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my clothing and prepare for the worsening weather. Closing
any tiny gaps in the layers that covered my face and putting
on my windproof jacket, I made sure to fasten any pockets
or vents that had been left open. It was like getting ready for
battle and the enemy was the wind. As I skied onward into
worsening gusts I considered my forward strategy.
In principle, katabatic winds would be strongest over the
steepest ground but I could expect them to diminish as I
reached flatter ground beyond the top of the glacier. Therefore,
if I skied far enough, I should have been able to ski right
through the bad weather. The problem was I had no idea
how far I would have to ski until I reached flatter ground
or just how sheer the glacier was going to get. I wasn't even
completely sure that these were katabatic winds at all. If it
was simply a weather system, the high winds could extend
for dozens of kilometres. I had such little information that I
gradually accepted there was no strategy to be had except to
plunge forward. I felt my face fixing into a grimace of grim
determination beneath my face mask as I moved ever closer
to the fury of white being kicked high into the air in towering
plumes by invisible but violent currents.
I felt the slope before I could see it. The burn in my thighs and
the increasing drag of my sledges alerted me to the fact that I
was going uphill. The snow became firmer underfoot, packed
down by the weight of the wind rushing over it. In places the
snow had been scoured away completely to leave bald patches
of ice which caught the light so that they gleamed a dirty grey.
The SPOT tracks were gone, scoured away to leave no more
than the occasional crosshatched imprint. It seemed implausible
that just four days before, as I had flown overhead in a small
ski plane gazing downwards, half a dozen tractors had hauled
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