It
is eight in the morning.
Knapsack and a good stock of food, an extra lashing in my pocket in case
anything should break, and a note on the table for the man with supplies
in case he should come up while I am away.
Oh, but I have been showing off nicely all to myself: pretending I was
going far, and needed to equip myself with care, had occasion for all my
presence of mind and endurance. A man can show off like that when he is
going far; but I am not. I have no errand anywhere, and nothing calls me;
I am only a wanderer setting forth from a hut, and coming back to it
again; it does not matter where I am.
It is quiet and empty in the woods; all things deep in snow, holding their
breath as I come. At noon, looking back from a hill, I can see Trovatn far
behind; white and flat it lies, a stretch of chalk, a desert of snow.
After a meal I go on again, higher and higher, nearing the fjeld now, but
slowly and thoughtfully, with hands in my pockets. There is no hurry; I
have only to find a shelter for the night.
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