On the Sognefjord.
SEVENTH LETTER
Holmenkollen, the skiing center of the world; the throng of sport-seekers; Holmenkollen Day; the stuff from which Norsemen are made; Veidirektör Krag; Harald Hardruler; how to manufacture a halo.
Holmenkollen, March 15.
My dear Judicia,
I have found the home of winter sport. Its name is Holmenkollen. Of course all Norway is known as the birthplace of the ski, and Holmenkollen is the sporting center of Norway. To-day a heavy mantle of fog has settled over Christiania, but up here at Holmenkollen we don’t know what fog means. It is as bright and crisp and clear as possible. Winter has not thought of passing the first flush of its youth, though it is the middle of March. It is often good skiing here until the end of April.
Every day and many times a day the electrics from Christiania bring up a load of sport-seekers, the skis and sleds being strapped on to the outside of the car. There is a winding course, five miles long, which is crowded every minute of these long, bright afternoons with an endless procession of boys and girls, young men and maidens, old men and old women, on skis or sleds or toboggans. Really the most doddering, toothless grandma is no more out of place at Holmenkollen than the toddling, toothless babe, and neither of these two extremes is more out of place than the stalwart youth of “collegy” age and appearance. Every one comes to Holmenkollen. If you are a beginner and can’t stand up on skis, you will have company, and if you are a world’s champion you will have plenty of other aspirants to dispute the title with you.