Just before reaching the north pole in 1990, Erling Kagge dropped to his knees on the ice. He’d been trying to open a bag of raisins while wearing thick mittens but one escaped. On all fours he flicked out his tongue like some foraging beast and licked it in to his mouth.
What, the Norwegian adventurer asked himself, is the meaning of life out there on the ice, where it’s dark for six months each year, always cold, cannibalism a possibility, where winds howl through the bones of dead explorers and where, if you encounter a polar bear, the question will be which of you will become the other’s dinner? The answer, he reflected, “lies in small daily miracles”.
