FPJ Exclusive: Satish Gogineni, First Indian to Ski Solo And Unsupported to The South Pole Speaks His Heart Out

From engineering and corporate risk management to polar exploration — what inspired you to take such a radical leap into adventure?

My journey from corporate risk to polar exploration felt less like a leap and more like an eventual pull. As a trained Engineer, I was always solving problems, analyzing risk, and refining systems. When I moved to the U.S. and deepened my endurance practice — running marathons, hiking — I began noticing that the mental challenges I faced were as intense as the physical ones. The corporate world gave me structure, stability, but also revealed its own limits: the comfort, repetition, and lack of real test. Losing my mother in 2011 shaped my early years of grief; grief that I tried to outrun. But running wasn’t enough. Mountains, then polar regions, offered me a way to test what I believed about myself. Risk management in business teaches preparedness, mitigation, contingency. In the ice, every risk is immediate, visceral — from frostbite to navigation to isolation. I realised that much of what I’d built in corporate—discipline, preparation, endurance—were tools I could use in the wild, in Antarctica. In that shift I found purpose: not just pushing a personal boundary, but showing others that adversity can be a platform for courage and change.

You became the first Indian to ski solo and unsupported to the South Pole. What was the toughest moment of those 51 days, and how did you push through it?

There were many brutal moments, but one of the hardest was maybe in the first week when I dragged a 126 kg sled over fresh snow that kept swallowing it. I’d cover barely 7 km after eight hours of skiing. Every pull felt like pushing lead. My daily target looked impossible; my mind filled with doubt. Add to that a rampant fear: “Did I underprepare? Did I pack too much? Are my supplies enough?”

What got me through was remembering why I was there—Project Spandana, the memory of my cousin and mother, the cause bigger than my discomfort. Also, shifting my mindset: not racing, but surviving; not thinking about the Pole, but focusing on the next hour. Each camp I set up, I made small wins: made a hot meal, checked off navigation, rested despite the cold. I kept gratitude afloat — for the quiet between snowstorms, the stark beauty around me, the rare moments of sunlight. When the body hurt, the mind had to anchor in something unshakeable: purpose. That kept me going, day after day.

Project Spandana was born out of personal loss. How has channelling grief into endurance expeditions changed your perspective on resilience and healing?

Grief once felt like a weight I carried poorly—hidden, tolerated, sometimes overwhelming. Channelling loss into action changed the narrative: grief no longer is an anchor but a compass. Endurance expeditions forced me to walk through pain, shock, silence. On long treks, on white plains where nothing distracts you, I had to face what I felt rather than bury it. I learned resilience isn’t about never breaking—it’s about how many times you choose to stand again. Healing doesn’t mean forgetting; for me it’s about integrating memory with strength.

Also, I realised that healing is not linear. Some days up there I was strong, others I was humbled. That taught me patience—with myself, with the process. And publicizing the journey—making it part of Project Spandana—helped me see that my story resonated. Other people felt seen. That’s powerful. Healing becomes shared, less isolating. In that sharing, I found community, humility, and a deeper kind of resilience than any summit could offer alone.

You often use metaphors from the ice — dragging a sled, decision-making in extreme cold — to talk about invisible emotional weight. Which metaphor do people connect with most?

I’ve noticed the “sled dragging” metaphor lands deeply with people. Dragging that heavy sled across blinding ice, feeling every ounce of weight, knowing if you stop you freeze—on many levels it mirrors emotional burden: traumas, anxiety, grief. Often unseen by others, but felt in every step. The struggle to pull forward despite sinking, despite resistance, despite cold—that metaphor becomes a container people can relate to, whether they’re dealing with loss, depression, or societal pressure. It’s physical, visceral. You see and feel the sled. It’s a tangible representation of what so many carry invisibly.

Having summited Everest, Lhotse, Annapurna, and Dhaulagiri, how does climbing the world’s highest peaks compare to polar expeditions in testing human limits?

Both push human limits—but in different dimensions. High‑altitude mountains test altitude, technical challenges, fleeting windows of weather. There’s camaraderie, team logistics, rescue, shifting terrain. Polar expeditions add isolation, monotony, extreme cold, consistent daylight or night, mental fatigue over weeks of sameness. On a mountain, once you crest you descend; but in Antarctica, the journey is relentless—day by day, dragging your gear, setting camp, melting snow, pushing forward even when nothing changes visually.

