Arnie had skied back and forth the night before until he was exhausted. He’d burrowed into snow to get out of the wind, caught a couple of hours’ sleep, and then was up and moving in the dark, zigzagging across the route he thought Mikhail most likely to take. As it grew lighter, he was faced with a landscape devoid of any human, a blue-gray sky cover, and steadily falling snow. He shoved off, eating the last chunk of dried reindeer meat that he’d been saving for the final sprint to the finish. He wanted every ounce of energy to go into the search for Mikhail.
Two hours later, he was on a small hill sweating with the effort of climbing this one hill of many, all with the same negative result. Snow gently fell, beautiful to look at, close to impossible to see through. He fought despair. Even if he managed to cross Mikhail’s route, he’d never see his tracks, buried under the snow. Mikhail could be behind him. He could have had an accident. Arnie could have missed him and Mikhail was already way ahead of him. Yet, there was no thought of giving up and heading for the finish line. It was the warrior’s code. No one gets left behind—ever. You search until you know the person is safe, or you bring home the body.