Gusev

The explorer stepped gingerly over the rock across his path. The crest of this hill was only a few meters away, but the intense heat and the driving wind conspired to turn ten meters into ten thousand. Cautiously now, he drug his right leg over the rock, placing it on the ground the same way one would lay a sleeping child in her crib. He sat down on the rock.

How far had he come? It was difficult to say. Looking back down the ridge, over the plain that stretched to the far off horizon, he could see the tracks he had left. The ship that had delivered him to this place was too far away to see anymore, and besides, there was no going back now. Not that he planned to. What had he planned?

Sometimes, the best laid schemes of mice and men go not awry, but succeed beyond anyone's wildest reckoning. That had been the case when, seven years ago, the explorer had been deposited here. There had been another explorer too; she had gone north while he went south. Tasked with a three month expidition, he had remained much longer. The supplies held out, the winters were manageable, and he could just almost live off the land. Six years of hardscrabble existance had been rewarded with sights and sounds that noone could have dreamed possible. The amount of knowledge that he had collected would fill the Library of Congress many times over; it would take years to simply catalogue it all.

And then one day, he twisted his ankle. It was bad. Not painful, per se, but impossible to use. The thought of having to stop now, after having come so far and seen so much, made him sick. There was no way that a little frailty would get in the way of his pride. So, after wrapping the ankle as best as he could, he went on about his mission. Over little nameless hills, across long dry gullies, day and night, summer and winter, he trudged on.

Now he sat looking at the last ridge he would ever crest. Winter was coming, and the explorer felt in his heart that he wouldn't make it through this time. Through many perils he had come now to the end of his journey. One more push, one last sunset, one final time to be awed by what he saw.

With a Herculean effort, he pushed himself to his feet. Night was coming quickly, he had to reach the top soon or risk never seeing the other side. Step draaaag, step draaaag, around that rock, step draaaag, step draaaag. His lungs were on fire, his vision was blurred from the incessant wind. He knew his leg was behind him though he could no longer feel it. One more step, and he could see over the ridge. One more step to clear it, but no. His leg was too heavy, his strength finally failed, his life energy all but spent; he finally fell.

The sun was setting to his right. Before him lay a grand crater, larger than any yet seen on Earth. The colors were sublime, the wind cold and lifeless. No other soul stirred the dust of his final resting place. As darkness sped to him he thought he could just sense something shiny, like ice, in the shadowy gloom of the crater. Ice, the one thing that made it all worthwhile, more valuable than gold. He could only hope that those who came after him would be able to use the information that he had collected. As life fled his frame, there was the fleeting sensation of warmth, of green and sweet pastures, of quiet and slumber. That didn't seem so bad.

Fiction allows us to romanticize anything, even little robots millions of kilometers away from home on another planet. The Mars Exploration Rover Spirit has been quiet since March of 2010. There are those who still have hope that the plucky little rover will wake up as spring approaches, eight years after landing. It seems unlikely, but these intrepid explorers, lasting far beyond their expected lifetimes, have taught us that anything's possible on the red planet.

Perhaps Spirit will wake up and resume its exploratory work. That would be a nice coda to the story.

Cheers,

-- Zach