In the meantime, a storm has rolled in, and we’re being tossed about by the gusts. We huddle briefly in the shelter of the small hut and decide to stay overnight. In this weather, setting out onto the glacier isn’t an option. At this point, we don’t yet know that we’ll be stuck here for longer. The next two days continue in the same way – rain, snowstorms, white-outs, and avalanches of wet snow rushing down around our safe haven. We sit here, doubtful, impatient, and then again hopeful. More than once, we optimistically pack our backpacks to set off, only for the wind to howl again and shake the hut to its core.

The weather forecast says it will improve, and we cling to that. We’re eager to finally get onto the glacier, curious about what awaits us up there.

Finally. After two days and three nights stuck in the Infimus hut, we can get going. We get up extra early, and it’s calm. Perfect. We step onto the Erdalsbreen; we have to cross three icefalls to reach the Jostedalsbreen. We pass the first crevasse zone without issue and reach a rise. But then, another white-out surrounds us. You can barely see your hand in front of your face, let alone the next crevasse. The ski descent over the icefall is off the table for now. More waiting, but we’re used to this patience game by now. Eventually, we spot a small break in the clouds and seize the opportunity. Over the next impressive icefall, we make it up onto the Jostedalsbreen – we’re here! On the largest ice mass of the European mainland, up to 500m thick beneath our feet. We’re grateful for the privilege of still being able to see such a vast glacier. In a few years, it might no longer be possible so close to home. 

Joy and relief wash over us. We have our sights set on the first summit of the tour, Brenibba. But it nearly spells disaster. At the summit, we remove our skins, and my ski shoots straight into the white-out towards the icefall. I’m left standing at the top with the other ski, in the middle of the largest inland glacier in Europe, on the first day of our crossing. This could have been a quick and uneventful end to our journey. 

I remain optimistic (perhaps naively) and decide we must search for the ski. The track we follow – me on one ski – is already heavily windblown and barely visible. Below the long, steep slope we’re descending lies the last crevasse zone we crossed. And unbelievably, the most unlikely thing happens. On a small rocky ledge in the middle of the vast slope lies the undamaged ski, smiling up at us. We're overcome with joy. After so much bad luck with the weather, we’ve had a stroke of good fortune. 

We ski down to the vast glacier plateau, where we dig out our first campsite. 

After a long day, we enjoy a restful night and set off the next morning into the flat, vast whiteness. The sky is blue, and it’s windless – a day where everything just goes right. We bag two beautiful summits: Kjenndalskruna with a rocky ridge, and Kvittekoll, which we descend on its southern side through an old couloir between rocks. This glacial landscape is truly hard to put into words. At times it feels like we’re in a vast desert, with only blue sky beyond the white. Without GPS, orientation would be nearly impossible, even walking straight. Looking back, two rhythmically curved, lonely lines stretch across the snowfield. Up here, thoughts have so much space to unfold freely. We have good conversations and sometimes walk in silence, enjoying the stillness that is so rare in our fast-paced world. 

The next night is special. At 1 a.m., Hanna wakes me up; I absolutely have to come outside – the Northern Lights. The mystery of the north. I’m completely overwhelmed by the dancing, leaping lights in the sky. In our socks, standing in the hard shells of our ski boots on the thick ice, we watch this wonder of nature. Eventually, it gets cold, and we tear ourselves away and crawl back into our sleeping bags. 

The next day, we leave the Jostedalsbreen via the Flatbreen. One last icefall awaits us. We start early, as the weather for the following day is forecast to be bad again, and we don’t want to get stuck up here and miss our bus. Somehow, we feel a little sad – we would have liked to stay up here longer. We cross the last crevasse zone without issue, partly roped up, mostly not. We leave the glacier and ski through a narrow ravine until suddenly we’re greeted by a wide view down to the Fjaerlandsfjord. For our final night we level a spot for our tent, and in the morning, we carry our skis down a valley through a winter-sodden landscape. At the bottom, we encounter civilisation again for the first time. Arriving in a small farming village, we walk between wooden houses. Everything still feels a bit grey and deserted, until just before we reach the bus stop, we meet an elderly couple and have a brief chat. 

At the bus stop, a lot of tension finally falls away. Everything went more or less as planned. Exhausted, we board the bus to Oslo. Once there, after a very short night, we take the train back to Innsbruck. We hop from one delay to the next rail replacement service, sprinting here and there. 

Weary but happy to have shared such a memorable adventure, we arrive home after a long journey. We’ll be drawing on these experiences for some time, reflecting on all we’ve learned and seen. We’re reminded again what a privilege it is to be able to go into the mountains. They constantly show us how small we are, that we must remain humble and adapt to the conditions they put in our path.