Waking

I wake and feel my wrist, my watch has gone. With one hand I blindly search around my bag. I give up and slip back into sleep.I wake again, raise myself up onto one elbow and lift the patch from my eyes. The light hits me hard, my eyes water. Where is that damn watch? I find it by my right thigh, 6:47am. I slip my down jacket on over my double layered thermals then swivel around 180 degrees whilst still in my bag, careful not to touch the tent walls where a night's worth of breath clings frozen, waiting to fall.I unzip the door to the vestibule, a cold gust of air brings me to full consciousness. I pump the fuel bottles to a workable pressure then open the taps until I can see them spit. Digging a lighter out of my jacket pocket I ignite the fuel and place a pan of ice water onto the stoves. Then I lay back down and watch the blue flames, hissing as they dance.Jon stirs next to me and we exchange good mornings, it's cold..it always is.

Rucking

I once spent a night in a tent on South Georgia, a small island in the South Atlantic. It was my first Beyond Endurance expedition, the second took me across Greenland and the third brought me here to Antarctica. During that night in the tent, almost a year ago, I lay listening to the sevear Katabatic winds which tore down the Three Towers and through our camp, destroying five tents. And I was scared.

Last night, in Patriot Hills camp, I agaiin lay in my tent listening to the same Katabatic winds, tearing down from the polar plateau at speeds of 60kts...near on 80km/h, far worse than those on South Georgia. But this time I was not scared.

In a simple moment I felt my passion flow out of me, the same passion that rocks lover's worlds, the same passion that creates great works of literature, of art, and which has driven men to war. It emptied out of me, rose up into the white nite and locked horns with that turbulent and troubled wind. Like two stags rucking, neither yielding, each refusing to cede dominance to the other. And there, respectively, they acknowledged each other.

I knew then that I would be safe, I knew then that our tent would hold.

Coffee, and a beer.

A man with one leg, the other lost just below the hip, crosses the street, on crutches. A moments thought: A war veteran? An accident at work ? Cancer ? He looks about 45, maybe younger. A pack of stray dogs chasing the scented wheel of a car steals my attention. When I return to the man he is lying in a puddle in the gutter. Before I have fully taken this in he is surrounded by three people helping him to his feet, or rather his foot. He's dripping wet but smiles and thanks them all individually. Nodding his head reassuringly with a fresh red gash above his left eye. Satisfied, they all part on their separate ways and the scene evaporates.

I observe all this through heavily tinted windows in a bar sipping coffee, bad coffee. I have purposely chosen this place to witness the city transform from day to dusk From here I can watch the world go by, knowing my voyeuristic trait wont be discovered. Yet I still lower my eyes with guilt when I catch the eye of a passer by for an instant longer than chance.

The faces are mostly similar, dark brown hair, olive skin and beautiful brown eyes. Only the shape of their faces, their jaw structure, betrays the various levels of colonial blood. I could be in any Spanish or Portuguese provincial town but I am not. This is Punta Arenas, the city at the end of the world and the gateway to Patagonia.

It starts to rain but no one seems to notice. The sun is out, heralding the onset of a southern summer and everyone looks cheerful. Men sit on benches, as guilty as me. The young congregate on street corners sharing sweets or the time. Mothers clutch innocent hands and plastic bags whilst lovers clutch each other. Cars stack up against the gridded junctions, waiting for green. Larger shops have their shutters half cocked whilst the smaller ones bide their time, hoping to catch one or two more before the commercial day draws its veil.

The rain stops. Its been like this all week. Short bursts of downfall punctuating brilliant sunshine. But it is still cold, the colourful winter jackets augmenting the vividness of this bustling urban flow. I order a beer.

A red haired girl walks by, I think she's the first I've seen here. She looks pensive and a little sad. She turns the corner and disappears from view, oblivious to the lines she inspires in my pen. The light starts to thin, the bench men migrate elsewhere and a younger generation take up their vigil. Soon the streets will empty but for now I soak it all, so as to to recall it on the ice.

