Today, at lunch, we are 21 miles from the depot. Ill fortune presses, but better may come. W have had more wind and drift from ahead yesterday; had to stop marching; wind NW, force 4, temperature -35. No human being could face it, and we are worn out nearly.
My right foot has gone, nearly all the toes—two days go I was proud possessor of best feet. These are the steps of my downfall. Like an ass I mixed a small spoonful of curry powder with my melted pemmican—it gave me violent indigestion. I lay awake and in pain all night; woke and felt done on the march; foot went and I didn't know it. A very small measure of neglect and have a foot which is not pleasant to contemplate.
Bowers takes first place in condition, but there is not much to choose after all. The others are still confident of getting through—or pretend to be—I don't know!
We have the last half fill of oil in our primus and a very small quantity of spirit—this alone between us and thirst.
The wind is fair for the moment, and that is perhaps a fact to help. The mileage would have seemed ridiculously small on our outward journey.
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