Call of the White

by Aston, Felicity

  ‘I don’t want to get too close tonight, so what do you think? Is this a suitable spot for our last night?’

  We both simultaneously glanced up at the sun blazing in an indigo sky surrounded by wisps of milky white cloud. To our left were the unfamiliar colours and angles of the station, while to our right was the same uninterrupted division of blue and white that we had become used to.

  ‘Perfect,’ she replied.

  As I reported the news to the team that we were stopping as usual there wasn’t a single murmur of disagreement; the team seemed to be pleased with the decision. ‘I could not go further today,’ said Sophia. ‘This is far enough.’

  ‘I think it’s nice that we have one last night on our own,’ added Helen.

  Even so, as we fell into our well-rehearsed tent routine I couldn’t help glancing up at the distant station buildings and wondering if we should have pressed on.

  It was very rare that Sophia wrote in our team journal but Day 37 was special. She was prompted not by our proximity to our goal but because it was her 37th birthday. ‘Counted my blessings for having such great weather for our last day of long skiing, although body and mind are feeling exhausted. Can’t ask for a better way to celebrate my birthday in Antarctica and a great team to be with,’ she recorded.

  We woke on Day 38 knowing that it would be the last day of our expedition. After a lazy morning indulging ourselves in that thought, by the time we began to pack up it seemed that the team were suddenly in a hurry to be moving again. There was a buoyant atmosphere as we packed away the tents and attached ourselves to our sledges.

  Despite the banter and laughter, I noticed the others occasionally stop to stand and stare at the station buildings. I couldn’t help doing the same myself. The cloud of steam still bellowed above the base but I couldn’t detect any movement. I felt a knot of anxiety in my stomach but couldn’t isolate why I should be feeling so nervous. Once we had packed up, we moved off as normal. Helen was navigating and still following the GPS arrow pointing us towards the end of the antenna.

  The station buildings away to our left didn’t seem to be getting any larger but to our right a large black splodge appeared in the sky. As, one by one, the team ahead of me spotted it a few ski poles were raised to point it out but there was no halt to our forward progress. We all watched as the dark shape slowly lumbered towards us, revealing itself gradually as a large Hercules, a fat-bellied cargo plane similar to the one that had flown us into Antarctica. It seemed to pass right in front of us as we skied but was probably in reality a few dozen kilometres away. It glided ridiculously slowly, leaving what looked to be the narrowest band of blue between the snow and its greyish hull. I wondered if the crew flying the plane had spotted us, a line of seven black dots far below them. We heard the faintest of mechanical thunders as the plane merged into the base and was gone. I noticed with annoyance that my goggles had steamed up so that I couldn’t see the base properly. I pushed a gloved finger awkwardly under the rim of my goggles to try to clear my vision before realising that it was not my goggles affecting my sight but a fine mist that had descended like a fog over the base. The mist grew, crawling across the sky until sun dogs appeared around the sun in the way that cartoonists emphasise the sparkle of a diamond. The sight made me smile to myself: I liked the fact that our arrival at the South Pole would be accompanied by the sun dogs and haloes that had patiently watched our progress over the last 38 days.

  We stopped for a break and Steph took over the lead. She didn’t need the GPS anymore; we could see fine black marks in the snow ahead marking out the antenna we had been told to aim for. Steve had given me clear instructions for our arrival at the South Pole station. Once we reached the end of the antenna we were to follow the green flag markers to the ceremonial pole, but as we neared the antenna Steph slowed in confusion. I skied towards the front of the line and stood next to her as we both lifted our goggles for a better look. To our left the antenna stretched away to a cluster of buildings in the far distance but it was clear that the main base lay quite a way ahead of us and slightly to the left. In front of the buildings was a wide area of groomed snow, presumably the runway, but between us and our destination was a multi-coloured forest of flags. Starting with the closest green flag I tried to trace a route through the perplexity of flapping markers but found every discernable route was interrupted with another line, a large gap or groups of crossed flags which seemed unrelated to any others. Slowly the rest of the team drew around us and we all looked on together in bewilderment. Looking down at my feet I noticed a set of old ski tracks in the snow roughly following the line of the antenna away to our left. It seemed as good a direction as any so we followed the tracks.

