OK so, one year ago I was sitting in a roadside truckstop in the middle of one of the last frontiers of the North, the Yukon Territory. I was surrounded by people from allover the Yukon, Canada and Europe. I was there as a volunteer on the Yukon Arctic Ultra Race – labelled as the world’s “toughest and coldest ultra marathon” and had a desire to take part as a skier. And I asked the question – “Why don’t people skiing this race ever succeed? And why don’t more people ski it – surely it’s the obvious mode of transport in this wild and snowy place?” I was met with shakes of the head and many loud tuts. The locals all laughed and replied that the conditions, the trail and the equipment just weren’t suitable for skiing and walking/running were the best and fastest options. I wasn’t convinced, however and truly believed that with all the right equipment, planning, training and preparation skiing would be a great way to do the race. And so I set forth on a mission to prove my case. I planned everything down to the finest detail. Equipment would have to be very specific and suited to extreme temperatures and snow conditions. I sought out the best boots from Norway, the right skis and I researched all the best clothing. I then set about planning a training programme for myself and Stewart based in Whitehorse and the surrounds for one month prior to the race. I figured spending time in the right environment would not only allow us to train properly on snow (as opposed to rollerskiing on Plymouth Hoe) but also acclimatise to the temperatures and get to know the area. I sought out advice from the locals and from polar travel experts and heeded  most of it.

So one would think that after all this preparation and planning it would prevent piss poor performance (the 7 p’s) however that doesn’t seem to be the case.

As I have been told on numerous occassions “No plan survives first contact with the enemy…” and it is true. Who could predict and account for illness and injury?

Trail and weather conditions are also an unknown and slightly unpredictable factor. In a year where the race had the most entrants than ever before it has also seen a huge amount of people dropping out in the early stages. Conditions on day one were far from ideal; very warm with soft mushy snow which made the trail very slow going. A slow trail means people are likely to slip in their timings to reach various checkpoints and this then has a domino affect for the rest of the race. So despite there not being extreme cold temperatures we had extreme warm temperatures which crazily enough can have as  much of a detrimental effect on the race as -40 degrees.

And there are many reasons for why I didn’t quite make it to the goal I had set myself but I don’t feel that any of the work we did on order to prepare for this challenge was wasted. To ski just 50 miles of this dreadful trail with a infection in my foot and the last remnants of a nasty flu bug is enough of an achievement for me for now and I have no regrets. The last five weeks here in the Yukon have been some of the best times I have experienced for a long time. We have acclimatised to the point of going to the outhouse in my pyjamas in temperatures of -30 degrees, we have learnt a huge amount about survival in the cold and snow.

But above we have made some incredible friends and been hosted by some of the warmest and most generous people I have ever met.Not once have I encountered a grumpy Yukoner (the guys in the cafe at Haines Junction didn’t count as he was from Montreal!!)

I want to thank our incredibly lovely hosts Ann and Ante from La Bicicletta B&B, Don Banks from Scuttlebutt (Braeburn), Pamela and Robyn in Whitehorse for all their wonderful generosity and for opening up their homes to us. They and many others in this incredible place have made it a wonderful Yukon experience and have contributed greatly to my love affair with the place…here’s to next year.

Burnt Toast & Bicycles

We moved out of the Mountain Ridge Motel, dubbed Bates Motel by me, and into a B&B on the other side of town. La Bicicletta. Not your average, kiss me quick, along the seafront, British B&B. Run by a Croatian who, in the cycled around the world and his wife and children it was actually a two bedroomed house attached to their own. We had the run of the place most of the week and were made most welcome by the cycling Croatian, Ante, who insisted that he make us Turkish coffee at least once a day. This gorgeous creation would be served with a dollop of ice cream floating on the top. Not only did Ante make us welcome with fabulous coffee his largesse stretched to offering us the use of the sauna he had built himself in the garden, complete with liqueurs, soothing music and tea lights to ease away the aches of the day. One stipulation; we had to roll around naked in his snow filled garden to get the best from the treatment. We did however decline the invitation to beat ourselves senseless with the spruce branches he had chosen and tied specifically for this purpose.

Burnt Toast is a restaurant that serves food from breakfast till late on 2^nd Avenue near Main Street. It is more than a diner although not quite a restaurant. The staff are effervescent and were keen to know why we were in town. Most of our food has been cooked by ourselves, well Jo, up to now, but we did manage to visit Burnt Toast twice in one day and have to say, thumbs up to the lamb shanks.

As well as visiting eating establishments we have been supporting the local economy in other ways. Kit shops, of the outdoor persuasion have taken a hammering from us. The credit card is filling up nicely and I fully expect a Christmas card next year from Mr Visa. Along with Coast Mountain Sports, Canadian Tire (apologies for the northern American spelling) has proved popular. This is a true Aladdin’s cave, and yes you can buy TYRES here, as well as washing machines, duck tape, and tent cord, has been the source of hours of wonderment.

