"I am so afraid to go to pee," Ryan said in a raspy voice, pausing to draw breath. He was a thirty-three-year-old soldier, the leader of a Green Beret team specialized in cold environments. It was no easier for me, as for a good five hours we had both been hoping the storm would pass. Ice pellets lashed the nylon outer shell of the tent and created a roaring sound, so we could not even pass the time by talking. The weather forecast threatened another twelve hours of winds over one hundred kilometres per hour and temperatures well below forty degrees below zero. At moments like these I miss home and everyone there, and when things get really bad I begin to ask myself why I am doing all of this in the first place...
It began ten years earlier, when my wife Melita and I travelled through Patagonia and also stopped in the city at the end of the world. Punta Arenas at the bottom of Chile then seemed to me the most remote settlement on this planet, but I quietly promised myself that one day I would go even farther, across the Drake Passage to the loneliest, coldest, highest and driest continent on our planet: Antarctica. A quiet wish began to grow into a decision a few years later. I asked the most experienced people. Viki Grošelj and Stane Klemenc helped me with a few pieces of advice. There are quite a few companies in Europe that deal with extreme travel: Seven Summits, Alpine Ascents, Jugged Globe and Adventure Peaks are prepared, after the prescribed tests, to lead enthusiasts to Everest, Aconcagua... and also to the most prestigious summit in the club of the highest peaks, Mt. Vinson, which at 4,900 m above sea level is the highest point in Antarctica. After my first application to Adventure Peaks, I sent all the required documentation to the company headquarters in England, including relatively confidential information such as my medical record, a completed health questionnaire that also required an ECG, blood count, information on childhood and all other past illnesses, allergies, dietary habits, injuries... The second part of the documentation covered all my previous mountaineering experience, with photographs and possible recommendations from well-known mountaineers whom the company already had on its "experienced" list. When they were satisfied with what I had sent, they invited me to a winter test in the French Alps, a "winter ascent of Mt. Blanc", with one of three guides who already had experience in Antarctica. During three cold days we got to know and assess one another, which made both their decision and mine about the trip to Vinson easier. One beautiful summer day I received a substantial package in the mail that finally confirmed I was a candidate with sufficient experience. They had not yet set my departure date because the suitable season was still too far away and the availability of places according to candidate priority was still unknown. I could begin the painstaking process of collecting expensive equipment that my "mountaineering cellar" did not yet contain. A two-page list translated into practical terms meant roughly three thousand euros' worth of gear that I had never needed in our mountains even in the most extreme conditions. But ALE (Antarctic Logistic and Expedition), the umbrella and only organization that has been running expeditions of this kind to Antarctica through the partners mentioned above for thirty years, insists on its requirements and protocols, so protesting that "my down jacket is just as good" does not help. For what they do, in addition to everything already mentioned, they charge another US$33,500.0, plus of course your own transport to Punta Arenas, which can mean another two to three thousand euros. I expected the departure date to be set that same autumn, but for reasons unknown to me the company did not yet decide. The following autumn I myself could not commit to the undertaking for health reasons, so eventually the autumn of 2011 arrived, when Cris Mothersdale, the guide of our group and a multiple Everest climber, gave me the date. The thirteenth of December was supposed to be the lucky day for everyone, when we would fly across the Southern Ocean to the ice sheet. The journey in the narrower sense was supposed to last eleven days, but it was wise to expect weather problems and therefore flights being moved backward or forward. At Brnik I found it hard to say goodbye to my family and swallowed a few bitter tears, but that is how it is... I sent forty kilograms of equipment directly to Santiago de Chile and changed planes in Frankfurt and São Paulo. The domestic flight to Punta Arenas was delayed by a good four hours, but they passed quickly over a glass of Chilean wine and conversation with like-minded strangers. The four expedition members and our leader met that evening at the beautiful Mundo Dreams hotel, or in our language, World of Dreams. An Englishman, an Irishman, an American, a Scot and a Slovenian had our first opportunity to exchange a few words over an Austral beer, but the journey we had endured soon put us to bed. We used our first morning at the end of the world for a group purchase of the food required on the list. Three full shopping carts shocked the cashier, although, as she herself said, she expected nothing else from the Gringos. The leader used the rest of the day to inspect our equipment. Miraculously, every one of us had managed to bring every bag packed at home, which, according to the organizer, was unusual for airlines. Toward evening ALE held a group meeting with the other two groups heading for Vinson and a group that wanted to reach the South Pole. The groups were somewhat larger because exactly one hundred years had passed since Amudsen first reached the South Pole and beat his rival Captain