The hut was old and broken. Its walls were made of great beams axe-cut to dove-tail into each other, the ends protruding at the corners like a pile of sticks. The roof was turf on a layer of birch bark. The huge, up-ended slab of rock protected the building from rock falling from the cliff buttresses high above us. I paused to get my breath and ease the suffocating beating of my heart. 'Come on nan, Mr Gansert,' Sunde called. 'You ain't started yet.' He turned and continued up the defile. His small body seemed dominated by the heavy pack. He was like a snail with his house on his back. And he didn't seem to hurry any more than a snail. Yet there was a rhythm about the steady movement of his legs. Unhurriedly, steadily he covered the ground. His bare legs above the white ankle socks were hard with muscle at each forward thrust. Those muscles were the legacy of a youth spent in the mountains on foot and on ski.
I started after him again, trying not to hurry, trying to catch the swing of his easy movement. But my legs ached and my heart pounded. The sweat was pouring down my face, oozing from every pore, soaking my clothes. I thought of Farnell out ahead, not knowing that he was being followed, and I pressed on. I had to reach him before Lovaas. I had that to drive me. If I was out of condition for this sort of thing then my willpower would have to see me through.
The valley widened and split in two. We took the left fork, crossed a flimsy wooden bridge and worked our way over the shoulder of a hill to the other fork of the valley. Here we saw our first snow — a long, white streak lying in a gully across the river. This and the fact that we were in one of the brief descents raised my spirits. I increased my pace and caught up with Sunde. I pointed to the snow. 'We'll be on ski soon,' I panted. I was thinking of the relief to my aching limbs of gliding across snow.
He looked at me. His face was fresh and barely sweating. 'The less ski work we 'ave ter do the better. Nah, just you try an' go steady. Keep the same pace all the time. 'Um a toon — Tipperary or somefink. Get a swing into it. We're going too slow.'
'You mean Lovaas will be going faster than this?' I asked.
He nodded. 'Orl roight,' he said. 'Oi know it ain't your fault. We're used ter this sort o' walkin'. You ain't. Just shut yer ma'f, get yer 'ead da'n an' keep goin'. An' remember, Oi'm settin' the pace. Nah yer loosened up a bit, we'll get goin'.'
He went on then. I watched his feet. They began to twinkle, moving with supple, effortless ease — a long, lithe movement, the stride never varying in length or pace whether going up or down. For a while we were close to the river, the spray of several small falls whipping across our faces. I kept pace with him here, imitating the supple movement of his limbs regardless of the ache of my knees. Then we began to climb, a steady, relentless climb. Try as I might, he began to draw ahead. I put my head forward and my hands on my thrusting knee-caps. I must get to Farnell in time. I gritted my teeth and thought of Farnell. I must reach him in time. I began to hum a tune, hissing it through my teeth with each gasp of breath. It fitted the beat of my feet. And the beat of my feet fitted the words — I must reach Farnell in time. I must reach Farnell in time. My feet were hot and tired through to the very bone. My legs ached — ached so that my boots were a leaden weight. My body poured out sweat, blinding my eyes, suffocating my lungs. And over all, the heavy rucksack dragged at my shoulders, cutting into the light flesh over the collar bone, tearing at my neck muscle's. Determinedly, doggedly, I clung to the beat of those words — I must reach Farnell in time. But gradually my mind became too numb and too dazed even to breathe through my teeth the beat of my feet. Soon the words were wiped away. My mind was blank. I forgot Farnell. I forgot everything. My world became bound by a stony path winding up, ever up, and the little figure of Sunde with the enormous rucksack bobbing ahead.
We were swinging away from the river now, climbing the side of the valley. At the top the mist was thicker. There were little patches of snow. There was little sign of a path. We were in a wild place, a jungle of huge, lichen-covered stones topped with snow. Every now and then we came upon a large red T painted on the rock — the tourist association, blazing the trail. Then suddenly among some desolate, gnarled-rooted trees — BJORNSTIGEN in large black letters on a flat slab with an arrow pointing to the left. Sunde was waiting for me here. 'The Bear's Ladder,' he said. 'It's a short-cut. If Lovaas takes the easier route we may catch up wiv 'im. It's a bit of a climb this.'
My heart sank. I had no illusions about what Sunde meant when he talked of 'a bit of a climb.' He started off to the left up an easy slope. 'We'll pause for a bite at the top,' he said over his shoulder by way of encouragement.
'Why the Bear's Ladder?' I asked. I was following so close my face was almost touching the battered canvas of his rucksack.
'An ol' bear used the route, I expect that's why.', 'Were there bears up in these mountains?'
'Course there were. Me fa'ver used ter 'unt them. There's still a few fa'nd. But they don't 'unt them nah.'
We fell silent as the slope became steeper. Soon we were struggling up under a sheer, buttressed wall of rock. The blood pounded in my ears. The sweat trickled down the small of my back. Mist and sweat gathered in beads on my eyebrows. We went through a drift of snow. The marks of nailed boots showed deep in the drift. Sunde pointed to them. 'All goin' up. None comin' da'n. We may meet Peer yet.'
'Has Lovaas been this way?' I panted.
'Can't tell,' he answered.
The world was very still in the mist. The river was no more distant than a rumble of water. A small grey bird chattered on a rock, dipping his body as he talked. Another drift and then the loose rock covered by snow rising right up into the mist. Beyond the mist, there was probably mile on ghastly mile of piled-up, snow-capped peaks. But I could see nothing through the sweat but that treacherous, snow covered trail winding up under the blank wall of the mountains we were climbing. Sliding and cursing, gripping with my hands as well as my feet, thrown off balance by the weight of my pack, sweating and panting, I worked my way up, I thought of the old bear whose ladder this was. He'd had four legs and had not been encumbered by pack and skis. There were patches bare of snow and there Sunde's feet dislodged rocks that rolled down against my legs. I, in turn, dislodged others that clattered below us, some losing themselves in the snow in sudden silence, others rattling down till the sound of them was lost in the distance.
More and more often Sunde paused to give me a hand. But at last we reached the top and in a wild spot of giant boulders loosened from the mountains by the frozen wedges of winter ice, we paused and slipped off our packs. I flung myself against a rock, tired, exhausted, throbbing with heat and weariness. Sunde produced what he called heimebaktflatbrod — wafer-thin home-made bread and brown goat's cheese. 'Better eat quick,' he said. 'We can't stop more than a minute or two. An' don't eat no snow.'
Whilst I lay back, trying to eat, he cast about in the snow patches, examining the footprints. But in the end he shook his head. 'Impossible ter tell 'ow many people bin past 'ere.'
I closed my eyes. I didn't care. I didn't care if Farnell were killed. I wouldn't have cared if Lovaas had materialised out of the mist and pointed a gun at me. To be shot would be a merciful relief. I was dead beat. The mist wrapped round me like a clammy blanket. It seeped through my sweat-damp clothing and right into my bones. From being hot I was in an instant shivering with cold. 'Okay,' Sunde said. 'We'll move on now.'