I have the honour to inform your Majesty that today, 5th April, at 0700 hours Greenwich Mean Time, the British Trans-Arctic Expedition by dead reckoning reached the North Pole 407 days after setting out from Point Barrow, Alaska.
The land looks like a fairytale.
Better a live donkey than a dead lion.
Has not the time come to revise this question from the very beginning and to see if we do not possibly possess any other means than the sledge for crossing these tracts?...This means is the air balloon.
Minute by minute, degree by degree, we have stolen forwards, with painful effort.
When comrades tramp the road to anywhere through a lonely blizzard-ridden land in hunger, want and weariness the interests, ties and fates of each are interwoven in a wondrous fabric of friendship and affection.
Day after day we had travelled through silence which was absolute, not a depressing silence, but a silence that had never known life.
As we groped our way back that night, sleepless, icy, and dog-tired in the dark and the wind and the drift, a crevasse seemed almost a friendly gift.
When I came out of the Arctic that spring of 1916, it seemed incredible to me that almost the whole world was engaged in a war that had raged for nearly two years while we were cut off from news.
On the 11th we prepared for our journey, having first collected a few old skins of deer, to serve us as food;
The blizzards departed, the cold moved down from the South Pole, and opposite the moon in a coal-black sky the cast-up light from the departed sun burned like a bonfire.
My previous experience had shown that the type of equipment used on mountaineering expeditions in the Himalayas was entirely inadequate against the rigours of the Patagonian climate.
Many times I have thanked God for a bite of raw dog.
Watch out where those huskies go, don't you eat that yellow snow.
Great God! this is an awful place.