after standing so many hours.—A. C.-G.
 Scott, The Voyage of the Discovery, vol. i. p. 350.
 Scott’s Last Expedition, vol. i. p. 201.
 Scott’s Last Expedition, vol. i. p. 207.
 My own diary.
 My own diary.
 Bowers’ letter.
THE FIRST WINTER
The highest object that human beings can set before themselves is not the pursuit of any such chimera as the annihilation of the unknown; it is simply the unwearied endeavour to remove its boundaries a little further from our little sphere of action.—HUXLEY.
And so we came back to our comfortable hut. Whatever merit there may be in going to the Antarctic, once there you must not credit yourself for being there. To spend a year in the hut at Cape Evans because you explore is no more laudable than to spend a month at Davos because you have consumption, or to spend an English winter at the Berkeley Hotel. It is just the most comfortable thing and the easiest thing to do under the circumstances.
In our case the best thing was not at all bad, for the hut, as Arctic huts go, was as palatial as is the Ritz, as hotels go. Whatever the conditions of darkness, cold and wind, might be outside, there was comfort and warmth and good cheer within.
And there was a mass of work to be done, as well as at least two journeys of the first magnitude ahead.
When Scott first sat down at his little table at Winter Quarters to start working out a most complicated scheme of weights and averages for the Southern Journey, his thoughts were gloomy, I know. “This is the end of the Pole,” he said to me, when he pulled us off the bergs after the sea-ice had broken up; the loss of six ponies out of the eight with which we started the Depot Journey, the increasing emaciation and weakness of the pony transport as we travelled farther on the Barrier, the arrival of the dogs after their rapid journey home, starved rakes which looked as though they were absolutely done—these were not cheerful recollections with which to start to plan a journey of eighteen hundred miles.