Metamorphis

Between university and the birth of my son I lived in five countries and bounced around a few others. Life was wild, as it should be in youth, always running to catch the next train of experiences. Having a child has a tendency to act as an anchor, forcing you to migrate into being the second most important person in the world, it is sobering and yet it is something we do quite naturally, instinctively even. Since his birth I have had the time to pan my earlier chaotic highs for small nuggets of wisdom, to try to assemble them into some basic philosophy and thus tease out a meaning from this life puzzle. But the jigsaw is incomplete.

Over this last week I have spent a good deal walking the streets of Punta Arenas, exploring both its lighter and darker sides, trying to find the pulse of the place. I have had much to think about, much on my mind and even a wound to heal. During these walks, these moments of reflection, it has dawned on me that my attempt on the South Pole is not simply the realisation of a childhood dream but also a quest to find the source of things, the things that are missing in me.

To complete a metamorphism one must pass through the stages of embryo, nymph, pupa, and imago. The imago is the last stage of an incomplete metamorphis. The stage in which damaged tissue and missing limbs may be regenerated or reformed. My attempt on the South Pole is my spiritual imago and through it I hope to emerge with a few more pieces of the puzzle. The same puzzle that my son must also one day endeavour to solve.

Arctic Willy

We finally got all our gear from customs on Monday and have spent the last three days packing. The bulk of the effort was dividing all the food rations into day bags, sixty in all. We went out for dinner with Mike and Ronny on Monday night. Mike is head honcho of ALE and Ronny was our Kite and Sail Ski instructor in Finsen, Norway, but works for ALE during the Antarctic Summer season. ALE run the Patriot Hills outfit and are our logistical partners in our attempt on the South Pole and beyond.

This morning we met the other expedition teams who will be either attempting the pole or summiting Mt Vinson. We all hooked up for an ALE briefing about the Ilyushin plane, an overview of the Patriot Hills operation and an interesting presentation by the base's medical team. Most of the presentation was centered on Frost Bite and how to avoid it, some of the slide show pictures were pretty horrific. It was during this presentation that I came across the title for this blog entry...its basically frost bite of the middle leg and something you really don't want. Needless to say we were all a little apprehensive afterwards, especially the men.

Our gear was picked up this evening and taken to the Airport. From 6:20am tomorrow we'll officialy be on standby which means we could receive a telephone call giving us a minimum of 40 minutes notice to get ready to fly out.

The Ilyushin was scheduled to fly some of the base staff down this morning. As it proceeded down the runway one of the brakes jammed causing the wheels to smoke like crazy. The take off was quickly aborted whilst the fire crew sped over to the plane to hose the tyres down. This might have a knock on effect and delay us for a day.

For those interested, when it does eventually reach Antarctica it will land on a blue ice runway. As using wheel brakes on ice is generally not a good idea the pilots get the beast to stop by stalling the engines. We've been told to expect a lot of noise when this happens and not to be too concerned...obviously I'm really looking forward to that....not!

We'll be wearing full gear when we walk down the cargo ramp at the back of the plane as we have to prepared for whatever conditions greet us. Its very cold at this time of year, summer hasn't really taken hold yet, it's also been blowing quite a strong wind there these last few days which could make the landing a little more interesting.

Oh, and speaking of the landing, sometimes the pilots have difficulty locating the blue ice runway, which is not surprising really if you think about, being as its completely surrounded by miles and miles of, well, ice! So at about 15KM out a couple of the base crew stand at the beginning of the runway and use two hand held mirrors to reflect sunlight up at the plane. The pilots then use these short flashes to guide the plane down....pretty advanced stuff huh?!

So this is it then, this is finally it. I'm full of a myriad of emotions and feelings at the moment, apprehension, fear, relief, fatigue and loads of excitement. Traversing South Georgia and crossing Greenland in pretty awful conditions has definitely helped boost the confidence, but I would be very foolish to think this is just the same thing but longer. Antarctica is the most hostile place in the world and we will be at its mercy for two or more months. Things can and do happen, I only hope I can do my best to reach the pole, achieve my dream, and return intact with all my fingers and toes still attached.

