WORDS AND IMAGES BY AARON ROLPH
SOUTH GEORGIA, BRITISH OVERSEAS TERRITORY
We wake to the sound of wind pressing violently against the tent walls, the fabric straining like the rigging of our ship that sailed us 800 miles to this remote sub-Antarctic island. Everything outside is swallowed in white. The fog has thickened overnight, itโs now impossible to tell which way is up and which way is down. The cold seeps through the sleeping bag and into my bones, making it difficult to begin those all-important morning rituals like melting snow and making breakfast. Our muscles ache from hauling the sled the day before, the straps cutting into my hips as we inched across what feels like endless ice.
Weโre deep in the heart of South Georgia now, a wild, mountainous island adrift in the Southern Ocean, a thousand miles from Antarctica and even farther from civilisation. Around us, glaciers creak and groan beneath the snow. James and I have come a long way to retrace Ernest Shackletonโs first crossing of this very island way back in 1916 - the man who set out to cross Antarctica and instead staged one of the greatest survival stories ever told.
Unlike us, his expedition had begun two full years earlier, full of ambition, until their ship Endurance was trapped and crushed in the Weddell Sea. They survived for months drifting on the ice, learning to live off penguin meat and patience, before accepting their reality: no one was coming. Shackleton and five others climbed into a lifeboat barely fit for a pond and successfully rowed 800 miles through some of the roughest seas on Earth to reach the nearest hint of civilisation, at the time South Georgia.
Today the island is mostly home to thousands of seals, penguins, and occasionally a few hardy scientists, but in the early 1900s it bustled with whaling stations and Norwegian industry. Shackletonโs battered crew landed on the southern shore, and with salvation on the far side, faced 60 kilometres of unchartered, glaciated mountains between them and survival.
Weโre around half way through retracing their route, making it hard to know which direction is safer at this point; forward or back. The GPS flickers with uncertainty, the horizon offers nothing. Somewhere under this white lies a maze of crevasses waiting for a misplaced step, but of course, we have a privilege that Shackleton did not; the luxury of choice, not to mention tents, maps and radios. The forecast promised to improve, so after a team chat, we make the decision to press on, hoping the clouds may lift and the winds temper.
I fall into a kind of rhythmic calm as we skin our way up the glacier, each step measured and steady. The wind howls so fiercely it swallows any chance of conversation, leaving me in a bubble of silence broken only by the scrape of skis and the crunch of ice. Thereโs a strange peace in it, a solitude so complete it feels almost timeless.
As we climb higher, my thoughts drift to Shackleton. I find energy picturing him and his men somewhere near this very spot, exhausted, starving, and pushing on through the same brutal winds more than a century ago. Itโs hard to fathom what they endured with no map, no modern gear, just grit and blind faith that salvation lay somewhere beyond the next ridge.
In true South Georgia fashion, as we round a corner approaching a high col, the headwind hits us full force - brutal and unrelenting. We huddle together, bracing against the gusts, and decide that continuing on would be careless at best. After all, out here, hundreds of miles from any hope of rescue, bad decisions are easily punished. I lead us back the way we came, occasionally spotting the faint tracks weโd carved to get here, navigating through the whiteout only by the fine line recorded on my watch. With windburnt faces and our very own endurance experience under our belt, we finally make it back to the boat.
The following days, we set sail to Stromness, the end goal we had originally set our sights upon. Although too little and too late for our traverse attempt, the conditions do eventually come good, and weโre able to complete the part of the puzzle we were missing touring up around the old village. We enjoy multiple descents of pristine spring skiing and take time to wander through the rusting remains of the old whaling stations - an eerie reminder of an industry long gone, now slowly being reclaimed back into the natural world.
After reaching the whaling village, Shackleton and his men launched their own rescue efforts for the remaining crew left on Elephant island near Antarctica. Nearly three years after setting sail, Shackleton and his 27 men finally made it home - every single one of them alive.
At first, I was predictably disappointed not to complete the full traverse as Shackleton did over a century ago. But after a few more days of ski touring various unclimbed peaks in the area, it started to feel right. Shackletonโs crossing wasnโt meant to be easily repeated. Turning back in fact, feels like the perfect tribute - giving his achievement and these mountains, the respect they deserve. In the end, simply standing in this place feels like a privilege - to witness one of the last truly untamed habitats, to feel the rawness of these landscapes firsthand, and of course, to leave with an even deeper respect for what Shackleton and his crew endured.
Story and Photography by Aaron Rolph
Featuring James Norbury
Made possible by @Shackletonofficial & @sailfirebird