What both force you to confront is your mind: fear, doubt, pain, vulnerability. But polar work pushes you longer in those states. There are fewer external supports. If you mess up in a peak, sherpas, partners, rescuers often help. In polar solo/unsupported, you’re almost entirely on your own. So the inner game—decision‑making, self‑care, knowing when to push and when to rest—is magnified.

True North Expeditions aims to blend outdoor leadership with wellness education. Can you share an example of how such training transforms young participants?

One example: I worked with a cohort of youth who had never done high‑altitude hiking before. We introduced them to basic outdoor skills: navigation, camping, weather awareness. But alongside, we gave sessions around mental health—identifying stress, how to speak about anxiety, coping tools. One young woman, shy, anxious in big groups, would normally retreat. On the trail she had to do team tasks, take turns leading, and make route decisions. By summit day, she was helping others, sharing her fears, even guiding. She reported afterward that being out there opened a conversation at home she’d never had. She slept better, felt more present. The wilderness gives responsibility, vulnerability, and in that mix a confidence emerges. That’s transformation: not just about reaching a summit, but being more whole inside.

Diversity and inclusion in adventure sports remain limited. How do you see your role in shaping India’s presence on the global stage?

I see my role as amplifier and bridge. Amplifier: showing through achievement that Indians can and will lead in environments historically dominated by others—polar, high‑altitude, extreme endurance. Bridge: providing access—mentorship, training, visibility, safe pathways for those who may not see themselves in these spaces.

True North Expeditions is part of that bridge: youth from underrepresented communities, people without mountaineering background, participants who can’t afford high gear—if we can make some of the edges more accessible, it levels the field. Representation matters: seeing someone who looks like you raising the Indian flag at the Pole, finishing Everest‑Lhotse double, it changes what young people believe is possible. I also hope to shift how adventure is perceived in India—from luxury/privilege to tools for growth, wellness, leadership.

You’re preparing for a 2,000 km, 80-day solo crossing of Antarctica — the longest unsupported polar journey ever attempted. (Correction- it’s attempted before, but never completed). How are you preparing mentally and physically for this?

I’m building on everything I learned from the South Pole, then scaling up. Physically: longer training sessions, improvised ski technique, more sled dragging, more varied terrain. Higher mileage weeks. Cold exposure. Rigging gear redundancies. Nutritional planning for extreme caloric demands. Gear testing under duress.

Mentally: increasing exposure to isolation, meditation, visualization. I spend most of my time in solo wilderness/thru-hike settings now, intentionally reducing distraction. I journal, I practice discomfort—cold showers, hunger, sleep deprivation—to strengthen my tolerance. I revisit my purpose regularly: Project Spandana, the people I carry with me, the message I want to share. When fear creeps in, I name it, sit with it, and remind myself of past moments I overcame.

Also logistics: route planning, weather windows, sponsors, backup plans, safety nets. But the hardest preparation is trusting that when things go wrong (and they will), I have resilience enough to adapt.

In India, stigma still prevents many from seeking therapy. Do you think personal storytelling through expeditions can break barriers that clinical campaigns often cannot?

Yes. Clinical campaigns are vital—they provide knowledge, access, tools. But storytelling brings heart. When people see someone who has stood at great physical risk, yet openly speaks of anxiety, depression, loss, the invisible becomes visible. It humanizes mental health. It creates permission: “If he can share, maybe I can, too.” Expeditions are dramatic because they entail struggle, triumph, suffering, endurance. That landscape is powerful advertising for the inner journey. It strips away the polished exterior. And that break in narrative — one where successes coexist with vulnerability — resonates especially in cultures where silence is seen as strength. Storytelling doesn’t replace therapy, but it can tilt culture toward empathy, reduce shame, and help people seek help earlier.

If there’s one lesson from the mountains and the polar ice that every young Indian should carry into life, what would it be?

Learn to bet on yourself — especially when the world bets against you. Growth begins at the edges of comfort. Trust that discomfort is not your enemy but a teacher. That each step through cold, each fall on ice, each voice urging you to quit, is an opportunity to discover something about who you are—how resilient, how courageous, how kind. In the end, the mountain or ice isn’t the summit; the summit is who you become on the way there.

Published on: Wednesday, September 17, 2025, 04:20 PM IST