But it was hard to realize this.
That hope which is said to spring eternal in the human breast always buoyed me up with the belief that, as a matter of course, we should be able to return along the white road by which we had come.
Sometimes I would climb to the top of a pinnacle of ice to the north of our camp and strain my eyes into the whiteness which lay beyond, trying to imagine myself already at the Pole.

We had come so far, and the capricious ice had placed so few obstructions in our path, that now I dared to loose my fancy, to entertain the image which my will had heretofore forbidden to my imagination--the image of ourselves at the goal.
We had been very fortunate with the leads so far, but I was in constant and increasing dread lest we should encounter an impassable one toward the very end.

With every successive march, my fear of such impassable leads had increased.

At every pressure ridge I found myself hurrying breathlessly forward, fearing there might be a lead just beyond it, and when I arrived at the summit I would catch my breath with relief--only to find myself hurrying on in the same way at the next ridge.
At our camp on the 5th of April I gave the party a little more sleep than at the previous ones, as we were all pretty well played out and in need of rest.

I took a latitude sight, and this indicated our position to be 89 deg.