But we didn’t come here to shop. We came to train. After my bout of illness last week it has been Jo’s turn this week. The lurgi has been going around Whitehorse with 15% of the school population missing lessons as a result. The beginning of the week saw us out on the groomed trails around the Mount McIntyre Ski Club, me hopelessly trying to keep up with Jo and despite the minus 14 degrees Celcius ending a frustrating 10 miles in an absolute bath of sweat, my clothing soaked through and to be honest, thoroughly knackered and demoralized.

So I was booked in for another lesson with Mike Gladish, the Ski Club guru, in the hope that a fix could be given to help me. We went out for an hour, just the two of us and chatted about snow coefficients, returning polar maritime air mass and tackled the complexities of angle of lean versus fall line when herringboning up a hill. It was all about minimizing the amount of energy I expended whilst skiing, trying to keep my body temperature down and still moving at an acceptable pace. In the race we will have to be able to keep up a 5-6km an hour pace for 10 to 12 hours each day. At the end of that we will be sleeping out in temperatures of at least -20 degrees Celcius. If we are soaked to the skin with sweat we will be spending a very uncomfortable night as well as running the risk of frostbite.

Thursday saw a once in ten year event in Whitehorse, 14cm of snow in one dump. Jo was ill and advised to stay away from the slopes, I was desperate to try out my new skills and headed of into the white. I started on a narrow snow shoe trail, skiing through the snow, having to break trail with every step and unable to see the tips of my skis which were beneath the snow. These trails are only three to four feet wide and snake through the trees. This was virgin powder and I felt elated to not only be in the snow but breaking trail. I really felt as though I was on my own in the wilderness. There was absolute silence as I pushed on through the trees. Fresh coyote and deer prints wound their way around and in and out of the dense spruce trees, criss-crossing my path. For nearly four hours I pushed on with a steady rhythm, completely alone and with a big grin on my face. I felt that despite the conditions and falling snow I was skiing well and although not fast it was the best I had felt. Thanks to Mike’s patience I felt I had turned a corner and that maybe, just maybe 300 miles of the Yukon Arctic Ultra was achievable.

Today,  I am sitting writing this in a log cabin, 8 metres by 4 metres on the edge of the frozen Braeburn Lake. Outside it is -24 degrees Celsius but inside, next to the wood burning stove crackling beside me, it is warm enough to be just in my long johns and a t-shirt. The next phase of the training has begun. We are now 100 miles north of Whitehorse, on the trail which we will be racing on in two weeks time. We have with us our pulks, the sledges which will carry our equipment on the trail and tomorrow we will harness these up and start to get used to skiing whilst pulling them. They have both been named. Jo has named hers “Bob Sled” and I have named mine “First Steps”. For me this trip is exactly that, my first steps towards realising the goal of the ITACE 2014 team crossing Antarctica. The days are getting longer too, with it being light just before 10am and not getting dark till nearly 5pm. This is the week to test all our equipment and ourselves in this harsh climate. Every drop in 10 degrees of temperature brings new challenges. The snow changes, becoming gritty as it gets colder. Skin exposure has to be monitored more closely as it can become frost nipped without you even noticing. It takes longer and longer to warm up.

Taking a glove off to do something like a ski binding can mean 10 minutes before fingers are warm enough to move again. The air is so dry as well as cold that nose bleeds are common, often being brought on by a sneeze.

It’s a daunting task ahead and as it draws near the enormity of it is sinking in. Just beating the climate alone is a challenge. “Cometh the hour, cometh the man”. We shall see, but after this weeks training I feel just that little bit more confident that we can do it!

First impressions of the Frozen Canadian North

It has been nearly a week since Jo and I set out from Heathrow for the Yukon. Twenty four hours of travelling and a drop of 20 degrees in temperature is a shock to the system. We are currently in Whitehorse, our base is a motel on the edge of town reminiscent of Bates Motel from the Hitchcock thriller Psycho. Whitehorse has a population of 26000. It has a Main Street, a Starbucks and a Walmart, so it maybe doesn’t quite qualify as a “frontier” town.

The temperature for the last week has hovered around -10 degrees Celcius. For the locals that’s nearly tropical, considering a couple of weeks ago it was in the minus thirties. The other thing that has been difficult to get to grips with is the darkness. It doesn’t get light much before 10am and is dark by 4.30pm. So add that to jet lag and our poor old body clocks are struggling to know what to do. The result has been us doing sit ups and press ups at 6am then having breakfast and then a snooze before going out at 10am. I’m sure this will change as we become accustomed to things but all I want to do is sleep at the moment.

