To say the night Arnie and Mikhail spent wrapped together in the snow hole was difficult was like saying war is hell, an expression that is meaningless to anyone who has not experienced it.
As soon as Mikhail had Arnie naked and shivering in his sleeping bag with his hands tucked in his armpits to save his fingers, he had started scraping snow down to bare ground. He found a flat stone that was next to a tree, just exposed enough to be visible. He put it on the cleared spot, where it would keep the fire just above the snow that was sure to melt around the fire once it got going. He kicked snow away to find branches, snapping and listening to them to make sure they were still dry. It was while doing this that “Vaseline cotton balls” suddenly made sense. He was going to use a thick candle to start the fire. He rummaged through Arnie’s pack and pulled out a tin of cotton balls that had been soaked in Vaseline. They burned hot and long, and he piled the branches on them. He smiled wryly, American know-how.
When the fire was roaring, Arnie’s wet clothes hanging on sticks as close as possible without burning up, he rolled out his sleeping bag. He got in and pulled Arnie—bag and all—in close to him, only breaking the connection long enough to keep the fire roaring.
Several hours later, the two of them crawled out of their bags, shaking off the snow and thin ice that had formed on them. The sun was not yet up, but faint light reflecting from high clouds showed its presence beyond the hills to the east. Neither spoke. They both knew there’d have to be some sort of arrangement to get the race started fairly again.
Arnie dug into his pack, but he was shaking so badly he had to use both hands. He dug out a Hershey bar and thrust it at Mikhail, wedged between his mittens.
Arnie was trembling. “My hands and legs hurt,” he said, the words coming out almost as if he’d had too much to drink.
Mikhail nodded. They both knew shivering was unpleasant but good. Blood was returning to Arnie’s extremities, and they were still functioning.
Mikhail unwrapped the Hershey bar and slowly began eating, savoring it as it melted in his mouth, his eyes on the dawn. “Americans make good chocolate,” he said quietly.
“We do,” Arnie answered.
Arnie was unwrapping his own Hershey bar. His last. Unwilling to mar the pristine snow, he stuffed the paper into his pack, then held out his hand to take Mikhail’s Hershey wrapper.
Mikhail unwrapped the rest of his chocolate and handed the paper to Arnie. He’d never seen anyone save a candy wrapper out in the middle of nowhere.
“You won,” Arnie said. He stuffed the wrappers in his pack.
Mikhail looked away to the brightening skyline. “You were ahead until you fell through.”
“Dead ahead,” Arnie deadpanned.
Mikhail nodded and smiled.
“Really,” Arnie said. “If you hadn’t come back for me, you’d be the winner. I’d be dead.”
Mikhail stared at the horizon, not wanting to openly acknowledge Arnie’s debt.
Arnie put out his hand. “You won.”
The two men looked away from the dawn and at each other. Mikhail shrugged. “Yes. I accept,” he said. He took Arnie’s hand, a firm meeting of right hands with no weapons in them.
They dropped their hands. Both started to put on their packs. Their breath was becoming more visible in the increasing light.
“How about we race again?” Mikhail said.
“Again?”
“Yes. We race from here to Kuopio,” Mikhail said. “When you lose, again, you make a public announcement that Russian ski troops are the best in the world.” The challenge made.
“Like hell. That’ll never happen.” And accepted.
Mikhail knew that Arnie was probably right; it wouldn’t happen. Arnie was simply faster. With only two full days of racing left, any advantage Mikhail held because of his experience skiing in this kind of geography—and skiing in Finland in particular—would count little.
“I propose we each ski to opposite sides at the middle of the next lake,” Mikhail said. “We can see each other across the lake. We wait until oh-six-hundred.” He paused. “You won’t see me after that.”
Arnie chuckled at that. “You’re on.” He held out his hand. Mikhail took it. A quick firm grip. “You saved my life,” Arnie said.
“How else was I going to beat you fair and square?”
And release.
It felt good to have saved a man’s life, especially now, here, where there were only two men in the whole world.
The two quietly waxed their skis, debating a bit about which wax to use given the weather and snow conditions. When both were standing on their skis, Mikhail nodded and headed off, Arnie in his trace.
At first Arnie was very slow. Mikhail was patient, knowing it would take time for Arnie’s body heat to make his legs feel like they belonged to him again. After about half an hour of good steady skiing, Arnie came alongside, breaking his own track alongside Mikhail.
“You back?” Mikhail asked.
“Will be.”
Still, Arnie fell back to take advantage of Mikhail’s tracks.
Half an hour later, at the head of the next lake, Mikhail turned to look back at Arnie. Arnie nodded. Mikhail veered off to the east, briefly raising a ski pole in salute. Arnie answered with his own and veered off to the west. Nothing was said. What had happened between the two men was beyond words.