THE DAY BEFORE I was dropped at the start point for my world record attempt – the fastest solo, unsupported ski expedition to the South Pole – base camp became a carousel of briefings.
First came a preeminent expedition doctor, someone all too familiar with the things you try to avoid when out on the ice. She flagged and filled three holes in my medical kit: a strong opioid, a spare course of antibiotics, and a topical steroid for the all-too-common “Polar Thigh”.
Next was the travel safety team: route discussion, high-risk crevasse zone identification, navigation equipment checks, and the other usual prompts and questions to make sure you are fully aware of what you’re about to step into.
The final meeting was with the Head of Operations for the continent’s most familiar logistics provider. He wrapped up with a blunt warning: any unplanned resupply during my 22-day attempt could bankrupt me. This was followed by my final weather forecast – and the question that mattered most:
“We have a weather window. Are you happy to fly out tomorrow?”
Despite the intensity of the day, after three years of dedicated preparation and a lifetime of dreaming, my “yes” came rather easily.
The record I was chasing involved skiing an unforgiving 1,130 km from the inner coastline of Antarctica to the South Pole, alone, carrying all my supplies, in less than 22d 6hr 8min.
By day 16, I had been ahead of record pace for 16 days.
By day 17, I developed kidney failure.
On day 26, I ran out of food.
On day 34, I reached the Pole.
So, I didn’t return with the time I intended, thus failing the record attempt. However, I successfully skied solo to the South Pole, three weeks faster than convention, despite my dire state. Those two facts can sit side-by-side without cancelling each other out. The space between these things has revealed nuances of both success and failure in ways that I haven’t previously considered.
Since returning to Australia, I have frequently found myself mulling over the same 4 topics:
- Why things unraveled, and what was controllable, influenceable and uncontrollable.
- What I relied on to push through the second half of the expedition.
- The quiet, disproportionate value of a few good people.
- The long term trade-offs of choosing extreme challenges.
The first 2 weeks went exactly as planned. I was covering big distances, skiing comfortably, my body felt strong and I quickly settled into the cold-weather routines I had developed over the preceding years. There were also a couple of days when I got to see Antarctica at its absolute best. By pure chance, on one of these days, another expeditioner (Sebastian Orskaug – approximately 3 km East of my position) was making the most of the clear skies and low winds by flying a drone. Coincidentally he passed over my position. Not knowing anything about one another’s presence, I couldn’t guess who would have been more surprised by the interaction; but the footage below captures my reaction as I see a drone’s shadow shoot across my field of view.
By this stage, the only niggles I had picked up were some blisters on my feet and a sore neck – from having to focus on the ground as I navigated through the unrelenting sastrugi.
Sastrugi – wind-sculpted ridges of hard, compacted snow, sharp-edged and sometimes rising to hip-height – are a terrain feature unique to Antarctica and other polar regions. They are formed by perpetual freezing conditions and wind and can abruptly stop a sled in its tracks or serve as a cliff for you to fall off when navigating through whiteout conditions.
I had heard that beyond 87 degrees south sastrugi could be particularly bad. In polar talk, people often measure progress by “degrees” rather than kilometers. Each degree of latitude (the horizontal lines around a globe) is 60 nautical miles (about 111 kilometers) and using degrees is easier when you’re in the field and thinking about how far you have left.
As I clambered over the obstacle course in front of me, I remember thinking about 87 degrees and telling myself I wouldn’t let the sastrugi bother me until that milestone – as that is where the “real challenge” would begin and so I shouldn’t make a premature psychological concession.
In practice, it felt at its worst between 80 and 85 degrees rather than 87 to 88.4 but learning to read and navigate the landscape became more familiar, and so perhaps I was simply accustomed to it by then.
The katabatic winds were another novelty. These are cold, dense winds which flow downhill. As the South Pole is at about 2,900 meters elevation, and the surface of the interior of the continent is mostly featureless, this means that when navigating inland from the coast the winds are constantly on one’s face.
These terrain features weren’t just physical obstacles; they were mental ones too. Having never been to Antarctica before, I had no reference for how long a difficult section would last. One moment you’d be moving well over firm snow, and the next you’d hit deep powder or sastrugi that slowed every stride and made the sled feel twice as heavy. You never knew if it would stretch for 500 metres or 500 kilometres, which made the terrain psychologically exhausting. Your mind would cycle through worst-case scenarios: “If it’s like this for the next 50 km, there’s no chance of the record being broken”. The reality was that all terrain (good and bad) eventually ended, but some sections were deceptively long, and the uncertainty of their length amplified the challenge. Being at the mercy of the conditions in this way made every meter, every decision, feel heavier.