Whitehorse is the start for the Yukon Arctic Ultra Marathon, so it makes sense for us to begin our training here. The town has it’s own cross country ski trails which are groomed daily and an ideal place for yours truly to begin his cross country skiing career on. So, Jo and I set out for a lesson in classic cross country with Mike as our instructor. Jo has a lot of cross country experience of but although I have a lot of downhill experience the world of cross country is completely alien.

Mike took us through waxing. No, not my legs, my skis, issued us with poles and boots and we were off out on the groomed trails. Mike has been skiing for over 40 years and was very easy going, not even wincing as I floundered about trying to gain my balance. Although some of the skills are transferable from Alpine to cross country, the size of skis and the fact that your heel is not secured makes a big difference to your confidence when trying to initiate even the simplest of manoeuvers. The groomed tracks do make it easier to learn. You place your skis in two grooves cut into the snow that are shoulder width apart and glide along. Well, that’s the theory, my attempts were more stumbling along and occasionally slipping and falling. It may have been -10 degrees outside but inside my windproof top it was like a boil in the bag, sweat running down my back as I over exerted to try and compensate for my lack of skill and grace. Anyone who has tried any form of skiing will know what I mean as frustration takes over at not being able to control the planks attached to your feet. Back at the ski school over a cup of coffee something else occurred to me as I watched all the other skiers waxing up and getting ready to go out. I had to be at least 40lbs heavier than the biggest of them.

As well as the skiing we have both ventured out to run in the woods, which was stunningly beautiful. A perfect sunny winter day and we were trotting through spruce trees with cayote and fox prints in the snow beside us. Breathing deeply in these temperatures can cause problems with the lungs. Cold air being sucked into the very bottom of them when breathing hard during exercise can in fact cause asthma. Because of this I’m glad we are out here now and not arriving a couple of days before the race with no time to acclimatise.

It’s early days yet. Coping with the physical demands of the climate is one thing, add to that trying to train and learn new skills all adds up to a demanding first week. Today we met Don, who owns some backwoods cabins near Braeburn. We will be staying there for the next phase of training. If any of you have ever watched “Ice Road Truckers” then you will be familiar with the name Carmacks, which is a nearby town mentioned frequently as being on the ice road. It will be another 10 degrees colder around Braeburn, that’s nearly cold enough to freeze propane and make your fillings drop out of your teeth. Meanwhile we will continue with the trails around Whitehorse, hoping I can convert my Bambi legs into something capable of coping with the “Coldest, toughest ultra marathon in the world”.

I’m black, I’m rubbery, cumbersome and when attached to another, quite weighty – that’s right i’m a training tyre and i’m back to cause some pain!! The last time I caused the ITACE team some discomfort was during selection back in April being dragged at differing speeds across a beach in Cornwall. Im now in Dartmoor, sitting outside a camping barn in the rain on a friday night. ITACE members are arriving one by one giving me and my rubbery friends a sidewards glance and a bit of a sigh as they guess what might be in store. They disappear in doors to a roaring fire, a comfort certainly not afforded in Antarctica!

A cold bright and frosty morning arrives and the team role out in varying degrees of outdoor apparel. Stew and Zac doing their best to confuse Jo, dressed the same in orange and grey, although still quite a difference in body mass! . Each member carefully selects one of us, hoping to pick the lightest tyre duo, but of course we are all the same, just wishful thinking! We are clipped to the back of our puller’s ruc-sac and dragged up the road. We seem to slide effortlessly on the hoar frost, however this caused some challenges to our steeds and their ability to stay on two feet. At the top of the hill the team break in the sunshine at the news that team doctor Alex is about to grace us with his presence for the first time. Up until now the team have only met Alex through Skype from Antarctica where his beard growing skills came in to their own! Quick introductions are made with this wide eyed creature from the south along with his beautiful dog Mishi, before being sent on his way to pick up my last set of friends with instructions on where to meet us next.

We are dragged over hills and down dales, though streams, mud, narrow pathways and boulder fields. We bump along often getting wedged between rocks and  stuck on bushes making it as difficult as possible for the person pulling. A lot of huffing, puffing, frustration and cursing occurs with a few laughs to balance things out. We catch up with Alex before breaking at a disused quarry. Here we are unclipped and put to one side while the team do some crevasse rescue training using a small cliff. Stew and Abi  take a turn each at being lowered over the edge before being hauled back using different methods over seen by Zac.

Next comes quite a spectacle or two! Stripped down to thermals or less the team take it in turns to swim across a freezing pool of water. Much wailing ensues, with contorted faces (Robbie’s taking first prize!) and erected or shriveled body parts witnessed. Rapid changing antics begin in an attempt to get dry and warm, made more amusing by Mishi stealing Jo’s towel from around her waist during a crucial changing move and providing Alex with a sight to behold!

