The tent is filled with blue smoke, but the fish tastes good. The bread we eat with it is soggy. Whose fault is that? Not mine!
‘Nuclear disarmament under international supervision,’ Qvigstad says. ‘D’ you know what that means? It’s a bit like having a wound on the back of your left hand and using the same hand to stick a plaster on it.’
He glances at Mikkelsen, who strikes me as someone who’d be familiar with this type of problem, but Mikkelsen doesn’t respond.
‘I wouldn’t mind being an inventor,’ Qvigstad goes on, ‘of the cancan, say. It would be great to have invented the cancan, but It’s been done already. I can’t think of any other invention I’d care to take credit for.’
Arne says something to him in Norwegian. The conversation continues in Norwegian for a spell, at the end of which all three put on their waterproof clothing. I follow suit. Qvigstad and Mikkelsen are going fishing again, I take it, and It’s probably time Arne and I headed back to our tent, since this one is too small for the four of us to sleep in.
Not until I am outside does it dawn on me that we are striking camp.
I don’t ask any questions. I retrieve my rucksack and help Arne to dismantle the dripping tent and fold it up.
‘Very bad for the tent,’ he mutters. ‘Folding it up when it is wet is very bad.’
No, not good for his precious tent, I can see that.
What is worse, though, is that the tent weighs a great deal more when wet. How much more? Three kilos? Four?
Add to that the water absorbed by the sleeping bag … I could try wringing it out (the ruin of even the finest down sleeping bag, according to the instructions), but it would still hold litres of water
I am past caring; It’s too late to do anything about it anyway. I keep telling myself I’m a soggy reindeer, or a swimmer.
*
Arne and I finish our packing before Qvigstad and Mikkelsen. The rain is lifting again, turning first into drizzle, then into wet vapour.
I load the rucksack onto my wet back. How much heavier has it got since the day before yesterday? Hard to tell. I’m glad It’s my turn to carry the wooden theodolite, it gives me a sense of security.
We walk in line towards the Lievnasjokka river, which flows from Lievnasjaurre lake. The river is a good hundred metres across, and fairly deep too, it seems. There are several jutting rocks, but none close enough together to serve as stepping stones. We walk along the riverbank for some time without coming across any rocks suitably spaced for getting to the other side.
This does not surprise Arne, Qvigstad and Mikkelsen. Qvigstad points to a section of the river without any stones at all, and Mikkelsen and Arne nod their heads in agreement.
They sit down and pull off their boots. We are going to wade across.
‘Better keep your socks on,’ Arne says, ‘They’ll stop you from slipping on the bottom.’
The entire riverbed consists of rounded stones.
I tie my laces together and hang my shoes around my neck. I plant the tripod in front of me in the river, then cling to it for support while trying to step firmly on the stones, not in the cracks. The cold bores into my feet like a dentist’s drill.
The tripod isn’t much use. Having to pull it out and then plant it further ahead means standing still for too long. The pain in the soles of my feet is unbearable, and my ankles ache from the sheer effort of keeping my balance. So I tuck the tripod under my arm and forge ahead, eyes popping from the strain of looking where to put my feet amid the splashes and foam.
Missed! My right foot slides out of control, I keel over and break my fall with my right hand, thereby briefly forming a triangle with my right arm submerged up to the elbow and the icy water lapping my groin. My left arm is raised to keep my wristwatch dry, my map pocket is dangling in the water. The tripod floats away, but thankfully gets caught on something almost at once. A sense of slow, obdurate calm comes over me. Taking my time, I drag my splayed right leg back into position, and with my feet together I finally manage to stand upright.
Qvigstad and Mikkelsen are on the far bank, watching my antics. Arne has turned back and is now wading towards me. I make a lunge for the tripod and seize it just before Arne gets there. My confidence restored, I take a plastic cup from my trouser pocket, scoop up some water and gulp it down.
Qvigstad and Mikkelsen turn and walk away, the way people walk away from a quayside incident after watching a skipper rescue his youngest offspring from drowning with his boathook.
30
The terrain now is fairly flat, and so stony that there is no vegetation to speak of and consequently no sogginess, despite the persistent rain. The topsoil is composed of yellow schistose debris. Anyone unfamiliar with the term will have to look it up in the dictionary, or take it on trust. One of the reasons why the range of subjects dealt with in novels is so limited is that authors want everybody to be able to follow exactly what is going on. Technical terms put readers off. Entire classes of trades and professions never make it into novels simply because it would be impossible to describe the reality without the use of technical jargon. Such occupations as do occur — policeman, doctor, cowboy, sailor, spy — are no more than caricatures in response to the delusional expectations of the intended lay readership.
In this open plain we come across several holes filled with water, which is so clear as to look almost black. Their sizes vary, but most of them are indeed circular in shape, or at least oval. Dead-ice holes? No tell-tale ridges thrown up by the impact of a meteorite. I pick up random samples of rock, and drop them again, disappointed. Who will ever know how much effort it takes to bend over in my dripping, leaden clothing, with forty kilos on my back, camera and map pocket swinging from my neck and a bulky wooden tripod in one hand? Even if I do find a meteorite — the prize, the great prize — all I will be able to say about it in my thesis is where and when I made my discovery, the find-spot being marked with a cross on a small map of the area. No-one will know what I went through. In the unlikely event that my data would move anyone to consider the human effort involved, they would merely think: this person spent an interesting summer trekking in the High North; while he was there his eye was caught by an unusual stone, and in picking it up he made a momentous discovery.
He picked up stones and had to drop them again.
Mount Vuorje, which is near the lake we have left behind, is still clearly visible thanks to the rapidly dispersing clouds. It is the only high mountain in the region.
Our new camp is midway between two smallish lakes fringed with green marshland.
The green is streaked with watercourses, sometimes at right angles to each other like ditches dug for peat. The sky is black, deep blue and dark red, swirls of pigment running together without blending. The sun comes out periodically, spreading some warmth when it does.
I let my eyes wander over this uncluttered landscape, without the seclusion of trees and yet secretive. Bare, but by no means bleak thanks to the subtle shades of the scrubby plants and mosses, the boulders and stretches of soil in between. Not a soul within a huge radius, and none likely to turn up, yet this is not what you’d call a lonely place. Why not? I can’t say. I fall into a strange fantasy: staying right here, not leaving until the snow overtakes me a few months from now, causing me to freeze to death, painlessly.
Talk of pain. My injured right leg is swollen from ankle to knee, and the skin is so tight that the slightest touch feels like a pin being buried in the flesh as far as it will go.
Eyes smarting, ears burning, head swimming, I feel more exhausted than I can ever imagine feeling again as long as I live, but never have I felt wider awake. There’s no knowing how much you can take until you’ ve tried everything.