Forty-Six - Alone in Antarctica: The First Woman to Ski Solo Across the Southern Ice - page 87

aim for them, grateful for the brief respite from the tugging
at my hips. The icy patches enlarged and linked together until
I found myself able to glide almost exclusively on the shiny
pools, never touching snow. I felt like I was skating rather
than skiing. By the end of the day I had covered almost fifteen
nautical miles. My grin was so wide when the figure appeared
on my GPS that it cracked the skin of my lips. A spell had been
broken. I was sure that things were going to get better.
The voices of reluctance in my head were still as strong the
following morning but I found it just a little easier to ignore
them. The moment I emerged from the arched entrance of
the Hilleberg into the acerbic wind I felt almost glad to be
in the open. The old sense of euphoria crept through me and
although in the bad visibility I couldn't tell if my sight stretched
a thousand miles or a few feet, it seemed as if my spirit soared
to fill the space I could sense around me.
My tent had been deluged by windblown snow while I
had slept. The white loess filled every hollow, repairing all
the imperfections left by my footprints and ski tracks, and
formed graceful sloping drifts against the sides of my little
green shelter. A ridge, grown almost as tall as the tent, trailed
downwind. The particles of snow, so delicate when they fell,
had coalesced to form a solid mass as dense as soil. I stumbled
around the perimeter with my shovel, the dim light making
it difficult to see the heaps of snow even though they were
at least two foot high. I sank to my knees to dig and became
submerged in the spindrift being blown along the surface in
a thick layer. It was like sinking into a white river. Protected
within my layers of fleece and windproof membrane, with
the fur-edged hood of my jacket pulled close in a tight circle
around my face, peering out through cheerfully tinted goggles