  Now skiing directly towards the base for the first time, the scale of the buildings became clear and we could see vehicles moving around. It was hard to be sure but I thought I could see figures on the balconies of some of the buildings. It all looked very industrial; the buildings were square blocks of blues and reds encased in what looked like scaffolding. Old shipping containers were lined up in rows in front of the buildings as well as large wooden cable-rolls looking like oversized cotton reels. It became obvious that the large building to our right was the main base. The closer we got, the larger it loomed out of the snow. Raised above the ground on stilts it appeared to be at least three storeys high, its annexes arranged to form the shape of a capital E. The plane we had seen earlier was standing next to the side of the building closest to us and thrumming impatiently. I’d heard that the engines of these big planes were never switched off at the South Pole because it was so cold that there was no guarantee they would start again. Instead the plane was unloaded and reloaded on the runway with the engines still rolling. As we marched forward, another large cargo plane appeared in the sky and for a moment seemed to hang in the air alongside us before landing with a roar, its engines kicking up a large plume of snow.

  Steph stopped the line and beckoned me to the front. ‘Felicity, I think it should be you that leads us in,’ she said. ‘You’re the one that started all this.’ I looked at Era and Reena who had stopped behind Steph. They both nodded in agreement. I felt touched at the gesture and, lifting my fist in our habitual signal, checked that everyone was OK before I forged onwards towards the base at the front of the line. As we skied, my eyes searched the buildings for any sign of the ceremonial South Pole. I had seen pictures of it a hundred times; a silver sphere on a red and white striped barber’s pole surrounded by the flags of the Antarctic Treaty nations. Instead I noticed figures moving about the base, the all-too-familiar smell of aviation fuel and even the faintest hint of rock music coming from somewhere.

  We’d come to the end of the antenna but I still couldn’t see a clear line of green flags to follow. It seemed obvious that we would need to veer right towards the main building at some point so I followed my nose, leading the team vaguely towards the runway. I’d barely turned in that direction before I became aware of a snowmobile heading towards us at high speed. Riding pillion was a passenger waving at us frantically. I stopped, leaning on my ski poles as I waited for the snowmobile to reach us. The passenger leapt from his seat, trotting to a halt in front of me and sticking out his bare hand in greeting. I struggled for a second to shake my mitt free of my ski pole before pulling out my hand and shaking his. The stranger’s hand felt very warm.

  ‘Congratulations! I’m Sean,’ he introduced himself. I’d been told to expect to meet Sean, the ALE representative at the South Pole whose job it was to look after us once we arrived. ‘You’ve got everyone here in a bit of a stir,’ he continued. I looked at him in confusion, unsure what we could have done within our first five minutes of arrival to upset anybody. ‘You seem to be heading straight for the science buildings and tourists aren’t allowed near that part of the base,’ Sean explained. I noted our description as tourists.

  ‘We’re just trying to follow a flag route to the ceremonial pole,’ I explained. ‘But there are so many flags it�
��s a bit confusing.’

  Sean pointed away to our right and I recognised it immediately: a semi-circle of flags arranged around a shiny metal sphere not more than 100 metres in front of the main base building. The South Pole.

  Sean walked with us as we crossed the runway, the team still skiing in single file behind me. He chatted companionably as we moved but my attention was transfixed on our goal. We were less than 100 metres away and a sense of the enormity of the moment started to build within my chest. I knew it was ridiculous to think that I wouldn’t cry.

  Sean sensed my thoughts and faded into the background, moving down the line to shake hands with the rest of the team and thoughtfully collecting our team cameras to take some shots as we drew close to the end of our journey. I glanced behind me at the six women skiing neatly ski-tip to sledge-back as we had done for the last 900 kilometres. I raised my arm in our accustomed communication to check that everyone was OK, more in sentimentality than necessity. I couldn’t see the faces of my team but I knew exactly what each was feeling. One by one, they raised their arm to mirror my own signal. I noticed with a familiar pain in my throat that without exception each of the girls had steamed up their goggles – like me, they were all shedding a private tear. Searing affection for this incredible, unconventional, unlikely team flashed through me, burning like a shot of adrenalin.

