Getting Out of the Tent - Alone in Antarctica: The First Woman to Ski Solo Across the Southern Ice - page 222

had been delayed a little longer. Eventually Steve came back on
the phone. Mindful of his promise of red wine by the end of
the night, he was apologetic.
'I'm so sorry, Felicity, but the weather has deteriorated this
end so we won't be able to come and get you tonight.'
The weather had played one last trick on me but I wasn't
sorry. I needed a last evening alone with Antarctica. It felt
appropriate. I needed time to digest the fact that my journey
was over and to prepare myself for company again.
That morning I took my time making breakfast coffee from
my meagre remaining rations while still nested in the comfort
of my sleeping bag. I was aware of a deep relief unfolding and
a steadfast sense of satisfaction spreading into every corner of
my being but, through my contentment, an insistent thought
rose adamantly to the surface. It was very similar to a thought
that had occurred to me three years before when standing
alone at the South Pole for the first time. The thought was
the knowledge that on that morning, as on every morning for
the last two months, I could have got on my skis and headed
across the snow. Tired as I was I knew that my muscles were
capable of another day. My mind imagined packing up and
skiing away, which led quickly to the inevitable next question;
if I was sure I could continue, how far would I be able to ski?
I tried to gauge what capability I had left in me both physically
and mentally. Would I realistically be able to ski all day? Did
I feel strong enough to ski for another week? Would it be
conceivable to turn around and ski another 2,000 kilometres
back to where I had started?
I expressed a silent, inward groan. These are the questions,
this is the curiosity, that has led me back to the polar regions
again and again. Within hours of finishing the most ambitious