Madhouse at the End of the Earth: The Belgica's Journey into the Dark Antarctic Night

by Julian Sancton

Several miles into their trek back to the ship, the travelers heard the sound of frolicking whales. Ordinarily these were enchanting noises. But now, coming through the fog from every direction, they indicated that the men’s fears had come true: the pack had cracked up behind them. They were surrounded by bands of open water, cut off from the large floe that held the ship. The ice on which they walked had fractured into loosely interlocking pans. The three men tried at first to jump from one to the next, hoping in this way to reach solid ice. But as evening fell, the wind changed direction and floes spread out across the water. The sledging party was suddenly cast adrift. All around them, pans hurtled and ground chaotically into one another, getting smaller with every collision. By nighttime, the men managed to reach a square floe no wider than twenty meters and found a reasonably solid area on which to pitch their tent. They had no choice but to spend the night on an island of ice. “I cannot imagine a position in the polar pack more hopeless,” wrote Cook.