Waldo

We're quite fortunate to be able to exercise some control over the day to day running of our lives, yet eventually there comes a time when we have to let go and cede the reins into the hands of others. Generally, I find these moments quite exciting, delivering myself to the ebb of chaos with that look of a child about to tear into his Christmas presents. But not this time. There is nothing remotely exciting about ceding my life into the hands of a pilot and a crew of aircraft maintenance engineers. In fact it is probably my greatest fear.

I pondered this whilst a man removed his jacket, placed it in the overhead compartment and lowered his large frame into the seat next to mine. I turned my head and cursed the ticket allocation machine for denying me the company of a striking looking red head I had noticed in the departure lounge. I also wanted to stop myself from staring at the small goatee beard he sported on his chin which was dyed crimson pink, perfectly matching the colour of his shirt. Was this intentional ? Did he dye it depending on his chosen attire for the day ? Colour coordinated body hair ?

It was only after dinner had been served did we start talking. The person in front of me had just reclined their chair, upsetting my drink and causing it to spill all over my jeans. He offered me his serviette and thus we embarked upon the usual exchange of pleasantries: Why are you going to Chile ? Where are you from ? What do you do ? And so forth.

His name was Waldo. He was born in Chile but lived in England and was returning to see friends and family, as he did every couple of years. He lent to the left when Pinochet came to power during the bloody coup of September 11th 1973. Consequently, he served a few years in prison and then left for England on his release. He had been a keen footballer in his youth and was fortunate to be given a trial for Portsmouth Football team on his arrival. This was the first link in the chain of our bond as I was born and raised in Portsmouth and an avid supporter of the local team...currently lying fourth in the premiership as I write this. Unfortunately Waldo broke both his legs some months later thus ending his short professional football career. He went on to help coach the youth team and now works as a drug counselor.

As the flight went on into the night, Waldo and I discussed the Chilean coup at great length. The effect it had on his life and how he had to bring his British born children with him when he first returned for fear of being re-arrested. His disdain for the "Chicago Boys", the group of Chilean students educated in Milton Friedman's shock therapy economics at the University of Chicago and widely considered responsible for Chile's disastrous economical policies during Pinochet's rule. His appreciation of Victor Jara, the Chilean poet, songwriter, guitarist, theatre director and university lecturer arrested, brutally tortured and machine gunned to death in the Santiago Stadium (renamed the Estadio Victor Jara in 2003). And how he, along with a network of like minded dissidents, continued to promote social change throughout the duration of Pinochet's regime.

Chile is a different country today and Waldo is pleased of the changes he sees taking place. He will retire in three years and hopes to use his UK pension to return home and establish a youth workshop to encourage development through art, craft, music and sport.

When the plane landed in Santiago, we exchanged email addresses and said goodbye. As I joined the rest of the Beyond Endurance team at baggage reclaim I was again struck by the nature of chaos and, instead of cursing the ticket allocation machine, I thanked it dearly for allowing me to share the company of such an honourable and courageous man.

We're Off!

Just finished packing my casual gear and am about to leave the house and head to the airport. There I will meet up with two other members of the team, Pat and Jonathon, before boarding the plane to take us on the first leg of our flight to Chile. Unfortunately, we wont meet up with the final member of the team, Clare, until we reach Punta Arenas due to a mess up with her flights.

Had a great evening last night taking my son, Jack, on "trick or treat" dressed up as a Transformer, needless to say it was he, not I, that was dressed up! I'm going to miss him dearly over the next two and a half months. I've explained what daddy is doing and why he'll be away; he's been involved in shopping for all the gear over the last two years and loves sleeping in the Arctic sleeping bag I used for Greenland. He understands, as much as a six year old can, that this is important to daddy...although he is naturally disappointed I wont be there for Christmas. Do I feel guilty about being away from him for such a long time, indulging myself in trying to fulfill my dream to walk to the South Pole? Of course I do!

We've all bought 500 Euro of credit for the sat phone so we can phone our nearest and dearest whilst we're in the white stuff, and I've promised to phone Jack every Sunday, just as I did during the Greenland expedition. But each call reminds both him and myself how much we miss each other, and that hurts. He's very brave and I'm very proud of him, that's why I've named my sledge after him.

Never forget Jack, Daddy loves you stars full.