Cook. The next day brought the moment when we were called to the airport. The equipment that had been weighed and taken away the previous day was loaded onto an Ilyushin military transport aircraft, which during the Cold War between the superpowers had been built to transport and drop nuclear weapons. Today, only this aircraft with a Russian crew is used to transport mountaineering and research expeditions to Antarctica. The plane was waiting for us at a special terminal of the otherwise international airport in Punta Arenas. Everyone bound for the icy continent gathered there, already wearing high-altitude boots and personal equipment intended for low temperatures. The sight of a group equipped like that, separated only by glass from the other people at the airport who were dressed for summer weather, probably made more than one person wonder at least where we were going, if not why anyone would go into such cold. Before boarding the plane we disinfected our boots, as required by rules established under the international agreement on environmental protection in Antarctica, which is unique and irreplaceable. The aircraft can carry about fifty passengers and all their equipment. It has no windows; the seats are unpadded, steel and uncomfortable. Before take-off we were introduced to the five-member Russian crew, made up of mature men, experienced and self-confident, because they are the only crew capable of bringing the four-engine jet down on bare ice, where brakes cannot be relied upon. The flight was calm and the five hours passed relatively quickly. Everyone's thoughts were probably quite similar, since almost all of us were facing a unique and unrepeatable experience. After a masterful landing at Union Glacier, the glacier crew had one hour to unload and reload the large aircraft. The engines are never shut down because at such temperatures they could not be restarted. The aircraft landed in windy conditions, with at least fifty knots of crosswind, which almost blew us passengers across the completely iced-over runway as we jumped out. We all gathered in a metal container beside the runway that serves as a temporary airport terminal, collected our equipment and headed for a larger tent settlement directly beside the glacier. Several larger fixed tents serve as common spaces open to everyone, where meetings are held and communal food is cooked; there is access to a satellite phone, a doctor, books to pass the time, toilets, water... A tall, blond, middle-aged woman strode into the tent with a masculine gait and unzipped a heavy down jacket decorated with Norwegian symbols that revealed her origin and status. She removed her dark glasses, and the blue intensity of her gaze silenced our expectant chatter. "I am Karin," she said in a strong voice that cut through the roar of the wind, while the lines in her face stretched into an open smile that said everything: we were here for the first time; she was the head of the settlement; she called the aircraft and decided who stayed and who went... Her name involuntarily carried me far home to my daughter of the same name. Homesickness hurt more than frozen fingers receiving warm blood again, and her wish on the school noticeboard that all she wanted from Santa Claus was her father froze a heavy tear on my stiff eyelashes. Karin explained all the rules of life in the lunar settlement, pointed to the board containing all the more important notices and highlighted the last one: "Twin Otters were called." The smaller twin-engine aircraft, of which there are four at the base, were the first planes used to fly across Antarctica in the days before GPS systems; here they are used to transport people to the base camp directly below the highest mountain and for rescue operations from camps all across the continent. At the other end of the endless white field, a large DC-3 specially equipped for the task was waiting for a flight toward the South Pole, which was almost 1,300 miles away from us. We pitched our tents, arranged the equipment on sledges and in backpacks, and divided up the group food, cookware, fuel, ropes and everything else that goes with it. I shared a tent with Bob, a Scot who at thirty-five owns a company involved in the logistics of transporting nuclear waste around the world. He does most of his work by phone while visiting the most remote parts of our planet. We had already begun a conversation on the plane about the nuclear accident in Japan, continued it throughout the time we were pitching the tent, and when we finally settled into our sleeping bags we realized that resting in broad daylight, despite the late hour, would be rather unusual. In mid-December in Antarctica the sun did not touch the horizon at all; it circled us counterclockwise and was only occasionally veiled by high wispy clouds. Continuous sunlight can affect a person much more severely than I had imagined. I somehow skipped the first two "nights" and could follow the passage of time only on my wristwatch. At first we felt the effects of continuous wakefulness only as increased irritability; we prepared meals more out of principle, and the hardest part was waiting for transport or for the wind to lose strength, because at that moment we felt we could simply rush toward the desired goal. But soon our initial enthusiasm passed, and after the first serious nap sobriety returned to our heads, so life could continue "normally".
