As hard and frozen as the ground gets gets, it makes me think if I crashed into it, it would be winter-hard with only a few tufts of dry snow hiding the sharpest parts from my knees and other vulnerable bits.
It's as if winter,unforgiving and knowing, will never end -- dimensionally or chronologically.
Yet, it does, always.
Scott, in his desperation on return, was only eleven miles away from preservation on the Ross shelf and hadn't even realized it.
* * *
There were no signs of a fire to be made, and, besides, never in the dog's experience had it known a man to sit like that in the snow and make no fire. As the twilight drew on, its eager yearning for the fire mastered it, and with a great lifting and shifting of forefeet, it whined softly, then flattened its ears down in anticipation of being chidden by the man. But the man remained silent.
~ From: To Build a Fire, Jack London