La piste d'hiver (The Winter Trail)
Ce poème d'un auteur inconnu, écrit en
ce Noël 1913 pour le « Polar Star », « journal »
de l'équipe sud, décrit l'essence même des excursions
vécues le long de la côte arctique en hiver :
Trials of the Winter Trail
Hoar frost clinging to ice cold tent;
A ringing shout "Wake up"! well meant.
A gentle movement greets the ear,
A tousled head will soon appear.
A hand stretched forth, weak with cramp;
A sputter from the Primus lamp.
A shivering form, both stiff and sore
Crawls slowly out, then shivering more
Cooks oatmeal mush, always the same
Upon the primus's angry flame.
Breakfast done, we sally forth;
Brilliant flashes in the north.
The dogs to feed, the sledge to load,
And we are once more on the road.
The pace is fast for a mile or so
Scattering ice, or cutting through snow.
The flickering flame from the lamp ahead
Shows the gleaming trail of the leading sled'.
Darkness lifts, a ruddy glow
Where "Old Sols" rays were wont to show.
A sudden gust, a lowering sky
Whirling flakes, and the drift blows high.
Dusk approaches; a warning shout,
A widening crack, then a sharp lookout.
A burst of speed and we cross the lead,
To hurry now we have no need.
Among rough ice; a sandspit near;
A native house, the men appear.
A silent greeting; a willing hand,
A crowded passage; no room to stand.
A cheerful glow from the stove near by;
Kamiks turned and hung to dry.
A frozen meal, except the tea;
Soon slumbering 'neath the furs are we.
 
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