| Summary: | Frederick Kislingbury knelt on a rocky cliff off of the serrated coast of Disko Island, Greenland, wind cutting into his face like knives, sun hugging the horizon. Below him was an expanse of blinding masses of ice, their fractures immersed by the deep blue sea. All he could hear, feel, and taste was the blowing wind; no trees or traces of life were in sight. He was about to depart on an expedition to the High Canadian Arctic, so he wrote a letter to his son, Douglas, ending with "Do not worry the slightest about me, I know that all will go well." 1 Yet, within a week, he found himself in the middle of a predicament lasting three years, which only six of twenty-five men would survive.
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