A World-Record Attempt to Sit-Ski to the South Pole
The Expedition Begins
Peering through the small window of a Twin Otter aircraft carrying us to the start point of our expedition, the sheer expanse of what lay ahead came sharply into focus. This was the beginning of my attempt to set a new World Record: Sit-skiing 222km to the South Pole.
Flying at 5,000 feet, I could make out the textured surface below, carved into wave-like formations of sastrugi - resembling sand dunes, but formed from snow and ice. With the sun beating down on the blindingly reflective surface beneath us, I reached into the drybag for my glacier glasses, shielding my eyes from the bright glare. As the plateau rushed closer, I braced myself for a hard landing. We’d need to move quickly once we touched down. The pilot readied our team, “Brace for landing. It’s going to be a rough one.”
The aircraft skis smacked violently onto the rock-hard surface as the pilot threw both prop engines into full power - their sound flooding the cabin with a high-pitched whine. Everything in the aircraft shook fiercely. A few minutes later, the aircrew opened the rear doors, and the biting sub-zero temperature tore through the cabin.
“After two years of relentless planning, fundraising, and training, I had finally reached the start line of my toughest challenge yet.”
Forward, into the Unknown
Our first camp was a short distance from our insertion point. Our bodies not only needed time to adjust to the colder temperatures of the polar plateau - with the mercury at 88 degrees south dropping to −25°C that first evening, but also to acclimatise to the rarefied air.
As we set about establishing our first camp, we found ourselves surrounded by a dense and endless sea of sastrugi stretching to the horizon. Staring out across the plateau, reaching the South Pole felt a very long way from certain. We set out in earnest the next morning. What we were attempting had never been tried before, and the terrain between us and the Pole was hostile.
“What we were attempting had never been tried before: Doubling the World Record distance for an individual to sit-ski to the South Pole.”
The snow beneath our skis was unlike anywhere else on Earth, shaped by the most extreme cold and arid conditions. It felt like skiing on sandpaper. Each drive of my poles gained me no more than four or five inches before friction killed all momentum, forcing me to dig in again for the next push. Even with the support of an incredible team - Matthew Biggar, Lucy Shepherd, and Dwayne Fields - we covered just 6 kilometres in 6 punishing hours. And yet, as brutal as the environment felt, we were surrounded by an unparalleled sense of beauty and wilderness.
“It felt like skiing on sandpaper. Each drive of my poles gained me no more than four or five inches before friction killed all momentum.”
Beyond the Horizon
Over the next few days, we continued our slow, but determined push toward the Pole. Shadows cast by the jagged ridges created sharp contrasts between the highly reflective snow and the dark angular shapes hidden from the sun’s relentless glare, magnified through my goggle lenses.
There’s a quiet beauty in the emptiness of the polar plateau. For hundreds of kilometres in every direction, there is nothing but wind-carved snow and the slow passage of time. The only sound is the wind, and that of your skis uneasily scraping along. Antarctica makes you feel insignificant in the best possible way. And in that smallness, you feel completely, undeniably alive.
The sit-ski tipped me onto the frozen surface more times than I could count, each fall a direct test of resilience and commitment. With every stumble, and every moment of self-doubt, I reminded myself why I was here: It wasn’t about the South Pole or a World Record - it was about empowering others to challenge what they thought was impossible.
“Out here, the endless horizon forces you to find a purpose greater than the distance in front of you.”
Facing the Impossible
By the fifth day, the physical burden was impossible to ignore. No matter how robust or physically resilient we believed ourselves to be, our bodies were beginning to feel the strain of hauling kit for 8-9 hours a day. Antarctica’s brutal conditions strip back any bravado or ego, reminding me of the months I spent in hospital after I broke my back in a climbing accident years before. My shoulders had borne the brunt of the effort, worn down by constant friction. Others battled with the cumulative strain and impact on their knees, hips, and backs.
“Polar expeditions are a slow, grinding war of attrition.”
As we continued our gradual ascent toward the Pole, the temperature bit ever harder, dropping below −30°C and then −40°C. The Navy SEAL’s mantra, “The only easy day was yesterday”, felt like an accurate reflection of our experience.
Our goal had been to cover 15-20 kilometres each day, but we were consistently falling short. The terrain dictated our progress. Not just the relentless sastrugi, but prolonged sections of incline and the inability to travel directly toward the Geographic South Pole. At our current rate of travel, averaging just 10-11 kilometres per day, the expedition would be pushed well beyond the limits of not only our food supplies, but also the medication I rely on to manage the unseen complications of living with a spinal cord injury.
That evening, our polar guide outlined the remaining options: A mid-expedition resupply, or being flown forward to the Last Degree - the final 111 kilometres to the South Pole. Without the funds to resupply or relocate, we were forced to confront a defining decision.
As a team, we weighed our options honestly: Did we press on because our egos could not accept the idea of failure? Or did we have the humility to recognise that any true expedition carries the real possibility of not succeeding? True courage, we realised, sometimes lies not in pushing forward at all costs, but in knowing when to stop.
“Meaning and impact are never measured solely by where you arrive - but by the people you inspire along the way.”
Through our Starlink connection, I had seen the messages of support coming in from people who had recently experienced life-changing injuries, and from parents watching their children navigate significant adversity. Their words reinforced something I already knew: This journey was about far more than a single destination.
Ultimately, we made the difficult decision to end the expedition prematurely, carried with genuine sadness. But we had succeeded in our true purpose: Showing others that even in the face of impossible odds - meaning and impact are never measured solely by where you arrive - but by the people you inspire along the way.
To the South Pole
The next day, we waited patiently on the plateau to be collected by one of the world’s most experienced polar pilots. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, something appeared on the horizon other than an endless sea of snow and ice - the unmistakable outline of an aircraft. The thunder of its twin engines filled the air.
We caught a lift on a scheduled resupply flight to the South Pole. It wasn’t how we had planned to get there, but we would still stand at the bottom of the world - a place I had dreamed of reaching since reading about the exploits of Robert Falcon Scott and Shackleton as a teenager. Better still, I would get to share the moment with Matthew, Lucy, and Dwayne - a fitting way to end the expedition with a smile.
“It wasn’t about the South Pole or a World Record - it was about empowering others to challenge what they thought was impossible.”
What mattered most was that I was doing so as a representative for anyone living with a spinal cord injury, or any life-changing injury. Our expedition - regardless of success or failure - had pushed the boundaries of adaptive adventure and empowered others to confront adversity in their own lives. For that, I will always be proud.
Darren Edwards' expedition has raised funds for the spinal cord injury charity, Wings for Life
