FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Dec. 22, 1906. 
Christmas Eve in Norway. 
As Christmas approaches, the Norwegian 
sportsman commences to lay plans and over¬ 
haul his ski toggery, sleeping bag, etc.,'just 
like his brothers in America when planning 
an outing. As yet there is no snow in the 
valleys or lowlands, but up in the high moun¬ 
tains, as it is- called above the timber line, 
there is already about three feet of snow, 
and more coming. 
The custom of going up into the mountains 
is growing from year to year, as people learn 
to appreciate their beauties, and during Christ¬ 
mas, and particularly at Easter, there is a 
regular exodus of sportsmen and women 
bound for an outing on the ski. 
Here every grade of sportsman and woman 
is seen, from the “Cholly” in a high collar 
and the summer girl in “patent leathers,” to 
the old-timer in his weather-beaten suit and 
sleeping bag and the ski girl in a businesslike 
dress of navy blue, just touching the tops of 
her solid shoes. Happily the latter kind is 
vastly in the majority. 
For the last few years I have spent my 
Christmas in the Rondane Mountains, one 
of the prettiest groups of mountains in Nor¬ 
way, with a friend who owns a good warm 
log house up there, and has also a couple of 
huts further in. This friend, by the way, is 
one of the truest sportsmen and lovers of 
nature I have come across. His neighbors 
think he is a strange fellow, as every winter 
about November he leaves his cozy, comfort¬ 
able farm and moves up in the mountains— 
God’s country, as he calls it—where he hunts 
the ptarmigan and roughs it all alone till 
spring. No one but a sportsman can under¬ 
stand why he does.it. 
Last »year on Dec. 23 I took the train for 
Otta, the end station of the line, where I 
arrived about 8 P. M. Shouldering my pack 
and skis, which together made quite a load, 
I started on my four-hour climb. The -road 
runs along a river in a valley with very pre¬ 
cipitous sides, and being pretty'steep, makes 
one perspire as if in a Turkish bath before the 
.top is reached. 1 
It was with a sigh of relief that I gained the 
top and saw a little way off E.’s cabin, with 
the sparks merrily flying out of the chimney, 
showing I was expected, and presently a whiff 
of the sweet smelling smoke of burning juni¬ 
per brush greeted my nostrils. A warwhoop 
brought E. to the door, from which, as it 
opened, came an aroma of coffee. With a 
welcoming smile and a hearty handshake, he 
pulled me inside. 
After having a cup of coffee and some food, 
we brewed a good strong whisky toddy, lit 
our pipes and felt that life was really worth 
living. Stretched out on our sleeping bags, 
we lay there smoking and spinning yarns 
into the wee hours of morning,-and therefore 
overslept ourselves, not waking until 8 o’clock. 
The programme for the day was to go to 
one of E.’s huts—the ptarmigan hut, he calls 
it — with grub enough for two days. If there 
were any ptarmigan about we should take 
them along, and if not, just journey around 
and have a good time on the skis. 
The weather looked thick toward the north¬ 
west, and snowflakes came sailing down now 
and then, with promise of more; but as the 
trip could usually be made in two or three 
hours, we thought we would risk it. On start¬ 
ing we followed a river valley, and everythin^ 
looked lovely until the river had to be left 
and higher ground taken. Then we noticed 
the wind had risen to a storm square in our 
faces, and worst of all, it was warm,-making 
the snow cling to our skis. Now, there is 
nothing which a ski runner fears more than 
mild weather, as the snow collects under the 
ski—pounds of it sometimes—and nothing 
will take the “starch” out of a fellow quicker; 
than this; as the ski has to be lifted, with all 
the snow attached and used like a snowshoe. 
Well, we knew we were in for it, but neither 
felt like backing out, so buttoning up our 
jackets and pulling down our caps, we started 
in. The wind kept rising, and the sleet was 
hurled in our faces, nearly blinding us, while 
the skis felt like lead. Pretty soon it got so 
we could only advance a few steps at a time, 
and then we had to brace ourselves with the 
sticks to prevent being blown over. I had 
noticed E. occasionally giving me a sort of a 
sideways squint, but thought I to myself, “if 
there is to be any backing out of it, you’ll have 
to sing out first,” which I knew he didn’t like 
to do. 
We kept doggedly bucking the wind, and 
at last reached the hut pretty well tuckered 
out; but as the building was entirely drifted 
under, it took about fifteen minutes to get 
down to the door. On getting inside, a roar¬ 
ing fire was started in the soapstone stove, 
snow was melted, and in a short time we had 
some hot black coffee that braced us up won¬ 
derfully. Coffee, by the way, is used a good 
deal in the mountains, and is the only stimu¬ 
lant employed, as all the old mountaineers 
have found it bad policy to take liquor while , 
on the march. In the evening, however, after 
the day’s work is Over, they like a hot toddy, 
or what they call a “doctor.” As that is prob¬ 
ably a new -one to the readers of Forest and 
Stream, I will give the formula: 
A' cup is filled about two-thirds with hot, 
strong coffee (black), sweetened well with 
sugar and then filled to the edge with whiskey, 
Cognac or alcohol. If any one wants to try 
it I would suggest not to do it in the even¬ 
ing, as the state of one’s nerves is Ijable to 
banish sleep, if not used to it. 
A description of the hut may prove of in¬ 
terest. It is about six by nine feet and built 
of stones piled on top of each other, and has 
two small windows and a sod roof. It is not 
much to look at from the outside, but inside 
it is altogether different. The walls are neatly 
lined with boards, there is a wooden floor and 
across one end are fixed two bunks—-one over 
the other — while at the other end, by the 
door is the stove. At one side is a table made 
to fold up against the wall, and taken alto¬ 
gether it is the coziest den imaginable. 
When the temperature became comfortable 
we undressed and hung our clothing up to 
dry, as we were wet through from the wind 
driving the sleet through our outer clothing 
and from perspiration. Creeping iiito our 
sleeping bags, we lit our pipes and lay there 
listening to the howling of the wind, with that 
contented feeling that any sportsman enjoys 
after a hard day’s work. About 9 we had our 
supper pf fried pork and blood sausage. It 
was rather a solid meal, but as neither of us 
was a dyspeptic, we had no fear of the result, 
and as E. said, “That kind of food does give 
a fellow such a comfortable set feeling in 
the stomach.” 
After clearing away the dishes, we turned 
in and slept till about 2 A. M., when E. woke 
me up saying, “I don’t see how you can sleep. 
A SKI JUMP—IN THE SWISS ALPS. 
