From Winter Tennis, published by DC Books in 2007.
On the third day out we realized we’d left half the supplies back at base. The ice held our mood in check. The radio transmitter was glazed like a pea in aspic, could no longer ping our Morse or morose SOS past the outer rim of things. Day six the dogs died; Cedric “neglected” to put out feed for them. We ate the huskies, threw their bones aside. Day seven polar bears, attracted by the remains, began to stalk us. Day eight: Cedric mauled. The rest of the camp sat appalled, gnawing maps, the catgut from snowshoes. Day nine, blizzards and no water. On day ten, we reached the snow-blind pole. Leopold, fingers half-blue, showed me the rimed photo of his wife and daughters. Day thirteen: tent blown off by gale force winds. Day fifteen: Leopold dead. Sixteenth day. There’s me, myself and I: the rest not quite so fortunate.