It was time to move to base camp. We left some food and the tents we had pitched at the camp by the glacier and loaded all the remaining equipment onto the Twin Otter twin-engine aircraft described earlier, which carries six passengers, two crew members and, of course, all the necessary equipment. The aircraft slid down the runway on skis and, after a very short take-off run, quickly rose above the Antarctic ice. Because the large Ilyushin had no windows, only now could we see the moon-like landscape from the air for the first time. It resembled a huge white cake from which darker pyramids protruded in places: rocky summits that for thousands of years had resisted strong winds and merciless cold. Visibility in the extremely dry air is almost endless, and wherever the eye wandered there was vast whiteness, interrupted in places by the peaks of the several-thousand-mile-long Transantarctic Range, which for decades represented one of the major obstacles in conquering the continent. "That's it, boys," Chris shouted loudly enough for all of us to hear despite the harsh metallic roar of the engines. The pilot turned her head, a broad smile spreading across her face, somewhat muted by her dark glasses, and added, "Make sure that you're all on my plane back to Glacier." This really was it. My body felt as if it had no arms or legs; I floated like a thought that had already been carried to this very place countless times before, above a continent that until recently had represented the impossible to almost everyone on this planet. To be right here, at that moment, was not only a fulfilled wish but an unrepeatable privilege. On a continent whose coasts in this summer season come alive with visits from countless birds and marine mammals, but which apart from them bears no trace of life, we represented the only living beings. Modern technology and globalization have given many people the opportunity to repeat what the bravest, strongest, friends of kings, explorers, visionaries and geniuses began a hundred years ago. The price they paid for the same goal is unimaginable. Ahead of us, the Vinson Massif, part of the Elsworth Mountains, slowly rose like an ice-covered granite mass. Translucent wisps of mist played around the summit of the highest mountain itself. Increasingly frequent gusts of wind shook the small aircraft violently, as if our predecessors, frozen forever, were warning us that we were approaching the twilight zone. The pilot and copilot began preparing to land. A somehow too-small flat section of the sloping glacier, literally beneath the foot of the summit of the massif itself, offered the only place where a landing seemed possible. "I wonder how she's gonna do this," Ryan wondered aloud, despite being accustomed to impossible air operations and parachute jumps. I relied only on the Almighty, even in places forgotten by God, and this time too everything ended well. An unexpectedly soft landing on a half-metre-thick layer of powder snow earned a short round of applause from the passengers. We jumped through the small door onto virgin snow, unloaded the equipment and loaded the plastic sledges. A relatively warm, sunny weather window greeted us, while the view of the surroundings dazzled us with glittering whiteness. All around us were untouched and never-climbed summits, peaks even without names or owners. The Antarctic Treaty between countries that, in a purely formal sense, lay claim to parts of the continent prohibits any ascents of summits except Mt. Vinson and a few neighbouring peaks, so even today the landscape remains without traces of human activity, just as it has for millions of years. We pitched our high-altitude tents, dug them into the surface, cut blocks of ice as windbreaks and used them to build a circular roofless area that would serve as a toilet. All biological waste has to be collected in bags prepared for that purpose, which fortunately freeze very quickly, while plastic bottles filled with urine can at least for a short time be used to warm feet and toes during rest in the tents. We placed flags around the camp to limit our movement on the glacier, above all for safety because the glacier is densely crevassed, and also because of ALE's environmental protection rules. Chris ordered us to rest for a few hours before we were to set off for the first high-altitude camp at approximately 3,500 m above sea level. None of us crawled into a tent. We talked about the moment we were experiencing and about similar experiences we had already had that could in no way compare with this one, and we took advantage of temperatures just below minus twenty to take photographs without gloves and face masks, something that had not been so easy in the previous days. Solar panels charged the batteries at full power, while gas burners cut through the long-awaited calm on the mountain with their loud hiss. The smell of cooked food spread through the air; the atmosphere was perfect. "Half an hour, boys," after six hours sent the blood racing through our veins. We prepared everything for the journey and for establishing the first high-altitude camp. Once the sledges were loaded and our crampons fastened, we set off in a long rope team across the crevassed, sloping glacier toward the shoulder on the north side of the mountain. Walking was pleasant; our leader Chris kept the pace easy and I hardly felt the altitude. We wore only two layers and no thick down jackets, while the weakened southerly wind ensured the sun did not warm us. Huge crevasses yawned on our left. Along with the weather, low temperatures and altitude, they represent the only serious threat on a mountain that is not technically difficult. After just under seven hours of a dreamlike tour we planted flags around the high camp. The site was somewhat windier than base camp but bathed in sunlight; it offered no pleasant shelter, so we quickly retreated into the tents, and I did not regret a cent spent on the "better sleeping bag." Bob had the classic problems with altitude, while the rest of us had no difficulties apart from a slight headache and the now