We took our bearings from the Amsterdam Islands and steered north for Taakeheimen. Here the fog came down quite unexpectedly. We had not looked for it so quickly, nor such a big stretch of it; it was certainly not local, but a field of colossal dimensions lay before us. For two complete hours we flew over it; a stretch of fully 200 kilometers. Occasionally we passed over a little break or hole in it, but never big enough to give me an opportunity to take my bearings. These holes were of great interest. Through them I got an idea of the territory below. The sea here was filled with small ice with water amongst it. These conditions continued to 82° n. and I am certain that a vessel with any power at all could have navigated it. A little after eight o’clock it began suddenly to clear and in a second the fog disappeared as though charmed. And there below us and in front of us lay the great shining plain of the notorious pack-ice. “How many misfortunes have you been responsible for during the passage of years, you vast ‘Whiteness’? What have you not seen in the way of need and misery? And you have also met those who set their foot upon your neck and brought you to your knees. Can you remember Nansen and Johansen? Can you remember the Duke of the Abruzzi? Can you remember Peary? Can you remember how they crossed over you and how you put obstacles in their way? But they brought you to your knees. You must respect these heroes. But what have you done with the numbers who sought to free themselves from your embrace in vain? What have you done with the many proud ships which were steered direct towards your heart never to be seen again? What have you done with them I ask? No clew, no sign--only the vast white waste.” Quite naturally an airman’s thoughts turn towards a landing place. Should his motor fail and he has no place to land, he is indeed in a bad way. But no matter where we looked there was not the sign of a landing place. So far as we could see the ice looked like a number of furrows, stretched out without rhyme or reason, and between the furrows rose a high stone fence. Conditions however were unusual, the fence took up more room than the plowed field. Had the field been even and flat it would not have appeared so strange, but a flat part simply did not exist. The plow seemed to have been everywhere between stones and stubble. A little brook was also there, but so small that one could have jumped over it anywhere. A more monotonous territory it had never been my lot to see. Not the slightest change. Had I not been engaged in making many kinds of observations and notes it is certain that the uniformity of the outlook and the monotony of the engine’s hum would have sent me to sleep, but fortunately my task kept me awake. Riiser-Larsen confessed to me later that he had had a little snooze. I can understand that as he had monotonous work to do.