Day 1: Wednesday 13 November

20 minutes later the climb begins, marking the beginning of the continent proper. I remember Dr Bamber, my glaciology lecturer at Bristol University, describing the Antarctic Ice Cap as being flat. Even though the Pole itself is the best part of 10,000 feet above sea level, any change in gradient is supposedly very subtle. Not here. The continent rises from the coast in a series of steps, before flattening out in the centre, but because we are surrounded by an infinite expanse of white, it is very difficult to judge their scale. The first sign of an impending rise occurs when the horizon gradually appears to inch up to the sky. Then, as we start to climb, a biting wind appears from nowhere, howling as only fiercely cold winds do.

The katabatic winds, that are so prevalent in the Antarctic, are driven by gravity, making this precipitous corner of the continent windy as hell. We scuttle up the short step, eager to see what we might find the other side. Far away to the west, we get our first view of the distant Ellsworth.

Crevasses: best avoided

Mountains. Now that we have gained a modest amount of altitude and can look down on Hercules Inlet, its true scale becomes apparent. An obvious line marks the divide between the Antarctic landmass and the Ronne Ice Shelf, which is uniformly flat compared to the gently undulating landscape surrounding it. A good ten miles away, a series of long hills marks the far side of the inlet (a gulf would be a more appropriate term), which gradually merge into the mountains of the Antarctic Peninsula behind.

I think I must have eaten too many eggs for breakfast, as by mid-morning I have got terrible stomach pains that refuse to go away. Paul doesn’t seem entirely comfortable either, and is burping a lot. I get my minidisk working for the first time, although after just ten minutes it decides to pack up in the middle of Michael Jackson’s ‘Billie Jean’. I assume it doesn’t like the cold - or the music.

After three hours, we stop for our second pit stop of the day. Paul pulls out the GPS and reveals that we have already covered a very encouraging five miles. Given the terrain this is further than we had anticipated, but Paul warns us that this is a two-month expedition, we are by no means at full fitness yet, we need to acclimatise further to the conditions, and it would be sensible to slow things down a bit.

Later. The childish excitement of the morning begins to catch up with us, and we are now paying the price as we continue to climb. The flat sections are just about tolerable and I find I can get into a rhythm quite easily. But the steps are now hard toil. Furthermore, the terrain has changed from smooth hard-packed snow to a mixture of blue ice and sastrugi. The slopes would barely pass for a beginners’ piste in a ski resort but it requires a Herculean effort to drag our fully laden sleds up them. The full weight of our sleds is accentuated by the gradient - if we were to unclip ourselves from our chest harnesses, the sleds would accelerate down the slippery slopes and off to the coast. ‘The other group must have had it so easy with their empty sleds!’ exclaims Pat as we try skiing side by side. Worried about getting too cold, I’m foolishly wearing far too many layers today and the heat is adding to my discomfort. To make things harder still, our skis do not give us enough purchase on the ice so we are now walking on foot. This is gruelling, sweaty work.

We reach the crest of the next step expecting the going to become more straightforward, only to find the route ahead crisscrossed with crevasses, glinting in the sun. They are all bridged with wind-blown snow of varying depth and are easy to distinguish against the slippery blue ice either side. Paul drives his ski pole into the snow of the first crevasse to test its strength. He assures us it is safe to cross. I nervously follow him as quickly as possible, breathing a huge sigh of relief once I have made it to the other side.

Over the next two hours, we have to negotiate a further 20 or 30 of these icy chasms. Whilst some are no more than a couple of feet in width and can be crossed with ease, a large number are between eight and twelve feet wide and present much more of a challenge.
Our group is pretty strung out now, with everyone trying to find their own route through the maze of crevasses. There is a technique to crossing them. When we reach the lip of an impending crevasse, we pull our sleds alongside us. After testing the strength of the snow bridge that spans the black hole below, it is relatively straightforward to scuttle across without the drag of the sled to slow us down. It still feels like a game of Russian roulette though, and my heart is in my mouth until I have reached the other side. A little later, just as I am starting to feel some confidence that these snow bridges are strong enough to support my body weight, I prod a relatively narrow one with a ski pole, only for the whole structure to collapse and disappear into the darkness below. It terrifies me how little pressure is required for it to give way. I tentatively peer down into the inky void. The deep blue sides of the crevasse are beautifully smooth, representing thousands of years of Antarctic snowfall that have compacted into ice over time. I can’t see the bottom, so goodness knows how deep this monster is - 300, 400 feet perhaps. This is certainly no place to hang about and I turn around to look for a new crossing point.

Ever since my first encounter with a crevasse in the Alps nearly seven years ago, the things have scared the living daylights out of me. The idea of being gobbled up by the ice and then being gradually digested over time has given me sleepless nights during previous trips to the mountains, and I rank it up there with being eaten by sharks as my least preferred way to go. Just as our first day is drawing to a close and we are looking for a place to set up camp, I skilfully plant one of my big size twelves right through the middle of a crevasse. My heart skips a beat. Incredibly, the rest of the snow bridge doesn’t give way and only a leg disappears through the surface, dangling precariously over the abyss. In a split second, a sort of adrenalin-induced autopilot takes over, and before I realise what’s really happened, I have miraculously hauled myself out of danger and onto solid ground the other side. Phew.
‘Bloody hell Tom, you alright?’ asks Pat, still the wrong side of the crevasse.
‘Should be. You might want to look for another place to cross,’ I reply unhelpfully.
He does and we are soon on our way again. I am amazingly fortunate. Had I fallen right through, I would have been in more than a spot of bother. We are carrying a 160-foot rope with us, but had I gone in, the chances are that I would have been unconscious, wedged between the walls of ice where the crevasse starts to narrow and far out of reach of the rope. It doesn’t bear thinking about.