Skiing in the Dark - Alone in Antarctica: The First Woman to Ski Solo Across the Southern Ice - page 193

In the dissolving landscape I restricted my focus to my
immediate surroundings so that my route took on a solid
form in my mind as an unbroken line leading me across the
ice. I concentrated on this imagined pathway as if it was the
only thing fixing me firmly on the ground. It seemed that if I
let my brain expand to take in the true vastness of the space
around me, to accurately appreciate the scale of my isolation,
I was sure that it would expand beyond my control and that I
would never be able to get it all back into my head. I worried
that by opening my mind to the immensity of Antarctica
I would be in danger of losing myself completely. It was a
psychological vulnerability as real as any physical hazard but
wasn't something I had ever experienced before. The sensation
resembled walking a knife-edge ridge in the mountains with
a sheer drop on either side. The void can be sensed without
looking and even though the temptation might be to glance
into the view below, instinct quickly returns your focus to
the ridge ahead. For if you stare for too long, or too deeply
into that abyss, it might pull you off balance and you will
fall. I often made a point of stopping to look at and take in
my surroundings, but it was always with caution. I never let
my mind open up to the space completely and I was always
quick to return my focus to the unseen but clearly perceived
route ahead.
I could see myself from above as a tiny green dot inching
across the gentle contours of the landscape, isolated and
vulnerable in a grey wilderness with charcoal clouds and
titanium snow, so far from anywhere and anyone. The vision
was achingly depressing, and yet, at the same time there was
wonder in it. I stopped and lifted my face skywards, pulling
aside my mask so that I felt the gentle brush of each feathery