grumbling of
the ice, surging around us with the impulse of the tides, and for
punctuation the shock and jar of our crashing assaults upon the floes.

We steamed northward into the fog beyond Etah, Greenland, on the
afternoon of August 18, 1908. This was the beginning of the last stage
of the _Roosevelt's_ journey. All now on board would, if they lived, be
with me until my return the following year. As an ungentle reminder of
what was ahead of us, though going at half speed because of the fog, we
struck a small berg a little way out from the harbor. Had the
_Roosevelt_ been an ordinary ship instead of the sturdy ice-fighter that
she is, my story might have ended right here. As it was, the shock of
the impact jarred things considerably. But the berg suffered more than
the ship, which only shook herself like a dog coming out of the water,
and with the main mass of the berg swaying heavily on one side from the
blow we had given it, and a large fragment we had broken off churning
the water on the other side, the _Roosevelt_ scraped between them and
went on.

This little incident made a strong impression on the new members of my
party, and I did not think it necessary to tell them that it was only a
mosquito bite to the crunching and grinding between the jaws of the
heavier ice that was in store for us a little farther on. We were
working in a northwesterly direction toward the Ellesmere Land side, and
headed for Cape Sabine, of terrible memories. As we steamed on, the ice
became thicker, and we had to turn south to get out of the way of it,
worming our course among the loose floes. The _Roosevelt_ avoided the
heavier ice; but the lighter pack she shoved aside without much
difficulty. South of Brevoort Island we were fortunate in finding a
strip of open water, and steamed northward again, keeping close to the
shore.

It must be remembered that from Etah to Cape Sheridan, for the greater
part of the course, the shores on either side are clearly visible,--on
the east the Greenland coast, on the west the coast of Ellesmere Land
and Grant Land. At Cape Beechey, the narrowest and most dangerous part,
the channel is only eleven miles wide, and when the air is clear it
almost seems as if a rifle bullet might be fired from one side to the
other. These waters, save in exceptional seasons, are filled with the
heaviest kind of ice, which is constantly floating southward from the
Polar Sea toward Baffin Bay.

Whether this channel w