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to follow. I looked for any clues on the ground. Skiing over
to the flagline on my right I thought I could feel a groomed
surface under my skis, the snow was hard packed like a track.
The direction also fitted what I remembered of the station
map. Happy with my decision I set off along the flagline, eager
not to waste any more time - but within a few hundred metres
I stopped. I remembered how easily I'd been fooled by the fuel
bladders earlier that day. The thought of another stupid mistake
causing me to ski pointless kilometres in the wrong direction
made me pause. A vision formed of skiing right out of the Pole
altogether and finding myself out on the polar plateau having
missed the station in the bad weather. The premonition caused
a shudder. Not only did I need to make the station to collect
my resupply of food and fuel, I was mentally clinging to the
promise of company, of respite from the claustrophobia of my
alone-ness. I reluctantly unzipped my jacket to search for my
GPS, letting in a rush of cold air and the unpleasant wetness
of driving snow that made me wince in discomfort. Shuffling
forward on my skis to get a reading, the small unit flashed a
thick black arrow on screen pointing straight towards me like
an accusation of stupidity. The South Pole was in exactly the
opposite direction. I had followed the wrong flagline.
I tried to repress the surge of frustrated annoyance and
remain calm as I skied back to the junction. I inspected
the remaining two flaglines, neither of which headed in the
direction indicated by my GPS to the Pole. I stood listening
to the howl of the wind through the flag canes, watching the
snow being whipped past my face and felt enraged into a fury
of self-pity. Why did this have to be so complicated?
Feeling shamefully sorry for myself, I stomped towards the
flagline on my left. I would follow this line of flags to their bitter
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