Skiing in the Dark - Alone in Antarctica: The First Woman to Ski Solo Across the Southern Ice - page 192

that state of mental hibernation that I had cultivated when
leaving the UK. I even stopped talking to myself. This most
instinctive of coping mechanisms that had been so immediate
when I was first left alone by the plane on the Ross Ice Shelf
had now petered out almost completely. These days the only
dialogue was that taking place in my head with the sun. Usually
the first words I spoke aloud during the day were those few
lines to Union Glacier shortly after crawling back into my tent
at the end of a day skiing. Once or twice I started to speak
into the satellite phone only to find that I had lost my voice
and it would take me a second to recover, my speech sounding
halting and husky as if I'd already forgotten how to use it.
Around me Antarctica had once more faded into the soft
greys and melancholy tones of overcast weather. It was
heartbreakingly desolate and yet as surreal and otherworldly
as a dream. Drifting snow broiled along the ground and in
the air making everything appear fuzzy around the edges. It
seemed like the whole of Antarctica was on the move and I
often felt as if I was skiing over cloud tops with the softness
of pillows and silk. Only the very tips of the curled ends of
my skis protruded above the constantly shifting drift, so that
all I could see was two black mice scurrying ahead of me at
a regular distance, racing each other, each one winning and
losing in turn. I could feel the increasing volume of fine loess
deposited beneath the drift and cushioning my skis in a way
that felt almost sumptuous despite the extra effort of carving
through it. The snow in the air wasn't the hard icy pellets or
the frozen vapour of higher latitudes but thick, fat flakes of
Christmas snow, falling so thickly that they eventually blotted
out the horizon. Antarctica became a speckled world the
colours of ash and smoke.