Almost a century and a half ago, in a village in Norway's Telemark region, a poor tenant farmer named Sondre Norheim came up with an inspired idea. A prodigy on the wooden skis that had been used in Scandinavia for winter travel for thousands of years, to which the foot was traditionally secured by a loop of twisted birch, Norheim attached a second fitted loop to grip the heel. In doing so, he invented the world's first "relatively" stable ski binding that would allow steeper slopes to be tackled.
All of which explains why I am standing on the gentlest of powder-covered slopes beneath the barn roof that Norheim once jumped off, and where the villagers of Morgedal would gather on Sundays to play on their skis. Because "relatively" is the operative word. I slide forward a bit and fall over. I get up – not without difficulty – and try again. And fall over again. The birch loop slips off one heel. My foot rolls inside the front loop. And I fall over. Finally I manage to descend a very short distance upright, impressed by the huge skill possessed by the early pioneers of modern skiing.
I have to remind myself that on skis like this Norheim travelled 200km in three days to Oslo, where he won Norway's first national skiing competition. He ski-jumped on them as well – including a leap he performed several times off a barn roof with a 5m drop to a bouldery landing – and opened runs down the steep mountain slopes around Morgedal, inaugurating the world's first slalom, meaning literally "twisting track".
Later I climb this first slalom run with Hamish Moore, a New Zealander who has settled in Morgedal. This time we are on modern Telemark skis with artificial (gripping) "skins" attached to the bottoms – but they are still essentially the same-shaped skis as those Norheim preferred. The turning technique, too – dropping to one knee and pushing one ski ahead of the other – was first popularised by Norheim, who also developed the "stem christie" turn. What makes this descent much easier is the fact that the skis we are on now are made of composite material with metal edges, and we are equipped with plastic boots and cable bindings which allow the ski to be turned with relative ease.
I've come to Morgedal for two reasons. The tiny village, which has a single button lift around 500m long, has a huge importance in the history of Norwegian mountain culture. It was not only Norheim who lived here but also Olav Bjaaland, a fellow master skier who developed the sledges that Roald Amundsen used on his trip to the South Pole, and who also broke trail on large sections of the route. The second reason is that I am looking for a different kind of ski experience. At the top of the world's first slalom slope, a wooded slope, we stop at a wooden shelter for lunch. It is midweek and the mountains are deserted. Moore gathers a few sticks and windfall branches and soon we have a fire going to dry our gloves. "It's a cultural difference," he explains. "When people in Norway say they are going skiing, this is generally what they mean." It is an experience far removed from the automated, industrial experience of lifts, crowded pistes and mountainside restaurants, more interested in the business of journeying on lightweight equipment over rolling terrain, or – like us – hiking up on skis before making a descent. And today we are skiing down to the one-room cabin where I am staying at Øverbø, the tiny farmstead where Norheim was born, reached only by a short walk or ski.
If Norheim is one of the two presiding spirits of the place, Bjaaland is the other, their efforts celebrated at the town's small museum. And if the wooden skis were hard to use, not much less difficult is the method of travel favoured by Amundsen in the race to the pole: Nordic skiing behind a dog team. Unlike Canadian mushing, where the handler rides on the back rail of the sledge, this technique involves being tied to the back of the dog sled and being towed on lightweight skis on the downhill sections and running on skis on the uphill to help the dogs. Olav Kjetil Bang, who has undertaken trips in excess of 1,000km with his dogs, tells me most of the falling will happen at the beginning. The skis we are using this time are cross-country skis, waxed for climbing, with soft boots.
He is right about the falling, but only just. It does get easier eventually, but eventually is a long time. The problem with falling behind eight strong moving dogs, some of whose names have been inspired by prog rock bands, is you tend to get dragged along. And stopping and starting behind a heavily laden sledge similar to that used by the polar explorers has its own unique problems, with the momentum generated through the traces (straps), then the sledge and then the towing rope. Finally there are dog turds to be avoided: the poo sticks to the wax and makes the base too slippery to climb.
We are only going 20km in total up into the Rauland mountains, passing the entrance to the valley where the Heroes of Telemark – the saboteurs who hit the Nazi heavy-water project – hid out, to deliver wood and supplies to Olav's winter camp. He tells me stories of polar-bear encounters he had while travelling with his wife in the Arctic regions around Svalbard, and how to ice fish in the lakes we pass, using a birch peg to hold the line and piling the hole with soft snow overnight so it does not freeze over while the line is out. It is a beautiful journey following a track up into the mountains before Olav heads the dog team off towards the woods where he keeps his lavvo – a Sami herder's teepee with a wood-burning stove and reindeer skins to sleep on. Olav's neighbour, a Canadian-style musher, joins us for coffee and lunch: fried sausages rolled up in flat bread.
The 10km back feels easier and is much faster, descending from the wide valley. I learn to relax on the skis and find my balance at last. On the final stretch, the dogs reach almost 30kph, with Olav whooping. It is too fast for me. So I unclip from the sled and ski down the last kilometre under my own steam.
On my last day a ski tour is planned up Ordalsåta with Hamish and Ståle Lindheim, a local Telemarker. We park a little way up the mountain. Hamish wants to video Ståle skiing, so we cut off the track quickly to follow a route to the mountain's first peak through untracked snow. We skin up through soft powder and trees heavy with snow; through the magic silence of the winter woods. There is a short slope to the first peak, with a higher peak beyond where we won't ski because of the flat light. Ståle and Hamish go first, bouncing effortlessly on Telemark turns. I mix up my turns – Telemark, parallel, stem christies and step turns – as we find a way through the narrow glades of trees and even tighter woods. It's all over too soon; my legs are tired after 600m of ascent, the descent and a traverse back through the woods to find the car. It has been only one run. But in this kind of skiing that does not matter. It is a joy to be travelling through the empty mountains.
Essentials
Ryanair (ryanair.com) flies from Stansted to Oslo from £58 return. Winter weekend offer: two nights B&B at Morgedal Hotel, including dinner, two-day lift pass, Telemark ski hire and lessons, approx £321 (morgedal.no).
Basic wilderness cabins from approx £28 pppn (morgedal.com).
Dog sledding trips from £500pp for five days: gulloggronneskoger.no
