Chap­ter IV immers­es the read­er in the harsh Arc­tic land­scape, where the unre­lent­ing cold is a con­stant com­pan­ion for the crew of the Ere­bus. The fol­low­ing day brings the same bit­ing chill, and while the stew­ards remain busy, dry­ing laun­dry on the rig­ging, Gore pre­pares for the ele­ments by wear­ing leather breech­es beneath woolen lay­ers. The reflec­tive sun bounc­ing off the ice cre­ates an almost sur­re­al atmos­phere, where the vast, emp­ty space plays tricks on the mind, turn­ing even the most ordi­nary objects into per­ceived threats. The glare and iso­la­tion fos­ter an eerie sense of dis­ori­en­ta­tion, height­en­ing the psy­cho­log­i­cal toll of their sur­round­ings. The blind­ing ice reflec­tion seems to warp real­i­ty, cre­at­ing an oppres­sive envi­ron­ment where the line between nor­mal­cy and hal­lu­ci­na­tion blurs, a con­stant reminder of the toll that such a des­o­late set­ting takes on both body and mind.

Gore finds solace in the soli­tude that the Arc­tic offers, seek­ing the sim­plic­i­ty of hunt­ing to escape the bur­dens of human con­nec­tion. He recalls a ten-hour stint on the ice from a decade ear­li­er, where he fought against the unyield­ing cold and iso­la­tion. That expe­ri­ence, though phys­i­cal­ly drain­ing, left him with a sense of pride in his endurance, but it also came with the real­iza­tion of the toll the harsh con­di­tions took on his body. Now old­er and phys­i­cal­ly dimin­ished, Gore finds a sense of peace in his soli­tary endeav­ors, appre­ci­at­ing the qui­et reprieve that the bar­ren wilder­ness pro­vides. His time alone allows him to shed the weight of com­pan­ion­ship and soci­etal expec­ta­tions, offer­ing a kind of men­tal clar­i­ty that is dif­fi­cult to find in the com­pa­ny of oth­ers. The still­ness of the Arc­tic envi­ron­ment is a reprieve, not only from exter­nal pres­sures but also from the inter­nal strug­gles that come with human rela­tion­ships.

Dur­ing his soli­tary hunt­ing jour­ney, Gore encoun­ters a mea­ger catch—a cou­ple of par­tridges whose small amount of meat hard­ly jus­ti­fies the effort spent. Despite his per­sis­tence, the land­scape offers lit­tle reward, with the empti­ness of the ter­rain pro­vid­ing noth­ing of real sub­stance to his search for wildlife. The cold, vast expanse of King William Land presents noth­ing more stim­u­lat­ing than bar­ren empti­ness. As his thirst becomes unbear­able, it becomes the dri­ving force for his return to the ship, push­ing him to move through the frozen land­scape. The des­o­late ter­rain, with its tow­er­ing snow piles resem­bling a ruined tem­ple, only adds to the sense of iso­la­tion that defines his expe­ri­ence. In this frozen wilder­ness, he is forced to con­front not only his phys­i­cal needs but also the spir­i­tu­al void that the empti­ness cre­ates.

As Gore tra­vers­es King William Land, mem­o­ries of etch­ings he’s seen come to mind, where the intri­cate details of the Arc­tic are sim­pli­fied for the sake of illus­tra­tion. How­ev­er, the real­i­ty he faces is much harsh­er than the flat, sim­pli­fied images, filled with dif­fi­cult pres­sure ridges that slow his progress and cre­ate obsta­cles on his jour­ney. The harsh land­scape, once roman­ti­cized in art and lit­er­a­ture, reveals its true nature: a for­mi­da­ble, unyield­ing envi­ron­ment that tests the lim­its of human endurance. Gore is acute­ly aware of an impend­ing storm, the warn­ing signs of which loom in the dis­tance as he strug­gles to make his way back to the safe­ty of the ship. Despite his aware­ness of the grow­ing dan­ger, he approach­es the sit­u­a­tion with a calm accep­tance, acknowl­edg­ing that sur­vival in such a place requires a prag­mat­ic mind­set. The urgency of the storm is real, but it does not stir pan­ic with­in him; instead, it fuels his deter­mi­na­tion to con­tin­ue onward, rely­ing on sheer endurance to push through.

Through­out his jour­ney, Gore’s men­tal state remains one of calm accep­tance. Life at the edge of sur­vival offers lit­tle room for drama­ti­za­tion or need­less fear, a mind­set that has been cul­ti­vat­ed over years of fac­ing hard­ship in such a relent­less envi­ron­ment. When Fitz­james inquires about his lack of fear or hope, Gore’s response cuts to the core of his worldview—love, he states, is per­haps the great­est cat­a­stro­phe of all. The emo­tion­al weight of this state­ment reflects the grim real­i­ty that Gore has come to accept, where the pur­suit of sur­vival often leaves lit­tle space for per­son­al attach­ments. As the winds pick up and fatigue sets in, Gore becomes hyper-focused, mov­ing like a machine through the snow, instinc­tive­ly push­ing for­ward. The harsh­ness of the envi­ron­ment demands this sin­gle-mind­ed­ness, where sur­vival is not about feel­ing but about endur­ing. His jour­ney becomes a mechan­i­cal process, where each step for­ward is tak­en with­out thought, dri­ven only by the need to stay alive.

Final­ly, as Gore moves through the snow-cov­ered land­scape, his instincts lead him to spot a seal near a hole in the ice. With­out hes­i­ta­tion, he draws his gun, fir­ing instinc­tive­ly. The shot, how­ev­er, pro­duces a sound that hor­ri­fies him, echo­ing through the des­o­late wilder­ness and remind­ing him of the haunt­ing pres­ence of human­i­ty even in the most remote cor­ners of the earth. The sound cuts through the silence, a stark reminder of the fragili­ty of human exis­tence in such a bru­tal envi­ron­ment. It serves as a chill­ing moment of reflec­tion for Gore, encap­su­lat­ing the com­plex­i­ty of human emotions—survival, guilt, and the inescapable real­i­ty of their sit­u­a­tion in the unfor­giv­ing Arc­tic.