Kiting the way it's supposed to look

Day 33: Sunday 15 December

An utterly foul morning. Spindrift is being blown about by a keen wind and the windchill is in the minus forties. Paul makes the dash across to our tent for breakfast and emerges at the door, plastered in snow.
‘I think we should try the kites again.’
We all laugh out loud. Expressionless, Paul replies: ‘I’m being serious.’
‘It’s blowing a gale out there and you can’t see shit,’ says Pat.
‘The winds are coming from the east again and the visibility is not as bad as you might think - it’s probably at least a hundred yards. Plus there’s a light covering of fresh snow which should make things easier and safer.’

We don’t need much more convincing. We haven’t dragged these kites, harnesses and extra skis halfway across this frozen continent for nothing, and at last, on the 33rd day of the expedition, it seems that they will come into their own. It is inevitable that there will be lots of standing around, so everyone wraps up with extra layers of clothing. Before heading out into the maelstrom, harnesses are slipped on and we have a brief strategy talk. It is decided that Paul will go first with the three of us following along in a straight line behind.

Paul’s final words cause the hairs on the back of my neck to stand on end. ‘If we separate, the expedition is over.’ With only two satellite phones and two GPS’s between us, it would be impossible to find a missing person in the murk. Paul and I are the only ones carrying tents and Andrew has all the cooking equipment. Survival times with no shelter or fuel would only be a matter of hours. Even if we were able to send a distress message to Patriot Hills, there would be no way of landing a Twin Otter in these appalling conditions, even if the place wasn’t strewn with six-foot sastrugi. It’s a terrifying and sobering prospect.

8.30 am. Paul is the first to launch his kite and heads south at a terrific speed. I’m next. Butterflies fill my stomach. This is going to be very different from yesterday’s gentle trial run. Poised on the snow 30 yards in front of me, my kite flaps around wildly at the end of the main lines like some untamed animal waiting to be let off its leash. I tentatively pull on the handles. The kite soars into the air and I shoot off behind it. Paul is already becoming difficult to see so I turn my skis to the left in hot pursuit. My kite follows obligingly. We’re away. Whizzing along like the clappers, adrenalin pumping. Absolutely bricking myself. Completely out of control, I am hurtling through a world of uniform grey, devoid of any horizon. Chances of seeing any bump in the surface are minimal. Seeing the yellow and blue kite arcing gracefully though the air as I work the handles back and forth is quite breathtaking. Five minutes later Paul and I have already covered half a mile.

Have a quick glance back to see how the others are getting on - stupid mistake. Taking my eyes off the kite for a split second, I lose what little control I had, causing the kite to accelerate across into the most powerful quarter of the wind. I am pulled off my feet and promptly bite the dust. Moments later, the twelve-stone sled, which has been bouncing along noisily behind me, torpedoes straight into my back. Winded by the force of the impact. Extremely sore. Must carry on. Both Andrew and Pat are on their backsides some way behind. Up ahead, Paul has stopped and is waiting for us to catch up. Gasping for air, I try to pull myself upright - not an easy task without ski poles for support. The kite became badly twisted in the fall. By the time I have sorted out the tangle, Pat and Andrew have caught up. Haven’t learnt from yesterday’s mistake, and no sooner have I set off again than the slack in the towrope runs out, and the sled yanks me backwards. All three of us are now lying in an undignified heap in the snow.

For the next two hours, this exhausting process continues. A few hundred yards might be gained before the next big wipeout dramatically halts our progress. I am amazed when Paul tells us we’ve covered as much as 2.4 miles during the opening session.
The bridle lines at the top of Pat’s kite have become badly twisted. Paul unclips from his skis and sled and walks over to see if he can help Pat untangle the knot. Shortly after takeoff, the kite makes a beeline for the most powerful part of the wind. Without the ballast of a sled to hold him back, Paul is lifted off the ground, legs flailing behind. I stare in horror as the kite threatens to carry him away. After a few yards, Paul comes crashing down to Earth, still frantically wrestling with the kiting lines. Seeing the super-experienced Paul being whisked off his feet with such alarming ease sends shivers down my spine. To prove that this was no fluke, Paul’s next two attempts to fly the kite produce similar outcomes. The kites are making fools of us.