(Photo: Training in the high country of Wyoming's Wind River Range.)

 
People have been asking me all sort of questions about training, about traveling to Antarctica, about what books I’ve read, what sorts of accommodations I've got, what will it all look and taste and sound like.

It confirms this ubiquitous mystique the continent has -- of course because its prohibitively difficult to travel to -- but also because it holds us deeper in the imaginal realm than about any other place on Earth. A place of ice and desolation. A place where few things can live.

Strangely, a dry place.

As I’ve dropped into training block in western Montana, 9 weeks from the race, I’ve been thinking a lot about this. Out on long runs, as summer turns to fall, as each morning is darker than the next, as the colors of the hills and the trails feature deciduous red and orange fire up, it all feels as though I’m closing a sort of gap between my imagined understanding of a place like Antarctica, and the REAL place.

Because as I write while visiting Alaska, after fastpacking through the Northern Cascades (photo below), I’m about as far away as I can possibly get from the place. Over 10,000 miles!

This gap still continues to baffle me, that in less than two months I’ll be stepping foot onto this frozen continent that, despite all popular notions, is alive, is moving, is breathing, is offering a mysterious animacy to the power of the place.

And as I continue to deepen into my training and reading about the history and ecology of Antarctica, I think about this closing the gap, almost as if I’m off to meet a new friend or lover.

As I run my 15-mile loop around Mount Sentinel in Missoula, I remain intently curious, interested in the surprise of it all. And surprise is something that appears to be increasingly endangered in this world, right? What will find us all down there? What sorts of new friendships will bud. What sort of new thoughts will emerge? What kinds of endurance might we develop after making the huge sacrifice to travel and commit to doing this objectively difficult thing?

Who will we become?

The training has actually been the perfect time in my life to ask these questions. To let them tumble around in my mind and heart. To let the imagination run wild while also being humbled by all that I don’t know will happen down there, and yet trying desperately to arrive as prepared in body and heart and I’m able.

And this, this seems always to be the best approach for just about anything.

In listening to podcasts about the history of Antarctica (Voices from Antarctica, Antarctica Unfrozen), in reading books like The Quickening and The Spiritual History of Ice, I’m slowly beginning to contextualize this place, this myth.

I’m slowly turning this floating hunk of ice into something far more complex, far more respectful for what it is: a living, breathing part of the Earth, and a consequential part at that, a beautiful and harsh and vital part.

And as we approach the start line, I suppose this reflects back to me the small but consequential part I am to play in this planet’s future, this wonderfully complex and mysterious place. Perhaps as we close the gap, I’m realizing that we’re made from the same stuff, Antarctica and me, that perhaps we’re not so dissimilar after all.

(Photo: Training in Alaska.)

I never thought I’d write this in this lifetime, but this is a dream coming true:

In exactly 100 days, I’ll be traveling to Antarctica.

But, wait. First thing's first. My name is Nick Triolo. I’m a 40-year-old writer, editor, and long-distance mountain runner from Missoula, Montana. I’ve been a competitive ultrarunner for 15 years -- highlights include winning the Oregon Trail Series, running sub-19 hours at the Western States 100 Mile Endurance Run, and being a two-time finisher of the the TransAlpine Run. 

In addition, as former senior editor at Outside Online/Trail Runner, I’ve traveled extensively through Asia, Europe, and North America reporting on mountain races. (You can find more of my writing, films, and audio interviews on my website, newsletter, and Instagram.) 

This November, I’m so excited to be embarking on a ship with Racing the Planet, crossing from the tip of South America to Antarctica. I’ll be writing a story about the twentieth anniversary of this race, while also being an official competitor for the one-day Antarctica Ultramarathon.

The opportunity feels like one of the most important decisions I’ve ever made, as if this planet cracked open a little wormhole for me to walk (run?) through, to feel the full spectrum of how alive and dynamic and beautiful this home planet can possibly be, and to report on what I find.

I keep on returning to this quote by author David Abram, one that’s plastered all over my journals and scribbled in notebooks: 

“It is only at the scale of our direct, sensorial interactions with the land around us that we can appropriately notice and respond to the immediate needs of the living world.”

To this I pledge my allegiance during my experience in Antarctica -- to keep my ears indelibly perked, to flare my nostrils and ratchet me eyes open to be fully present and ready for the wild surprise of it all down there. 

Today marks 100 days out, and I’ll be updating this blog occasionally as my training progresses, with specifics on preparations, historical nuggets I find as I research the background of this, The White Continent.

I don’t take this opportunity lightly. To bear direct witness to such beauty and precarity all in one place, to join a group of dedicated individuals as they chase dreams, moving across long stretches of landscape afoot only to fall deeper in love with the animate world. Nothing feels more important right now.

Come with me as I approach this edge-zone, will you?!