familiar insomnia. If the weather conditions were favourable, we were supposed to need four to five days for the ascent to the summit and back. I have always tended toward fast variants, which have so far proved good, because waiting for the best moment usually does not bring it. Each of us ate our allotted packet of food in the tents, and just as I began to sink into the sleep I so badly wanted, Chris called a council of war. By radio he had received from the glacier the weather forecast for the next forty-eight hours, and it brought no good news for the following day. The winds were expected to strengthen and the temperatures to fall somewhat. We decided to ride out the deterioration in our tents at camp and then climb as high as possible as quickly as we could, perhaps even to the summit itself without an additional high camp, because after roughly one day of worsening conditions the longer-term forecast predicted only a brief weather window in which we might succeed. The decision actually suited us all, since the unstable day-night rhythm had thrown us badly off balance. We melted some snow, crawled into the tents and ate a few sweets... I was awakened only by the flapping of the tent wall. The winds had strengthened noticeably and despite the sunny weather it did not seem wise to climb the exposed ridge. Ryan had clearly been awake for some time. "Morning, honey," I could barely understand through his neoprene face mask. Judging by the down jacket and goggles around his "big" hat, I concluded that we were going outside. "You are late," he mocked me, and with an unusual gleam in his eyes let me know he was serious. Chris decided that we would move one step higher. Fixed ropes left by our predecessors had been installed along the route; given the relatively low technical difficulty, they mainly protected against violent gusts of wind that could lift anyone off the ground and then... We set off in pairs, taking only one tent, which at the next high camp was to serve only as emergency shelter, perhaps for all of us together if necessary. We left the sledges and cooking equipment in a snow hole beside the tents and packed everything we expected to need into our backpacks. Bob, who had been complaining of feeling worse for some time, staggered in front of me. The thermometer had fallen to well below minus forty, which together with gusts around one hundred kilometres per hour makes even the most ordinary and simple tasks impossible. At altitude, dehydration can quickly force a mountaineer to abandon the objective and, together with other inhuman conditions, can bring one before the "final judgement," so constant drinking is recommended and necessary. All well and good until the liquid also has to be drained. Urinating just like that, without a bottle and neoprene protection, can be downright disastrous for the organ within a few moments, as I had almost experienced the day before when I nearly got "frostbite" at the wrong end. Now I know and would rather hold it, at least until some snow hole or tent. A slope of more than forty degrees and ice that at times was almost glassy demanded concentration, calm nerves and trust in the companion at the other end of the rope. I felt good, because I could feel on my back the gaze of the American special-forces soldier who was almost twenty kilograms heavier than me. We understood one another without words, felt each other's pain and fatigue as though we had known each other for a long time, as though we had once walked together before. Below us opened views seen by few eyes. The stabbing in frozen lungs, endlessly slow steps, deadly cold and gasping for air were pushed far into subconscious thought, dissolved by the warmth of pride brought by every metre of altitude. Perhaps my foot was the first ever to step on that very place since we have existed here at all, on this small world, yet one so diverse: hot, humid, dry, flat, steep, cold and icy. At that particular moment we were probably the loneliest group of people on the planet, left entirely to ourselves, with no possibility of help in the event of an accident or shortage of food. The more aware we became of that fact, the stronger the bonds between us became. We cannot see or describe them, yet they were the only thing we could hold on to when things became truly difficult. Slowly we approached the area where the leader intended to pitch another tent and dig a snow hole. We tackled the gruelling task. We worked in coordination and without mistakes, so the wind and cold did not cause us any serious harm. There is no life here for people; there is no life for anything that can live at all. I struggled almost to tears simply coiling a rope, and I could not remove my goggles, mask or gloves. Skin can freeze in a few moments, while even the simplest movements cause exhaustion. Preparing a simple camp took us almost two hours. We arranged cut blocks of hard snow as a windbreak, allowing us to pitch the tent, sit down in shelter and slowly collect our thoughts. Two hours of rest, staring at the icy infinity below us and the completely blue sky above, changes the perception we are accustomed to in self-evident everyday life. For five people from different worlds and philosophies, the search for truth and the meaning of existence became simple and clear. We live for the moment, for one another, for a common goal that is so close, wrapped in icy, cobweb-like clouds that bend the sun's powerful ozone-free rays; for a goal that for several years had been only a point with a number at the bottom of a dusty globe. Everything else is a secret trapped in eternal ice. After a couple of hours of questionable rest, Chris considered us grown-up enough to tackle the final metres. I remembered my previous tours: breathing through a straw on Aconcagua, walks through Patagonia, lost companions on the Materhorn, skiing from Mont Blanc, climbing in the Dolomites, our own Kredarica and my green Begunjščica. Every one of those moments, purified by fears that never tire, came together in a warm cup of victory over everything and everyone who is afraid of their dreams.
