Ice and the Sky Page #2

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I felt ten years older.

One sled became unusable.

No time for repairs.

Its load had to be abandoned:

scientific equipment

and some personal effects.

The track disappeared...

...as we groped our way along

the Antarctic plateau.

It sometimes took hours

to find beacons.

After a 28-day trek...

...I finally saw the Charcot masts.

Charcot was more like a termites'

nest than a scientific base.

But it was well

equipped and in order.

24m, heated to barely 8C.

A veritable palace

after a month spent...

...in cramped, freezing

snow vehicles.

Only three of us stayed on.

The others were

anxious to get back...

...afraid of being trapped

by the winter.

I had a strange lump in my throat.

Bye.

See you in a year, all going well.

I could hear the wind,

the bell atop the mast.

The sole remaining familiar sounds.

For the first time,

I felt master of a kingdom.

In our hurry to press on

with our studies...

...we neglected our base.

We were starting from scratch.

No scientist had ever gathered any

meteorological or geophysical data.

We had the faith of pioneers.

Every reading, every observation

brought me intense pleasure...

...heightened by the pride

of being the first.

It was breathtaking.

The soundings revealed

the outlines...

...of valleys and mountains

buried for millions of years...

...beneath 2,000 meters of ice.

A continent engulfed.

I grasped the scope

of the power...

...of science, of the invisible.

I was hooked

on the thrill of discovery.

My fate was sealed.

After a few weeks

we noticed with horror that our

gear was sinking into the snow.

We had to mark and store it

before it became irretrievable.

We dug yards of tunnels

to create warehouses.

Science had to wait.

We had almost forgotten,

it was a matter of survival.

Then the blizzard toppled

my observation tower.

I was desperate.

My entire program was at risk.

Only with the support

of my comrades...

...was I able to retrieve

the situation.

With every rung I cursed

the idiot who designed the tower.

Another bolt, another burn,

the metal sticking to my fingers.

I vowed to make him

pay for the torture...

...with every removal

of my gloves.

The weeks went by,

we settled into a routine.

A communal meal was taken

in the evenings.

Roland cooked...

...while Jacques sent back data

by radio.

To hold on, we fostered a spirit

of camaraderie and solidarity.

We lived, worked and slept...

...in our single heated room,

with zero privacy.

Bad moods were outlawed.

They would have made

our lives hell.

Our dress sense featured plenty

of frayed edges and holes.

With no water,

we soon gave up washing clothes...

...discarding them when worn out.

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