Polar Blogger

Getting On in Life

2008-06-25T13:52:00.000+01:00

I read in New Scientist last year that our life span has been increasing by 2.2 years per decade, or about 5 hours per day for the last 100 years. But most of this longer life is spent with disability, disease and dementia, as we’ve not been able to slow the ageing process or match the increase in lifespan with an equal increase healthcare. Nor will we if current health crisis’ are anything to go by.

I also read, in the same journal, that ants forage for food further a field as they get older, effectively taking more risks as they have less to lose. This selfless action benefits the overall success of the ant colony.

Putting these two ideas together, if you don’t want a drawn out lingering death then get out there and take more risks with each year that passes.

89th Degree

2008-01-04T22:11:00.000Z

Two days ago, New Years Day, my heels were in agony and I could no longer ski. I took my skis off to try walking. My feet were numb, like blocks of concrete. I stumbled and fell, got up, staggered, and fell again. I could go no further. As the rest of the team rallied round I crawled to the end of my sledge, sat down and looked into a chasm of despair. And then I cried, hot tears steaming up my goggles, closing me off from the world.

Something stirred in me then. Something I rarely see. I got up, reattached my sledge and edged one foot forwards, then the other, counting each tentative step. The sole of my right boot came away but I ignored it and carried on. Reciting the alphabet, first forwards, then backwards. Singing, stray lines from songs between big gulps of air, always moving till finally I reached our camp.

That was two days ago. This morning we crossed the 89th Parallel, a popular starting point for people who wish to walk the last 60 Nautical miles to the pole. I try to imagine I'm one of them, in good health, fully fed and keen to ski the 'Last Degree'. But the image doesn't last long. We've hauled over 1000km for 54 days to reach this point, we have lost a lot of weight, we look awful and we smell.

Now, as I sit in the tent, massaging Arnica Oil into my heels and tending to my sloughing soles, I accept my last degree will be a mountain. Yet not even death itself will stop me from reaching its summit.

Rest Day

2007-12-28T21:36:00.000Z

I'm shattered, absolutely shattered. The last eight days have been without doubt the toughest so far. For the first five days after Pat hurt his back Jon, Clare and I distributed most of his load between us, taking turns to haul the remainder by attaching his sledge to the back of ours for 20 minute shifts. We did this for 20km a day, mainly uphill through a fair amount of sastrugi and soft snow. It was very exhausting. On the 6th day Pat hauled the sledge for a couple of shifts, then on the 7th he hauled it half laden for the whole day, and on the 8th day, today, he hauled it virtually fully laden. His recovery has been staggering, and dare I say it, much needed as we were not sure how long we could keep going. The worst by far was having to haul two sledges, it was a killer. My Achilles' insertion points on my heels have suffered greatly. When we made camp in the evenings I could hardly walk, and on one evening in particular I was reduced to crawling around the tent to put snow on the valences.

But all that can be forgotten now. We have arrived at our rest point and look forward to sleeping like babies before celebrating Christmas tomorrow. After 48 days of hard and heavy hauling it's difficult to believe that this day has finally arrived. It's even more difficult to imagine that we're now only 232km from the pole, only 10 more days.... hopefully!

It will certainly be a Christmas to remember!

Merry Christmas Jack

2007-12-24T21:06:00.000Z

A big Happy Christmas to my beautiful little boy, Jack.

I had a wee chat to Santa and he was very pleased to hear you've been such a good boy this year. And he gave a big smile when I told him how hard you've been working on your reading and writing at school.

Daddy is very proud of you for being so brave whilst daddy is away, I think of you every day and kiss you goodnight every evening, knowing that the strong winds here take these kisses up into the air and carry them all the way to you whilst you sleep.

So be a good boy for mummy, help her when you can and never forget we both love you stars full.

All my love, Daddy xxx

Antarctic Christmas Greetings

2007-12-24T21:05:00.001Z

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to all my family, friends and everyone following our progress. It's pretty tough going at the moment so knowing you're all out there supporting us really helps to keep our spirits up.

We'll not be stopping to celebrate Christmas Day ourselves just yet as we're a bit under the gun, but we do hope to have a rest day on the 28th and so will celebrate it properly then.

All the best during this festive period.

Whiteout

2007-12-24T21:05:00.000Z

Damn this bloody weather!

For six days we hauled amongst the vague silhouettes of mountains. Even when we couldn't see them, we could feel them, their powerful presence just beyond the veil. Ever watchful and curious, but largely indifferent to us whilst we humbled along, all but lost in a thick humid whiteness, like refugees seeking shelter through the cordite fog of battle.

