Polar Blogger

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.

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!

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.