Shooting the Bolt

Tragic news today, another death recorded in the annals of Antarctic exploration. British adventurer Henry Worsley died this morning in Punta Arenas, Chile, after aborting his attempt at the first unsupported solo crossing of Antarctica. He was thirty miles from the finish line.

In my recent book talks about Trans-Antarctica’s successful crossing twenty-five years ago, I have become too dismissive of twenty-first century exploration of this dangerous continent. Not only have the biggest records already been broken, I have told my audiences, but the communications and transportation apparatus are increasingly sophisticated and reliable, making the risk less acute (as if, without risk, there would be no reason to go).

Worsley, for example, filed daily audio postcards on the web and kept his followers up to date with Tweets. He was able to call for fairly immediate support when he realized the trouble he was in, and to record an audio farewell. So I am brought up sharp to realize that none of these advantages kept him alive. I am humbled by my own hubris. Antarctic’s punishing cold, impossible winds, and high altitude remain relentless, no matter the sophistication of all the stuff an explorer brings along.

I don’t think I truly realized how dangerous our own Antarctic adventure - the first unmechanized crossing of the continent - was until the expedition team was nearly half way home. Their continual battle with the elements and my own struggle with uncooperative airplanes slowly pierced my inherently naïve optimism. I began to realize – when it was too late to do anything but keep going - that we’d be extremely lucky if everyone on our team, or the dozens we flew on and off the continent, made it out alive. In fact, near the end of a journey over four times the length of Worsley's, one that flirted with Antarctic winter on either end, a plane with our film crew on board crashed into a snow bank. And with only sixteen miles to go, team member Keizo Funatsu, was lost in a blizzard for over thirteen hours. How close we came!

I know next to nothing about the Worsley expedition - I was just another armchair follower - and can offer no analysis or judgment of what might have gone right and wrong, even if I wanted to. I can only mourn with others a family’s very public loss, and remember that, but for the grace of everything I do and do not understand, we were spared a similar tragedy in 1990.

Our goal in launching the Trans-Antarctica Expedition was to bring attention to the continent and to sway the contemporary debate about its future. Worsley was raising money to aid wounded veterans in an expedition timed to commemorate the 100th anniversary of Sir Ernest Shackleton’s aborted 1915 attempt. Both expeditions had valuable and worthwhile purposes that made the risk seem reasonable. Their bold adventures have inspired millions.

But let’s be honest. Neither expedition would ever have occurred had not the explorers possessed what, for us mere mortals, seems an inexplicable and slightly mad desire to conquer this, the most remote and dangerous place on earth.  No matter how much we help them prepare behind the scenes, the ultimate success of such death-defying adventure depends on the emotional and physical stamina and good judgment of those who step onto the ice, and on their ability to face down the many factors beyond their control. It doesn’t matter that I, and everyone reading this, take statistically far greater risks every day when we climb into our cars, build houses on flood zones or venture onto beaches where strong waves may carry us away. We all make choices and we live with the consequences. None of us can judge others’ motivations or deeds. We can only admire and celebrate a person who understood his own passion, weighed the risk, and died pursuing his dream. My best wishes to the Worsley family.

Hear Henry Worsley’s moving farewell message, “Shooting the Bolt,” to his followers on his final day: https://soundcloud.com/shackletonsolo

Make a contribution to Shackleton Solo  

Bowie and the Rest

Death is coming closer, creeps nearer by the day (now, there’s a cheerful opening). The count includes not just the litany of icons that shaped our generation’s cultural and political identity, but it begins to include our friends and contemporaries, dear souls who have always lived among us. This shift feels less morbid than bittersweet, as the news spreads and the count grows.

Last week, among the writers, musicians, actors, thinkers and influencers lost, we collectively mourned several household names. The resulting voluminous public outpouring reflects the mark their talents made upon who we are. Their deaths nudge us to take stock – how much do we owe them for the way in which we experience the world? How well do we measure up? What have we done with our own, more ordinary lives? And what will we do with what’s left? The reaction reflects, also, the extent to which we realize that the list, now, will become ever more personal. The deaths within our generation have, until recently, been deemed tragedies – ‘so young,’ we've always said. But here we are, now, all on the cusp of the inevitable. Ready or not, what used to be abstract is fast becoming real. Even geniuses die. What hope is there for the rest of us?

When I was first diagnosed with MS over a decade ago, there were some who tried to distance themselves from my misfortune. ‘Poor her,’ they said, ‘of all the luck.’ It was the food I ate, my warped speed, my geography, my lack of humility and prayer… something “other” that could not touch them, too. It is very human to create a veil of rational immunity around ourselves we hope will hold misfortune at bay. But now, as the nicks and scratches of our long and lucky lives become infirmities, we are reminded that our turn is coming towards us down the road. It humbles us. It makes us glad to be alive. It makes us hunger for the simple things that matter. As a generation, we are living longer, so we can hope that this time of reckoning and gratitude may stretch out over decades. But eventually, near or far, our time will come.

As it happens, I was lucky with my chronic illness in more ways than one. The dire predictions of my steady decline from the disease have not yet manifested themselves, thank goodness, but the very possibility prepared me sooner, I think, than many of my contemporaries for the inevitable. The specter of death has been leaning in, just over my shoulder for a long time now, and I have been living (mostly) in a state of grace – aware that my days are numbered and grateful for the time I have. That gift is huge - a sense of proportion, a culling of the less important, a gratefulness for who we are and what we have, and appreciation for the experiences that have shaped us – including Bowie and the rest.

Photo: Going Home ©Cathy de Moll