We’re clipped to our partners backs again, dragging behind them over the moor to Hay Tor where some of us are dragged, thrown and stood upon in an attempt to get us to the top, very unceremonious! Getting back down proves just as tricky for the team mates as gravity is now on our side and we find it quite easy to role down the rocks taking our two legged friends with us at a quicker pace than they would like!

A couple more bogs to negotiate as well as the local hunt, before arriving at our final training venue, the ‘Stegosaurus’, a ridge of rock poking out of the moor and a good place for the team to practice being roped up and moving together for glacial travel safety. Me and my rubbery buddies are cast aside once more to make room for a rope and harness. Zac leads the way with team mates tied in to the rope at 10m intervals. Zac whines his way up, over and around rocks, through crevices and very tight squeezes. The rest of the team follow, only moving forward once the rope in front of them becomes tight. At the end of a long tiring day for the team, this exercise is still able to generate some laughs as Alex finds the concept of following the rope in front of him some what baffling!

We finally head back to the camping barn with Zac and Robbie racing each other to the finish. The rest of the team round a corner to find a tyre in the middle of the road, dropped by the keen sprinters. He’s rolled back to be reunited with the other half. Neither Zac or Robbie owning up to lightening the load!

Me and my training mates are bundled into Stew’s van, until the next time……..

Saturday evening was enjoyed with a good curry, thanks to Stew and Jo, followed by daft games and frustrating magic tricks around the camp fire.

Sunday morning dawned and Robbie was off for his morning run tasked with finding a helmet that Alex dropped along the way. He didn’t find it but instead found Alex’s gloves!! At least the team won’t have any trouble being tracked in Antarctica as long as Alex is with them!!

A team meeting rounded up the weekend, with much to be be discussed before Jo and Stew disappear to America.

Many thanks to Andrew Simkins and Tony Evans for their support over the weekend and also to Mickey and Tim for their encouragement and photographic input. Congratulations to Andrew and Tim for giving the tyres a work out and experiencing the ‘numb nuts’ water crossing!!

Now I’m not one for the high life but the last week or so has seen me in London twice for prestigious events. The James Caird Society Annual Dinner and AGM was held on the 9^th November at Dulwich College, which is Shackleton’s old school, although I expect most of you reading already knew that.

The college itself is an imposing building, especially when lit up at night. This was my debut at this, the societies premiere event of the year, and I was as nervous as young debutante as I made my way across the crunching gravel of the drive to the south cloister. Suitably suited and booted for the occasion and clean shaven I slipped in and announced myself. Our patron, the Honourable Alexandra Shackleton made me feel most welcome and soon she had me mingling with those assembled.

After what must have been the shortest Annual General Meeting of any society I have witnessed, a mere fifteen minutes, the members regrouped for another glass of wine, and finding another member of ITACE 2014, Abi Evans I was introduced to our very own Emma Kerr and her husband. But no time to chat as we were whisked back into another room for a short lecture on what might have been if Shackleton and his team had landed in Antarctica.

Dinner was a sumptuous affair in the great hall, which was likened by one of the guests to Hogwarts! Not being a film aficionado, I’m not quite sure of the parallel but I’m sure you will get the gist of it.

After dinner, and when the stimulating conversation which covered a number of topics the small ITACE gang sneaked downstairs to where the original James Caird stands. It’s a sobering thought when you see it. It is tiny and looks flimsy, making the journey from Elephant Island to South Georgia even more incredible. It doesn’t look capable of taking more than a gentle swell on a sunny day never mind battling through some of the biggest and most ferocious seas in the world. It’s moments like this that make me appreciate the fortitude and courage of those I regard as my heroes and role models. Looking at the small lifeboat made me wonder how our little band will cope with what the future holds for us in Antarctica, and how we will measure up to the task in hand in two years time.

This weekend comprised of another first for this team member, attending the RGS Explore 2012 weekend, where those wishing to plan or dream of an adventure can listen to seasoned explorers explaining the pitfalls and joys of exploration.

I had met up with the ITACE 2014 newly appointed Financial Officer, Andrew Simkins and Robbie Britton. The corridors and rooms were bustling with all sorts of people with tales to tell and with a thirst for knowledge of how to execute their dream expedition. After a quick meeting with the head of Expeditions & Fieldwork Committee, Paul Rose I headed off for a morning of lectures that included such topics as, Arctic Jubilee Expedition, Fund Raising an Expedition and probably one of the most humorous and enjoyable, Staying Healthy In The Field

By lunchtime I was keen to get around some of the presenters I had heard in the morning, as I had questions to put regarding the ITACE. I also found myself being quizzed by curious delegates as to my shirt and the origins of ITACE. It would appear the new polo shirts, fresh from the catwalks of Chepstow were a hit.

