The Expedition Begins

The truly vast nature of Antarctica’s polar plateau was beginning to reveal itself. Peering through a small window at the rear of the Twin Otter aircraft carrying us from Union Glacier – the main logistical base for expeditions on the Antarctic continent – to the start point of our expedition, the sheer expanse of what lay ahead came sharply into focus. This was the beginning of my attempt to set a bold new World Record: sit-skiing to the South Pole. Flying at 5,000 feet, I could clearly make out the textured surface of the plateau below, carved into wave-like formations of sastrugi – resembling sand dunes, but formed from snow and ice.

With the sun beating down on the blindingly reflective surface beneath us, and as the pilot began his approach to our insertion point – 222 kilometres from the South Pole – I reached into the drybag between my legs and pulled out my glacier glasses. As the plateau rushed closer in the window, I braced for a hard landing on the sastrugi-strewn surface. We’d need to move quickly once the Twin Otter’s skis touched down. Looking over his shoulder from the cramped confines of the cockpit, the pilot readied our team.

“Brace for landing. It’s going to be a rough one.”

A few tense seconds later, the aircraft’s skis smacked violently onto the rock-hard surface as the pilot threw both prop engines into full power, their sound flooding the cabin with a high-pitched whine. For those first few seconds, everything in the aircraft shook fiercely. A few minutes later, the aircrew opened the Twin Otter’s rear doors, and the biting sub-zero temperature tore through the cabin. After two years of relentless planning, fundraising, and training, I had finally reached the start line of my toughest challenge yet.

Forward, into the Unknown

We decided to camp a short distance from our insertion point on the first evening of the expedition. It was crucial that we resisted the temptation to push forward. Our bodies not only needed time to adjust to the colder temperatures of the polar plateau – with the mercury at 88 degrees south dropping to −25°C that first evening – but also to acclimatise to the rarefied air. We had been flown from close to sea level at Union Glacier to an altitude of over 8,000 feet in a matter of hours. As we set about establishing our first camp, we found ourselves surrounded by a dense and seemingly endless sea of sastrugi stretching to the horizon in every direction. Staring out across the plateau through the visor of my Freebird goggles, the South Pole felt a very long way from certain.

We set out in earnest the next morning, determined to make a clear statement of intent. What we were attempting had never been tried before – doubling the World Record distance for an individual to sit-ski to the South Pole. But the terrain between us and the Pole was hostile. The snow beneath our skis was unlike anywhere else on Earth, shaped by the most extreme cold and arid conditions. It felt like skiing on sandpaper. Each drive of my poles gained me no more than four or five inches before friction killed all momentum, forcing me to dig in again for the next push.

Even with the support of an incredible team – Matthew Biggar, Lucy Shepherd, and Dwayne Fields – we covered just six kilometres in six punishing hours. And yet, as brutal as the environment felt, we were surrounded by an unparalleled sense of beauty and wilderness. The last true wilderness. The last true frontier on Planet Earth.

Beyond the Horizon

Over the next few days, we continued our slow but determined push toward the Pole. There was no reprieve from the endless sea of sastrugi stretching to the horizon. Shadows cast by the jagged ridges created sharp contrasts between the highly reflective snow and the dark angular shapes hidden from the sun’s relentless glare, magnified through the visor of my goggles.

There’s a quiet beauty in the emptiness of the polar plateau. For hundreds of kilometres in every direction, there is nothing but wind-carved snow and the slow passage of time. There’s nothing here to distract you. No crowds. No edges. No sense of scale. The only sound is the wind, whipping across the frozen surface of a continent, and the sound of your skis uneasily scraping against snow. Antarctica makes you feel insignificant in the best possible way. And in that smallness, you feel completely, undeniably alive.

The sit-ski tipped me onto the frozen surface more times than I could count, each fall a direct test of resilience and commitment. With every stumble, and every fleeting moment of self-doubt, I reminded myself why I was here. It wasn’t about the South Pole or a World Record – it was about empowering others to challenge what they thought was impossible. This was a battle worth fighting. Antarctica’s brutal conditions strip back any bravado or ego, reminding me of the months I spent in hospital after breaking my back in a climbing accident. Out here, the endless horizon forces you to find a purpose greater than the distance in front of you.

Facing the Impossible

Polar expeditions are a slow, grinding war of attrition. No matter how robust or physically resilient we believed ourselves to be, our bodies were beginning to feel the strain of hauling kit for eight or nine hours a day, locked in a life-or-death struggle with a determinedly hostile environment. By the fifth day, the physical burden across the team was impossible to ignore. My shoulders had borne the brunt of the effort, worn down by constant friction as I drove the sit-ski forward hour after hour, while others battled with the cumulative strain and impact on their knees, hips, and backs. Every movement was deliberate, every push a reminder of just how much strain we were collectively absorbing.

As we continued our gradual ascent toward the Pole, the temperature bit ever harder, dropping below −30°C and then below −40°C. The Navy SEALs’ mantra – “the only easy day was yesterday” – felt like an accurate reflection of our experience as we collapsed camp and stepped once more into the extreme cold.

From the outset of the expedition, our goal had been to cover between 15 and 20 kilometres each day. But as we approached a week on the ice, we were consistently falling short. The terrain dictated our progress – not just the relentless sastrugi, but prolonged sections of incline and the inability to travel directly toward the Geographic South Pole. At our current rate of travel, averaging just 10 to 11 kilometres per day, the expedition would be pushed well beyond the limits of not only our food supplies, but also the medication I rely on to manage the unseen complications of living with a spinal cord injury.

That evening, our polar guide outlined the remaining options: a mid-expedition resupply or being flown forward to the Last Degree – the final 111 kilometres to the South Pole. Both came with a price tag of $20,000. Without the funds to resupply or relocate, we were forced to confront a defining decision. As a team, we weighed our options honestly. Did we press on because our egos could not accept the idea of failure, or did we have the humility to recognise that any true expedition carries the real possibility of not succeeding? True courage, we realised, sometimes lies not in pushing forward at all costs, but in knowing when to stop.

For me, the decision was grounded in perspective. Through our Starlink connection, I had seen the messages of support coming in from people who had recently experienced life-changing injuries, and from parents watching their children navigate significant adversity. Their words reinforced something I already knew: this journey was about far more than a single destination. Ultimately, we made the difficult decision to end the expedition prematurely. We may never reach the South Pole, and that reality carried genuine sadness, but we had succeeded in our true purpose – showing others that even in the face of impossible odds, meaning and impact are never measured solely by where you arrive, but by the people you inspire along the way.

To the South Pole

A day after we made the decision to abandon our attempt on the South Pole, we waited patiently on the plateau to be collected by one of the world’s most experienced polar pilots. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, something appeared on the horizon other than an endless sea of snow and ice. Within minutes, the unmistakable outline of an aircraft emerged, rapidly closing on our position before roaring overhead, less than 100 feet above the surface of the plateau. The thunder of its twin engines filled the air – and lifted our spirits.

Better still, we were catching a lift on a scheduled resupply flight to the South Pole. It wasn’t how we had planned to get there, but we would still stand at the bottom of the world – a place I had dreamed of reaching since reading about the exploits of Robert Falcon Scott and Shackleton as a teenager. What mattered most was that I was doing so as a representative for anyone living with a spinal cord injury, or any life-changing injury. Our expedition – regardless of success or failure – had pushed the boundaries of adaptive adventure and, in doing so, empowered others to confront adversity in their own lives.

For that, I will always be proud.