Bald-Headed Men - Alone in Antarctica: The First Woman to Ski Solo Across the Southern Ice - page 159

grooves in the fine sand-like crystals. The shades of blue in the
folds of opaque ice were so delicate and fragile that it made
me ache with desire to preserve or record them in some way.
I tried to take a picture but even as I did so I knew the digital
echo would be a far cry from the real thing. Nature is shrewd
at creating perfection that is thoroughly beyond our ability to
capture or replicate.
I skied later than usual in an attempt to find somewhere flat
enough for the Hilleberg. I thought I'd found the perfect spot
but as I crawled in through the door on hands and knees I
caught sight of the ground sheet pulled in ruches by an odd
tension. When I flopped outstretched onto it I could see why.
What had appeared to be a flat patch of ground was in fact a
large hump. Even worse, a stubborn shelf of rock hard snow
that had somehow escaped my close inspection of the site
bulged into the left side of the space. I decided I didn't have the
energy to move camp but as I pulled on my sleeping bag that
evening I found myself weighing up the merits of sleeping with
a lump in my back versus lying pressed up against the wall of
the tent curled around a cold incline. While considering each
of the equally unappealing choices the Hilleberg was lit by a
golden glow, as if the headlights of a passing car had pierced
the darkness. I smiled to myself: the sun had broken through
the cloud and would be waiting for me in the morning.