I knew I was signing up for some serious adventure-hero stuff when I became an Antarctic historian. Bearded men hauling heavy sleds over hills of ice in the biting wind day after day for months on end to plant a flag in the middle of nowhere and maybe live to tell the tale or maybe not. That sort of thing.

First, I read the stories of Antarctica’s A-list – Robert Falcon Scott, Ernest Shackleton, Roald Amundsen, Douglas Mawson, Apsley Cherry-Garrard. Next, I added some lesser-known but equally-dignified explorers to my repertoire – Jean-Baptiste Charcot, Adrien de Gerlache, Otto Nordenskjöld, Jules Dumont d’Urville, Hubert Wilkins, Richard Byrd.

I grew to respect and admire these men – to understand why their names are synonymous with courage, strength, endurance and sacrifice.

After a while, though, I craved a story I could relate to. Something less herculean and more human. With a hint of vulnerability. Maybe even a protagonist willing to soften their stiff upper lip and tell me how they feel.

That’s how, in September 2010, I found myself in the library of the Scott Polar Research Institute in Cambridge, studying the cover of Jennie Darlington’s memoir, My Antarctic Honeymoon.

On the black and white cover photo, Jennie stands poised and pretty with a dimpled half-smile, her hands tucked into the pockets of a heavy jacket, dark pigtails peeking out from the sides of her striped, wool hat.

Her knowing smile intrigued me. I pulled up a chair and began reading.

Jennie had never planned or even dreamed of going to Antarctica. A 21-year-old New Yorker with a passion for fashion and makeup, Jennie was preparing to go to Europe with the Peace Corps when she met Harry Darlington at a friend’s party. The handsome naval pilot charmed Jennie with stories of his adventures with the navy. He’d already been to Antarctica once, he explained, and was preparing to go again. Weeks later they were married and Harry with packing for a year on the ice.

The Ronne Antarctic Research Expedition sailed from Texas in January 1947. Newly-wed Jennie was onboard, along with Edith Ronne, the wife of expedition leader, Finn Ronne. The women had been invited to accompany the expedition as far as Chile, where they would disembark and fly back to the US.

As they approached Valparaiso, however, Finn announced that plans had changed. Edith would be staying onboard and going to Antarctica with them. This, at a time when government-operated expeditions to Antarctica officially excluded women. The crew protested, threatening to abandon ship in Chile if a woman joined them. Until, following a long and tense stand-off, one of the crew offered a comprise.

 “Two women are better than one”, they reasoned. In other words, if Jennie comes too, we won’t walk.

Harry disagreed.

“Jen”, he said calmly and rationally to his new wife. “Please understand. It hasn’t anything to do with you. It’s just that there are some things women don’t do. They don’t become Pope or President or go down to Antarctica.”

Harry gave in the next morning. With little time to spare, Jennie collected a pile of standard-issue clothing and zoomed around Valparaiso buying the essentials – nail polish, extra lipstick and Harry’s favourite cheeses. 

What follows is an unexpected adventure story told by an atypical Antarctic hero.

While sharing a bunkhouse with 20 men, Jennie discovers that Harry is psychologically unprepared for marriage. When Harry and Finn Ronne fall out, Jennie must choose between her loyalty to her husband and her friendship with the only other woman in Antarctica. All this while trying to bury her femininity in the hopes the men will forget she’s there. If that’s not enough drama for one honeymoon, Jennie begins to feel ill. It couldn’t be morning sickness, could it?

My Antarctic Honeymoon is no epic saga of man’s battle against nature. Yet its charming and candid heroine has plenty to teach us about courage, strength and endurance.

Just don’t expect the kind of grim loss and sacrifice that polar memoirs are famous for. Unless you count the nail polish, which tragically froze.

What the ice gets, the ice keeps.