It began ten years earlier, when my wife Melita and I travelled through Patagonia and also stopped in the city at the end of the world. Punta Arenas at the bottom of Chile then seemed to me the most remote settlement on this planet, but I quietly promised myself that one day I would go even farther, across the Drake Passage to the loneliest, coldest, highest and driest continent on our planet: Antarctica. A quiet wish began to grow into a decision a few years later. I asked the most experienced people. Viki Grošelj and Stane Klemenc helped me with a few pieces of advice. There are quite a few companies in Europe that deal with extreme travel: Seven Summits, Alpine Ascents, Jugged Globe and Adventure Peaks are prepared, after the prescribed tests, to lead enthusiasts to Everest, Aconcagua... and also to the most prestigious summit in the club of the highest peaks, Mt. Vinson, which at 4,900 m above sea level is the highest point in Antarctica. After my first application to Adventure Peaks, I sent all the required documentation to the company headquarters in England, including relatively confidential information such as my medical record, a completed health questionnaire that also required an ECG, blood count, information on childhood and all other past illnesses, allergies, dietary habits, injuries... The second part of the documentation covered all my previous mountaineering experience, with photographs and possible recommendations from well-known mountaineers whom the company already had on its "experienced" list. When they were satisfied with what I had sent, they invited me to a winter test in the French Alps, a "winter ascent of Mt. Blanc", with one of three guides who already had experience in Antarctica. During three cold days we got to know and assess one another, which made both their decision and mine about the trip to Vinson easier. One beautiful summer day I received a substantial package in the mail that finally confirmed I was a candidate with sufficient experience. They had not yet set my departure date because the suitable season was still too far away and the availability of places according to candidate priority was still unknown. I could begin the painstaking process of collecting expensive equipment that my "mountaineering cellar" did not yet contain. A two-page list translated into practical terms meant roughly three thousand euros' worth of gear that I had never needed in our mountains even in the most extreme conditions. But ALE (Antarctic Logistic and Expedition), the umbrella and only organization that has been running expeditions of this kind to Antarctica through the partners mentioned above for thirty years, insists on its requirements and protocols, so protesting that "my down jacket is just as good" does not help. For what they do, in addition to everything already mentioned, they charge another US$33,500.0, plus of course your own transport to Punta Arenas, which can mean another two to three thousand euros. I expected the departure date to be set that same autumn, but for reasons unknown to me the company did not yet decide. The following autumn I myself could not commit to the undertaking for health reasons, so eventually the autumn of 2011 arrived, when Cris Mothersdale, the guide of our group and a multiple Everest climber, gave me the date. The thirteenth of December was supposed to be the lucky day for everyone, when we would fly across the Southern Ocean to the ice sheet. The journey in the narrower sense was supposed to last eleven days, but it was wise to expect weather problems and therefore flights being moved backward or forward. At Brnik I found it hard to say goodbye to my family and swallowed a few bitter tears, but that is how it is... I sent forty kilograms of equipment directly to Santiago de Chile and changed planes in Frankfurt and São Paulo. The domestic flight to Punta Arenas was delayed by a good four hours, but they passed quickly over a glass of Chilean wine and conversation with like-minded strangers. The four expedition members and our leader met that evening at the beautiful Mundo Dreams hotel, or in our language, World of Dreams. An Englishman, an Irishman, an American, a Scot and a Slovenian had our first opportunity to exchange a few words over an Austral beer, but the journey we had endured soon put us to bed. We used our first morning at the end of the world for a group purchase of the food required on the list. Three full shopping carts shocked the cashier, although, as she herself said, she expected nothing else from the Gringos. The leader used the rest of the day to inspect our equipment. Miraculously, every one of us had managed to bring every bag packed at home, which, according to the organizer, was unusual for airlines. Toward evening ALE held a group meeting with the other two groups heading for Vinson and a group that wanted to reach the South Pole. The groups were somewhat larger because exactly one hundred years had passed since Amudsen first reached the South Pole and beat his rival Captain Cook. The next day brought the moment when we were called to the airport. The equipment that had been weighed and taken away the previous day was loaded onto an Ilyushin military transport aircraft, which during the Cold War between the superpowers had been built to transport and drop nuclear weapons. Today, only this aircraft with a Russian crew is used to