At the Start Line - Solo and Unsupported Expedition to the South Pole

This blog has been a long time coming and for that, I can only apologise. I naively thought that a return to the real world without the same demands of training and fundraising, would mean more free time. How wrong I was!

Well finally, the dust has settled and it’s time to allow it all to sink in.

On 13^th January 2025, I completed a 708-mile expedition to become the 13^th woman to ski solo and unsupported to the South Pole. A childhood dream, 3 years in the making and even as I write it out now, I find it difficult to believe. 

Two months earlier, on 11th November, I said goodbye to friends and family and flew to Punta Arenas, a small Patagonian town tucked away at the southern tip of Chile. This is home to the Antarctic Logistics and Expeditions office, and the next six days were a whirlwind of meetings, kit checks, and the seemingly never-ending task of food prep. Unsurprisingly, packing 50 day’s worth of breakfasts, lunches, dinners and snacks, takes a lot of time.

After one cancelled flight, I boarded the plane to Antarctica, and as I landed on the famous blue ice runway, I ticked off another bucket list moment.

I couldn’t have asked for better weather for my arrival. The blue skies and the dazzling white of the continent were even more breathtaking than I’d imagined, and touchdown felt emotional. I’d always said that simply getting to the start line would feel like an achievement in itself, and, fighting back the lump in my throat, it absolutely did. Now all I had to do was to have faith in all the preparation and training. I was ready and I was (really) excited.

The bright sunshine I viewed through the window gave a false sense of security. As I stepped off the plane, I was immediately hit by the cold and the reality of the risk it posed. I quickly pulled my buff over my face and my beaming smile, and reached for a second pair of gloves. I was protecting these digits at all costs!

The Antarctic season runs from November to January, and Union Glacier becomes the hub for all sorts of expeditions and adventures, whether that’s climbing Mount Vinson, kite skiing, or even skydiving over the ice. Each year, the ice runway and camp are built from scratch, transforming a stretch of ice into a unique, temporary community filled with every trade and skill imaginable. By the end of January, it’s all dismantled and flown back to Chile, leaving no trace that anyone ever set foot there. It’s pretty remarkable.

I passed the ‘luxury’ tents that were to house the tourists who had travelled here to visit the penguins, and I pitched my tent for the first of many, many nights. Final checks were made, routes clarified, and kit was inspected and left to adapt to the cold-just as I was. The final meetings with the comms and safety team will always stay with me. The takeaway message? Get to the South Pole and don’t be an idiot! Stories of failed expeditions were shared again and again. Failures due to silly mistakes-mittens being blown away in a gust of wind, or someone taking their skis off without checking the ground and falling into a crevasse. These were quiet warnings that haunted me. I did not want the story of my expedition to be repeated as an example of what not to do.

 I had done all I could to prepare. I knew my kit inside out, knew how to fix things, how to improvise. I had spares, I had a well-thought-out med kit and I hoped that I had enough food and fuel to sustain me. It was now time for Antarctica to reveal its plans and for me to discover if I would be granted a safe journey.

Weather dictates everything in Antarctica. When a brief window opened, I was given just a couple of hour’s notice before a 30-minute flight to my starting point, Hercules Inlet, where the edge of the Antarctic continent meets the Ronne sea ice shelf.

One of the last things to do before boarding the small Twin Otter plane, was to weigh my pulk. 103kg. How?! That included 3 litres of water, but still, I had hoped it would be lighter. Too late now. I’d trimmed labels, cut corners, packed light while still allowing for the odd luxury to boost morale. This was the start of training my brain not to dwell on any hint of negativity or doubt. Mental strength was going to be just as crucial as physical endurance. And so began the longest mental tennis match of my life. Every time a negative thought crept in, I imagined myself as Serena Williams, smashing it away with the most epic backhand. Every time. Every day. It wasn’t a strategy I’d planned going into the expedition, it just happened. And it worked. Some days the matches were longer. Some were even fun. But I never lost a single one.

The small aircraft dipped low over the ice, then climbed again. This pattern of swooping and gaining height felt unnerving and repeated again and again as the pilot searched for a safe, crevasse-free landing zone. Eventually, we landed on the sea ice which was flatter and safer than the steep glacial terrain ahead. The start was one of the riskiest sections, crossing the hinge zone from the moving sea ice, up the steep glacier and away from the inlet.

