Skiing in the Dark - Alone in Antarctica: The First Woman to Ski Solo Across the Southern Ice - page 197

ever before. If the weather had been better, knowing that I was
close to the skull and crossbones on my map would have been
more manageable but as it was, blinded by blowing snow and
psychologically weary, it seemed like I was blundering blindly
through a minefield in which each and every step might send
me through an unseen fissure in the ice below. The sense of
trepidation amplified until it became intolerable. Glancing at my
watch I knew I was due to ski for another hour. Despite being
acutely aware that I couldn't afford to lose a precious hour of
ski time, I gave in to my heightened emotional state and camped.
I pitched the Hilleberg sheepishly, knowing that I had
capitulated to a foolishly exaggerated fear, and yet I didn't
feel enough regret to make me change my mind. Once inside
the tent I was quickly cosy in spite of the blustering weather
outside. Sat in down booties and thermals, cradling a mug of
warm fortified coffee and warmed by the stove that was busily
melting snow, I unzipped the door a little to peer out at the
gloom. There was not a single break in the clouds to give me
any hope that conditions would improve when I woke. The
sun was silent, giving me no clue as to how long it would be
gone. I couldn't shake the thought that tomorrow I would
have to travel through this obscured landscape so close to
the crevassed area marked on my map. I imagined breaking
through an undetected snowbridge, of falling until I became
wedged between cold hard walls of ice, my ribs crushed by the
impact, restricting my breathing. I visualised being suspended
on a ledge, in the dark, cold and injured, desperately searching
for a signal on my satellite phone, dialling numbers over and
over in vain hope of connection. I pictured it all so well that
it took on the definition of certainty. My imaginings started to
feel like premonitions and I began to weep.