Arne’s route, complete with detours and the old postal trail, means we have another hundred and fifty kilometres or so to go. At least by the end of it I’ll have covered most of my research terrain. So Arne’s route makes good sense.
But the question as to why Qvigstad and Mikkelsen decided to head north keeps nagging at me.
The sun bears down more fiercely than ever, promising oppressive heat for today. There are also clouds: massive ones, the size of twenty atom bombs exploding simultaneously. They look as if they’re made of hot gas, not moisture.
I get to my feet, stamp out the remains of the fire, spread the embers around, empty the kettle and hobble to the lake to rinse out the dregs.
Norwegians, I have noticed on several occasions, approach one another with considerable reserve. There are about four million of them living in a country ten times the size of Holland, but Holland has three-and-a-half times as many inhabitants. Population density in Norway is eleven per square kilometre, not three hundred and sixty as it is where I come from. To a Norwegian, crossing the path of another member of the human race counts for something. They stop about three paces short of the other person, make a little bow, smile, think: might be a highwayman for all I know, shake hands and make discreet enquiries into health and happiness. I wonder if their farewells are any less formal.
I can’t imagine that being the case. So why did Qvigstad and Mikkelsen make off without saying goodbye? At what unearthly hour can they have risen for them to have managed that? There was their tent to be taken down and their belongings to be packed, they had breakfast and talked to Arne. I must have been very sound alseep. But why the hurry?
Trekking in this harsh landscape is just a stroll in the park as far as they’re concerned, I tell myself as I return slowly with the dripping kettle. They’ve been coming here for years, it’s their home.
I am surprised by them in much the same way as other people are surprised by the Dutch, particularly the way we keep our balance on bicycles, dodging trams and cars in narrow streets and teetering along the edges of deep canals.
What am I doing here anyway, so far from home? Maximal results aren’t necessarily achieved through maximal efforts alone, rather through the maximal efforts of whoever has the maximal advantage. The best shot isn’t fired by the best marksman, but by the best marksman with the best range and the best rifle.
There have been no hints, no allusions of any kind to make me feel unwanted, but I can now barely stop myself from uttering the question out loud: Don’t they regard me as wanting to beat the Norwegians at their own game? I bet that’s how Nummedal saw me from the start — Oh by all means let him join the expedition, he must have thought, let him come a cropper.
Maybe I wouldn’t feel so bad if I hadn’t, on the whole, found the Norwegians I have met so likeable. Even Mikkelsen, all things considered.
Take Arne.
When I get back, he has already struck camp and packed. What is this? There’s hardly anything left for me to put in my rucksack.
Until now we have divided the tent between us: I carried the canvas and he took the two segments of tent pole.
‘Where’s the canvas?’
‘In my rucksack.’
‘In your rucksack? Why?’
‘It’s better if you don’t carry too much weight, with that swollen knee of yours.’
‘But I hardly feel it any more.’
‘That’s not the point. It could get worse, so that walking becomes impossible. Then what would you do?’
‘We’ll see about that. Come on, give me the tent.’
‘No, no, I’ll take it. Tomorrow maybe.’
He starts walking. He has also claimed the hefty wooden tripod.
‘Arne, give me that tripod!’
Without stopping, he says, over his shoulder: ‘By all means, next time.’
I kneel and pack my rucksack. My load now consists of my personal belongings — sleeping bag, soap, toothbrush, underwear, various items I haven’t even unpacked yet — and very little besides. Just two boxes of knäckebröd, seven tubes of honey, the kettle, a packet of salt and the aerated bundle of blue fishing net.
Limping along as fast as I can, I catch up with Arne, who, incidentally, slowed his pace when he saw me coming.
‘Oh, come on now, Arne, this is not fair.’
I swear I said this without a trace of hypocrisy. I can even prove it. I am not so much relieved as worried about him carrying so much and me so little. Won’t he get sick of taking on more than his share, in other words, won’t he get sick of me?
In the meantime Arne explains to me that, strictly speaking, his load isn’t heavy:
‘You seem to have forgotten that I came here on my own in previous years. So I had to carry the whole tent then, didn’t I? The whole lot, canvas, poles and the fishing net as well.’
I do my best to believe him. That there would be less food to carry if he were on his own doesn’t count, really, given the diminished state of our supplies.
33
At three o’clock we are sitting on the brink of the deepest ravine I have ever seen. It’s as if an axe of cosmic dimensions had cleaved the earth’s crust. The sides of the ravine are almost vertical, with massive, jagged outcrops of rock.
A descent like this, it seems to me, is surely best left to the expert mountaineer with ropes, crampons and a bevy of Sherpas, the kind who will do anything for their sahib, including carrying him on their backs. Or on a stretcher, borne by a foursome of Sherpas. Four Sherpas … twenty Sherpas … two hundred if needs be. Passing their sahib from one to the other, like passing a bucket of water to quench a haystack fire, leaving the sahib free to smoke his pipe, write up his diary, peel a pineapple. Sahib gets his picture in the paper, speeches, medals; Sherpas get a tip.
So far, my experience on this expedition is that things don’t always go from bad to worse. Ascent is invariably followed by descent, the rain lifts periodically, marshland gives way to dry ground, and even the stones I keep twisting my ankles on are by no means a constant hazard. In short: like everything else in life, the misery sort of evens out. But I haven’t seen anything like the sheer drop confronting us now.
I glance at Arne, hoping he’ll broach the subject, but all he says is:
‘Best to have a bite to eat here first.’
Best here? Hardly. We both get to our feet to hunt for dry twigs. It takes us a quarter of an hour to gather just a few handfuls of firewood.
I take three stones of roughly the same size and arrange them carefully into a hearth. Arne sets the frying pan on top, I lie on my stomach and light the first match. The twigs burn for a moment, then the flame goes out, leaving rapidly shrinking embers. Second match. I blow with all my might. Arne has opened a tin of meat and empties it out into the pan. I strike a third match.
‘It was easier when we had the primus.’
‘The paraffin had run out. Qvigstad and Mikkelsen are going to have to make fires, just like us.’
Fourth match. Even now, lying stomach down, I can see the yawning ravine. When I pause for a moment between bouts of blowing, my mouth won’t keep still. It’s not hunger making me gulp and swallow and scrape the inside of my lips with my teeth as if they need sharpening, nor is it appetite making my tongue writhe uncontrollably in the cavity it has known for the past twenty-five years.