Page 1 of Jack Frost
This is either a noble and dramatic way to die, or a very stupid one.
My team will probably try to soften the idiocy of my actions. They'll make it out to be something selfless—"Emery died pursuing scientific knowledge, trying to capture the beauty and terror of nature at its most primal." They won't say "Yeah, Emery was really, really dumb. She ignored all the safety protocols and hung back to take more footage—wandered too far, got separated from the group. You know, it was natural selection, honestly. The idiots die and the smart ones survive."
The idiots die.
I'm going to die. In Antarctica. In the middle of a freaking blizzard.
I can't see. If I open my eyes, even a crack, they're blasted with bits of ice as fine as sand. I've lost my goggles somewhere—no hope of finding them. Each inhale is like razor blades to my throat and lungs. I tug my hood lower, trying to shield my eyes and mouth so I can take painful sips of oxygen.
It all happened so fast.
When the winds picked up, scouring across the snowy dunes, I didn't think much of it. The sky was still fairly clear, but my team mobilized at once, prompted by Luc Garnier. He's been to Antarctica several times, and he knows the dangers.
But we had been waiting for days to get good shots of the Adelie penguins hatching from their eggs, and I didn't want to leave the nest I'd been monitoring. I've only got two days left in Antarctica. And several days out of my two-week trip have already been wasted huddling in a tent while the katabatic winds roared across the snowscape. There was absolutely nothing to do during that time, except fret about all the hours I could have been logging with my camera, all the data I should have been collecting. Our team barely slept because the wind slammed into our tents with hurricane force, shaking and snapping the heavy canvas until I thought it would dislodge and hurl away into the storm, leaving us exposed like squirming worms on a shelf of ice. The noise of the gale booming against the tent was deafening, and the cold wiggled insidious fingers into our piles of bedding.
After the misery of those days, I was not about to lose my chance to film penguin chicks cracking through their shells into the world. All that waiting, all that effort and expense—no way was I giving up my shot, my one shot, that one-of-a-kind footage I was being paid to capture.
So I pretended to pack up my equipment when Luc gave the order, and I convinced Ben to go on ahead and let me take up the rear—and then I went back to the nest.
I thought I would have time to shoot a little more video, pack up, and rejoin the group before the storm really hit.
Damn was I wrong.
The wind hurls itself against my heavy pack, nearly bowling me over. My legs tremble from the exhaustion of keeping myself upright. I'm sweating copiously under my layers of clothing, but my fingers are speared with the pain of the cold. I tug my scarf up over my nose and mouth again. Immediately I remember why I pulled it down; the snow-crusted thickness of the scarf is suffocating. But if I don't keep it over my face, I could lose my nose to frostbite. I like my nose. It's nice—and straight—why am I thinking about my damn nose right now? I should be thinking about moving forward. One foot in front of the other—except I've lost all sense of direction. I can't contact the others in this gale. I can't stay here, or I'll freeze. But if I keep moving, I might head away from base camp, out into the great Nothing of this wretchedly beautiful continent.
This is the end for me. The only question is, do I burrow into the snow and die, or keep walking and die?
The cowering might come eventually. For now, I'll try to move.
The scarf sucks to my mouth as I huff freezing air. Wind blasts against me, violent as a 230-pound linebacker crashing into my body. My eyes are oozing tears that solidify into slush on my cheekbones.
I wanted so fiercely to film those chicks hatching. And I did.
Was a few minutes of footage worth my life?
Keep going, Emery. One foot forward.
Brace against a crushing shove from the wind.
Another step.
I came here to study and film the wildlife. To make a paycheck, yes, but also to inform people about these animals. About their habitat, and how it's changing as the globe gradually warms. About what we can do to shift the dangerous trends that threaten species all over the Earth, including our own.
Is that cause worth my life? Sure. But if I had been smarter, and stayed with the team, I could live another handful of decades to fight for the planet.
This is so typical of me. Caught in the passion of the moment, ready to make the big gesture. Trying to do something huge, important, and idealistic—and failing every time, my struggle soured with regret.
Another step—not so much a step as a slow shift of my boot, but still—progress.
One more step.
Come on. You've got this, Emery.
I was taught that as long as I tried harder than everyone else, as long as I studied and struggled and clawed and climbed and never gave up—as long as my work ethic was sound and my motives pure, that I could make it. That I'd succeed. That people would listen.
What a load of shit. That has never been true for me. Okay, I'm on this trip, which was a dream come true—but the dream is rapidly morphing into a nightmare with claws like ice, shredding through all the layers I wear, blasting its chill breath over my skin.
My whole body is shaking now, and my heart throbs huge and hot in my chest. I can't keep moving; the strain is too much. I might have a heart attack if I try.
