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Outside Magazine September 2002

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Let's All Chill (Cont.)

THE NORTH POLE has been called "the horizontal Everest," which is a clever way of disguising that it's just a point on a map—an idea more than a geographic reality. On the fifth night, our last before we reached the pole, the drifting ice carried us a half-mile north.

"We are surfing toward the pole," Børge announced happily. "I think the weather is changing."

"I hope the French aren't there," Correne said wistfully. "I'd really like to have it to ourselves."

"Not me," I grumbled. "I hope they've opened up a bistro. With a wine bar."

That final day, the sky clouded over and the wind increased. I was skiing along in my typical daze when Børge suddenly stopped, pulled out his GPS, and started rubbing it. He looked down at the screen and motioned us all ahead. "Line up," he said. We shuffled forward. My hands hurt so bad that I'd given up holding the pole grips and instead just looped the straps around my wrists.

"Two hundred meters," Børge said.

Ahead, the landscape looked exactly like it had when we started. For all I knew, we could have been skiing in one big circle for the last week.

"What is that?" Correne asked, pointing to tents in the distance.

"A Russian group," Børge said. The French had apparently drifted away. Correne frowned.

"They're not on the pole," Børge assured her. "Just near the pole."

We skied on slowly, with Børge counting down the meters. "Ten, nine, eight..."

And then he held up the GPS. Ninety degrees. We were on the North Pole!

Everyone whooped and hollered and did their best to look triumphant. Mostly, though, we were just tired and relieved. I took off my skis and started walking toward the Russian tent.

"Where are you going?" Børge asked.

"To the Russians," I said. "They will have vodka."

"Good idea," Børge said.

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