One evening, two weeks into his journey, he said: I overslept a little this morning, which, actually, I was grateful for, as the previous forty-eight hours’ labor has been hugely draining.But what greeted me opening the tent flap was not my favorite scene: total whiteout and driving snow borne on an easterly wind.
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.
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.
Every few days, he checked on them, jotting down in a notebook how many eggs had been laid, or how fast the hatchlings were growing.
He had little interest in his classroom studies, but he often disappeared into the library and read poetry and tales of adventure.