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To Henry, his father often seemed like a Biblical force: commanding, revered, looming but absent.
A relative recalled, “Henry barely saw his dad, and when he did it was, like, shaking his hand.
The trek had begun at nearly sea level, and he’d been ascending with a merciless steadiness, the air thinning and his nose sometimes bleeding from the pressure; a crimson mist colored the snow along his path. Worsley was a retired British Army officer who had served in the Special Air Service, a renowned commando unit.
When the terrain became too steep, he removed his skis and trudged on foot, his boots fitted with crampons to grip the ice. He was also a sculptor, a fierce boxer, a photographer who meticulously documented his travels, a horticulturalist, a collector of rare books and maps and fossils, and an amateur historian who had become a leading authority on Shackleton.
Kids tended to follow him around, but he preferred to wander alone across the school grounds—forests and meadows that spanned seven hundred and fifty acres.
Navigation under such circumstances is always a challenge. I reckon I lost about three miles’ distance today from snaking around, head permanently bowed to read the compass, just my shuffling skis to look at for nine hours.Each day, after trekking for several hours and burrowing into his tent, he relayed a short audio broadcast about his experiences.(He performed this bit of modern magic by calling, on his satellite phone, a friend in England, who recorded the dispatch and then posted it on Worsley’s Web site.) His voice, cool and unwavering, enthralled listeners.One day, he retrieved a copy of “The Heart of the Antarctic,” Shackleton’s account of his gallant but doomed attempt, in 1907-09, to reach the South Pole.(The journey was known as the Nimrod expedition, for the ship he had commanded.) Worsley read the opening lines: “Men go out into the void spaces of the world for various reasons.