He knows he's in trouble by the time he gets to the iceberg. The sky is full of colors. There are painfully tall grey-blue trees here and there, nothing he recognizes, otherworldly as anything. He tries retracing his steps. But there are no footsteps in the snow.
You're not supposed to be able to get to the spirit world by walking. You have to meditate. But either he's in the spirit world or he had some bad mushrooms for dinner, and it doesn't really feel like the second thing. It's surreal, but there's a sense of - finality, weightiness - to the things around him. Mossy ice towers looming above. A warm oasis bursting with multicolored life. It just keeps getting more alien, less like the arctic glacier that he just left.
Nothing tries to talk to him. That's... Good? Probably. Spirits can be very vengeful if a human offends them, and it's easy to offend them. But he feels them watching him. There's all sorts of stories of fates worse than death in the spirit world. The face-stealer. The dream-dragon. Things that will eat your eyes and fingers but keep you alive. They're probably not exaggerated.
He wanders. He drinks from his waterskin. He doesn't eat anything. He doesn't touch anything. He naps, once, when he finds a spot that seems - empty, still. It's nerve-wracking, knowing that some horror could sneak up on him at any moment, but nothing does.
He spends hours and hours wandering at night, and then half an hour under a noontime sun, and then in twilight, and then some time under a purple-red sky festooned with stars almost as bright as the moon. Eventually, things start getting less surreal, less twisted and alien. Those are trees. And bushes. And birdsong. All perfectly ordinary, without that ethereal layer of unreality, even though it sounds like he's in the Earth Kingdom or something now.
He keeps wandering, marking his trail as best he can, rather weak having done nearly three days without food and with little sleep by now.