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.