Skiing in the Dark - Alone in Antarctica: The First Woman to Ski Solo Across the Southern Ice - page 189

blowing snow like an orange beacon. I kept a careful eye on it
as I stepped as far as I dared into the dark. I didn't want to get
lost in the low visibility. The storm didn't feel so violent now
that I was exposed to it. In fact, it felt good to be outside and
alone.
Perhaps it was the enjoyment of a snatched moment of
solitude that lured me into taking too long. I suddenly realised
that my hands and feet were far too cold. Dangerously cold.
Rather than a friendly place of comfortable seclusion, the storm
suddenly seemed like a treacherous trap. I ploughed into the
blizzard toward the brightness of the tent but it seemed a long
way off. I didn't remember walking so far. The beam from my
headtorch stopped a few feet ahead of me, blotted out by the
snow in the air and obscuring my fix on the tent, so I turned it
off. Unable to pick out my tracks on the ground I plunged my
booted but frozen feet into fresh shin-deep snow, stumbling as
I broke through the surface crust, and balanced myself with
my gloved hands leaving them encrusted with wet ice.
The tent didn't seem to be getting any closer. I fell on the
ground but didn't get up. Instead I sat in the cold with my
arms crossed so that each hand was buried under an arm for
some warmth and looked at the tent shining brightly in the
near distance. The snow rushed past my face in long streaks
and the drift began to create white dunes around me. The tent
was too far. I couldn't reach it. Any effort to move seemed
pointless and I knew without trying that any shouts for help
would be carried away on the wind. There was nothing to
be done, I told myself, except sit and let the snow take me. I
was completely aware of the consequences but accepted them
with sad resignation. I could feel the cold creeping in but it felt
oddly relaxing, like sinking into the softest of sofas.