DARK KNIGHTS
“In the universe, there are things that are known, and things that are unknown, and in between, there are doors.” WILLIAM BLAKE
Somewhere in the world, as you sit at your desk staring at your screen, counting down the hours till you can go home, there’s an expedition going on, an adventure that makes your own mundane existence pale in comparison: a trek across Africa, perhaps, a row across the Pacific, or a circumnavigation of the globe using nothing but man power. More often than not, the intrepid souls involved are hellbent on achieving something no one else has done before. Which reminds me, oddly, of a Stephen Fry TV sketch I once saw on the subject of language:
”I can say this sentence and be utterly confident that it has never been uttered before in the history of human communication: ‘Hold the news reader’s nose squarely waiter, or friendly milk will countermand my trousers.’ Common words, but never before placed in that order. A unique child, delivered of a unique mother.”
The point - an obscure one, I’ll admit - is that, because there are so many campaigns going on, it can be difficult to know which are the real deal, the life threatening, character defining, might-die-alone-with-a-frozen-heart style leviathans of human achievement, or which are the comparatively trivial exploits whose value lies solely and exclusively in the fact that they have ‘never been done before’; the kind that might get Kriss Akabusi’s tongue in a twist on Record Breakers.
I put Matvey Shparo and Boris Smolin firmly in the frozen-heart category. Their mission? To become the first men in history to ski to the North Pole in the unrelenting and flawless blackness of a polar winter which sees no sunrise or sunset between December and March every year. That’s darkness 24 hours a day.
Shparo reveals the over-riding - and somewhat unsurprising - emotion:
“Fear. Our main problem is fear. Fear prevents us from sleeping. Fear does not allow us to rest.”
Fear, then, of attack from polar bears, fear of falling through the thin ice while trying to sleep, fear of depression and paranoia caused by a lack of exposure to sunlight. These are the added trials and tribulations that make what is ordinarily a harrowing experience in the summer into a killer expedition during winter. And it didn’t take long for their fears to be realised: having spent 3 nights over Christmas stuck in a tent because of horrific snowstorms, they awoke on Boxing Day to bloodcurdling howls and the sight of an adult polar bear clawing its way through the tent. The bear crushed gasoline cans, spilling petrol all over their food, and damaged a sled before they managed to scare it off with gunshots. Shparo now sleeps with a gun at arms length at all times.
The great Sir Ranulph Fiennes, perhaps moved to action by the sheer magnitude of their task, has been tracking their progress and continues to send messages of support:
“I have felt on my own back all amenities of the Polar route, but the time of realisation of our two Expeditions is not the same: spring and winter. And this makes much difference. 30 years have had to pass in order for mankind to dare such an attempt. My young colleagues, I am together with you in spirit. Take care. I wish you great success.”
The daunting and, to be perfectly honest, terrifying thing is that they are out there as I type and as you read, probably trudging along in the dark as we speak, or perhaps trying to divert another hungry bear as it ambles, teeth bared, through their camp. We salute their unparalleled resolve and determination because we are at once inspired by their efforts but riddled with guilt for our incessant moaning about our hard lives and the horror of the English weather - which is actually pretty good today.
Shparo and Smolin want to do something ‘unrivalled and unprecedented.’ My loose definition between trivial and frozen-heart expeditions can thus be redefined: Exploration is not simply about achieving something that no one has done before; it’s about achieving something that, in your heart of hearts, you believe no one will ever achieve again.
Somewhere in the world, as you sit at your desk staring at your screen, counting down the hours till you can go home, there’s an expedition going on, an adventure that makes your own mundane existence pale in comparison: a trek across Africa, perhaps, a row across the Pacific, or a circumnavigation of the globe using nothing but man power. More often than not, the intrepid souls involved are hellbent on achieving something no one else has done before. Which reminds me, oddly, of a Stephen Fry TV sketch I once saw on the subject of language:
”I can say this sentence and be utterly confident that it has never been uttered before in the history of human communication: ‘Hold the news reader’s nose squarely waiter, or friendly milk will countermand my trousers.’ Common words, but never before placed in that order. A unique child, delivered of a unique mother.”
The point - an obscure one, I’ll admit - is that, because there are so many campaigns going on, it can be difficult to know which are the real deal, the life threatening, character defining, might-die-alone-with-a-frozen-heart style leviathans of human achievement, or which are the comparatively trivial exploits whose value lies solely and exclusively in the fact that they have ‘never been done before’; the kind that might get Kriss Akabusi’s tongue in a twist on Record Breakers.
I put Matvey Shparo and Boris Smolin firmly in the frozen-heart category. Their mission? To become the first men in history to ski to the North Pole in the unrelenting and flawless blackness of a polar winter which sees no sunrise or sunset between December and March every year. That’s darkness 24 hours a day.
Shparo reveals the over-riding - and somewhat unsurprising - emotion:
“Fear. Our main problem is fear. Fear prevents us from sleeping. Fear does not allow us to rest.”
Fear, then, of attack from polar bears, fear of falling through the thin ice while trying to sleep, fear of depression and paranoia caused by a lack of exposure to sunlight. These are the added trials and tribulations that make what is ordinarily a harrowing experience in the summer into a killer expedition during winter. And it didn’t take long for their fears to be realised: having spent 3 nights over Christmas stuck in a tent because of horrific snowstorms, they awoke on Boxing Day to bloodcurdling howls and the sight of an adult polar bear clawing its way through the tent. The bear crushed gasoline cans, spilling petrol all over their food, and damaged a sled before they managed to scare it off with gunshots. Shparo now sleeps with a gun at arms length at all times.
The great Sir Ranulph Fiennes, perhaps moved to action by the sheer magnitude of their task, has been tracking their progress and continues to send messages of support:
“I have felt on my own back all amenities of the Polar route, but the time of realisation of our two Expeditions is not the same: spring and winter. And this makes much difference. 30 years have had to pass in order for mankind to dare such an attempt. My young colleagues, I am together with you in spirit. Take care. I wish you great success.”
The daunting and, to be perfectly honest, terrifying thing is that they are out there as I type and as you read, probably trudging along in the dark as we speak, or perhaps trying to divert another hungry bear as it ambles, teeth bared, through their camp. We salute their unparalleled resolve and determination because we are at once inspired by their efforts but riddled with guilt for our incessant moaning about our hard lives and the horror of the English weather - which is actually pretty good today.
Shparo and Smolin want to do something ‘unrivalled and unprecedented.’ My loose definition between trivial and frozen-heart expeditions can thus be redefined: Exploration is not simply about achieving something that no one has done before; it’s about achieving something that, in your heart of hearts, you believe no one will ever achieve again.
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