Soon, however, the wind once more veered to the south and south-west.

These high temperatures, combined with the strong changeable winds that we had had of late, led me to conclude that the ice all around us was rotting and breaking up and that the moment of our deliverance from the icy maw of the Antarctic was at hand.
On December 20, after discussing the question with Wild, I informed all hands that I intended to try and make a march to the west to reduce the distance between us and Paulet Island.

A buzz of pleasurable anticipation went round the camp, and every one was anxious to get on the move.

So the next day I set off with Wild, Crean, and Hurley, with dog teams, to the westward to survey the route.

After travelling about seven miles we mounted a small berg, and there as far as we could see stretched a series of immense flat floes from half a mile to a mile across, separated from each other by pressure-ridges which seemed easily negotiable with pick and shovel.