Then on the seventh day we woke to find the war had passed over us. Replaced by a sun that shone reassuringly, as white dragons spread their wings and chased the retreating armies to the west.

The soft snow was still too fresh for our liking but we pulled through its grip regardless, our spirits high on the subtle colours and hues that the sun splayed about us. Yet even as our eyes feasted on this prismatic display we could see new gray armies assembling in the east. And soon they were upon us, slaughtering the sun and drawing the world tight till all it's colour had drained. Leaving us once again enveloped in the misery of this murky fog.

Pilgrimage

2007-12-20T17:31:00.001Z

He's bent over double, leaning forward, trying to shift the weight of his burden between his left shoulder and his hips. His right shoulder is bust. The freshly fallen snow drags relentlessly at the runners of his sledge, turning each small step into an senseless act of flagellation.

Occasionally he loses his footing and thrusts his right pole deep into the snow for balance, sending a sharp burning bolt of pain down his back. He meets this with a grimace, pausing to draw his breath then continues on.

He cares little for his body, considering it simply as a vessel to carry the soul between shores on an ocean of time. Yet knowing his soul is strong, with armour fashioned from life and tempered by its knocks, it is still hard to watch his suffering.

If I could speak I would have suggested an alternative pilgrimage, bathing in the Ganges or walking the road to Santiago de Compostella. Perhaps even a visit to Lourdes. But I am merely his Shadow, so I content myself with mimicking his gestures whilst the sun chases me around him, slowly unwinding his mortal coil.

Thiels

2007-12-20T17:31:00.000Z

Ahead in the distance lies the Thiels mountain range, veiled in mist. Dark jagged peaks tear through fine drapes of snow and puncture the sky. In front of me, bouncing earnestly over sastrugi, is Clare's sledge, the 'Dudley Docker'. I struggle to make anagrams of the blue lettering, 'cuddly', 'rocked', 'coddled', as I do most mornings. But soon my mind wanders off, the conscious giving way to the subconscious and suddenly I'm driving a jeep through the decaying streets of Havana, playing conckers with old friends in lost playgrounds or reliving my student days in various states of intoxication This is how time passes whilst we haul, 8 hours a day sifting through our minds, alert and yet asleep. Stumbling over the carrion of lost memories, long forgotten ideas and the odd stale emotion.

As the morning progresses, the mist descends and envelops us, reducing our world to walls of white in all directions. Navigating in these conditions demands concentration, the second man screaming at the first each time their stronger foot leads them astray.

Tomorrow we shall finally arrive at Thiels, our halfway point. There we will have our third rest day in 29 days. It is much needed as we are all beginning to feel the effects of our endevours thus far. From here on in things will get harder, both mentally and physically. Hopefully, if we succeed in achieving our goal of reaching the Pole, I'll have finally managed to come up with an 8 letter word...the countdown begins.

Dead Men Walking

2007-12-20T17:30:00.000Z

My head heavy against the root of an ancient oak. Bathing on warm earth beneath a sun that blinds me. A chromium blue sky, tie dyed with thin slivers of cloud wisp, air brushed in by a perfect hand. Corn flowers dancing gentle in a summer's breeze. I listen...

Forestry band saws and bird song, a farm dog barking half heartedly and the distant sound of a motorcycle challenging country bends with caution all but thrown.

I lie in this idyl, half naked, with a lover feigning sleep on my shoulder, near drunk on spent passion and Spanish wine.

"Bollix!"

I'm wrenched awake from these thoughts to the sight of Pat cursing his upturned sledge. I ski to him and heave at the rear whilst he pulls forward, corkscrewing it back onto it's runners. With a grateful flick of his left pole he trudges on.

Pausing for a moment, I study my three team mates. All hauling, pole in front of pole, ski in front of ski, heads bowed in resigned humble labour. Trudging machines, eyes vacantly staring at the next three feet of ice, mesmerised and somatic. Only their bodies are here. Their heads lost in their own hauling thoughts, of home, of work, or of dreams not yet realised.

I lower my head and breathe deeply. Then, placing my right pole forward, I rejoin the dead men walking.

Hauling Man

2007-12-20T17:27:00.000Z

Every part of my body is covered. I see the world through the limited field of vision of these goggles. To exist you must stand in this field or scream louder than the incessant wind that torments my ears with nonsense. Else you must exist in my head, or in my heart.

I see a sky tinged purple, fading to an opaque blue hue on the horizon, where it marries the ice on which I'm hauling. A dry dead ice, long forgotten in this arid white desert.

Tethered to my aching back is a rope. It snaps at my shoulders and spine with each step. At the end of this rope is my sledge. It contains everything for my survival in this, the most hostile place on earth.