The afternoon was spent at a workshop for those wishing to travel to Polar regions and again the wealth of information given was eagerly consumed by me until I was sated.

And so it was I set off from my first visit to the RGS, back onto the streets of London, the cold night air nipping at my fingers feeling keener than ever to tackle all that is in front of us in the next two years as we prepare for our momentous journey.

Ever since I first heard about the Yukon Arctic Ultra Race back in 2009 I have wanted to go…in 2010 I made lots of plans and very nearly hit the send button on the entry form until work problems meant I had no cash left to enter. Since then it has been a nagging thought in the back of my head – that race has got to be done! So last year, while surfing the web during one of my quieter shifts at work I  found a little advert looking for volunteers for the Yukon Race….just the cost of a flight and a couple of nights in a hotel and bingo, the chance to get an insight into the race and all that it holds for the daring ultra marathoner. Now, I am not an ultra marathoner, in fact am not even a marthoner – a half is longest running distance to date….but hey what’s 430 miles between friends? So I headed out there and spend a couple of fantastic weeks with some great people watching other great people attempt this feat of human endurance. I even had a go myself and can conclude that yes it’s bloody hard core and yes I want to have a go at the full on race itself. But. Like I said I am not marathoner and do not intend to run/walk it like 98% of the other entrants in the race. I want to ski it. Skiing is one of the three disciplines offered to entrants but for some reason 98% of entrants choose to run/walk it in the traditional ultra marathon way.

In ten years of race history only 6 people have ever finished their race on ski’s. No-one has ever skied the 430 miles distance. The only successful skiers have been in the marathon distance and the 100 mile race. This then begs the question – why? Which is something I asked myself when researching entry into the “world’s coldest and toughest ultra” . So I began by asking race organiser Robert Polhammer why? He wasn’t too clear – he mostly put it down to the fact that all the DNF’s on ski’s had dropped out due to frostbite either on their feet or their hands. To me, an experienced skier this spelled  not being used to such a cold environment, poor management and possibly use of the wrong equipment – which led me to ask what boots etc they were using. So part of my trip to the Yukon in  2012 as a volunteer was really a recce to find out what equipment was being used and why the skiers were failing. I think I found the answers and as a consequence have done a great deal of research and put a lot of thought into my preparations for the 2013 race. I have come up with a plan for success. And part of that is to return to the Yukon at the beginning of January and spend a month out there in the right environment, training and preparing for the race rather than going out running at home, which quite frankly would not prepare even the fittest of people for the kinds of challenges which will be faced in this ultra marathon.

So come 2nd January Stewart and I will head out to Canada where we have an intense 4 weeks of training on the backcountry trails around Whitehorse and beyond, familiarising oursleves with the territory, learning how to manager our admin properly so we can avoid frostbite and just getting in lots of time on the skis. We have huge challenges ahead of us – not least Stewart learning to ski first but coping with temperatures that could be as low as -40 degrees C. But you know what? I cannot wait, it is going to be one hell of an experience and hopefully one that will help prepare us for the even bigger challenge we have ahead of us in the Antarctic. Bring it on!

And if we do this right we could become the first people to complete the race on ski’s….now that would be a great achievement…

Aurora Australis over Concordia Station, Antarctica

Blog report by Dr Alex Kumar on life overwintering in an Antarctic Science Station. Extracted from blog written for New York Times Online - http://scientistatwork.blogs.nytimes.com/

On Jan. 17, 1912, Robert Falcon Scott’s team arrived at the South Pole defeated and exhausted, finding they had been beaten to it by the Norwegian Roald Amundsen. Scott wrote, “The Pole. Yes, but under very different circumstances from those expected,” followed by, “Great God, this is an awful place.”

While Amundsen or one of his sled dogs may have been the first to visit the South Pole, his team left behind only a legacy in exploration. But Scott’s team, with its British scientific leader and expedition doctor, Edward Wilson, also blazed a trail in Antarctic science — a legacy that still burns bright today.

In fact, besides completing the Worst Journey in the World, Wilson had hauled a multitude of geological samples to what became his final resting place, never giving up to death. The final three members of the expedition team had died of starvation on their return from the South Pole, just 11 miles from the One Ton Camp supply depot and safety.

My friend Dr. Dale Molé sent me a photo of a portrait of Wilson — the first doctor to reach the South Pole — that hangs in “Club Med,” the infirmary of the Amundsen-Scott South Pole Station, an American outpost. It remains an inspiration to all lone doctors who dare to overwinter there.

