Sybilla was up before first light the next morning. Tiny had slept reasonably well. There had been spells when he was clearly uncomfortable, during which Sybilla had placed an arm about him, taking pains to avoid his injured shoulder, and comforted him. This usually led to him dozing off again, at least for a while.
She poured a cup of freshly brewed coffee and took it over to him, helping him to ease himself into a sitting position.
“I wish it was tea,” she said apologetically.
“TEA?” exploded Tiny, almost choking on his coffee. “TEA?”
“Yes,” nodded Sybilla enthusiastically. “I’ve acquired a taste for it since I’ve been in England. It’s a great reviver! If you drank a cup of tea, you would jump off that bunk, hoist me on your shoulders and sprint up to the ridgeline.”
“Really?” chuckled Tiny, looking very dubious. “I need to get me some of that!”
“On a serious note, how are you feeling this morning?” asked Sybilla. Tiny’s brow was furrowed, his face looked pinched and wan, and dark shadows lay under his eyes. She tried hard not to allow the concern she felt reflect in her face.
“I’ve felt better. Is now the time to ask what the plan is?”
“Dead simple. We walk up to the border at the ridgeline, and then I lower you down the other side using the sled.”
Tiny looked at her with a mixture of amusement and disbelief on his face. “That’s it?”
Sybilla pursed her lips and shrugged. “Pretty much. Oh, there’s some fine detail to sort out of course. Like how the hell do we get you up that slope? If you can hobble at all, perhaps you can use a ski pole as a crutch with your good hand, and I can get on the other side with my hand on your belt to support and give a bit of a lift, and we just might make it. Once we reach the ridge, I’m certain I can lower you down the other side under control, on the sled. What do you think?”
“And if it doesn’t work?” asked Tiny laconically.
“Then we go to plan B.”
“I don’t think I want to know what plan B is.”
“So, what do you think?” persisted Sybilla.
“You want my honest opinion? It’s a rotten plan, but it’s the best I’ve heard today. Here, give me a hand up.”
“Not until we’ve had breakfast,” said Sybilla, holding an open can of Fray Bentos corned beef triumphantly in the air. “I packed it in my bergen, just in case.” So saying, she scooped two spoonfuls out before handing the tin to Tiny.
“Billa, come on! Take some more out, you’ve hardly got any!”
“Eat!” commanded Sybilla, with a look that brooked no argument.
After breakfast, Sybilla helped Tiny onto his feet. If he was in pain—and he most certainly was—he made no complaint. They practised walking in the way Sybilla had described. In the warmth of the cabin on a flat floor, it was relatively easy, but Sybilla knew it would be a different matter once they started ascending the ridge to the border.
Outside the cabin, Sybilla tied both of their bergens onto the sled along with three skis. The sled was attached to her waist by a rope.
“Three skis?” queried Tiny, looking puzzled. “Do you expect me to ski into Chile on one leg? That would be quite some feat.”
Sybilla gave him a condescending look. “Two are for me so I can escape from your grumbling and constant questioning, and the other one is our emergency brake. You’ll see, all in good time.”
“Okay, tough guy,” said Sybilla, trying her best to look confident, “it’s less than four hundred yards to the top of that ridge, and we’re in Chile. That’s one lap of a football field. Are we going to make it?
“Hell, yes!” growled Tiny, his face grim and hard.
The first hundred yards were fairly level with just a slight incline, but thereafter the slope increased and the going became arduous—and in Tiny’s case, painful. Near the top, the wind had scoured the rocks of snow and they had to contend with bare rock and ice.
On the ridge, Sybilla made to stop, but Tiny urged her on. “If we stop here, I might not get going again,” he shouted above the whistling of the icy cold wind. “Look, there’s a ledge about twenty foot down, we can shelter there out of the wind.”
Slowly, very slowly, they descended the slope towards the ledge. Sybilla had to contend with the sled, which was now trying to pull her down the reverse slope, and at the same time keep her wits about her, as together they took perilous step after perilous step over the ice and rocks.
When they reached the ledge, she helped Tiny into a cleft with his back against the rock face. He looked all in. After securing the sled, Sybilla dropped back full length onto the layer of snow on the ground, breathing deeply.
“You did great, partner,” said Tiny quietly, admiration clear in his voice.
Sybilla propped herself onto her elbows. “Well done yourself! You must be impervious to pain.”
The deep lines on his face and the puffy slits of his eyelids attested to the fact that he was not. “If only,” he groaned.
They rested for a full quarter of an hour before Sybilla rose to her feet and surveyed the scene. It was a bright day with no snow, so visibility was good. To the south rose the towering mass of Mount Tronador, an extinct volcano, rising a clear thousand foot above the next highest peak. Directly beneath their position she could see the entire slope of the mountainside leading down to a broad, glistening white strip which she recognised immediately as a glacier. It all looked pretty daunting.
“What’s the glacier?” she asked. She decided she needed to keep Tiny alert. He looked in bad shape. If he became unconscious, she would never get him down the mountain.
“That’s Casa Pangue,” responded Tiny, “impressive, yes?”
“Hmm, okay I suppose. Not a patch on Jostedalsbreen in