transport mountaineering and research expeditions to Antarctica. The plane was waiting for us at a special terminal of the otherwise international airport in Punta Arenas. Everyone bound for the icy continent gathered there, already wearing high-altitude boots and personal equipment intended for low temperatures. The sight of a group equipped like that, separated only by glass from the other people at the airport who were dressed for summer weather, probably made more than one person wonder at least where we were going, if not why anyone would go into such cold. Before boarding the plane we disinfected our boots, as required by rules established under the international agreement on environmental protection in Antarctica, which is unique and irreplaceable. The aircraft can carry about fifty passengers and all their equipment. It has no windows; the seats are unpadded, steel and uncomfortable. Before take-off we were introduced to the five-member Russian crew, made up of mature men, experienced and self-confident, because they are the only crew capable of bringing the four-engine jet down on bare ice, where brakes cannot be relied upon. The flight was calm and the five hours passed relatively quickly. Everyone's thoughts were probably quite similar, since almost all of us were facing a unique and unrepeatable experience. After a masterful landing at Union Glacier, the glacier crew had one hour to unload and reload the large aircraft. The engines are never shut down because at such temperatures they could not be restarted. The aircraft landed in windy conditions, with at least fifty knots of crosswind, which almost blew us passengers across the completely iced-over runway as we jumped out. We all gathered in a metal container beside the runway that serves as a temporary airport terminal, collected our equipment and headed for a larger tent settlement directly beside the glacier. Several larger fixed tents serve as common spaces open to everyone, where meetings are held and communal food is cooked; there is access to a satellite phone, a doctor, books to pass the time, toilets, water... A tall, blond, middle-aged woman strode into the tent with a masculine gait and unzipped a heavy down jacket decorated with Norwegian symbols that revealed her origin and status. She removed her dark glasses, and the blue intensity of her gaze silenced our expectant chatter. "I am Karin," she said in a strong voice that cut through the roar of the wind, while the lines in her face stretched into an open smile that said everything: we were here for the first time; she was the head of the settlement; she called the aircraft and decided who stayed and who went... Her name involuntarily carried me far home to my daughter of the same name. Homesickness hurt more than frozen fingers receiving warm blood again, and her wish on the school noticeboard that all she wanted from Santa Claus was her father froze a heavy tear on my stiff eyelashes. Karin explained all the rules of life in the lunar settlement, pointed to the board containing all the more important notices and highlighted the last one: "Twin Otters were called." The smaller twin-engine aircraft, of which there are four at the base, were the first planes used to fly across Antarctica in the days before GPS systems; here they are used to transport people to the base camp directly below the highest mountain and for rescue operations from camps all across the continent. At the other end of the endless white field, a large DC-3 specially equipped for the task was waiting for a flight toward the South Pole, which was almost 1,300 miles away from us. We pitched our tents, arranged the equipment on sledges and in backpacks, and divided up the group food, cookware, fuel, ropes and everything else that goes with it. I shared a tent with Bob, a Scot who at thirty-five owns a company involved in the logistics of transporting nuclear waste around the world. He does most of his work by phone while visiting the most remote parts of our planet. We had already begun a conversation on the plane about the nuclear accident in Japan, continued it throughout the time we were pitching the tent, and when we finally settled into our sleeping bags we realized that resting in broad daylight, despite the late hour, would be rather unusual. In mid-December in Antarctica the sun did not touch the horizon at all; it circled us counterclockwise and was only occasionally veiled by high wispy clouds. Continuous sunlight can affect a person much more severely than I had imagined. I somehow skipped the first two "nights" and could follow the passage of time only on my wristwatch. At first we felt the effects of continuous wakefulness only as increased irritability; we prepared meals more out of principle, and the hardest part was waiting for transport or for the wind to lose strength, because at that moment we felt we could simply rush toward the desired goal. But soon our initial enthusiasm passed, and after the first serious nap sobriety returned to our heads, so life could continue "normally".
