To this day, a small white box sits tucked away in the archives of a nondescript building in downtown Copenhagen stuffed next to other artifacts from a time when “frozen” meant death. The back of that seemingly insignificant box reads, “Grandfather’s beard, from the days of exile.” Inside that box lies the bushy, reddish-orange beard of a man whose life seems more fitting for Norse mythology than Danish fairy tales.
In 1926, Peter Freuchen found himself weathering a -65°F blizzard imprisoned between a boulder and his dog sledge. It was a tomb of his own making–a space so small that his beard had frozen to the ice on his sledge.
He had nowhere to turn. Literally.
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