Skiing in the Dark - Alone in Antarctica: The First Woman to Ski Solo Across the Southern Ice - page 198

I knew that the tracks had offered little real security but in my
desperation and exhaustion their loss appeared as a calamity
of the most dramatic proportions. I came to the conclusion
that there was no option but to find them. I put down my
coffee, planting the mug securely in the snow, pulled my thin
outer shell jacket over my thermals and stepped out of the
tent. Without any distinct plan I paced across the snow, head
bowed, eyes focused on the tight circle of snow around my
feet where the reflection of colour from my blue down booties
gave just enough contrast to be able to see the texture of the
snow. Several times I spotted a slight feature and followed it
eagerly only to find that it was a natural ridge of wind erosion
or a change in the surface. I paced back and forth, turning
back on myself and setting out again, chasing phantom tracks
that turned out to be nothing but sastrugi and drift. With my
eyes fixed on the ground I lifted my hood to protect my face
from the blowing snow that was already collecting in my hair
and eyebrows.
I don't know how long I scoured the blank whiteness but it
was long enough for the hope and optimism that had been so
strong on leaving the tent to fade into objectivity. I stopped and
stared into the whiteout for a while, allowing myself to sob
pathetically. I let the emotion flow out of me without check and
without any analysis of what it was exactly that was causing
the tears. I could think of a million causes at once: the effort,
the exhaustion, the discomfort, the fear, the prospect of failure,
the disappointment in my own lack of stoicism, the thought of
all the days and miles to come, and, more than anything else,
the ever-present, all-consuming alone-ness. Looking down at
my feet in pitiful misery I noticed that through the thin soles
of my down booties, my sole had left a near-perfect imprint in