Published on December 9, 2014
January 9 th , 1913, I buried my friend still in his sleeping bag beneath a mound of snow with blocks on top, and I fixed a rudimentary cross made of old sledge runners. With Mertz now dead, I am afraid my chances are altogether cooked, but I shall do my utmost to the last. The food is almost gone now and my own physical state is deplorable. I have open sores on my nose and lips, my hair is coming out in clumps, and my skin peeling off my legs. I still have a hundred miles to go. I am now alone for the rest of this journey. God stay with me.