It is to me — so much so that on March 29, to celebrate Scott’s centenary, the date of his last diary entry, I slept in a tent outside, where the temperature was minus 70 degrees Celsius (minus 94 degrees Fahrenheit). The tent was basic, with open sides that allowed wind to come in. It was simply the worst night’s camping I had ever done, and a memory I will keep forever. Never again will I moan about camping in the British rain.

Scott’s team had dreamed of the South Pole — “the uttermost end of the world,” as Scott described it. Today, 100 years later, I sit in my spacious, comfortable biomedical laboratory conducting research for the European Space Agency with my own century’s dream: to send a manned mission to Mars, and see it return.

At Concordia, one of the world’s most remote and isolated manned outposts, our 13 crew members have been working hard, enduring these long months alone and forgoing our previous lives, rich with family and friends, also in the name of science. We have conducted a variety of experiments, including my human science research, attempting to carry the torch of science through the extreme cold and polar darkness.

Two crew members are continuing glaciology research, following the success of a Concordia project known as EPICA (European Project for Ice Coring in Antarctica) that ran from 1996 to 2005. The project charted about 800,000 years of climate history, revealing humankind’s impact on the planet from the more than 3,000 meters (about 10,000 feet) of ice cores that were brought up for analysis. The remaining shards and pieces of broken cores brought up to the surface are kept inside a tunnel.

As a tourist in Antarctica, you could pour yourself a whiskey and have it fizz with 760,000-year-old ice if it weren’t such a scientific atrocity. More interesting to me has been finding samples correlating to the year A.D. 0, when Jesus walked the earth.

I spent many long hours outside helping our glaciologist, Sebastien Aubin of France, carefully excavate untouched ice far from the station and bag it for later analysis. It was almost fun working at midday in the winter darkness, sometimes under the moonlight and starry polar night sky; it is the closest you could come to sampling life on another planet. The “great white silence,” as a British documentary film from the 1920s called it, was so still that you couldn’t even hear the old souls drifting across the plateau.

Buried deep underground, hidden in the ice not far away, is a series of ladders and tunnels that lead to a single box. You cannot touch the box or step near it. It blinks and flashes red lights silently. This box measures the minute and distant torsions in the earth’s crust, watching from afar as the world tries to blow itself up.
Before the onset of winter, I was extremely privileged not only to visit the site and box, but also to witness one of Antarctica’s most unique sights. My French guide, the resident seismologist and station leader, Erick Bondoux, turned off the lights. The ambient temperature was minus 50 degrees Celsius (minus 58 Fahrenheit). I couldn’t even see my own breath. I set my camera up and took a photo. After some time, the most incredible sight appeared on my screen: an indigo hue produced by the filtration by the ancient ice of the sunlight from far, far above.

This year we have had the coldest temperature recorded on site in two winters — minus 80.5 degrees Celsius (about minus 113 degrees Fahrenheit), without considering wind chill — and the lowest atmospheric pressure ever recorded on site, at 610 hectopascals. The latter left us all feeling severely hung over from the simultaneous hypoxia, as oxygen was stolen from our breath before it reached our lungs.

Imagine the feeling of being half-submerged, half-drowned, continually short of breath, struggling with a hammering headache and wanting to vomit from the associated nausea. Besides the lowest records, we had two unusual days in which the temperature swung wildly from minus 70 degrees Celsius to minus 29 degrees Celsius (minus 94 degrees Fahrenheit to minus 20 degrees Fahrenheit) overnight.

Without the efforts of Igor Petenko, our resident Russian meteorologist, all of these changes and records would have remained unknown. We would not be able to measure the human impact on all of the earth’s surface. After all, who else is going to do it around here? We are the only people living for more than 1,000 kilometers in most directions.

One of the greatest and most challenging journeys we undertook was to climb one of Antarctica’s highest towers in the winter darkness and extreme cold. American Tower, about a kilometer from Concordia Station, stands about 40 meters (130 feet) tall, with 25 levels up to its summit. On many of the levels, there are scientific instruments that require regular maintenance. With open sides and fierce winds, you need to fix yourself with a harness to a central rope to reach them. For me, standing on the top of the bottom of the world was magical, with shooting stars and satellites as our only company.

Living out of the reach of pollution, on top of a high-altitude ice cube and in the winter darkness, we have one of the clearest night skies available anywhere on earth. Up here, we can look into the Milky Way while being dazzled by the aurora australis, the southern lights.

