fatigues and privations of that journey from the Lena River to Bering
Straits, I sometimes marvel that we ever came through it at all; and yet
this part of the voyage was a mere picnic compared to the subsequent
trip along the Arctic coast. And indeed this was bad enough, for in
addition to physical hardships there were hundreds of minor discomforts,
a description of which would need a separate chapter. Vermin and bodily
filth were our chief annoyances, but there were other minor miseries
almost as bad as these. One was the wet inside the sleds at night. You
lay down to sleep, and in a short time your breath had formed a layer of
ice over the face, and the former melting in the warmer region of the
neck gradually trickled down under your furs, until by morning every
stitch of underclothing was saturated. On very cold nights the eyelids
would be frozen firmly together during sleep, and one would have to
stagger blindly into a _stancia_ or _povarnia_ before they could be
opened. Again, on starting from a _stancia_ at sunset, the hood of the
sled is closed down on its helpless occupant, who must remain in this
ambulant ice-box for an indefinite period, until it is re-opened from
the outside, for no amount of shouting would ever attract the attention
of the driver. The midnight hours were the worst, when we lay awake
wondering how long it would be before the last remnant of life was
frozen out of us. Two or three times during the night there would be a
halt, and I would start up and listen intently in the darkness to the
low sound of voices and the quick nervous stamp of the reindeer seeking
for moss. Then came an interval of suspense. Was it a _povarnia_, or
must I endure more hours of agony? But a lurch and a heave onward of the
sled was only too often the unwelcome reply. At last the joyous moment
would arrive when I could distinguish those ever-pleasant sounds, the
creaking of a door followed by the crackling of sticks. A _povarnia_ at
last! But even then it was generally necessary to yell and hammer at the
sides of your box of torture for half an hour or so, the drivers having
fled to the cosy fireside intent upon warming themselves, and oblivious
of every one else. No wonder that after a night of this description we
often regarded even a filthy _povarnia_ as little less luxurious than a
Carlton Hotel.

The cold was so great that I had not slept for thirty-six hours before
reaching Ebelach, but we soon made up for it he