Our four-hour rest break from the agonizing final march was very welcome, but we only got two hour's sleep. The rest of the time was spent on the essential tasks of melting water from snow for drinking and cooking. And, of course, eating took time too.

The ice is moving at a frightful rate of knots. This has forced us to recalculate the active skiing time necessary to reach our goal. In order to ensure success, we have taken a very difficult decision: we have abandoned six of our seven sledges. One sledge we have retained for lead-crossings, and for rescue purposes. Together with the six sledges, we also left behind all equipment which is not absolutely essential for safety and survival. For example, we abandoned one tent, one set of kitchen equipment, and all of our spare clothes.

Our progress has been severely hampered by zero visibility, soft drifting snow, and strong headwinds. To make things still worse, we were faced with a new challenge: during the final stint, two skis snapped on us. We quickly transformed them into one-meter-long mini skis and got underway again. The repair job didn't take long, but we could not afford to lose a minute. One team member got a ski-boot wet while crossing a lead.

Almost total whiteout conditions strained the already tired eyes of our lead skiers.

In spite of all these agonizing challenges, our spirits were lifted by the appearance of the first living creature we have seen for a very long time. A storm bird, probably an Arctic fulmar, circled curiously overhead wondering what on earth we were up to. The feeling was mutual. We stopped skiing to ask each other was this real, or are we just hallucinating in our fatigue. It was real.

This grueling final stint, together with almost no sleep at all, has some team members nodding off on their skis. We are no longer even dreaming of a nice soft bed: sometimes the mere though of leaning on your Exel ski poles and dozing for a second sounds heavenly enough.

All is well with the Expedition.