Beneath the Ice

I cared for him in his later years, and books were how we spent time together. I would open them slowly, turning pages filled with photographs—mountains, ice fields, long stretches of white. He liked to linger on those images. Sometimes he would point, sometimes he would just look, and then, without being prompted, the stories would come. He had spent a lifetime studying the earth in its coldest places, leading and joining expeditions most people only read about, contributing quietly to what others would later build upon. He never introduced himself through titles or achievements. He spoke as someone who had simply been there.

One day, he began describing a moment beneath the ice. They had drilled a narrow opening and lowered him down, far enough that the surface became distant and abstract. Hundreds of feet below, the rope stopped moving. Then the light failed. What stayed with him was not panic, but the silence—complete, heavy, unfamiliar. He said it was the silence that unsettled him most, the way it pressed in once communication was gone. He told other stories too: an aircraft coming down harder than expected, long days of exposure, close calls that never became headlines. His work earned respect across countries and institutions, but he spoke of survival the same way he spoke of research—plainly, as part of the task.

Even in old age, the memories were clear. 

He remembered them not with fear, but with presence, as if he could still place himself there. The ice had not driven him away; he returned to it again and again, because the work mattered. What stayed with me was his kindness—the way he listened, the care he carried for people, the gentleness with which he spoke about the world. Sitting beside him, it felt as though you were briefly allowed into a place few had seen, not just beneath the ice, but inside a life shaped by patience, curiosity, and quiet courage.