ANTARCTICA MAKES NO distinction between the living and the dead. They exist as mute cousins and only in dreams do they converse.

We are a small group of the living in the vast expanse of the Ross Ice Shelf, here to do our survival training. Our group is an odd collection of Antarctic misfits, welded together by the immensity of the ice that surrounds us. We huddle in a pit sawn into the polystyrene-­like snow that we refer to as our lounge. Our conversation hovers around the detail of living somewhere else, while Joe finishes a coffee table and begins on a TV set, all carved from the snow with a dessert spoon.