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Most people generally agree that water is tasteless, but I would disagree.

Science suggests so: perfectly potable water is refreshing but lacks any sort of flavour. I'm not talking about infusions or teas, nor am I talking about those weird-tasting, chemically-modified bottles you can buy. I mean pure, cold water. Poseidon's greatest gift.

Allow me to explain.

When I was a much younger pup, I greatly loved nature's beauty and the outdoors' powerful atmosphere. I was naive at the time, but as I grew and matured, I started appreciating the finer details hidden amongst the bushes: the fragrance of blueish-purple blackberries in damp autumn, the blossoming buds of trees dancing down in late spring after the showers, the squelch of strawberries beneath my boots in summer as I tracked along sprawling fields and country roads, sweat dripping down my fur.

By seventeen, I had become well-accustomed to everything the surrounding area had to offer. I knew my way through the dense, humid forest, how to spear trout with a whittled stick, and how to circumnavigate my way back home using just a leaf, a rock, and a needle. I could spark a fire from kindling and with a little luck, I could tap a tree for water.

But the temperate climate eventually became a bore. All streams of adventure had long since been explored and dried up. I had left my markings on so many trees and rocks that I practically owned the entire city. I had set my sights on the antithetical region, the place where water was so abundant yet so scarce, the place so chilling yet somehow a desert: the south pole.

I flunked my final year of school because I spent so much time preparing for the greatest expedition of my life. I ran for miles trying to increase my stamina and pace, I started yoga to build my callisthenics, and I ate healthily and gained some real strength. I volunteered for the local ambulance to learn some practical first-aid skills and I spent hours at my desk drawing up my route.

It was a hectic year, but one well-spent. I saved money from my part-time job to go, and as the spring of the following year dawned, I packed my bags and flew to South America. I would travel by boat to the peninsula just southeast of Argentina and begin hiking south through the icy plains down to the Ceremonial south pole. It wasn't a particularly harsh route; there were no mountains or cliffs to traverse, but it would be taxing. I estimated it would take two months to travel the one-thousand-kilometre expanse of the desert. But once I was there--I could envision myself standing by the pillar.

I'd touch it gently with my paws, and I would see myself in the reflection of the little silvery ball. I'd look tired, perhaps a little battered, but I would be happy. I would have achieved a great dream; everything would be worth it. I might even shed a few tears as I would stand there, smiling goofily in the infinite void of bleakness, in the empty white wastelands. It would be beautiful.

It would have been beautiful.

You see, things started going south a few days after I had arrived. I was totally stranded, away from any sign of society, and too far invested to turn back. The first issue was a novel one, in that my bag would continuously freeze over. I had insulated it, but I assumed there was a hole somewhere in it. Not to worry, I thought, and I casually cracked a hand warmer in it from time to time. I moved on.

The problems continued. Around halfway in my journey, my satellite phone lost its signal. I could not call for help, I could not track myself on the GPS. I was cold-turkey. It was just me and my compass. A tricky problem, for the poles of Antarctica are not perfectly in sync. I would have to correct my bearings with each new stretch, or I would end up terribly far from my destination.

But on the dawn of the forty-fourth day, things became desperate. The miscalculations in my route had run my resources low, and when I looked in my sledge for my reserves of water, they were all empty. I panicked frivolously. I knew that this would've been it for me because I had no way to call for help and no way to confidently know I was on the right route.

Now you might suggest that I should've just eaten the snow. Not a good idea. It just makes you colder and can hurt your mouth. But a slightly more astute recommendation would be to melt the ice and then drink that.

But the polar regions are cold. Ice does not melt in the sun. You have to use a fire; I had planned for that. It was in my contingency plan if things did go wrong. But things were far too bad at this point--my match box was almost empty--and I had to prioritise finding help. So, I trekked onwards knowing I was within reach of the goal, and knowing safety was imminent.

It was a mistake. My throat burned with mock hunger, teasing me to eat salt and starch, to shove my muzzle full of any snack I could lay my paws on. But it was a trick--the thirst was rendering my body weak and asinine. My lungs felt heavier with every passing plod of my snowshoes against the snow like I was being drowned from the inside. My stomach twisted and turned, desperate for food, desperate for water, desperate for home. I wanted to go home. I missed the woods, I missed the comfort of the sweaty nights inside the tent, I missed the bugs that flew in through the door which you forgot to zip, I missed hearing the seldom hum of the birds. I missed my mum; I was aching for a hug.

Not only was the pain physical, but I endured long hours of mental torture for as long as the sun shone. I felt incapable and foolish. I knew I should've waited a little longer, until I was more capable. I knew I should've bought a friend or travelled with a group. I knew I should've purchased the more expensive GPS. But I also felt crazy and wild. I saw vast bodies of water before me, only to swish at them and realise it was empty air. My mind was a villain, joined by the forbidding snow, and the taunting sun, and the empty bottles in my bag, and the aches in my back, and the stinging in my chest, and the emptiness of it all.

But by sheer miracle, upon the forty-seventh day of my adventure, a miraculous, heavenly, golden sight sparkled before my eyes; the research station!

It was almost as if the mere prospect of society gave me a newfound strength. I forgot my weariness, I forgot my thirst, and I sprinted straight for the entrance. I looked at the doors before me with a great smile, and I touched the metal gently with my paws, looking at my reflection in the shiny silver. I was a so tired, but I was flooded with relief. My dreams and prayers had been answered, and the long hike to get here was worth it. My eyes brimmed with tears as I looked around me at the evil hellscape.

The story after that was nothing too special. I was given water, warmth, a bed to rest in, and an early flight back home. It turns out I had not even strayed beneath the 80th parallel and had majorly stuck near the coastline. I did a U-turn and ended up back by the Southern Ocean, near the Belgrano base.

What did I learn?

Well, firstly, to adventure within my limits. I've stayed around my own country since then, and it turns out the northern parts are not too dissimilar to all the way down south. And secondly, I learned the true taste of water.

It is silky, smooth, and rich, like a fine whiskey, but also refreshing like a soda. It tingles your throat, but it soothes your neck as you swallow. The taste profile is one of rejuvenation and vitality, with a distinct aroma that entices the senses like liquid gold, beckoning you to taste it. It is most central to thriving, and most important in living.

And still, somehow, people struggle to drink 8 glasses a day.