I pressed the end of the stick into the snow. It was wonderful to feel the webbed circle of it pack the snow down and hold my weight. I thrust myself up into a sitting position and manoeuvred myself down to my skis. They had frozen into the snow. But I got one of them loose and, when I had wiped the snow and ice off it, I began piercing the snow all about where I had been lying with the straight heel of it.
I thought I should never find that other stick. In inn desperation I tried lower down. And at last I located it, quite near the surface and close to the spot where my other ski still stood bedded in the snow. It must have been ripped from my hand as I went into the snow.
I lay down then. I had no more energy. My body felt chilled right through. Yet the blood glowed in my veins with the fever of exhaustion. But I was no longer helpless. I had both my sticks. Soon I should be on my skis again. Soon — when I had enough strength. All the warmth died out of me as I lay there. I began to feel cold and very sleepy. I thought about my skis. I had to get them on. It would be such a struggle. My thoughts were limited now to that one action. The world was condensed into a pair of skis.
I think I should have lain there, relaxed, until the snow drifted right over me, if I hadn’t been lying for support across that one ski. I was lying with the full weight of my body on the toe stops and the sharp steel pressed painfully against my ribs.
At last I made a supreme effort of will and lifted myself off the ski. As I sat up, a pile of drift snow sifted off my body. The wind struck fresh on my face as it cleared the edges of the hole. It seemed lighter now. There was less snow falling. I looked at the upended haft of my other ski. It stood straight up, like a smooth slat of wood erected to mark the grave of a man who had died there.
Pressing with one hand on the free ski and the other on one of my sticks, I wriggled over to it. It was frozen tight. I had to work hard to loosen it. But at last it / i no came out. Then I sat in the snow and cleared the ice from both skis and waxed them.
I did not stop now. I felt that, if I stopped to rest, I should never have the strength of will to rise again. I swivelled round so that I was lying slightly above my skis. I bedded them firmly into the snow and then cleared the snow from my boots. But it was not easy to fix the skis to the boots. My fingers were stiff and they seemed to have no strength in them. And when at last I had the clips round the heels of my boots, the heavy spring clip in front of the toe seemed as though it had lost its spring. It took every last ounce of energy I possessed to pull those powerful clips over.
But at last it was done, and, as I lay panting there, I felt the comfort of the heavy skis on my feet. It is strange — when one comes fresh to skis after a long time, they seem so clumsy on one’s feet. But, believe me, if you try to stand in soft snow without them, you feel as though you are trying to row without a boat. And it is a wonderful feeling to have your skis solid under your feet again.
After a little while, I took hold of my sticks and forced myself upright until I was crouched on my toes with the skis under me.
Then at last I rose to my feet and stood there in the snow, looking down at the trampled hole that I had torn with my body in the soft whiteness of the valley.
I could hardly stand for weariness and the cramped aching of my cold limbs. But it was a wonderful sensation just to stand upright again, no longer in the clutches of the snow, but treading it firmly beneath my feet, able to move upon it. I felt like a man who has climbed a great peak and feels the whole world and the elements conquered.
Slowly I stamped my feet to restore the circulation. And whilst I was doing this, I began to consider what I should do. Where was Mayne? To go down to Carbonin was easiest. If I kept travelling downhill, I should strike the pass. But should I? All about me was a jumbled heap of snow hills. Mayne’s tracks were completely obliterated. The snow drifted like a white sandstorm, a moving surf of powder clinging close to the lying snow. Mayne had probably led me off the beaten track. If I followed the valley down, it might only lead me farther into the mountains. And suppose I made the pass? Mayne had said it was narrow — so narrow that it was impossible to lose one’s way. Suppose he was waiting for me in that pass? He would wait a long time. He would want to be sure. I looked quickly about me. At this very moment he might be standing on the edge of visibility, watching and waiting to pounce on me if I looked like getting out of this white jungle alive. I remembered what Keramikos had said of him.
