The tracks of a hundred pairs of skis were frozen solid into the ground. I found it easier to stray a few yards from the marker sticks and tread the virgin ice instead. Not that it mattered much by way of speed. I had to lift my legs with each step like I was walking, accompanied by a whizzy sound which was slowly driving me crazy. You could summit K2 with these things. Despite my handicap I was trying to keep up a decent pace. I passed two older women crawling out of an expedition sized tent a few paces off trail – we hollered back and forth about the biting cold and terrible track. “Are you completely alone?” she called, obvious concern in her voice. Always, ma’m. Always.

I was plodding up a small incline quite happily until two guys came blazing past me. They had racing skis with half skins, and glide. I watched, stunned, as they flashed by and disappeared into the distance in less than a minute. Yeah, fuck this. My skis felt glued to the snow. Here I was, facing two massive days after this one, moving at tortoise pace and feeling utterly defeated. AAARGH! I wrestled my skis off, cursing at the hard buckles, chucked off my backpack and threw myself down on my back in the snow. My sweat turned cold as the icy crystals pushed into my back and legs. Squinting up through my sunglasses at the sunny sky, my pride felt wounded to the core. This trip had been on my agenda so long. I needed it to be a success. Not once during 1400 km on the TA had I contemplated quitting – and here I was, on my back like a bug after a day and a half. Blast it. My resolve was melting at the same rate as the snow seeping into my pants.

Still on my back, I turned my head to look at the bright orange skins clinging to my skis. How could they feel so silky to touch and not provide any glide whatsoever? I cursed them lamely, my voice thin in the empty air. Laboriously I got to my feet and looked out across the white expanse where the two men had disappeared on the horizon. Yesterday’s morale remains: there is only one way to go. Forward.

By the time I turned right towards Kjeldebu at the intersection between Finse and Krækkja, I’d developed a blister underneath my foot – the first real blister I’ve had since day 20 on the TA. I’d pre-taped the hotspot this morning to no avail. Every step brought an excruciating burn. The tracks sidled alongside a round mountain where I walked completely lopsided to avoid putting pressure on my foot, and I felt increasingly desperate. I was snailing along, and now I was in intense pain too. Lunch & a whole bar of salted caramel Tony’s chocolate to the rescue. This would be the moment in Mamma Mia where I needed an Auntie Rosie to pick me up (“Oh God… Nurse, donkey testicle, quickly!”). Sigh. It felt slightly absurd to sit alone in my stockings on a patch of heather in the middle of a hundred miles of wilderness, melting snow in my cooking pot and still feeling a blistered kind of love for this lifestyle.

After 7 hours of skiing through all emotions, I reached Kjeldebu – three huts at the bottom of what would have been a roller coaster-style descent if I hadn’t been stuck to the ground like a fly on fly paper. The place looked eerily abandoned. An axe lay tossed on the snow, and only one cabin was open. A room of one’s own… to air out stinky socks and inspect the damage to my foot from ill-fitting insoles and the rubber band of my leggings digging into my hipbone. I donned my red puffy coat and fluffy white slippers and walked outside on the cabin deck to read The Sellout. My already freckled face soaked in the sun’s warmth as I leaned back against the hut wall and looked out at my solitary world. Harsh, but still so beautiful.

Later that evening I would be joined by a paediatrician and two Spaniards who’d taken several falls and almost 10 hours on the same route as me. Company is always welcome as the day wanes and you feel like you ought to enjoy dinner with somebody. Purple light encapsulated the night as I crawled into my duvet cave and contemplated the choice that I knew lay ahead of me.