Hurley: “Wax poetical. Magnificent night and morning with crystal-clear atmosphere. The moon almost on the horizon resembled the golden horn of fairy tales pending in a lustrous formament bespangled with brilliants. One’s imagination running riot might conjecture a blast sounded on the golden horn would break the enchantment of the still night and disclose a calm sea of scattered pack. The beau ideal of our dreams. As the borned moon dipped below the horizon, a faint orange blush suffused its path, which broadened and glowed, till dawn spread the sky with tints of pink and blue. The dissipation of night’s enchantment disclosed immense pools of still water surrounding our now island floe from which clouds of frost smoke lazily arose—golden in the rising sun—like smoke from a prairie fire…”

— Frank Hurley