Bald-Headed Men - Alone in Antarctica: The First Woman to Ski Solo Across the Southern Ice - page 145

fuel so that it can be burnt as a gas, had become jammed in
the narrow screwneck. I couldn't refill the bottle, and therefore
couldn't use my stove, until I removed the pump. I hoped that
warming the bottle in my sleeping bag overnight might allow
me to loosen the pump in the morning but I winced at the
touch of the cold metal bottle which burned like white heat
as I tucked it between my knees, even though it was wrapped
in a fleece jacket. The sickly smell of stove fuel floated upward
through the folds of my sleeping bag - a smell that I suspected
would linger in the material forever as a result. Afraid of
oversleeping and losing valuable ski time, I tucked my tiny
alarm in the folds of my hat that I wore to sleep near my left
ear so that I would be able to hear it clearly. I'd discovered that
unless the alarm was close to my ear, the sound would get lost
in the volume of a sleeping bag.
As I lay still, waiting for my body heat to warm the insulated
space around me, all the extra objects I slept with to keep them
from freezing made me feel penned in. It was important that I
didn't move around too much in my sleep in case I damaged
any of the equipment tucked around my body. As a result
even the most natural sleeping position felt a little contrived.
Lying tensely on the floor of the tent trying to block out the
lonesome sound of the wind and not to fidget, I was tormented
by memories of sleeping with nothing but a duvet pulled over
me, of having space to move arms and legs as I pleased, the
freedom of a mattress…
No sooner had I opened my eyes than I reached for the door
zip to check the weather. I felt a surge of relief; I could see blue.
Even better, when I fished the fuel bottle from the depths of my
sleeping bag the pump gave with an easy twist and was free.