As soon as the royal party arrives, the jumping begins, and this year, though there were fully two hundred competitors, and each one had two jumps, the whole contest was run off in a little over two hours. Of course that meant three or four jumps to a minute, and so there was a steady stream swooping down from the hill to the take-off, then sailing out into the air and landing a hundred feet or so down the slope, where, if the jump was successful, they continued their course at express-train speed.
Of course the great majority of the jumpers were Norwegians. It takes years and years of practice to become skillful, and only those who have been at it since babyhood reach the highest pinnacles of skill. No matter how many times you see ski jumping, the thrill never seems to wear off.
As each jumper took his place at the top of the hill, a huge number on a blackboard announced to the spectators who was coming. All the competitors were numbered, as they are in races, and printed lists were distributed for the convenience of the onlookers.
The jumpers would come tearing down the hill and crouch low as they approached the take-off. Then, with arms outspread, they would shoot out into space, straightening themselves quickly and bending forward. While they were in the air, they would put one ski a little ahead of the other; with a little “spat” the skis would strike the snow far down the slope; agile and light as a feather, the jumper would sink down almost on his heels, and then, if he kept his balance, he would fly ahead for a second or two, then make a beautiful “Telemark” or Christiania swing, coming to a dead stop. Telemark and Christiania are in skiing parlance two methods of coming to a sudden stop.
As I understand it, a Telemark means a wide, sweeping curve, with one foot considerably in front of the other, while the Christiania is a quick snap at right angles accomplished by a sudden swing of the arms and of the whole body. However, nobody quite understands how it is done unless he has been practicing it half a lifetime. There is a great knack about it, and it was beautiful to watch the ease with which many of the jumpers did it.
Of course there were unfortunates who fell. There would be a wild whirl of arms and legs and skis and snow, and, when the whirl gradually resolved itself into a man, he would crawl to one side to get out of the way of the next comer.
The distance some of these men jump is appalling. A leap of one hundred and forty-eight feet such as that made by Harald Smith (a Norwegian in spite of his surname) is certainly more like flying than jumping.
Compared with these thrilling exhibitions the mild daily procession down the five-mile slope of Holmenkollen seems rather tame, but it is interesting nevertheless. In the restaurant here, which overlooks the city and fjord of Christiania, there is a huge picture of Nansen. He was once a competitor in ski jumping, and perhaps it was here that he developed the courage which later made him famous the world over as an explorer.
The modern Norwegians have inherited their love of sport from their viking ancestors. I have lately been reading in Du Chaillu’s The Viking Age an account of viking sports, and the prowess of the present-day Norwegians is explained in my mind. A viking, it seems, had to be athletic if he would amount to anything. Courage, skill, and dexterity were the necessities of his life.
Once there was a viking named Kari who saved his life by means of his high-jumping ability. His enemy Sigurdson ran at him with a spear from behind, but Kari saw him just in time, jumped high in the air so that the spear went under his feet, and then came down on top of it, smashing the handle.