Alone in Antarctica: The First Woman To Ski Solo Across The by Joanna Lumley, Felicity Aston

By Joanna Lumley, Felicity Aston

Author note: Joanna Lumley (Foreword)

In the whirling noise of our advancing technological age, we're possible by no means on my own, by no means out-of-touch with the barrage of digital info and information.

Felicity Aston, physicist and meteorologist, took months off from all human touch as she turned the 1st lady -- and in basic terms the 3rd individual in heritage – to ski around the whole continent of Antarctica by myself. She did it, too, with the straightforward gear of cross-country, with out the aids utilized by her prededecessors – Norwegian males – every one of whom hired both parasails or kites.

Aston’s trip around the ice on the backside of the area requested of her the extremes by way of psychological and actual bravery, as she confronted the hazards of unseen cracks buried within the snow so huge they may engulf her and hypothermia as a result of brutalizing climate. She needed to deal, too, along with her emotional vulnerability in face of the consistent bombardment of hallucinations as a result of the monstrous sea of whiteness, the shortcoming of stimulation to her senses as she confronted what's tantamount to a sort of solitary confinement.

Like Cheryl Strayed’s Wild, Felicity Aston’s Alone in Antarctica turns into an inspirational saga of 1 woman’s plow through worry and loneliness as she truthfully confronts either the actual demanding situations of her event, in addition to her personal human vulnerabilities.

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Additional info for Alone in Antarctica: The First Woman To Ski Solo Across The Southern Ice

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Union Glacier is nestled in the heart of the Ellsworths and I let my gaze run over the crowded skyline as I used to do at Rothera. The mountains were different in character to those of my past Antarctic home. Here there was more spike and less curve, and the exposed rock was paler, almost metallic, in the blanching sunlight. I watched the comings and goings in camp, occasionally nodding greetings to passersby heavily wrapped in layers of down. Lifting my face towards the sun I registered once again the irony of the perfect weather above me.

You’ve dropped your glove,’ he said. I snatched it up, embarrassed to have been caught making such an amateur mistake. I was lucky that it hadn’t blown away. Stepping back from the plane I stood watching as the idle engine kicked into life. I readied my camera to film the plane leaving but as it lifted into the air and banked back towards me to fly past, I forgot about taking pictures and bounced up and down on the spot waving my arms in great arcs above my head as if the exertion of energy could exorcise the growing feeling of terror in my chest.

I stood back and looked at my signature. It looked brazen in fresh black ink on the muted wood and I felt a flicker of remorse. Scrawling my name had irreversibly announced my presence. I had declared my intentions in brutal black and now there would be no slinking away. Over the following hours I established the routine that I would follow for the next two months: skiing for ninety minutes before stopping for a short break to eat from a bag of snacks I kept in my pocket and to drink from an insulated water bottle that I kept nested within my down jacket at the front of the leading sledge.

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