NORTH POLE

1 Lashings of Rope and a Distinct lack of Herring

March 16 2012 Training in Norway

There are three ineluctable phases you must pass through when meeting people to whom you have already committed in some way: the expectation, the first impression, the re-evaluation.

I was pre-armed with a little information about Rob and Roly from Deb – I already knew they were young, handsome, super-fit. They didn’t just drag a tyre but hauled several at a time with their teeth, while tucking a couple of spares under each arm. I also knew that after a 10 mile drag they liked to be back in time for a hearty man-sized breakfast. So the expectation was well defined.

It was a surprise, therefore, to encounter Rob for the first time, sitting quietly with a needle and thread, undertaking a little mending and looking very happy in his work.

Testosterone soon filled the hostel however as one by one the team bounced in. With each new arrival the boyish energy expanded at an alarming and disproportionate rate, filling the space like feathers leaking from a down sleeping bag. Rob, it transpired, was fixing a coarse tent with a blunt needle in a very manly way and soon they were all similarly focused on expedition preparation: tents, stoves, pulks, lashings. Like a kennel full of puppies just before feeding time, they bounced around, tripping over each other and getting under Geoff’s feet until eventually with an exasperated shake of his head he flung open the door and let them out to burn off some energy.

Meanwhile Geoff set about baking bread, whilst quietly muttering to himself about the hare and the tortoise.

The tortoise won the round of course. It was revealed, through a slip of the tongue by Douglas “I-have-a-gadget-for- every-meteorological-or-cartographical-situation” Irvine, that the Alpha males had failed to take their tent on their earlier hike. They had also nearly concussed each other while practising an emergency rescue routine. Though not exactly humbled, they had returned just a tiny bit Beta.

We and our kit (tents, skis, pulks, personal gear) were eventually dropped by the side of a road and off we set. We had left a comparatively tropical Haugastøl so I was woefully unprepared for the dramatic drop in temperature. With an arctic wind buffeting us, there were ten frantic minutes of tense roadside lashing action. I was absolutely useless – there seemed no logic, no rhyme or reason, to who lashed what and to what. The chaos lasted for long enough for a debilitating coldness to settle in, after which we crossed a road, skied for ten metres and then stopped again in the shelter of the leeward side of a building for a round of intense relashing. “Does anyone have pliers?” “Here” answered several voices. Was there a whole chapter I had missed? While I’d been receiving emails about Norwegian train time tables and herrings had everyone else received one saying “Sign up here for the lashing masterclass… And don’t forget to bring your pliers?”

We skied across some incredibly beautiful countryside. For me every step was an adjustment, an adjustment to the skis beneath me, to the weight of the pulk behind me, to the rhythm of the journey ahead of me.

The training was of course centred on the practical but the gradual unveiling of the potential of the trip was very much present. Gaffa-Dave was patiently unpatronising in his demonstration of the camping stove and whilst I remain unconvinced by the combination of a bottle of petrol, a naked flame and a nylon tent, I can now at least melt ice, boil water, cook food, and survive if the Alphas are eaten by a polar bear while playing Rob’s naked ski pole game.

Rob is good on games, and is probably self-elected captain of entertainment. Roly meanwhile tries to look just a little bit fierce but his fierceness isn’t remotely convincing. Rob’n'Roly find each other hilarious. Listening, tent to tent, to their banter might well BE the entertainment – the equivalent of a tv on in the background. Potentially more Top Gear than Newsnight but it’s far too soon to call. Rob is currently reading Cutting for Stone by Abraham Verghese (good man) chosen for him by his wife (good woman) which seems encouraging.

Geoff ‘The General’ Major (nickname pre-allocated before our arrival and might, as such, evolve with no prior warning) is a man who will reveal his motivation for the trip more cautiously. He is prepared for anything, and armed with an admirable selection of good quality herbal teas and sauces. He was consistently helpful and though he snored loudly, and therefore is forbidden from pitching his tent next to ours ever again, he was an otherwise considerate neighbour. Of course, it might not be Geoff that snored at all. It could have been Techno-Doug who on reflection was just a little too quick to diagnose a soft pallet, or Gaffa-Dave, who has already revealed himself as an accomplished assassin/double bluffer in a game of Mafia.

We pitched camp, were invited for dinner by both neighbours and accepted boiled ice melt gratefully. The food was marginally better under Gaffa-Dave’s care (it’s all in the detail when adding boiling water to freeze dried food). Roly, whilst making much of the fact that he’d cooked for his wife only twice in the last six years, was surprisingly quick to improvise with the addition of smash to my over-watered veggie pasta. This, I thought, demonstrated an almost Blumenthal-like understanding of the science of cooking combined with a fluency and freedom that would make Jamie Oliver proud. Real potential, I would guess, despite his coyness, though the result was utterly disgusting and I only managed a few mouthfuls out of politeness.

The camping is going to be tough. Our sleeping bags will freeze, our boots and socks won’t dry. Simple acts will be rendered impossible. Our appetites will disappear at the very time our bodies will need food. The chore, the drudgery, the relentless ice will be soul destroying. Until now we’ve had absolutely no understanding of the challenge that lies ahead but at last we can begin to build some expectation of both the conditions we’ll face and the people we’ll share the experience with. We expect to hear Rob’n'Roly’s distinctive laughs. We expect to hear Gaffa-Dave shriek with delight at the discover of another unlikely food pairing. We expect to know from Techno-Doug how cold, wet, wind chilled, far we are from anywhere. We expect to hear The Major snore but will learn to yell “can somebody kick him” when it becomes unbearable. And these expectations offer a glimmer of things to come and combine to nibble away at the fear of the unknown.

In the meantime I’m going to gratefully immerse myself in my day-job and head to Bologna for the Book Fair where I shall buy some books, eat unlimited carbs as part of my training, and – secretly – master a few knots.