It was time to move to base camp. We left some food and the tents we had pitched at the camp by the glacier and loaded all the remaining equipment onto the Twin Otter twin-engine aircraft described earlier, which carries six passengers, two crew members and, of course, all the necessary equipment. The aircraft slid down the runway on skis and, after a very short take-off run, quickly rose above the Antarctic ice. Because the large Ilyushin had no windows, only now could we see the moon-like landscape from the air for the first time. It resembled a huge white cake from which darker pyramids protruded in places: rocky summits that for thousands of years had resisted strong winds and merciless cold. Visibility in the extremely dry air is almost endless, and wherever the eye wandered there was vast whiteness, interrupted in places by the peaks of the several-thousand-mile-long Transantarctic Range, which for decades represented one of the major obstacles in conquering the continent. "That's it, boys," Chris shouted loudly enough for all of us to hear despite the harsh metallic roar of the engines. The pilot turned her head, a broad smile spreading across her face, somewhat muted by her dark glasses, and added, "Make sure that you're all on my plane back to Glacier." This really was it. My body felt as if it had no arms or legs; I floated like a thought that had already been carried to this very place countless times before, above a continent that until recently had represented the impossible to almost everyone on this planet. To be right here, at that moment, was not only a fulfilled wish but an unrepeatable privilege. On a continent whose coasts in this summer season come alive with visits from countless birds and marine mammals, but which apart from them bears no trace of life, we represented the only living beings. Modern technology and globalization have given many people the opportunity to repeat what the bravest, strongest, friends of kings, explorers, visionaries and geniuses began a hundred years ago. The price they paid for the same goal is unimaginable. Ahead of us, the Vinson Massif, part of the Elsworth Mountains, slowly rose like an ice-covered granite mass. Translucent wisps of mist played around the summit of the highest mountain itself. Increasingly frequent gusts of wind shook the small aircraft violently, as if our predecessors, frozen forever, were warning us that we were approaching the twilight zone. The pilot and copilot began preparing to land. A somehow too-small flat section of the sloping glacier, literally beneath the foot of the summit of the massif itself, offered the only place where a landing seemed possible. "I wonder how she's gonna do this," Ryan wondered aloud, despite being accustomed to impossible air operations and parachute jumps. I relied only on the Almighty, even in places forgotten by God, and this time too everything ended well. An unexpectedly soft landing on a half-metre-thick layer of powder snow earned a short round of applause from the passengers. We jumped through the small door onto virgin snow, unloaded the equipment and loaded the plastic sledges. A relatively warm, sunny weather window greeted us, while the view of the surroundings dazzled us with glittering whiteness. All around us were untouched and never-climbed summits, peaks even without names or owners. The Antarctic Treaty between countries that, in a purely formal sense, lay claim to parts of the continent prohibits any ascents of summits except Mt. Vinson and a few neighbouring peaks, so even today the landscape remains without traces of human activity, just as it has for millions of years. We pitched our high-altitude tents, dug them into the surface, cut blocks of ice as windbreaks and used them to build a circular roofless area that would serve as a toilet. All biological waste has to be collected in bags prepared for that purpose, which fortunately freeze very quickly, while plastic bottles filled with urine can at least for a short time be used to warm feet and toes during rest in the tents. We placed flags around the camp to limit our movement on the glacier, above all for safety because the glacier is densely crevassed, and also because of ALE's environmental protection rules. Chris ordered us to rest for a few hours before we were to set off for the first high-altitude camp at approximately 3,500 m above sea level. None of us crawled into a tent. We talked about the moment we were experiencing and about similar experiences we had already had that could in no way compare with this one, and we took advantage of temperatures just below minus twenty to take photographs without gloves and face masks, something that had not been so easy in the previous days. Solar panels charged the batteries at full power, while gas burners cut through the long-awaited calm on the mountain with their loud hiss. The smell of cooked food spread through the air; the atmosphere was perfect. "Half an hour, boys," after six hours sent the blood racing through our veins. We prepared everything for the journey and for establishing the first high-altitude camp. Once the sledges were loaded and our crampons fastened, we set off in a long rope team across the crevassed, sloping glacier toward the shoulder on the north side of the mountain. Walking was pleasant; our leader Chris kept the pace easy and I hardly felt the altitude. We wore only two layers and no thick down jackets, while the weakened southerly wind ensured the sun did not warm us. Huge crevasses yawned on our left. Along with the weather, low temperatures and altitude, they represent the only serious threat on a mountain that is not technically difficult. After just under seven hours of a dreamlike tour we planted flags around the high camp. The site was somewhat windier than base camp but bathed in sunlight; it offered no pleasant shelter, so we quickly retreated into the tents, and I did not regret a cent spent on the "better sleeping bag." Bob had the classic problems with altitude, while the rest of us had no difficulties apart from a slight headache and the now familiar insomnia. If the weather conditions were favourable, we were supposed to need four to five days for the ascent to the summit and back. I have always tended toward fast variants, which have so far proved good, because waiting for the best moment usually does not bring it. Each of us ate our allotted packet of food in the tents, and just as I began to