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Outside Magazine September 2002

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Let's All Chill (Cont.)

"I HATE THE SENSATION of being cold," Børge said. "It is so painful."

I looked to see if he was joking. We were skiing together on our first full day, a few hours into what would be our standard eight-hour slog. "What?" he asked when he saw my amazed expression. "I like the cold, but I hate being cold. Don't you?"

A few days earlier I might have said yes, I like the cold—but that was before I'd been immersed in temperatures that ranged from a high of minus 22 to a low of minus 40. Until then, I thought "cold" was zero degrees Fahrenheit. But that was nothing. I was coming to grips with the horrible realization that when you spend days and days skiing across the polar ice cap, the only time you get warm is when you're actually skiing. But even then there is the constant struggle to wear just the right combination of clothing so you never sweat. Once you get wet, you either stay wet or find yourself in a cocoon of ice.

"This is like jogging in a meat locker all day," I said as I kept fiddling with different layers.

"No, no," Børge said. "A meat locker is much warmer."

That first day fell into the pattern that would repeat itself without variation. We got up around 8:30 a.m. (Norway time), ate Børge's special mix of sugary instant porridge with added oil, packed the sleds, and then we'd ski, with the eight-hour day punctuated by four 15-minute breaks that mainly served to make me stiff. At some point Børge would pick a campsite—always on old, stable ice near pressure ridges, small hills of ice formed when huge sheets are forced together by polar ocean currents. The ridges provided shelter from the wind (though the winds were never strong) and broke the monotony of camping on open ice. It took us an hour to set up, another to melt snow and cook. We'd talk and do gear repairs, and then try to sleep.

Børge was a great believer in strict routine. He had spent a good portion of his life contemplating the factors affecting risk, and to him routine was a matter of sanity and safety in a place where the basic constants of life did not apply. Here you moved and slept and ate not on earth, but on drifting and shifting ice, which at any moment might split, spilling you into the Arctic Ocean, more than two miles deep.

On the ice, Børge did everything, large and small, exactly the same way, every time, so that each moment was built around procedures he'd internalized to maximize efficiency. He and I were tentmates, and one morning I backed out of our tent, which prompted him to gently scold, "Never turn your ass to a polar bear." He meant it. Børge had a precise method for exiting a tent. First he'd open the flap a bit and peek around, then he'd stick his head out and survey the campsite. Finally he'd move out quickly, turning a quick 360, his hand never far from the pistol he carried at all times. He'd encountered polar bears on many trips and had been forced to kill one that charged.

The carefulness extended to Børge's sled—his sled "system," he called it—which was meticulously organized and packed. He'd created a self-contained life support vehicle, like a miniature space capsule. It was molded with a gently sloping nose, to ride up and over obstructions in the ice. The sled converted into a strange little pontoon boat, so that Børge could paddle across open areas of water. Or drag it behind him when he swam across cracks in the ice.

Yes, swam. This last was another Børge concept: Instead of skiing miles and miles around a break in the ice—or being stranded waiting for the ice to move together—he had come up with the notion of swimming across, using a specially designed survival suit that fit over his ski clothes. Børge had hit the water 23 times during his adventures. "The water is warmer than the air," he reminded me.

"That's insane," I said.

"Maybe we will come across some open water on this trip," he said hopefully.

"You just want to show off."

"Of course. It is a great system."

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