It could have been restlessness from the long drive, or the knowledge that I had half a roll of film left in my camera. It might have been the colors of the sky, or the reflection on the frozen fjord. Maybe I was wired from too much caffeine. Whatever the reason, as we approached this spot, I decided it was critical to get a few photos before the sun faded completely. The consequences (i.e., not getting photos, I guess) were too dire even to consider.

As Susanne got the car stopped, I grabbed my gear and dashed off recklessly into the deadly abyss of the roadside picnic area. Embarking on this urgent mission of global importance, I knew I couldn’t waste 30 seconds putting on a coat, hat or gloves. Never mind that my jeans and boots were soaked through from repeated excursions into knee-deep snow that day. Or that it was 15 degrees F (-10 degrees C) out there. This was no time for common sense. The sun was sinking! In this moment of intoxicating stupidity, I set off to become a photographic hero.

Trouble is, it really was cold out there, and I really was wet. Within a couple minutes, I was sh-shivering like a s-scared kitten, and my nose was running like a schoolboy’s. Then I noticed my pant legs crackling when I walked. Because they were frozen solid, of course. Coincidentally, this was about the time I decided my mission wasn’t so important, after all.

I did hold out long enough to shoot 12 or 15 photos. (A few, like this one, weren’t even blurry.) Quite satisfied with my brave effort, I headed back to the car, rather straight-legged, with my frozen jeans crackling all the way. Susanne was waiting patiently, warm and cozy. She might have been wondering why she married a moron, but never actually said so. Cold to the core, I shivered and shook all the way to Lillehammer, but in a very manly way.