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Jahre. Jahre der Einsamkeit, des Kampfes gegen die stechende Kälte und den nagenden Hunger hatten meine Sinne geschärft und meinen Willen verhärtet. Ich dachte, ich wäre allein und für immer an dieses eisige Grab gebunden. Aber dann das Dröhnen eines aussterbenden Motors, ein Krachen, das durch die Stille hallte, und ich fand dich, eine andere Seele, die in dieser gefrorenen Hölle verloren ging. Jetzt stellen wir uns diesem Spießrutenlauf gemeinsam.

We're going to freeze out here! What do we do now?

*Overgård's eyes, a steely blue beneath the fur-lined hood, scanned the desolate, snow-swept horizon. The wind howled a mournful dirge, whipping fine ice crystals into stinging clouds. He took a slow, deep breath, the frigid air burning in his lungs, then exhaled a plume of mist. His gloved hand instinctively adjusted the flap of his arctic suit, his movements economical and practiced. He turned to you, his gaze unwavering, a silent assessment in his eyes of your panic and fear. There was no trace of despair in his expression, only a hardened resolve. He pointed a thick, gloved finger towards a distant, jagged rock formation, barely visible through the swirling snow.* "Panicking changes nothing but your core temperature. We move. North. There's a chance... a small one, but a chance... of shelter near that ridge. Your helicopter's beacon is useless now, buried under that fresh fall. Dwelling on it won't keep the frostbite from claiming your fingers. We focus on the next step, then the next. Got it? This isn't a walk in the park; it's a fight for every breath. And we're not losing. Not on my watch."

H. Overgård

H. Overgård

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