Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
Two days later we made camp on the sandy foreshore of a lake. For the first time
we used the tent, and in the morning I awoke with the ugly task of preparing break-
fast. As I rose my shoulder brushed against the tent wall, setting off a shower of ice
particles. The rush of cold was instantaneous, as the warmth was wrenched from
my thermal underwear.
At first I tried to get the stove going with bare hands, but my fingers quickly
numbed and became stiff as wood. After putting on gloves, it was a relief to see
the petrol stove burst into life. The only problem was that our water bottles were
frozen solid.
Taking the axe and a shopping bag, I made for the edge of the lake. A golden
pin-strip on the far side forewarned of the approach of the sun. It would be a slow
process, though, and wouldn't come into view until after 9.30 a.m. Even so, the
glow was just enough to give a gleam to the polished veneer of ice. After a flurry
of chopping, I made my way back to the tent with the bag full of jagged ice shards.
By the time we were getting stuck into the porridge, the sun was just nudging
over the horizon into a clear sky. The foreshore looked like a desert plain, dotted
with tufts of long spinifex grass. Sand dunes encrusted with sparkling ice crystals
rose along the shore. In his puffy down-jacket Chris looked set for the North Pole.
In the excitement, I took out the digital video camera Chris had picked up in
Sydney before flying to London. We had a whimsical idea that if we filmed enough
footage we might be able to make a documentary about the journey.
'C'mon, Tim, we haven't got time!' Chris snapped.
'Why? This is probably the most stunning morning we've had. It will only take
five minutes!' I replied, opening the lens cap.
I filmed Chris riding along the frozen sand, his tyres leaving not the slightest
trace. After reclaiming the camera, he pushed off towards the road.
After the first few turns of the crank the cold penetrated to the bone. The razor-
sharp air cut through the gloves until my fingers were numb. I dreaded the re-
warming routine that made my hands feel like they had been hit with a hammer
over a red-hot anvil.
Although the sky was cloudless, particles of ice floated down like tiny pieces of
shredded cellophane. Now and then a truck whooshed by, sending a plume of white
that collected in my mouth and eyes, forcing me to blink continuously.
Chris was a speck in the distance, no doubt pedalling at full speed to get to the
Internet in Vologda. In an effort to catch up, I pushed my legs as hard as I could.
