Skiing in the Dark - Alone in Antarctica: The First Woman to Ski Solo Across the Southern Ice - page 195

saw the tracks of vehicles or of other skiers only to find myself
mistaken on a second look. This time there was no mistake. The
tracks were eroded at the edges and flattened by the wind but
there was the clear crosshatching of tyre treads that couldn't
be natural. They were clear enough for me to be able to follow
them with my gaze from where I stood. They extended behind
me for four or five metres and ahead of me the same. I skied on
alongside them, easily picking out the hard unnatural edge of
the tracks as I moved. At first I followed them absent-mindedly
out of casual curiosity but as they continued to lead eastwards
on more or less my exact heading I found myself becoming
increasingly dependent. The association of the tracks with the
presence of others made me reluctant to leave them, as if I felt
closer to civilisation by being nearby. I was sure that whatever
vehicle had made these tracks was long gone but knowing
that people had passed this exact spot in the past offered the
illusion of protection from the dangers of the snowpack.
In fact there were no such guarantees. The tracks could be
old and the ice underneath them might have shifted since they
were made. The condition of the snow might have changed
too. A snowbridge over a crevasse that is solid enough to take
the weight of a vehicle at the beginning of the season might
disintegrate under its own weight after an entire summer
of sunshine and wind erosion. The tracks, for the moment,
headed in the same direction as the needle on my compass but
there was no telling where they would go and whether they
would travel there in a straight line. Following a winding track
would add unnecessary miles to my route - extra time I could
ill afford. Nevertheless, in my emotional need I ignored all
this common sense. In that moment the tracks came to mean
safety and I clung to that so eagerly that I began to fret about