Nothing grows at such altitude. At almost 2000 metres, the plateau is as empty as it is exposed; winds gust unhindered across its frozen back. Nobody dares to live there. Roald Amundsen thinks it sounds marvellous. Staring at the map he has spread across his bed, the twenty-two-year-old daydreams his challenge into being.
‘Could there be anything more satisfying than being the first to cross Hardangervidda in winter?’
His brother’s mind is on young women, not adventure.
‘It’s barely 100 kilometres wide, Leon. A two-day hike, at most. And there’s a hut halfway.’
‘Well …’ Leon says.
‘Skis on our feet, a reindeer sleeping bag strapped to our backs.’
Roald is very good at convincing people to do things he wants them to do. Leon’s ‘well’ is a feeble defence, more akin to a yes than a no. And so against the advice of the locals and with little more than some chocolate, a map and a compass, the Amundsen brothers set out to conquer Hardangervidda.
When daylight fades and the wind grows more insistent and shrill, the halfway hut offers the prospect of sweet relief. But the door is nailed shut and the chimney has been boarded up to keep the snow out. In desperation Roald breaks in while Leon struggles to free up the flue. The fire they manage to light in the frozen hearth eases the pain in frozen fingers but there is nothing to eat. It is snowing heavily the next day and a second night passes. It seems much longer on empty bellies. Roald finds a sack of flour. Leon makes an unappealing slurry and heats it on the fire. He calls it porridge.
The snow continues unabated, but spurred on by their hunger, the brothers decide to press further westward, bedding down for the night in the open under big wet snowflakes that soak their clothes, destroy their map and bury their provisions.
Heavier and heavier the snowstorm swirls around the brothers on the fourth day. Without a map they stumble on: hungry, in frozen clothes, and utterly at odds with their surroundings. It’s a small mercy that they’ve been able to drink from streams and slake their thirst. How much further? Neither can be sure. With heavy hearts they decide to turn back.
A cutting wind picks up as evening approaches. Warm wet snow has hampered their progress all day. The sodden sleeping bags are as heavy as a load of stones upon their backs. They cannot go on in the dark so seek some temporary relief behind a knoll.
‘I’m digging in,’ says Roald, his hands already scooping out a trench in the snow.
Lying in his hole, Roald is pleased to be out of the wind. He is cold, so desperately cold, and his body feels hollowed out from within, but sleep comes like a dark hood slipping quietly over his eyes.
By midnight he is buried alive, encased in ice so thick he cannot move a muscle to break free. Roald screams and screams but Leon does not come. Fearing for his supply of oxygen, he falls silent. What has happened? Clearly the wet snow has filled his trench and the temperature has dropped to well below freezing. Will Leon find him? Is Leon trapped also? The thought is too awful. How foolish they were to set off on such an escapade with no equipment; how naïve and stupid not to have even a tent! To suffocate in his prime with no achievements to his name – is this the price he must pay?
The bashing from above is frantic. Pounding and yelling in vain, Leon finally resorts to using a ski pole. He hacks at his brother’s icy sarcophagus over several hours. He prays it is not too late. He does not want to be left alone. Not on Hardangervidda.
Roald sucks air into his lungs and frees his cramping limbs. He coughs and cries out and hugs his rescuer. Drinking in the night sky, the stars, his brother’s face, he makes himself a promise to learn. Never again will he plan on the best possible outcome. It is the worst of scenarios that he needs to befriend.