AFEW WEEKS LATER I flew to the Antarctic, landed at a research station called Novolazarevskaya, a tiny village of huts and Portakabins. The
few hardy souls living there were fabulous hosts. They housed me, fed me
—their soups were amazing. I couldn’t get enough.
Maybe because it was thirty-five degrees below zero?
More piping-hot chicken noodle, Harry? Yes, please.
The team and I spent a week or two carb-loading, gearing up. And, of course, quaffing vodka. At last, one bleary morning…off we went. We climbed into a plane, flew up to the ice shelf, stopped to refuel. The plane landed on a field of solid, flat white, as in a dream. There was nothing to be seen in any direction but a handful of giant fuel barrels. We taxied over to them and I got out while the pilots filled up. The silence was holy—not a bird, not a car, not a tree—but it was only one part of the larger, all-encompassing nothingness. No smells, no wind, no sharp corners or distinct features to distract from the endless and insanely beautiful vista. I walked off to be by myself for a few moments. I’d never been anywhere half so peaceful. Overcome with joy, I did a headstand. Months and months of anxiety passed away…for a few minutes.
We got back onto the plane, flew to the starting point of the trek. As we began walking, at last, I remembered: Oh, yeah, my toe’s broken.
Just recently, in fact. A boys’ weekend in Norfolk. We drank and smoked and partied till dawn, and then, while trying to reassemble one of the rooms we’d rearranged, I dropped a heavy chair with brass wheels onto my foot.
Silly injury. But debilitating. I could barely walk. No matter, I was determined not to let the team down.
Somehow I kept pace with my fellow walkers, nine hours each day, pulling a sledge that weighed about two hundred pounds. It was hard for everyone to gain traction on the snow, but for me the particular challenge was the slick, undulating patches carved out by the wind. Sastrugi, that was the Norwegian word for these patches. Trekking across sastrugi with a broken toe? Maybe this could be an event at the International Warrior Games, I thought. But any time I felt tempted to complain—about my toe, my fatigue, anything—I had only to glance at my fellow walkers. I was directly behind a Scottish soldier named Duncan, who had no legs. Behind me, an American soldier named Ivan was blind. So not one whinge would be heard from me, I vowed.
Also, an experienced polar guide had advised me before I left Britain to use this trek to “clean the hard drive.” That was his phrase. Use the repetitive motion, he said, use the biting cold, use that nothingness, that landscape’s unique blankness, to narrow your focus until your mind falls into a trance. It will become a meditation.
I followed his advice to the letter. I told myself to stay present. Be the snow, be the cold, be each step, and it worked. I fell into the loveliest trance, and even when my thoughts were dark I was able to stare at them, watch them float away. Sometimes it would happen that I’d watch my thoughts connect to other thoughts and all at once the whole chain of thoughts would make some sense. For instance, I considered all of the previous challenging walks of my life—the North Pole, the Army exercises, following Mummy’s coffin to the grave—and while the memories were painful, they also provided continuity, structure, a kind of narrative spine that I’d never suspected. Life was one long walk. It made sense. It was wonderful. All was interdependent and interconnected…
Then came the dizzies.
The South Pole, counterintuitively, is high above sea level, roughly three thousand meters, and so altitude sickness is a real danger. One walker had already been taken off our trek; now I understood why. The feeling started slowly and I brushed it off. Then it knocked me flat. Head spins, followed by crushing migraine, pressure building in both lobes of my brain. I didn’t want to stop but it wasn’t up to me. My body said, Thanks, this is where we get off. The knees went. The upper torso followed.
I hit the snow like a pile of rocks.
Medics pitched a tent, laid me flat, gave me some sort of anti-migraine injection. In my buttocks, I think. Steroids, I heard them say. When I came to, I felt semi-revived. I caught up with the group, searched for a way back into the trance.
Be the cold, be the snow…
As we neared the Pole we were all in sync, all elated. We could see it there, just over there, through our ice-crusted eyelashes. We began running to it.
Stop!
The guides told us it was time to make camp.
Camp? What the—? But the finish line’s just there.
You’re not allowed to camp at the Pole! So we’ll all have to camp here tonight, then strike out for the Pole in the morning.
Camped in the shadow of the Pole, none of us could sleep, we were too excited. And thus we had a party. There was some drinking, horseplay. The underside of the world rang with our giggles.
Finally, at first light, December 13, 2013, we took off, stormed the Pole. On or near the exact spot was a huge circle of flags representing the twelve signatories of the Antarctic treaty. We stood before the flags, exhausted, relieved, disoriented. Why’s there a Union Jack on the coffin? Then we hugged. Some press accounts say one of the soldiers took off his leg and we used it as a tankard to guzzle champagne, which sounds right, but I can’t remember. I’ve drunk booze out of multiple prosthetic legs in my life and I can’t swear that was one of the times.
Beyond the flags stood a huge building, one of the ugliest I’d ever seen. A windowless box, built by the Americans as a research center. The architect who designed this monstrosity, I thought, must’ve been filled with hate for his fellow humans, for the planet, for the Pole. It broke my heart to see a thing so unsightly dominate a land so otherwise pristine. Nevertheless, along with everyone else, I hurried inside the ugly building to warm up, have a pee, drink some cocoa.
There was a huge café and we were all starving. Sorry, we were told, café’s closed. Would you like a glass of water?
Water? Oh. OK.
Each of us was handed a glass. Then a souvenir. A test tube.
With a tiny cork in the top.
On the side was a printed label: CLEANEST AIR IN THE WORLD.