It was late afternoon, edging into evening when I watched the plane disappear over the horizon. As it faded in to a dot, I was overwhelmed by the silence. Punta Arenas and Union Glacier had been a blur of checklists, chatter, and the endless commentary of mental to-do lists. Now, there was nothing. Just me and the vast unknown. The weight of what lay ahead finally hit.

I skied for an hour, easing my nerves and my legs, inching closer to the official start line before setting up camp. The following day would mark the true beginning of the expedition. I did have a plan: start slow. My body was in for a shock, moving and under stress for 11-12 hours a day, so I needed to play the long game. I’d even reassured family and friends ahead of time not to worry about the low distances in the early days, as they tracked my progress from the comfort of home. Initially, I focused on climbing and navigating the crevassed terrain, resisting the urge to push myself, instead, opting for shorter days and time for recovery.

The early scenery was something I’d been told not to take for granted. Whilst taking my time, I soaked up the views of the Patriot Hills and the nunataks piercing through the thick glacial ice. Soon, I would lose these navigational markers and have nothing but endless white to cast my eyes on.

I didn’t get to enjoy the good weather for long, and I quickly understood the rush to leave Union Glacier. The winds picked up and blue skies gave way to whiteouts and flat light. The limited visibility was the first test of my ability to navigate, as my eyes became glued to my compass. I’d had plenty of experience of these disorientating days whilst crossing Greenland, and I knew just how easy it was to ski completely off course. Days like this would require mental strength and a good playlist, as I couldn’t rely on the scenery to distract me from my own thoughts. A quick pause to thank the 90s for the endless supply of quality music…..oh, and to the 80s for the occasional surprise power ballad!

With the steepest climb behind me and my body adjusting to the rhythm of its new routine, I looked forward to being able to pick up the pace. At least that was the plan. I woke up excited, full of anticipation and ready to see what I was capable of. I unzipped the tent and was met with complete white out and strong winds. Uggh. This didn’t upset my mood, as what else was I to expect from the windiest continent on earth? What did catch me off guard, however, was the deep snow. My skis sank immediately. With all my strength, I tried to move forward, but the pulk sank below its runners, acting more like an anchor than a sled. At one point, I honestly questioned whether I’d fallen into a crevasse. The snow kept giving way, and I couldn’t see a thing. I pressed on, all the while trying to hide the creeping panic, and the concern that I was putting way too much stress on my ski bindings. Progress felt almost impossible. Every step was a battle. My skis were buried rather than gliding, and I had to lift my legs only for them to sink back again.

I could feel myself burning through calories but I couldn’t eat more than my daily ration. I reassured myself: “This won’t last. Just get through today.” Exhausted, I called it early, worried I’d burned too much energy battling through the snow. Sitting in the sanctuary of my tent, I checked my distance. The weight of disappointment hit hard. 10km. Nine hours of brutal effort for just 10km.

The following day played out the same. And the next. And the next. Every day I convinced myself that tomorrow would be better. Then the next tomorrow. But deep down, I was starting to fear that this might be it, that so early into the expedition, I was facing failure. The heavy snowfall I was battling through turned out to be an unexpected freak weather event for the season. The comms team couldn’t tell me when it might end, they could only assure me it wasn’t normal, and that other expeditions on the ice were facing the same conditions. I was alone, but not alone. I had to have faith, and I had to think clearly.

From my training, I’d learned the importance of acting early when it came to rationing food. If I wanted any chance of reaching the Pole unsupported, I had to cut back now. My small tent transformed in to a planning HQ, as I laid out all my food, calculated the calories and worked out how many extra days I could eke out. I’d started with 50 days of supplies, already accepting a 2,000-calorie daily deficit (carrying 5,500 but burning closer to 7,500). Now I had to make peace with consuming even less, and hope that my body had the reserves to cope. With careful planning, I stretched those 50 days into 56. But even then, the maths didn’t look good.

It took 6 long, morale-destroying days to get through the deep snow and to feel an improvement in the terrain beneath my skis. But as one challenge faded, another quickly took its place: sastrugi…..