Antarctica is the world’s last great wilderness and of course it should be preserved. But that doesn’t mean we can’t visit itby Sara Wheeler / February 23, 2011 / Leave a comment
Published in March 2011 issue of Prospect Magazine
I once camped on the frozen sea in the lee of Mount Erebus, one of Antarctica’s active volcanoes. I was in the middle of a seven-month journey around the continent, researching a book. The skies were diaphanous, frosting the Transantarctic Mountains with pinks and blues. Lying in my sleeping bag, I heard seals calling to one another under the ice. And then, suddenly, Antarctica shut down. Winds hurtled down from the South Pole, battering the glacier tongues and tossing walls of snow into the air. The storm lasted for two days, the view from the tent a chaotic swirl of opaque white. But when it ended, the wind had scoured the foothills of Erebus, revealing polished ice stuck fast to the rock below the crevasse fields. A thin band of apricot and petrol-blue hung over the mountains and the pallid sun shed a watery light over thousands of miles of ice. I could have been in the silent corner of savannah where man first stood upright.
Antarctica was an uplifting experience—the most uplifting of my life. The only unowned continent (as well as the highest, the driest and a battalion of other superlatives), it represents hope. No wars, no toxic spills, no dictators: this is what could have been, and what still could be, if we have hope. I found that the absence of clutter—the absence of everything—helped me reflect on what was most important. The continent was a spiritual power station.