Winter is, emphatically, the time for locomotion here; the crooked ways are made straight, and the mountains smooth.
“What’s that?” said I, pointing to a snail, browsing on the irregularly round leaf of a species of dwarf sorrel, which grows high on the mountains. A “sneel,” said he. “Snecke” is the modern Norwegian appellation.
Ole is a bit of a sportsman, and has committed havoc among the reindeer. Last winter he killed a couple of otters, and got two dollars and a half for their skins.
“And where did you find the otters?” inquired I, curious to know whether these animals imitate the seal and walrus, and make breathing holes in the solid ice. “Oh, they keep in the foss-pools of the rivers, which are the only places not frozen over. Now and then they cut across the land from one pool to another. I followed them on snow-shoes, and killed them with a stave. A man paa ski (on snow-shoes) can overtake an otter.”
“It is strange,” he went on, “we have seen no ‘reen.’ I never came over these mountains without seeing them.”
But in fact the day had now become overcast, and, fearful of a relapse, I had abstained from stopping to examine the surrounding objects more narrowly. We had now arrived on the left of a lake, about fourteen miles long, the name of which is Normaends Laagen. Between us and the lake intervened a stony plain, grassed over at intervals, perhaps half a mile in breadth; while close to our left, some little still valleys ran up towards the higher plateau.
“There they are,” exclaimed Ole, pointing to ten reindeer, feeding about two hundred yards off, between us and the lake. The discovery was mutual and simultaneous; for, with an oblique squint at us, their white scuts flew up, and they trotted leisurely to the southward.
“Shall I put a bullet into the gun?” asked I.
“No use whatever,” said Ole. “They’ll be miles off in a few minutes.”