The Camp on the Ridge at just over 8,000 feet. Photo: Robert M. Anderson

Editor's Note: Climber Robert Anderson, who first reported for MountainZone.com from his unsuccessful attempt to climb Everest in winter at the turn of the millennium, sent live dispatches from his attempt last month to climb a new route on Vinson. The dispatches sent by Anderson and the other team members of the Antarctica 2003 Expedition-- Peggy Foster, Bob Guthrie, Intesar Haider, Chris Heintz-made for riveting reading. Below, Anderson offers a more thoughtful narrative of their successful climb, starting with the flight from Putna Arenas, Chile.

Down to the Ice

We are flying south, south, so far south night will be left behind. From the navigators' seat in the pinprick nose of the Russian Ilyushin, bumblebee windows stare out at the clouds over Cape Horn; then the fog over the Peninsula, then the ice of Antarctica. The adventure starts, framed by the darkness behind and then in a time far hence, the return to the night. But in between it will be all light, no night, and time will be our own.

One day, ten days, two weeks, we are at the caprice of the weather for flying, for climbing. Control has been yielded to the adventure and will be won back only with difficulty. We want to climb a new route on Vinson Massif, the tallest peak in Antarctica. I draw an imaginary line on a map not meant for climbing. It is a pretty map, but also pretty useless, its' 200 meter contour scale better suited to flying over at 100 knots than climbing on at 1,000 footsteps an hour.

The Ilyushin touches the ice, a host of wheels like errant ice skates skittering over the bubble-blue runway. We stop somewhere well into tomorrow (yet I forgot it will always be today, only one day, time floats away).

We pitch the tent, though we really don't know how yet, long poles in short holes, stakes bent in ice, fly flying away. Light floods our eyes but sleep comes easy as the horizontal body over-rules the perpetual daytime of the mind.

The Flower Yellow Single Otter

A big prop in front, 5 people and a pilot behind in a Single Otter with big skis. 100 nautical miles an hour with a slight headwind. An icicle away lies our imaginary runway. But only sunlight tells the story of the snow to our pilot Trevor and the sun is being cloud chased from the mountain. "We'll ski," I say, "but not so far." We dip and dive through the sunbeams; chasing flat crevasse free snow Trevor hopes is there. Dropping a plane in a crevasse in Antarctica is a career limiting move. The loop round has the wing's dancing shadows chasing us. The ground is suddenly deemed flat enough.

Bump, stop. Ski planes stop quickly in soft snow. Back door open, heat out, wind in. Civilization meets Antarctica. Four men, one brave woman, 600 pounds of stuff - skis, 10 ice tools, 28 carabiners, 5 harnesses, 140 pounds of food, 3 stoves, two tents, snow saws, two ropes, hand lotion. We are hardy but not too hardy, scared but not too scared. We leap out into the snow.

"Where's the mountain?" asks Chris.

"The mountain is over there."

We are over here, the sunshine and terrain has dictated our landing. We are five miles from where we really want to be. On the map it looks flat. The light is also flat. When pulling a sled nothing is really flat. We want adventure, we got adventure.

Sleds packed, packs packed, ropes tied, 5 into a 2 plus 3 combo.

Kick, glide, kick, glide.