At lunch time the sky lightened up and the drift temporarily ceased.  I thought we were going to get in a good march, but on starting again the drift came thicker than ever and soon the course grew wild.  We went on for 2 miles and then I decided to camp.  So here we are with a full blizzard blowing.  I told Wilson I should camp if it grew thick, and hope he and Meares have stopped where they were.  They saw Evans start back from No. 11 Camp before leaving.  I trust they have got in something of a march before stopping.  This continuous bad weather is exceedingly trying, but our own ponies are quite comfortable this time, I’m glad to say.  We have built them extensive snow walls behind which they seem to get quite comfortable shelter.  We are five in a tent yet fairly comfortable.

Our ponies’ coats are certainly getting thicker and I see no reason why we shouldn’t get to the 80th parallel if only the weather would give us a chance.

Bowers is wonderful.  Throughout the night he has worn no head-gear but a common green felt hat kept on with a chin stay and affording no cover whatever for the ears.  His face and ears remain bright red.  The rest of us were glad to have thick Balaclavas and wind helmets.  I have never seen anyone so unaffected by the cold.  To-night he remained outside a full hour after the rest of us had got into the tent.  He was simply pottering about the camp doing small jobs to the sledges, &c.  Cherry-Garrard is remarkable because of his eyes.  He can only see through glasses and has to wrestle with all sorts of inconveniences in consequence.  Yet one could never guess it—­for he manages somehow to do more than his share of the work.

Tuesday, February 14.—­13 Camp. 7 miles 650 yards.  A disappointing day:  the weather had cleared, the night was fine though cold, temperature well below zero with a keen S.W. breeze.  Soon after the start we struck very bad surface conditions.  The ponies sank lower than their hocks frequently and the soft patches of snow left by the blizzard lay in sandy heaps, making great friction for the runners.  We struggled on, but found Gran with Weary Willy dropping to the rear.  I consulted Oates as to distance and he cheerfully proposed 15 miles for the day!  This piqued me somewhat and I marched till the sledge meter showed 6 1/2 miles.  By this time Weary Willy had dropped about three-quarters of a mile and the dog teams were approaching.  Suddenly we heard much barking in the distance, and later it was evident that something had gone wrong.  Oates and then I hurried back.  I met Meares, who told me the dogs of his team had got out of hand and attacked Weary Willy when they saw him fall.  Finally they had been beaten off and W.W. was being led without his sledge.  W.W. had been much bitten, but luckily I think not seriously:  he appears to have made a gallant fight, and bit and shook some of the dogs with his teeth.  Gran did his best, breaking his ski stick.  Meares broke his dog stick—­one way and another the dogs must have had a rocky time, yet they seemed to bear charmed lives when their blood is up, as apparently not one of them has been injured.