THE JOURNAL

The Journal of Peter

I will preface this by saying this is not my writing. I knew that my great-grandfather Peter Whitehead was an explorer and had made several trips to the arctic. From what I can ascertain from his journals he made an attempt at the North Pole in 1907 but was unable to complete the journey. My grandma asked me to help her with some of his notes and journals that she kept, she thought they might make a good book. I found his journal entries from a trip in 1913 and I do not know what to think of it. I have not told my grandma at all about it and I do not know if I really should. Please let me know what I should do with these.

October 19th, 1913

Good Evening,

We made it the furthest we ever had yesterday. Based on notes we had from Peary and the guides estimate we had perhaps two or three days until we reached the pole. But I will not be making the whole journey with the rest of the lads. Cabbot’s leg has soured from the dog bite. The damnable idiot thought to kick at a couple of dogs who had begun a scrap. Captain Turner has sent me, Salem, and Cabbot back to camp 3 to try and save Cabbot’s leg. Salem does not think we can, the toes have gone black and the wound reeks in the worst way. I dearly hope we can get Cabbot back before the rot takes him whole. We have need to ration the oil as to keep warm in the night.

Warmly,

Peter Whitehead

October 20th, 1913

Good Evening,

Today was truly godforsaken. Salem and I have been trading Cabbot from sled to sled to ease the burden on the dogs. We lost the tracks we had laid only a few days before on our way to camp 3 and made near to the Hartford Crevasse. The team strayed too far right on me and before I had the mind to correct them, half the team was over the edge of that empty black abyss and the whole sled was falling. We had to cut the lead dog free before the wretch took the whole sleigh over. Atka was the best lead dog we had and the whole team will sorely miss his leadership and strength. I did not see where he landed, but even now I can hear him crying and whimpering from that icy pit that is now his tomb. His cries are so baleful and solemn I cannot even bear to think what the sort of pain he is going through. Salem checked Cabbot’s wrappings when we settled in the tent. Cabbot’s leg has gone black and sour, the smell absolutely dreadful. I begged Salem to put the wrappings back on as soon as he had removed them from the dark and ruined limb, the stench so foul and loathsome, permeated the tent in a miasma of disease. Salem said that the leg will most certainly have to be taken and we must hasten our pace to Camp 3. On the one hand, I hope that we can get Cabbot to the camp on time, yet on another, I hope we do not, for he has cost me a dog and more importantly another chance at the pole.

Warmly,

Peter Whitehead

Postscript,

It has been several hours since Atka took his terrible fall. I can still hear him baying and whimpering in that ice born crypt he has fallen into. I cannot bear to hear him suffer like this at all, cold and dying of some painful wounds. I have gathered up some pitons and some good rope, as well as some flares, I endeavor to reach him and put the poor wretch out of his misery. I am leaving this journal in Salem's hands in case I do not return.

October 21st, 1913

Good Morning,

I am writing this from the warmth and safety of the tent. The snow has whipped itself into a frenzy, our poor little tent, flaps, and shudders with every gust of frigid northern wind. I went down into Hartford Crevasse last night. My pitons and rope held true in that most ancient of ice. As I descended, I could hear poor Atka whimpering and crying, like a child crying for his mother. Every inch further down that pit of hades his cries got louder and louder as if he knew I was coming to end his misery. I climbed for perhaps 9 fathoms before my feet hit the icy ground. I struck up a flare upon reaching the bottom and began the search for the fallen sled dog. It was little trouble to find the crimson frozen spot where Atka had struck the floor of the crevasse, yet I could not find Atka. His cries echoed through the crevasse as if God himself had fashioned the pit to reverberate all noise throughout itself. The walls of the crevasse were fashioned like that of a hedge maze, filled with nonsensical twists and turns so that I could not readily find my canine companion.