The Blue Ice

We found no more crevasses. And shortly afterwards the snow slackened and the dismal grey seemed lessened by a strange iridescence. This iridescence strengthened gradually until it hurt the eyes to look at it. The snow suddenly ceased to fall. The iridescence was mist. A moment later it was agitated as though by some giant hand and then, in a flash, the obscuring veil was whisked away and the sun shone. The white of the snow was blinding. To the west the sky was blue. The snow-capped peaks smiled at us benignly. The driving snowstorm up at the hut seemed as unreal now as a nightmare. We were in a pleasant world of warmth and white snow and brown outcrops of rock. Jill turned and waved. She was smiling. The next moment I was crouched low on my skis and going like the wind. The ski points sizzled in the powdery, ice-crystal snow and the cold air whipped at my cheeks.

We were running down a long valley. Jill, leading, set the pace, and it was a fast one. As we went down and down that everlasting slope I felt my knee joints tiring. The exhilaration of going after Farnell, the concentration required to get safely through the snow, the fear that had gripped me at the sight of the open jaws of that crevasse — all these had combined to give me strength. But now, now that it was a simple, straightforward run, the strength ebbed away and I began to feel the efforts again of the overlong, all-night trek across the mountains.

At the bottom of the valley we made a wide sweep round the foot of a shoulder of the mountains. It was here that I had my first fall. I don't know quite what happened. The snow was deeper, I suppose, and I just hadn't the strength to force my skis round. The joints of my knees seemed to melt away under my weight and the next thing I knew I was slithering across the snow in a jumble of skis and sticks.

I had great difficulty in struggling to my feet. The snow was soft and my limbs just refused to supply the extra effort needed. Jill waited for me. And when I came up with her, all plastered in snow, she said, 'Tired?'

'I'm all right,' I said.

She gave me a quick glance. 'I'll take it a bit easier,' she said. And we started off again.

I suppose the pace she set was slower, but it didn't seem so to my trembling and aching limbs. I fell again and again, wherever there was a difficult turn. Each time she waited for me. Twice she came back and helped me up where the snow was soft. Then at last the slope was gentle and we were running easier, side by side.

It was \vhilst we were crossing this gently tiled tableland of snow, that we came across two ski tracks freshly made. Jill, who was slightly in the lead, swung into line with them. 'George and Dahler,' she flung over her shoulder.

'Must be,' I called back.

We reached a jagged outcrop of rock and she stopped. There, spread out before us in the sunlight, was the pass with the slender, black line of the Bergen railway snaking through the white waste of snow. Directly below us the white, flat expanse of the frozen Finsevatn. And on the nearer bank the tiny, box-like shapes of the Finse Hotel and the railway sheds and cottages stood out black against the dazzling landscape. And beyond Finse, standing over it on the other side of the valley like a huge crystal dome, was the white expanse of the Hardanger-jokulen. The sweep of the snow over the summit of the Jokulen itself was unbroken, but to the left the snow seemed to fall away, leaving glacial ice of a vivid blue exposed to view, veined with the black lines of the shadows in the crevasses.

Jill glanced at her watch. 'It's half-past twelve,' she said. The Oslo train will be in shortly. See — they've got the snow-ploughs out.'

I followed the curves of the railway beyond Finse. Whole sections of the track were invisible, running through great timber snowsheds completely covered by drifts. They were like tunnels through the snow. Here and there, between the sheds, the line showed as a dark cleft cut through the snow, the sides as vertical as if they'd been sliced with a knife. Only on the bends were the lines visible — two slender black threads gleaming dully in the sun. Farther still to the left, a great plume of white vapour moved steadily along the track. At first I thought it was a locomotive. I could see the black shape of it just showing above the sides of the snow cutting. Then I realised it was a snow-plough. The plume of vapour was snow being flung out from above the spinning rotary snow-cutters.