Forty-Six - Alone in Antarctica: The First Woman to Ski Solo Across the Southern Ice - page 94

would leave me without water and without water I was unable
to make food. I could perhaps manage with just the chocolate
and snacks I had with me but I was too far from the Pole to be
able to survive without water to drink. The consequences were
clear. This one small malfunction of the most humble item of kit
I carried with me could mean the end of my entire expedition.
All this effort, all these days of heartache and willpower and
miserable perseverance could be for nothing.
Matches.
The shock of my panic had made me momentarily forget that
when packing in South America I had thrown into my bags a
small pot of emergency matches despite the fact that I carried
no less than three disposable lighters. With my heart beating
hard I struck one of the slender matchsticks. The tip broke
immediately, rendering it useless. I swore. With trembling
hands I struck another, barely daring to breath for fear of
blowing out the tiny bobbing ball of flame. The fuel ignited
and I sat watching the stove prime, unsure if it was the heat of
the fire or the blush of relieved gratitude that was washing over
me. I waited until the stove fizzed into full flow, the central ring
glowing a fierce red, before I dared sit back and consider my
problem. I hadn't expected to need the matches - they'd been
thrown in as an afterthought - so I had no idea how many
sticks were in the pot. Would there be enough to see me as far
as the Pole and my resupply with its fresh lighters? I carefully
emptied the pot of matches onto a dry section of my sleeping
mat and counted them slowly, feeling the stress of anticipation
as I did so. I was still 175 nautical miles from the Pole and at
my current rate of progress I estimated that it would take me a
minimum of thirteen days. I had to light my stove at least twice
every day, so I needed at least twenty-six matches.