sink into the sleep I so badly wanted, Chris called a council of war. By radio he had received from the glacier the weather forecast for the next forty-eight hours, and it brought no good news for the following day. The winds were expected to strengthen and the temperatures to fall somewhat. We decided to ride out the deterioration in our tents at camp and then climb as high as possible as quickly as we could, perhaps even to the summit itself without an additional high camp, because after roughly one day of worsening conditions the longer-term forecast predicted only a brief weather window in which we might succeed. The decision actually suited us all, since the unstable day-night rhythm had thrown us badly off balance. We melted some snow, crawled into the tents and ate a few sweets... I was awakened only by the flapping of the tent wall. The winds had strengthened noticeably and despite the sunny weather it did not seem wise to climb the exposed ridge. Ryan had clearly been awake for some time. "Morning, honey," I could barely understand through his neoprene face mask. Judging by the down jacket and goggles around his "big" hat, I concluded that we were going outside. "You are late," he mocked me, and with an unusual gleam in his eyes let me know he was serious. Chris decided that we would move one step higher. Fixed ropes left by our predecessors had been installed along the route; given the relatively low technical difficulty, they mainly protected against violent gusts of wind that could lift anyone off the ground and then... We set off in pairs, taking only one tent, which at the next high camp was to serve only as emergency shelter, perhaps for all of us together if necessary. We left the sledges and cooking equipment in a snow hole beside the tents and packed everything we expected to need into our backpacks. Bob, who had been complaining of feeling worse for some time, staggered in front of me. The thermometer had fallen to well below minus forty, which together with gusts around one hundred kilometres per hour makes even the most ordinary and simple tasks impossible. At altitude, dehydration can quickly force a mountaineer to abandon the objective and, together with other inhuman conditions, can bring one before the "final judgement," so constant drinking is recommended and necessary. All well and good until the liquid also has to be drained. Urinating just like that, without a bottle and neoprene protection, can be downright disastrous for the organ within a few moments, as I had almost experienced the day before when I nearly got "frostbite" at the wrong end. Now I know and would rather hold it, at least until some snow hole or tent. A slope of more than forty degrees and ice that at times was almost glassy demanded concentration, calm nerves and trust in the companion at the other end of the rope. I felt good, because I could feel on my back the gaze of the American special-forces soldier who was almost twenty kilograms heavier than me. We understood one another without words, felt each other's pain and fatigue as though we had known each other for a long time, as though we had once walked together before. Below us opened views seen by few eyes. The stabbing in frozen lungs, endlessly slow steps, deadly cold and gasping for air were pushed far into subconscious thought, dissolved by the warmth of pride brought by every metre of altitude. Perhaps my foot was the first ever to step on that very place since we have existed here at all, on this small world, yet one so diverse: hot, humid, dry, flat, steep, cold and icy. At that particular moment we were probably the loneliest group of people on the planet, left entirely to ourselves, with no possibility of help in the event of an accident or shortage of food. The more aware we became of that fact, the stronger the bonds between us became. We cannot see or describe them, yet they were the only thing we could hold on to when things became truly difficult. Slowly we approached the area where the leader intended to pitch another tent and dig a snow hole. We tackled the gruelling task. We worked in coordination and without mistakes, so the wind and cold did not cause us any serious harm. There is no life here for people; there is no life for anything that can live at all. I struggled almost to tears simply coiling a rope, and I could not remove my goggles, mask or gloves. Skin can freeze in a few moments, while even the simplest movements cause exhaustion. Preparing a simple camp took us almost two hours. We arranged cut blocks of hard snow as a windbreak, allowing us to pitch the tent, sit down in shelter and slowly collect our thoughts. Two hours of rest, staring at the icy infinity below us and the completely blue sky above, changes the perception we are accustomed to in self-evident everyday life. For five people from different worlds and philosophies, the search for truth and the meaning of existence became simple and clear. We live for the moment, for one another, for a common goal that is so close, wrapped in icy, cobweb-like clouds that bend the sun's powerful ozone-free rays; for a goal that for several years had been only a point with a number at the bottom of a dusty globe. Everything else is a secret trapped in eternal ice. After a couple of hours of questionable rest, Chris considered us grown-up enough to tackle the final metres. I remembered my previous tours: breathing through a straw on Aconcagua, walks through Patagonia, lost companions on the Materhorn, skiing from Mont Blanc, climbing in the Dolomites, our own Kredarica and my green Begunjščica. Every one of those moments, purified by fears that never tire, came together in a warm cup of victory over everything and everyone who is afraid of their dreams.
