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I adore the cold, and, bundled in Big Red, I was practically hot—except for my face. The wind pelted my exposed cheeks and nose, the pain dangerously dull. If I didn’t protect my skin, even at the beginning of Polar summer, it’d be hard to the touch by the time I went back inside, the delicate cells frozen. So I’d pull Big Red’s hood up. The fur-lined funnel protected my face but trapped the moisture in my breath, causing fine crystals to glitter on my upper lip, nose, and eyelashes. A film of ice coated my glasses, softening the lines of the landscape. Cherry-Garrard’s glasses, too, caused him no end of trouble.
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11:24, 12 марта 2026Путешествия
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