Astroconcordia, overseen by the station astronomer, Guillaume Bouchez of France, is the headquarters for Concordia’s astronomy research initiatives, including the search for distant exoplanets that are like our own and could potentially support life. Guillaume spends a great deal of time outside, monitoring and cleaning his equipment. I spent a few hours late one night scanning the surface of the moon with him.
Living alone at this extreme, we have to be completely self-sufficient. Our plumber and resident explorer, Gérard Guérin of France, is responsible for keeping our water supply running and safe to drink. That may seem like a simple process: Turning ice into water simply requires the addition of heat. But heating in the coldest environment on earth can be terribly inefficient, and in a world full of landfill, it would be truly tragic and unthinkable to edge Antarctica toward the same fate.

Here we recycle our wastewater, using a gray water treatment unit built and managed by a French company, Firmus; it is similar to the system on the International Space Station. We have also a black water treatment unit and a digester, which, using a microbiological process, reduces our organic waste.

And so our team can not only survive in the world’s most extreme environment, but thrive while carrying out important scientific research during the worst winter in the world. I hope the scientific work of international overwintering stations on Antarctica continues to serve as an example to the rest of the world.

This entry is dedicated to those who, in the past century, gave their lives while working on the ice for the purpose of science and discovery. In particular, I dedicate this to the blazing legacy of science left by Dr. Wilson, my hero. It may be unpopular to say, but I believe Scott’s team was the first to reach the South Pole for the “right” reason — science — which should also be the reason that humans, one day, land on Mars.

The only profit made from Antarctica should be in science. We may live in a world where $50,000 will buy a summer tourist a fly-by-night ticket to be photographed at the South Pole. But I am sure in my heart that the only way I would ever arrive at the South Pole is on my own two feet, starved in body but not in mind, dragging a sled of science behind me, repaving the trusted, century-old trail that at the turn of the last century blazed so brightly.

I would do so out of respect for others, like Wilson, who came before me, hauling to his death this same true belief in science and appreciation for the wonderful but dwindling diversity of what in the future may be found only in a textbook or on a Web site: life on Earth.

Chemin de La Liberte 2012

The Chemin de la Liberte, or road to freedom, is a route in the high Pyrenees used by escaping allied soldiers and airmen as well as refugees from Nazi occupied France during the Second World War. Once a year, in the first week of July, the escapees and those that helped them, the resistance, and the men known as passeurs, who led the escapees through the mountains are remembered in a number of ceremonies throughout the foothills of the Pyrenees. Modern day “escapees” follow the route trodden by those brave men and women in homage to their endurance and to celebrate their memory.

This year the group had amongst it fifteen fund raisers from the Royal British Legion, the usual French contingent as well as a group from NATO comprising British, German, Canadian and French military personnel. It also had yours truly and Ian Prickett from team ITACE 2014.

This wasn’t my first Chemin. In fact it was my third, however up until now I had never completed the whole route. The Pyrenees are much underestimated by those who have never wandered their peaks. In my previous two attempts we had been forced to use alternative routes, forced back by huge snow drifts and raging thunderstorms.  I was hoping that it would be third time lucky.

The route starts on a bridge which was originally the route of the railway leading into the town of St Girons. Now it is part of the route to Toulouse. We stood in the drizzle, listening to the mayor speak as we were about to set off. Unfortunately a passing car ran through a large puddle soaking the speaker and his entourage in a Monty Pythonesque manner which caused titters all round. So we set off, with smiles on our faces into the surrounding woodland. By lunchtime the steady climbs through the forest and wading through the mud had taken its toll and it was apparent that some were carrying too much kit and perhaps underestimated how strenuous this walk can be.

There are a number of stops for small ceremonies along the route on the first two days, always accompanied by the haunting singing of the hymn of the resistance. As the trek continues it can sometimes be heard being hummed by those on the walk, such is the power of its refrain. It is one of those tunes you just can’t get out of your head. Slow and haunting to the beat of a drum.

At the end of the first day accommodation can be found in the local gym at Seix, where judo mats are used for sleeping on. Even at this stage there were a number of minor casualties, mainly from blisters. I spent time before dinner administering to these with “nurse” Prickett in attendance.

Day two continued upwards through the forest ever higher into the mountains themselves. The last access by vehicles was at Col de la Core 1395 metres. Here we were grateful for bread, cheese pate, and wine  supplied by helpers. A last short memorial service at the plaque to the passeurs which stands here and then it was off into the mountains proper. Just after lunch we emerged from the forest into open upland pasture and could see the scale of the mountains we would have to negotiate in order to gain the border and “freedom.” The evening saw us camp at Subera; a small plateau at the foot of towering cliffs. There is a shepherd’s hut which is occupied in the summer and a spare room next door where the guides stay. For the rest of us it was tent city. This is the last chance for anyone wanting, or needing to go back, as the only way off the mountains after Subera is an expensive helicopter ride. For some, the trials of the last two days had taken their toll and a number were to be led back the next morning. For others, injuries would  prevent them from continuing. So as darkness fell a number of us joined the French shepherd and the guides in the hut, a little singing was helped by an old beer bottle which was passed around and around the room at alarming speed containing a sweet home made liquor which caused my lips to tingle. This magic bottle was always full and the French encouraged large gulps of the stuff. Thinking it rude not to, and believing it to contain medical properties I tried quite a bit, only to find out it affected one’s ability to balance and walk without giggling.