A similar psychological load was attributable to the visibility conditions. When whiteouts struck (particularly when in bad sastrugi), progress was also limited as contrast in surface texture was no longer apparent, and it would be impossible to see whether you were picking the best or worst route through the obstacles. Many other expeditions and record attempters have solicited external support from third parties with daily weather forecasts and now realising the benefits this would have brought (i.e., being able to push harder when visibility was comparatively good, and rest when comparatively poor) – it will become something I do going forward.
Pinpointing a single moment where things began to take a turn for the worse is difficult. It was, so far as I can tell, a convergence rather than a singular cause. Four consecutive days without meaningful sleep, driven by pain and discomfort from badly wind-/frost-bitten lips, mouth, and tongue, coincided with four days of 13-plus hours of particularly demanding skiing.
One contributing factor to this was avoidable. In the final days before departure, I shortened the fabric sewn into my ski goggles to cover my mouth and nose, following advice that it would obstruct breathing. I had never experienced issues in the mouth-region before and, lacking experience in Antarctica, assumed that someone with many seasons and expeditions behind them knew something I didn’t about this specific environment – such as the effects of the dry air or sustained elevation.
The responsibility was, of course, mine. I could have rejected the advice, trusted my gut, or found a better way to protect exposed skin once in the field. I didn’t, and that decision left my mouth more vulnerable than intended. My takeaway is not to make last minute changes that contradict my experience; or, that I could have benefited from having more experience coming into the expedition – which might have given me more self-confidence to reject said advice.
On day 16/17, I didn’t know that my situation had progressed to kidney failure; that only became apparent after reaching the finish and being assessed by doctors. I was, however, aware that I had blood in my urine, which I recognised as a possible indicator of rhabdomyolysis. This was a symptom I decided not to disclose in my nightly call with the operations team back at Union Glacier, opting instead to self-manage my condition, knowing that medical practitioners would quite rightfully err on the side of caution and steps would begin for my medical evacuation/rescue, and the expedition would soon be over.
Alongside the blood, my pace slowed in a way that was unfamiliar: output dropped dramatically and did not improve with increased effort, pacing adjustments, or rest. I found myself in a cycle of skiing for 10 to 30 minutes, then pitching the tent and resting for an hour or so.
I was also experiencing significant swelling in my face and legs, breathing became more challenging, and I developed a wet cough. Sleep became even more elusive, as I had to rest with my head and torso elevated to breathe effectively – something I was only doing subconsciously.
Only later did I learn that these oedemas, breathing and sleeping issues were further symptoms of my organ failure, caused by the body retaining fluid it could no longer process.
I became increasingly frustrated with myself for not being able to push through the fatigue, assuming I simply needed sleep or caffeine, or speculating that I was negatively reacting to the monotony of the landscape after three weeks alone. Even when part of me suspected something more serious, I rationalised it as boredom and decision-fatigue and made a handshake-deal with myself that I would persevere.
From this point onward, every step was deliberate. Pain and fatigue removed the luxury of being able to zone out whilst skiing, and I was unfortunately aware of every second that passed. I broke the remainder of the journey into units: one degree of latitude, a particularly prominent sastrugi I could see in the distance, 10 strides, 1 second.
In these moments, I found that it was useful to stay practical. I never worried about my “why” – that was locked in before I started. My focus was always on action and solutions. I’m sore, how long until I can have my next codeine? This body part is cold, what do I need to do to get the wind off it? I found this pragmatism deferred the intrusion of negative thoughts.
And then there was the endless mental math, a familiar companion to many who participate in endurance challenges. Speed, distance, time, unit conversion – calculating how long it would take to reach the next degree of latitude. For example: if I was moving at 4.1 km/h and had 0.14 degrees to reach the 88th, how long did I have left to go? If the sastrugi worsened and slowed me to 3 km/h, how would this change things? Each calculation gave me a distraction and helped me reduce the burden of uncertainty.
I am convinced that if you want to make someone explore the depths of their constitution: 1) injure them (preferably involving organ failure); 2) sleep deprive them; 3) isolate them; 4) starve them; 5) introduce as much uncertainty as you can; and 5) (optional) make it -30 degrees, mandate skiing and repeat for 34 days.
When the record slipped out of reach, a new challenge emerged: my rations up to that point had been calculated for an all-in push to break the record, leaving little room for delay, and food supplies low. Fortunately, there was a cache at 89 degrees, a lucky resource resulting from the more-commercial expedition of “skiing the last degree” to the Pole: a 111 km guided journey taking place over 6-10 days.
Following guidance from the logistics provider to “leave some for others”, I conservatively took four days’ worth of food, rather than the usual practice of carrying extra redundancy. I had believed I could push through to the Pole within that window, but unforeseen hamstring and Achilles injuries subsequently slowed my pace, making it clear that four days wasn’t enough. If I had been in a better state, I expect I would have asked for clarity on the request for conservatism; or without communications – would have simply taken more.