For seven days now, for seven hours each day this has been my world. Step by step, mile by mile, day by day, I march on...whilst spindrift dances around my boots like the souls of dead snakes, following the wind eternal.

Waking

2007-11-20T08:41:00.000Z

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

2007-11-15T00:08:00.000Z

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.

2007-11-09T04:44:00.000Z

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

2007-11-08T19:23:00.000Z

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

2007-11-07T20:46:00.001Z

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

2007-11-04T18:08:00.000Z

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!

2007-11-01T12:21:00.000Z

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.

Two days to go...and counting!

2007-10-30T14:19:00.001Z

My stomach is in bits, I'm not sure if its due to the over indulgent send off I had on Sunday eve or apprehension that I will be leaving in two days to finally embark on a journey of a life time. Perhaps it's a combination of them both.

Anyway, I've a few people to thank here, a few people who have supported me in one way or another over the past few years.

My Uncle John who has supported me non stop through the whole thing, Rachel who supported me through my training and had to put up with a lot of crap when I broke my collar bone just before crossing Greenland, David who provided us with excellent training in Norway, Sjur for his essential expert advice on clothing and equipment, Max who has had to put up with my loud thoughts at work, Nessa for listening to my gripes and getting me so drunk on Sunday that I spent the whole of Monday suffering, Brian for giving me the often needed reality check and Sean, for having to tolerate a less than diligent work effort over the past year. At the risk of sounding like a gushy Oscar winner, I'll stop there, but loads more people have supported me in one way or another and greatly deserve thanks – you know who you are, thankyou.

We fly out from Dublin on Thursday eve and should arrive in Punta Arenas, Chile, around 2pm on Saturday. We'll then set about making final checks on all the gear we shipped, review our food rations and then pack the sledges (or Pulks as we call them). As soon as the weather allows we'll board the big Russian Ilyushian cargo plane for the last leg of our Journey to Patriot Hills camp in Antarctica.

Check out the Ilyushin here, and learn more about Patriot Hills here.

The Weather

2007-10-22T17:53:00.000+01:00

The weather rarely achieves fame, yet occasionally it sways the course of History, perhaps no more so than the Russian winter of 1942-43. At this time, during the siege of Stalingrad, daily temperatures reached -35C. Hitler had anticipated a quicker conclusion to his campaign in the East and, as a consequence, his troops were ill prepared for such a climate. As the harsh winter set in the German army suffered heavily. The Volga then froze over, allowing the better equipped Red Army to more readily re-supply it’s beleagued city. Eventually, the siege of Stalingrad was broken and on February 2^nd 1943 the German forces surrended.

I apologise for the history lesson but I find it useful to appreciate the scale of the temperature I will have to face on the Antarctic continent. During the summer, at McMurdo base, near the edge of the continent, the temperature varies between -4C and -10C. As one proceeds inland, up onto the polar plateau, the temperature steadily drops to a somewhat chilly -30C to -40C at the South Pole. These are average temperatures, if you factor in the odd blizzard, of which there are many, and the accompanying wind chill then it gets a little more interesting.

So knowing that I will soon be spending 60 days in a climate comparable to a famous Russian winter is, well, making me a little apprehensive…which is probably a good thing to be honest as I doubt there is any room for complacency on this trip!

For a quick look at the weather at the South Pole pop over to here.

Introduction

2007-10-17T15:17:00.001+01:00

As a child I read about the great explorers of the Heroic Age and dreamt of their endeavours. In 2006 I put my name forward to train for an expedition to traverse South Georgia in the footsteps of Shackleton, Crean and Worsley. I gave up smoking and undertook some tough training sessions in Kerry, Ireland and Krosbu, Norway - prior to then my only experience were a few hikes across the Wicklow Mountains. We learnt snow shoeing, ice axe breaking, glacier rescue and rope techniques before heading down south in November 2006. We succeeded in crossing South Gerorgia with 24 kilos on our backs and went on to visit Elephant Island, cross Deception Island and even hike up a glacier on the Antarctic Peninsular.

On our return I committed myself to train for an expedition to traverse the polar plateau in Greenland. I again spent many weeks in Norway learning Nordic Skiing, cold weather camp craft and sledge hauling. In August this year we flew out to Greenland's east coast and started our traverse, hauling 90KG sledges. It took 31 days in all and was tough going, thanks largely to the vast amount of melt water we encountered - the Greenland Ice Cap is indeed melting quite rapidly.

In November 2007, one and a half years after taking my first steps towards my childhood dream, I will leave for Antarctica with three others. From there we will embark on the first ever Irish attempt on the South Pole.