Crossing such a zone on a journey north, is only half the problem, for there is always the return to be figured on.
Though the motto of the Arctic must be, "Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof," we ardently hoped there might not be violent winds until we were south of this zone again on the return.
The next march was to be Bartlett's last, and he let himself out to do his best.

The going was fairly good, but the weather was thick.

There was a strong northerly wind blowing full in our faces, bitter and insistent, and the temperature was in the minus thirties.

But this northerly wind, though hard to struggle against, was better than an easterly or westerly one, either of which would have set us adrift in open water, while, as it was, the wind was closing up every lead behind us and thus making things easier for Bartlett's supporting party on its return.

True, the wind pressure was forcing to the south the ice over which we traveled, and thus losing us miles of distance; but the advantage of frozen leads was more than compensation for this loss.
So good was Bartlett's pace during the last half of the march that if I stopped an instant for any purpose I had to jump on a sledge or run, to catch up, and during the last few miles I walked beside Bartlett in advance.