I was made aware of a flight scheduled to pass over my location en route to drop tourists at the Pole, and I took advantage of the opportunity to receive a small airdrop, paying for six days’ worth of supplies (though in the end I only needed three).
Two days into fasting, whilst weakly waving my skis in the air, I saw the plane fly overhead – but nothing got thrown from the door. It turned out an error had occurred, and the resupply was dropped 3.5 km back the way I had come. When one’s guts aren’t working, they haven’t eaten in 2 days and haven’t slept in more – this isn’t good news. I felt like Tom Hanks watching his rescue plane flying by in Castaway.
The same logistics team, recognising the circumstances, drove 3.5 hours in one of their modded Hilux vehicles, retrieved and delivered the resupply directly. It was certainly convenient that this drama was occurring so close to the South Pole camp, on the most benign terrain the route has to offer, and the Company is well-natured!
After resting for 24 hours and replenishing some strength, I set off for the final 50 km to the Pole. Physically, I was a wreck. Every step felt like a fight, but I felt a muted sense of pride in my own decision-making. Normally, I might have gone all-in, pushing recklessly in a Hail Mary attempt, but this time I’d listened to my body, assessed the risks, and acted with maturity.
Perhaps it was experience, or perhaps it was the vulnerability of the situation – but this time, caution and strategy had won over bravado, and a newly defined success was within reach.
On the morning of the penultimate day, I decided I was going to make the most of my satellite phone – something I had only been using for my scheduled calls with the Ops team back at Union Glacier. Staring down the barrel of the final straight, I had been struck by an overwhelming sense of gratitude for those that had gotten me to this point, and I took it upon myself to let them know.
At its core, the reason I was able to undertake this expedition at 27 years old, without a lifetime of savings accrued, is that Nedd Brockmann defines a quality of friendship that I can only aspire to one day return. Not only does he offer a unique kinship, have an unwavering belief in me, and hard-won experience from which he offers invaluable perspective; but through Nedd’s Milk he put material support behind me. It was also by his introductions that Boost Mobile (the hardest working team I know) got on board with the mission, Dom Blond from the Running Room kept my wheels turning, and the team from Bursty took on the task of storytelling. Without these people, my dream would have remained exactly that.
As someone born British and Irish but ever aspiring to become Australian, these experiences only deepen my pride in calling this country home. People like Nedd, my friend and mentor Andrew Lock, and the wider community of friends and icons embody the courage, integrity, and generosity that define the best of Australia. They have set a benchmark not just in achievement, but in character – and I am determined to honour that example through my actions and to contribute in a way that reflects the values that make this place extraordinary.
My emotions persistently snuck up on me in the last 10 km. As one approaches the South Pole, increased infrastructure becomes visible. Telescopes, flags, buildings – all associated with the Scott-Amundsen research station. The sight of the end point, after nothing but white for 34 days, was utterly overwhelming – and I found myself sobbing my way, alone, to the stake in the ground at the end of the world.
In returning to normal life in Melbourne, my job as a geometallugist, and relationships: whilst the memories and injuries are of course new, the mental and emotional fallout have felt familiar.
I have found that I can split the post-expedition timeline into 3 parts:
- The Honeymoon Phase
Immediately after an expedition, the contrast with ordinary life is stark. Everyday comforts (instant hot water, fresh food, a firm chair) take on an outsized significance. Ordinary sensations, smells, and absence of struggle register sharply after weeks of deprivation, isolation, and sustained effort. I have found this phase to be characterised by relief. The body begins to recover, fatigue eases, and the mind slowly re-adjusts to familiar rhythms. There is little reflection at this stage; it is simply an awareness of the distance between survival and modern-day living.
2. Identity Recalibration Phase
After the initial relief fades, a more complicated period sets in. It’s less about returning to comfort and more about readjusting how you show up in everyday life. Social interaction can feel unexpectedly difficult. I’ve noticed myself at times struggling to fully engage in ordinary conversations, feeling impatient with surface-level exchanges, or aware that the stripped-back, uncompromising version of myself that worked on the ice doesn’t always fit comfortably back home. It’s a subtle, mentally awkward phase – not dramatic, just disorienting. The task is learning how to soften that edge without losing the judgment and resolve that made the expedition possible and allowing it to quietly inform how I move forward.
3. Growth Phase
Over time, these challenges shape how I move through life. They reinforce traits I consciously strive to build and serendipitously develop – in ways no ordinary situation could. Perhaps most of all, overcoming incessant amounts of self-doubt fosters self-belief and confidence that now contribute to my work, my relationships, the planning of my next expedition, and the ever-looming goal to one day make my mark in outer space.