  Covering the last 100 metres stride by stride, I made myself think back to the very beginning, to the interview at the Winston Churchill Memorial Trust, and dragged my mind forward through my memories of Ghana, India, Jamaica; I saw the faces of the women I had interviewed and of all those people who had given so generously of their time to help me. I remembered the late nights agonising over proposals and emails, the nerve-wracking elation of our first contact with Kaspersky Lab, the desperate early-morning Land Rover journeys through Norwegian blizzards and the twisting mountain roads in New Zealand. For a moment I allowed my ego to soar as I thought of those who had been disparaging or sceptical, those who thought we were a joke. ‘And look at us now,’ I thought to myself with satisfaction.

  I stopped a metre or two from the silver orb and waited for each member of the team to catch up, so that we stood side by side. I stretched across to hug Era and Steph, both next to me in the line. I noticed Kylie waving her arms in triumph and heard her muted cheers from behind her face mask. She threw her arms around Reena, who had already lifted her goggles and was weeping openly, unable to speak. A group of employees from the South Pole base had come out to watch our arrival. They all cheered and applauded as we took the last step together in a confused mass of tangled sledges and crossed skis. The seven of us hugged around the silver ball, arms around each other, leaning forward like a sports team discussing tactics. I looked around at the six faces beaming at me and pulled my face mask away from my mouth so that they could all hear me clearly. ‘If ever in life someone tells you that you can’t do something,’ I began, ‘or you take on a task and you’re not sure that you’re up to it; think of this moment. This moment proves that you can do anything you want, and don’t let anyone make you believe otherwise. We may be at the bottom of the planet but in the last thirty-eight days we have conquered the world.’ I paused to look around at the faces of my team. ‘Always be proud of what we achieved today. Always.’ We hugged each other tighter for a second before breaking away to acknowledge the spectators that now crowded around to pat us on the back and take pictures.

  ‘Do you know,’ said one of the women who had come out to congratulate us, ‘that it was exactly forty years ago that the first women arrived at the South Pole.’ I hadn’t known about the anniversary but I remembered the story. Five researchers working at another American Research Station on the coast, McMurdo, had been flown into the South Pole in a Hercules. Not wanting any one woman to claim precedence the five had decided to walk off the back loader of the plane side by side with arms linked so that they all set foot on the snow at the same time. The accidental coincidence of the anniversary pleased me. I was glad that this time the women arriving at the South Pole had skied the whole way, every step, right from the edge of the continent.

  I felt slightly removed from the scene as I hugged and congratulated and cheered, trying to soak in the fact that our journey was over, that we were standing at the South Pole, all seven of us. Inwardly I tried to analyse my feelings. I felt relief, I decided finally; overwhelming mental and physical relief. I seemed almost to float through the scenes playing out around me. I had the strange certainty that I could just drift, that nothing could hurt us now, that we were safe. Then as I posed for photographs with my team I realised how proud I felt to be skiing into the South Pole with this spectacular group of women. The thought brought fresh tears to my eyes and I hugged the team around me even closer. I knew that from this moment this team would never be quite the same again but that we would remember the camaraderie we had shared over the last 38 days for the rest of our lives. Even at that moment, at the zenith of our celebrations, I was already mourning the beginning of the end.

  Freed at last from our skis and sledges we all wrapped ourselves in our down jackets and were led the few hundred yards to the ‘real’ South Pole. The silver sphere was for ceremony but the actual point of 90 degrees south appears to move as the thick ice layer it sits on flows steadily northward. Therefore the ‘real’ South Pole is measured every year and marked with a small brass-headed pin and a large signboard. The board displays an outline of Antarctica. On one side is a quote from Amundsen, the Norwegian explorer who was the first man in history to reach the South Pole. It read ‘So we arrived and were able to plant our flag at the geographical South Pole’ and is dated 14 December 1911. On the right-hand side of the sign is a quote from Robert Falcon Scott who arrived at the South Pole more than a month later but who died on the return, ‘The pole. Yes, but under very different circumstances from those expected.’

