Conquering the Impossible by Mike Horn

a good average—more than nine miles per day—and I had every reason to be optimistic. One reason in particular was that despite all of my misadventures, I had reached the same point, after the same number of days, as four French legionnaires who attempted the same expedition the previous year.
    But the warning from the doctor in Chamonix continued to haunt me. The days that still separated me from the North Pole were very likely going to cost me my fingers, not just the fingers that were already damaged, but perhaps the others as well. That would make me a cripple and would put an end to my career once and for all. I’d reach the North Pole … sure, I could definitely get there. I had struggled and fought to achieve that. But once I was there, I would find myself on a little piece of drifting ice field at the top of the world. Was this one expedition really more important than being able to keep going for years to come, living this life of adventure as long as possible, this life that I had chosen for myself and which I would not give up for anything on earth?
    I called my friend Johann Rupert, president of the Richemont group, to tell him what I was thinking and feeling. He did not have even a moment’s hesitation. “Come back immediately!” he told me.
    This was the third time that I had been given that piece of advice—or, perhaps I should say, that command. I was increasingly tempted to obey but … I had never quit before. If I gave up now, it would be the first time in my life.
    â€œWell,” I told Johann, “I just need a little more time to make a decision.”
    I needed time, time to get used to the idea of giving up and failing to attain my goal, throwing in the towel when I was in better shape than ever before—despite these giant blisters on my fingertips and three frostbitten fingers, which were in no way keeping me from moving forward. I needed time to get used to the idea of failure, just when I could see the finish line ahead of me. A little more time to accept the idea that I might never have a second chance. While I continued to push on, the throes of my dilemma nearly made me forget the cold, and as I continued to mull the problem over in my mind, I finally saw this expedition for what it was, first and foremost: a priceless source of lessons about myself. Among other things, it would teach me the taste of defeat and how to deal with it, a valuable lesson for someone like me who had only ever met with success. I would be forced to return to Europe, to face the judgment of others, and to look them in the eye and answer, “Well, at least, I tried.” A new experience and, perhaps, a valuable lesson in humility.
    *   *   *
    Franziska continued to speak to me as I unwrapped each packet of food that her husband had prepared for me. I would read the little message that came with it: “ Bon appétit, and keep up your courage!” “Hang tough, it’ll be over soon!” “Just one more push, and then you can go home!” “It’s cold outside, but they’re waiting for you by the fireplace!”
    Knowing this voice that kept encouraging me belonged to a woman who was no longer alive was deeply moving and upsetting, and it gave me one more reason to outdo myself.
    Suddenly, an incongruous question came to me: What should I do with all these little messages, the last messages, perhaps, that Franziska ever wrote? Would Philippe want me to bring them back home?
    â€œNo,” Philippe answered without hesitating. He said to scatter them over the ice field, near the North Pole. “Bestow them upon nature, give them to the wind, like Tibetan prayer flags. That is what she would have wanted, to be part of the elements for all time.”
    A few days later, I complied with Philippe’s wishes, and I tossed a handful of little strips of white paper into the howling Arctic storms. The gale was so powerful