Skiing in the Dark - Alone in Antarctica: The First Woman to Ski Solo Across the Southern Ice - page 210

to lay it out on the snow in front of the Hilleberg and sat down
to look at the mountains. According to my GPS I was less than
ten nautical miles from Hercules Inlet where I would move
from ice on land to the Ronne Ice Shelf that floated over the
ocean, and complete my coast-to-coast traverse. It was entirely
possible that the next day would be my last of the expedition.
My attention was pulled into the view in front of me and lost
in the space of it. The same oppressive silence that had filled
my ears below the Transantarctic Mountains still throbbed at
my temples now, but this time the silence didn't feel empty,
it felt full of a noise created by the form and colour of the
mountains. Even if the landscape wasn't full of life, it seemed
to me now to be full of vitality. I wasn't alone, the landscape
was packed with presence but I relished the simplicity of the
solitude. Now that my alone-ness was coming to an end, I
could enjoy the solitude and the isolation. I had Antarctica
to myself and I liked it that way. I let my mind explore the
prospect of seeing other people, of being back at Union Glacier
surrounded by company and I became aware of my instincts
shying away from the idea.
I had to laugh out loud at my own caprice, shaking my head
in exasperation. I had struggled with the alone-ness for all this
time and now here I was sentimentalising it. I reminded myself
that little over a week before I had been dashing about blindly
in an Antarctic whiteout looking for salvation in phantom
tracks and scared out of my wits - literally. The solitude hadn't
appeared so charming back then and I certainly hadn't relished
the alone-ness in the despair of relentless bad weather.
The expedition had demonstrated forcefully that there is a
difference between being by myself and true alone-ness. At
home I regularly seek time to be on my own and find it a good