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He mentally painted images onto the desolate landscape for hours on end, and he summoned memories of his wife, Joanna, his twenty-one-year-old son, Max, and his nineteen-year-old daughter, Alicia. He had grown accustomed to the obliterating conditions, overcoming miseries that would’ve broken just about anyone else. On the ice, though, he resembled a beast, hauling and sleeping, hauling and sleeping, as if he were keeping time to some primal rhythm. He was also a sculptor, a fierce boxer, a photographer who meticulously documented his travels, a horticulturalist, a collector of rare books and maps and fossils, and an amateur historian who had become a leading authority on Shackleton.

Worsley was a retired British Army officer who had served in the Special Air Service, a renowned commando unit. One misstep and he’d vanish into a hidden chasm. His eyes scanned the surface for crevasses. When the terrain became too steep, he removed his skis and trudged on foot, his boots fitted with crampons to grip the ice. The trek had begun at nearly sea level, and he’d been ascending with a merciless steadiness, the air thinning and his nose sometimes bleeding from the pressure a crimson mist colored the snow along his path. Worsley’s sled-which, at the outset, weighed three hundred and twenty-five pounds, nearly double his own weight-was attached to a harness around his waist, and to drag it across the ice he wore cross-country skis and pushed forward with poles in each hand. And, whereas Shackleton had been part of a large expedition, Worsley, who was fifty-five, was crossing alone and unsupported: no food caches had been deposited along the route to help him forestall starvation, and he had to haul all his provisions on a sled, without the assistance of dogs or a sail. The journey, which would pass through the South Pole, was more than a thousand miles, and would traverse what is arguably the most brutal environment in the world. Sixty-two days earlier, on November 13, 2015, he’d set out from the coast of Antarctica, hoping to achieve what his hero, Ernest Shackleton, had failed to do a century earlier: to trek on foot from one side of the continent to the other. According to his coördinates, he was on the Titan Dome, an ice formation near the South Pole that rises more than ten thousand feet above sea level. device to determine precisely where he was. The man, whose name was Henry Worsley, consulted a G.P.S. The temperature was nearly minus forty degrees Fahrenheit, and it felt far colder because of the wind, which sometimes whipped icy particles into a blinding cloud, making him so disoriented that he toppled over, his bones rattling against the ground. Get wet and you die, he often reminded himself.

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It was hard to breathe, and each time he exhaled the moisture froze on his face: a chandelier of crystals hung from his beard his eyebrows were encased like preserved specimens his eyelashes cracked when he blinked. Every direction he turned, he could see ice stretching to the edge of the Earth: white ice and blue ice, glacial-ice tongues and ice wedges. The man felt like a speck in the frozen nothingness.

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