Chapter 7: Into the Crevice

This specially modified Polaris snowmobile could hit 100 miles per hour.

It looked more like a lunar rover than anything I’d seen on a ski trip. It was painted high-vis orange, covered in NASA-style stickers, and loaded to the gills with gear.

Loaded down with equipment, I clung to the back seat, terrified Danny would throw me off.

The wind whipped tears from my eyes. I wrapped one arm around Danny’s waist, the other clutching a case of seismic sensors for dear life.

Luckily, his driving skills were solid—so the ride was thrilling, but safe.

Every bump and turn sent my stomach lurching, but Danny whooped and laughed the whole way.

Our mission: penetrate as deep as possible into the Antarctic continent, find granite exposed by the quake, collect rock samples, and assess the quake’s impact on the Antarctic Plate.

The assignment sounded simple on paper. Out here, surrounded by endless white and the threat of crevices, it felt more like a dare.

After a few hours, Danny stopped the snowmobile and told me we were down to half a tank; if we went any farther, we might not make it back.

He tapped the fuel gauge, face serious for once. I checked my GPS—signal was weak, battery lower than I’d like.

I patted the oversized fuel tank and said:

"Alright, let’s sample here. Afterwards, we’ll ask HQ whether to send a plane with fuel, or if we should turn back."

The wind bit at my cheeks. My fingers were already stiff, but the excitement kept me moving.

Ahead of us was a cracked, collapsed ice sheet, with a crevice ten feet wide and over sixty feet deep.

The edge looked treacherous—blue ice gleaming in the sunlight, the gap yawning like a hungry mouth.

Looking at the terrain, both of us groaned.

Danny made a face like he’d just bitten into a lemon. I let out a long sigh. This was not going to be easy.

Both sides of the crevice were ice; the only way to get rock samples was to rappel down with ropes.

I checked the anchors twice, remembering every horror story from mountaineering documentaries. My hands trembled as I tightened the knots, flashing back to a college climbing trip where my harness slipped and I froze halfway up a cliff. Heights always got to me.

"This is way too high. What a pain."

Danny’s complaint echoed my own thoughts. I just shook my head and started uncoiling the rope.

"What else can we do? Down we go."

I tried to sound braver than I felt. We both knew there was no other option.

Cursing, we set snow anchors on the flat ground, hammered ice screws into the ice wall, and fixed the ropes.

Danny double-checked my work, giving me a thumbs-up.

It took more than an hour, but we finally made it to the bottom of the crevice.

Every muscle ached, sweat freezing on my back. We moved slowly, careful not to dislodge any loose chunks.

Danny took photos and mapped the cracks in the ice.

His camera beeped with every shot, the flash oddly bright in the dim blue light.

I assembled the portable core drill, getting ready to start.

I fumbled with the bits, trying to keep my gloves on. The cold was starting to seep through every layer.

Suddenly, Danny stopped and asked, puzzled:

"Mark, do you hear something?"

His head cocked to the side, expression suddenly serious. I froze, listening. In Antarctica, even the smallest sound meant trouble.