Roald Amundsen and Robert Falcon Scott did it. Earnest Shackleton did it more times than he ever wanted to. Workers at various research stations have done it in the relative comfort of permanent structures, but aside from a handful of explorers and scientists, few travellers have actually slept on the White Continent.
Now, I can say I've done it.
Each year, more than 20,000 tourists visit Antarctica, almost all on live-aboard ships. But on some of its tours, Connecticut-based Quark Expeditions gives a handful of volunteers the opportunity to camp on the continent itself. Passengers are put ashore with sleeping bags, tents, and a promise they'll be picked up the next day.
Offered on a first-come, first-served basis, the overnight excursion has proved so popular that the limit has been increased from 10 campers per trip to 20. There is no extra charge to leave behind everything you hold dear and sleep in the snow.
My adventure began with a tent-raising practice session on the heaving deck of the small and unpretentious Akademik Shokalskiy, a Russian research vessel, as it crossed the Drake Passage. Two people would each share a tiny four-season tent except for a large English woman who would occupy her own. Hastily, my tent mate and I struggled with the snap-and-fit poles, trying to turn a jumble of nylon into a comfortable abode as efficiently as possible. At least the ground wouldn't be heaving underneath, or so I hoped.
"We'll choose a snow cap because it's stable," explained our expedition leader, a young Canadian named Brandon Harvey, as the ship rocked and swayed. "An ice cap can shift at any time."
I could go along with that, I thought to myself, struggling with a jammed pole.
"Quickly, you don't want to waste time," Brandon urged. "The weather can turn in an instant."
This proved a prescient comment, as our first attempt to camp was scrubbed by gale force winds. We watched from the rail as our intended site disappeared in driving snow. "No camping tonight," Brandon announced, snow collecting on his beard and eyelashes.
Feigning disappointment, the group scurried inside and made for the bar.
Quark Expeditions maintains strict guidelines for camping on shore. A member of the International Association of Antarctic Tour Operators (IAATO), it adheres to a strict code of conduct to help protect the pristine state of the Antarctic environment. The chosen campsite would not disturb animals or vegetation. (There is some moss and lichen growth on the Antarctic peninsula.) There must be no trace of our stay but footprints. No food. No litter. Not even any, um, yellow snow. Human urine is a foreign biological substance, and therefore forbidden. We would be left with a port-a-potty the size of a hat box, which we would carry back to the ship, full and frozen.
Another suitable site was found at a scenic confluence of channels, mountains and glaciers called Dorian Bay. With the long day waning, we loaded tents and sleeping bags and the port-a-potty into Zodiacs and set out for shore. The inflatable boat pushed delicately through of field of floating ice. The driver looked worried. As the temperature fell, a film of shell ice formed on the surface and the Zodiac crackled through it like a miniature iceberg.
"I'm not sure why I'm doing this," said the English lady with her cultured accent. "I'm really more at home in a cocktail dress and heels than camping."
Then we were unceremoniously deposited on shore and left alone.
Alone. I smothered a creeping feeling of dread. We had, after all, recently heard a lecture about the Nordenskjold Expedition, stranded for over a year after their ship sank in 1903. The Akademik Shokalskiy was nowhere to be seen.
