Life Raft - Alone in Antarctica: The First Woman to Ski Solo Across the Southern Ice - page 121

past few hours were forgotten and replaced with a deep sense
of satisfaction: I had made it.
I was greeted by a cluster of waving figures a short distance
from the Pole near the visitors' camp. It was my friends from
the Icelandic convoy, returned from the coast, and they had
been waiting for me as promised. The wind propelled snow
between us so that it was impossible to talk to each other
but I could hear muffled cheers of congratulations as I was
enfolded in hugs and slapped appreciatively on the back. After
a few minutes I was allowed to ski forward alone, still pulling
my sledges, so that I could cover the last few feet and lay my
hands on the silver sphere. For most people, this moment is the
conclusion of the journey, an experience of ultimate triumph.
The last time I had approached this sphere on skis I had been
filled with pride and gratification. I expected to feel the same
again but noticed something slightly different. This time,
reaching the Pole was a pitstop, a marker in the course of a
larger journey not yet half-completed.
I don't think it would ever be possible to arrive at the South
Pole after a long journey to get there and not feel a sense of
occasion, but as I saw my reflection in the sphere's curved
surfaces I was aware of a reaction approaching resentment.
It suddenly seemed ridiculous that this gaudy bauble of a
monument should be the cause of so much heartache and trial.
In that moment it struck me that the Pole had taken on the role
of nefarious siren, luring me and dozens of others, year after
year, to give so much of themselves for the reward of laying
their hands on this makeshift marker at the end of the Earth. It
was teacher but also tormentor. With the promise of profound
revelations and new wisdom it had enticed those pioneering
explorers a century ago just as it seduced new generations now.