At 2:00 am, it is already daylight on Pléneau Island, a place where floating icebergs become grounded, a graveyard of diverse towering structures of ice articulated in extraordinary forms. In a quintessential snowy landscape, snowflakes of perfect shape fall over me, a moment of utter isolation. I am the only one awake among the few that have chosen to sleep on ice with a sleeping bag, our way of bonding with the final wilderness—Antarctica, the last of our planet’s pristine milieu.