Antarctica tends to be described in numbers first. Temperatures that fall far below what most instruments are built for, wind that can strip visibility down to nothing, distances that flatten judgment. It is also a place where people still go to work, to measure ice, to run stations, to move supplies across blank stretches of white that look unchanged for weeks at a time. Over the decades, some of those journeys have not ended in the way they were planned. A few deaths are documented carefully, others only partly understood, and some remain without clear closure. The records left behind are uneven, often fragmentary, shaped by weather, isolation, and the simple difficulty of getting anything out once conditions turn.
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