A Polar Bear’s Nightmare

The ferry rode lazy swells from Bodø to Moskenes, whose natural harbour of sheer scalloped rock welcomed us to the sunny Lofoten Islands. Emma and I had two weeks in Norway’s north before flying out of Tromsø and had no real plans beyond getting off of the ferry and into the mountains.

Lofoten

Despite an initial wrong turn, we were soon on our way, and that way was up. The merciless uphill tangle of low tree branches and the lack of tread on my thoroughly worn boots were causing me anguish, but Emma was already despairing. Her Osprey bag was heavy and the waist straps were not substantial enough to take the weight off her shoulders to any significant degree. Our progress was… leisurely. We had a small break at the lake that provided water for the town and then continued around it and up the other side. Mercifully the trees had gone but the going was still steep, and soon I slipped into my usual role as the kindly drill sergeant, an oxymoron if there ever was one. On our many mountain excursions in the past, I had assumed this thankless position to hasten our ascent and have since had to become as wily and devious as my long-haired Scottish adversary. She has many tactics in her playbook to rest for longer than necessary, to deceive and to slow progress. On this particular hill, she tried what I like to call the Reverse Weeping Angel. After all the kindly encouragement from her doting boyfriend, Emma would rise from her leaning spot to once again carry her own weight in clear defiance of gravity. Satisfied with her herculean effort, I continued, only to turn again to see her statuesque, vacantly staring into the middle distance. The only sign of life did not come from the internal spark of the soul, instead it was the slight standing sway of a sailor, a drunk or a blindfolded dyspraxic. As soon as our eyes met though, as soon as she was once again under my gaze, movement commenced. The Reverse Weeping Angel.

Traversing the stoss side of a giant rock wave, we were heading to Munkebu hut, where the wealthy hikers of Lofoten settled onto their veranda with tea (and presumably biscuits) but we were not heading to such luxury. Instead, we crossed the boggier sections down to the hut and left the trail further along to scout around for a flat place to pitch up, eat an obscene number of noodles and “wash” using the effective but demeaning “wet wipe method”. The first step is to shed all clothes and sling your willy to the wind or your fanny to the fresh air but, crucially, I’d advise you to do this in the privacy of your tent. No matter how much of a free loving, nudist, hippy you may be, there’s no one that wants to see what is to come. Next turn onto all fours. This manoeuvre ensures maximum leverage to those swampier areas of the body, minimal bodily contact with sleeping surfaces and a life-altering humiliation if you’re seen… hence the tent.

Once we had both completed cleaning rites, we listened to a podcast/snoozed until, through the mutual understanding of the sun and my bladder, I went outside to see a spectacular sight. The most striking part of the scene were the clouds. They were lit up as though being fired by internal furnaces, the searing heat from which was devolving their now fibrous edges to frayed and broken sinews of vapour. These clouds were slowly moving along the pinnacle strewn ridge towards the northern coast and the behemoth that kept watch over its waters. This broad and bare mountain looked like a broken set of pillars to a celestial apse, a giant cathedral weathered and eroded by time. But when it was lit by the orange and pink of another day’s dying light, the original grandeur of its ancient craftsmanship was once again revealed.

The next morning, fuelled by gruel and the promise of a clear, cloudless day, we set off towards Hermannsdalstinden, the second highest peak of the Lofoten Islands. We started by heading downwards between two lakes. Then, we began the long uphill approach to the mountain with some muddy unpleasantness to the base of a uniformly grey, but deeply fractured rock face. There we turned and went down to a stream where we refilled our bottles for the rest of the hot climb. After a brief zigzagging uphill track, we reached a spectacular viewpoint over the fjord to Vinstad, a small village eking out an existence at the foot of giants whose hulking bodies rose vertically from the sea to a gnarled and tangled jumble of peaks. The fjord was a deep sapphire colour but at its edges, and around its islands, it wore a necklace of electric blue and malachite green. Currents visibly altered the blues between the islands, washing the light blue with streaks of darkness and while a couple of boats plied the waters, they were so small as to maintain the serenity.

We dragged ourselves away from the view to tackle the main climb which started on a narrow, overgrown path, negotiating the perilous sweep of a hillside, only to lead us to some pretty sheer clambers. These climbs using ropes, chains and our bare hands had a small margin for error and got the heart thumping at the thought of a slip. Nevertheless, we made it up the most difficult section and rewarded ourselves with dried mango, nuts and chocolate. We picked our way through a scree/boulder slope the rest of the way to the summit under the watchful eye of two giant sea eagles. Twirling in the thermals, their wingspans must have exceeded two metres.

The summit wasn’t an iconic jag of rock, or even a rounded nub, this peak was more of a disorganised jumble of car-sized boulders. On one side of the summit, the lakes and mountains glistened in the afternoon sun, above them were unknown peaks stretching to Værøy, which looked more like an unbroken extension of Lofoten, rather than an island. Beyond Værøy, Røst’s three dark peaks stood in the distant haze, marking a final frontier for the land’s ambitious westward reach. Looking east, there were mountains beyond count, sculpted summits (admittedly sculpted by someone in a rush) and scoured valleys. We sat up there, enjoying the breeze for a while until thoughts turned to peanut butter and sriracha noodles. It was time to return.