Day three is the toughest day with two very long steep climbs which added together is over 1200 metres. This is a tough day and it was a scorcher. By late morning the temperature was above 30 degrees Celsius. A number suffered sunburn and there was even a case of heat stroke.

There is a stop on a barren slope where the remnants of a WW2 Halifax bomber can be seen. A small remembrance ceremony is performed at the foot of Pic de Lampau, with a minute silence and many mark the memorial stone with a poppy. This year we had a representative from the Royal Air Force who read the names of those killed. The whole crew died, the youngest being 19 and the oldest 28.

The final descent from the Col de Pecouch at 2462 metres, to the refuge for the night saw one member of the Royal British Legion fall and was lucky to get away with just a cut chin and not something more serious. The rocky terrain needed the utmost care and many were weary from the long day and hot sun.

Having been fed well in the refuge, and had a few glasses of wine, a small problem arose with one of the German soldiers on the trek. We had to walk 200 metres or so to where our tents were pitched. None of us had a torch, except the German soldier, which was fine. Except that it gave a blue light from the LED bulbs, and his tent was…blue.

It was a glorious sunny morning when we grouped together for the final leg into Spain across the border. But we still had a lot of climbing ahead. Having descended to the Lac Rond there is a 200 metre extremely steep ascent to the Lac Long, parts of which are “via ferrata” and have ropes already attached to the rock face to assist walkers. The border sits on a ridge at 2522 metres at the top of a very deep, snow filled gully. The final section is a trudge, following in the steps of the person in front, trying not to slip and with the full weight of your pack. It seems to be endless.

Arriving at the border on the Col de Clauere the excitement is tangible. Although the walk is not over, for some it was obvious that they didn’t think that they would see this moment. Standing in the brilliant sunshine it’s hard to think of the refugees, allied airmen, soldiers and passeurs who used this route and what it meant to them.

For the refugees and French it would have been be certain imprisonment in a Spanish jail. Some would not have  survived. The lucky ones would have been sold for grain and shipped to North Africa, from there to the United Kingdom to join the Free French Army. To get this far they would have been smuggled through occupied France, some on the run for up to six months. They wore clothes that didn’t fit shoes without socks. They would have been passing through these mountains at night, often in bad weather and in winter. Some never survived. Every now and again, as snows melt or people take different routes, bodies are still found of those that never made the border. Yet here we were, the best kit money can buy, stomachs with food in them and travelling in the day and good weather. Some of our group never saw the border, never tasted the achievement of passing through the natural border between Spain and France. Turned back by exhaustion or injury. I certainly paused for a moment and reflected. Silently, I saluted them whilst watching the grinning faces and joy of our group. Those were different times, but the sacrifices made and the lessons from it should not be forgotten.

Our little band of “escapees” were now met by Spanish firemen, or Bomberos, who would lead us the final section down into Spain. The mood had changed and excited chatter broke out along the line as weary limbs were given new life knowing that it was all down from here.

With only one more small mishap of a twisted ankle we made it down and within a few hours we were being transported to Esterri  d’Anneau. A quick shower and then the local tavern was swamped by the latest batch “escapees.” Then we headed off to a reception in the local school hall where giant Spanish sausage, roast pork and gallons of wine were in abundance, before being packed onto a bus, some of the wine managing to get on with us and the two hour journey back to France.

It’s been a few weeks since getting back but a number of people have contacted me who were on the walk. They feel at a loss, emotionally drained and miss the company. As I said I have been on three Chemins now. It is an extraordinary walk. I was flat for weeks after my first one, my first real experience of the Pyrenees. There is something about those mountains. To some they are the poor relation of the Alps, some don’t even know where they are. For most their knowledge of this particular part of history is incomplete, and the Chemin an eye opener to the plight of ordinary French people in what were strange times.

If you mix these two together with breath taking scenery and a group that never fails to throw up some strange characters then the experience is all the more memorable. They will get over it, but I for one will never forget it. Since my first Chemin I have spent a lot of time in the Pyrenees. Sometimes, in the quiet found in the mountains I’m sure I can hear the sound of the hymn of the resistance on the wind. The ghosts of the passeurs, still trudging through the mountains, for as long as the mountains exist themselves.

Signing off – Stewart Stirling.