  I thought about Scott and his team of men who had stood at this very spot nearly a hundred years before and considered the gulf of difference between our experiences in getting here. Scott’s journey had been longer, and once at the pole he knew he had to return. We didn’t have to ski any more. We simply had to wait at the pole until a plane was available to come and collect us. I wondered what those men would have thought of this multicultural team of women who had followed in their footsteps.

  I dialled the number of the voicemail that would automatically upload my message onto the expedition website so that everyone who had followed our progress, from anywhere in the world, could listen.

  ‘Hello, this is Felicity reporting that at nine minutes past eleven on the twenty-ninth of December the Kaspersky Lab Commonwealth Antarctic Expedition arrived at the Geographic South Pole. We’re all standing around the mirrorball that sits at the South Pole and surrounded by the flags of all the Antarctic Treaty nations with the South Pole base in the background. Standing next to me is Era Al-Sufri, the first Bruneian ever to ski to the South Pole.’ As I spoke her name I looked at Era who grinned at me, squeezing her hands in front of her face in excitement.

  ‘Next to her is Stephanie Solomonides, the first Cypriot ever to ski to the South Pole.’ I deliberately looked at Steph as I spoke. As our eyes met I could see the disbelief in her face at her own achievement, which was still so at odds with her own self-image. The others cheered and Era put her arm around her.

  ‘Next to her is Reena Kaushal Dharmshaktu, the first Indian woman to ski all the way to the South Pole.’ Reena wore her unforgettable smile, with tears in her eyes.

  ‘Next to her is Sophia Pang, the first woman from Singapore to ski to the South Pole.’ The team cheered and Sophia, as imperturbable as ever, looked unruffled.

  ‘Next to her is Kylie Wakelin, the first woman from New Zealand to ski to the South Pole.’ Kylie cheered and waved her arms in the air like a boxer in triumph.

  I met Helen’s gaze who stood next in line and smiled as I chose my words. ‘Next to her is Helen Turton who has fulfilled a long
-held ambition to ski to the South Pole.’

  I paused as I realised I was next. ‘And I’ve also fulfilled an ambition: to take a team of inspirational women all the way to the South Pole.’ The team hugged each other in silence.

  ‘I’m incredibly proud of the team and I think the feeling that we all have right now is that if we can do this then you can do anything that you’d like to, and that’s the message that we really want to send to everyone. We’re all incredibly happy and we’re standing here, seven women at the bottom of the planet with the biggest smiles on our faces. Thanks to everybody out there for supporting us and getting us here.’

  I rang off and breathed deeply. I looked around at the girls. They still had their arms around each other and their faces were a mixture of smiles and tears.

  Sean gently shepherded us away from the pole to a base camp some 50 metres away where he had already set up a mess tent. We crowded inside, perched on small stools forming a horseshoe around Sean as he produced mugs of hot tea and soup as well as dense chocolate brownies. We gratefully hoovered up the goodies and I munched as I listened to the team relate tales from our journey like seasoned professional explorers. I pulled the satellite phone from my jacket and handed it to Sophia who was next to me. Steph dug out our back-up handset from her sledge, slid a warmed battery into the back and switched it on to make a call. For the next half an hour there was an amalgamation of foreign languages in the tent as my teammates called their loved ones to let them know that we had made it safely to the bottom of the planet. Sophia finished her call and handed the satellite phone to Kylie. ‘I rang my mother,’ she told me. ‘She is happy now that she knows I am safe.’

  I let myself sink into the atmosphere. I knew that there were still things I needed to think about: publicity for our sponsors back home, delivering images to the right people, calling the journalists who had followed our progress, confirming our flights home, and sorting through our equipment. But I knew all of that could wait; there was nothing that needed to be dealt with immediately. For now I allowed myself to hang in limbo, to sit and enjoy the moment with an empty head. I could pause and rest – just for a moment. As the calls in the tent came to an end I began to think of my own family. The girls had begun to drift away to pitch the tents nearby and prepare for the sleep of their lives. Before I followed them I tucked the satellite phone in my pocket and walked alone to the South Pole. I stood in front of the infamous silver sphere and looked away from the base to the distant horizon we had just travelled over. More than ever before I understood the truth in the saying that it is the journey and not the destination that matters; the travelling not the arrival that is the true gift.