Two days ago, we woke up with the goal of reaching the Geographic North Pole. We had had drifted roughly a mile north (one and a half total miles of drift) while we slept which left a total distance of 9.8 nautical miles from the pole. If our prior two days progress was any indication, we would be able to reach the pole without having to split the remaining mileage into two days of travel (and another night in the tent). Vivian boldly claimed that we would ski four 'shifts' and reach the pole in the late afternoon.

I tried to temper the group's enthusiasm prior to setting off for the day. I, too wanted to reach the pole as quickly as possible - not because I was in any race to finish our Last Degree Expedition; rather, it was because of the changing nature of the Arctic Ocean. Conditions can shift at the drop of the hat and progress can slow to a crawl. 'Where there is good ice,' I counseled the group. 'Bad ice will follow'.

In 2014, it had taken Rdub and I over eight hours to ski the final three and a half miles to the Pole. While we were traveling with the drift and generally in the 'flatter' ice conditions on the Russian side of the Arctic, I thought it best not to assume much of anything.

When I talk about the Arctic Ocean and travel here, most people nod and smile and then mostly disregard what I'm saying. I'm not sure exactly why, but I think it's because traveling and living in this environment is so far out of any other human context that most people's assumptions about what may or may not happen, what gear to use, the intense nature of the cold and humidity are blatantly wrong. It isn't until about four days into a trip like this that people begin to understand what I have been pointing out for so long. But even with this experience, the true wrath of the Arctic Ocean takes years to full comprehend.

In trying to meter the team's enthusiasm, it fell like my words froze in mid air and then dropped to the snow before the sound reached their ears. I'm an optimist in my 'normal' life but here realism seems to hold sway. Feeling the end of a difficult journey, the team seemed uninterested in my assessment. So, I offered up some encouraging (and hopeful) words before shooting a bearing and starting to ski North.

Of course, the sky was overcast, and while not a total white out, the light was flat enough that it was fairly difficult to distinguish some of the more obvious features of the terrain. I snaked through a small pressure ridge then some drifted areas. It wasn't wide open pans, but we made decent progress. Within a half an hour, we encountered a slightly bigger pressure ridge and we had to take our skis off to traverse it. After our first break, I skied straight into another huge swath of pressure. Many times, I can see a slot or path through bad ice from nearly 400 meters (or more) away. Other times, I ski toward what I think might be an opening, but scan other options as I move forward making split second changes in my course as new avenues open up. For the biggest of fracture zones, I'll climb a tall piece of ice and scout a passable route.

The wall of ice was formidable but I managed to climb up on top of a sloping slab of ice that was easily two meters thick and shoved into the air twice as high. It didn't look good. For as far as I could see to the east - pressure - huge blocks and slabs (as big as trucks) blocking the path. To the west the same, but in the distance I could see a couple of open spots. Perhaps we could leap frog from one small swatch to another. We shuttled, hauled, and heaved the sleds for over an hour through four heavily ice choked - 'routes' if you could even call them that. Then, into an open area about 800 meters. And yet another set of huge blocks. By our second break (three hours of travel) I checked my Garmin and we had progressed less than two miles north. It was going to be a long day.

By soup break, we had broken free into some bigger pans but were still five and a half nautical miles from the pole. Eating quickly, I pondered the fact that we might not reach our goal in one day. Still, I was willing to try. While Neil was still coughing, he had recovered significantly and was skiing strong. Jaco, could go for two days if necessary. Vivian, had quietly managed the entire journey and seemed resolved to get to the pole today. David, who just a few days ago, hauled extra fuel for Neil, was nursing intense knee pain. Remarkably, his knee felt better when negotiating rough ice than skiing on flats, but he would push through.

Taking my last few bites of chocolate, I hoped for 'good ice'.

It wasn't to be. Roughly one mile from the Pole, we hit another huge fracture zone. We would have to go around again. This time, we were able to follow a path of one of the prior groups who was just a few hours ahead of us. Still it took a half an hour to relay sleds and haul through large slabs and rubble. 800 meters out, a thin ice lead blocked our path, but the new snow had solidified the ice enough to support our weight. Stepping up on the other side and following the tracks 'North' I could see a wide open expanse of ice. 'Milk and honey,' I said to myself out lout. It's what I call flat ice and open space (no pressure).

Of the six times, I have skied to the North Pole (three full land to pole expeditions and three 'Last Degree' expeditions) I have been lucky enough to 'find' the pole on flat ice. 100 meters out, I told to the team to unhook from their sleds and ski along side me. From here, I used my Garmin inReach to ski back and forth, watching the numbers go up (or down) as I progressed. It's a bit of an art form on moving surface like the Arctic Ocean (the ice is drifting) but after a bit of back and forth we had reached 90 degrees North - a huge accomplishment for the team.

Image: The team (and me) at the North Pole!