South of Katterjaure

I was spread-eagled in the rotten snow of late May. One of my feet was painfully twisted in the binding, both of my skis solidly stuck in the snow. My hands, still strapped to my ski poles, had been stretched out before me to soften the impact as I fell. My face was buried in the the wet and crumbling snow, large crystals soaking my skin. My pack rested solidly and heavily on the back of my neck, having tumbled forward as I fell without the constriction of a waist belt. My hands found no purchase whatsoever in the crumbling slush.
I was 20 years old.

By Jörgen Johansson



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