Forty-Six - Alone in Antarctica: The First Woman to Ski Solo Across the Southern Ice - page 84

before later suspending it over the explosive heat of my palm-
sized stove. I waited until both the ski and the metal binding
were hot to the touch before heaving at the screws with
my penknife. I made no impact whatsoever and the screws
remained tightly in position. The binding had been attached
in a workshop so that there was no chance of it working loose
- this made it impossible for me to adjust it in the tent with
only my penknife. I had already tried placing my boot in the
binding at an angle so that my foot sat straight on the ski but
the boot always worked loose and the constant stopping to
adjust it was worse than the original fault. I resigned myself
to the fact that I would have to ski with an awkward gait.
I hoped the effect on my knee wouldn't be catastrophic but
when I thought of the hundreds of kilometres still ahead of me
it seemed impossible that the situation could end in anything
but calamity. I mentally castigated myself for bringing new
and therefore untested skis. The thought of my old but trusty
pair sitting at home made me want to weep. They had already
seen me safe and comfortable to the Pole on one occasion and
would doubtless have done so again.
Running out of jobs, I allowed myself time to snooze
indulgently, savouring the sybaritic sense of security and
protection from the weather outside, lounging in the delicious
warmth and plumpness of my down bag, soaking up the
comforting yellow glow of the tent as if it were sunlight. As I
relaxed, an idea drifted to the front of my mind. I had only one
set of clothes which I wore constantly, regardless of whether
I was sleeping or skiing. There was never usually a reason to
ever take them off but, with time on my hands, I decided to
attempt some laundry. I melted a little extra snow and poured it
into an empty ration bag. The bag wasn't big enough to tackle