Descent Into Madness

We left the Munkebu area early so that we could reach the Djupfjorden bridge in order to hitch our way onwards. The downhill towards the fjord should’ve been welcome but it wasn’t that simple. Emma was already struggling with her shoulders and my dodgy knee was straining significantly. At the end of the long descent was a marshy depression full of mosquitos before a beautiful waterside cabin. Emma mentioned going for a dip once the clouds of bugs had cleared, but time was of the essence in order to hitchhike and make it to the next location in time for a hike so we kept going. The rest of the Djupfjorden hike was meant to be flat and easy along the waterside, but bloody nature got in the way. The path entered a stunted forest which was a horrid jumble of boulders, diagonally growing trees and annoyingly spritely ferns. Combine this with the sloppy mud, mossy holes and the stagnant air, in which the mosquitos floated like fat men on lilos towards their prey, and you can start to get the measure of the claustrophobia we felt in that green hell. Catastrophic anthropogenic habitat loss couldn’t come fast enough. Kilometre after kilometre of our dirty and cumbersome obstacle course passed with gritted teeth. We craved little more than an opening in the tangle of life, a glimpse of sky or water, a breeze to carry the overfed parasites from the air. No such luck. But, after a few hours we did finally make it, we arrived at the road bridge. We were saved.

After some hitchhikes we had a couple of uneventful but pretty days around Ramberg. Camped on a headland, nestled into the spongy long grass, we ate our meals on the beaches all around us. The only hike we did (due to some crossed wires in my gastrointestinal tract) led us to a view of our temporary home on this blustery coast. The beach was being swept over by parallel arcs of wave fronts while the blue waters were being dulled by the dark skies and the chaotic surface squalls. The mountains formed an incredible ridge in the background, with only Volandstinden stepping forward from the crowd, leering over Fredvang and Ramberg like a rogue wave threatening destruction upon its collapse.

Lyngen

Leaving Lofoten we had a restful two nights in Narvik before heading north once more, this time to Tromsø. We found a place to wild camp walking distance from the city centre and we planned our next steps. The Lyngen peninsula had stood out as a place to visit, and we decided that hiring a car would allow us the freedom to see the place properly with our limited time. So, I brought forth the fast decision making of a rally co-driver, I grasped the reigns of our sub-zeitgeist to become the journey’s vibe curator and, finally, I donned the tiara of a passenger princess. We were ready.

The road from Tromsø to Oteren was a well-travelled one along the fjord’s edge, skirting the shallow waters which formed a narrow shelf, a bright intermediary between the land and the unknown and frigid depths beyond. Glaciers fed tumbling waterfalls, plaiting and unfurling themselves on uneven, rocky shelves. Turning off onto the smaller road to Lyngen, the mountains to our right became something else entirely; taller and wilder, they shepherded the forests into sheltered valleys and watched the serene waterways with wise eyes. The fjord began as the final meanders of a mountain river and quickly became a vast channel of sea water, lightly rippled and rocking the moored boats with a rare tenderness. From the small town of Lyngseidet, we crossed to the other side of the peninsula, cruising past sheer rock buttresses that denied the forest a foothold in the mountains, leaving them stark and foreboding. At one point they even started to resemble those that surround Aqaba in Jordan, faults slicing through sandy coloured chevrons and bulges. Just before our final destination of Blåisvatnet car park, we stumbled upon the perfect village. A large lake with a backdrop of vast dark mountains was draining into the fjord along a short but stunning meander. A handful of houses sat above the river’s perfectly clear water, their boathouses at the end of their beautiful gardens. And behind the houses and lake, was a scene from the Rockies. Glaciers smothered high plateaus and splayed into different valleys. Frothing water was ejected at their bases, cascading down spinnakers of dark rock, the ripples of geological processes frozen in time, the ancient breeze abated.

Swiping at Ankle Biters

After reorganising our bags and a pretty easy hike along a mostly dry network of riverbeds, that must rage and rumble relentlessly in spring, we reached the lake at around 5pm. It was stunning and the true magnitude of its blueness was breathtaking, but we didn’t rest until we found somewhere to camp. We decided that we would camp on the opposite bank so had to retrace our steps to cross the river where we found a perfect little grassy camping place. By this time everyone had left the lake and the sun was still high in the sky, there was absolutely no way we were coming to a place with water as blue as that and not go swimming.

After the initial adjustment period to the cold and the incredibly slippery clay bottom, the swim I had was lovely and refreshing. I did have a minute where I thought, ‘Oooh this feels good, maybe I could swim to the middle.’ Then I realised that I am to outdoor swimming what Eric the Eel was to Olympic swimming. Tired. The people’s champion, for sure. But mainly just tired. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. Water is my enemy. Emma fared better in the cold water but we both soon got out for a noodle dinner. The evening’s entertainment was simple, first dodge the tenacious ankle-biting midges and then watch the landscape change with the sun’s reclined journey to the horizon.

We sat on a faraway boulder, past the last trees on our bank of the lake which were gaunt and twisted birches struggling to put out a full showing of leaves even in these sunny summer’s days. Our view unobstructed, we watched the mountains at the source of the lake turn gradually from yellow to orange, then to crimson and finally to a shade of pastel pink, their reflections distorting on the gentle ripples of the constantly dynamic water.

The Way to Steindalen

With an early start thanks to the sun trying to roast us alive at 7am, we were back at the car before most people were out of theirs, leaving the lake as an unsullied memory, our blue refuge in the mountains. With folk tunes replacing the 90s and noughties bangers of the day before, we cruised in the sunshine towards Steindalen. Along the way I watched as an old man in an orange vintage tractor pulled two children in a small boat across their lawn towards the fjord. They dipped behind an old red barn whose planks had been maintained and weren’t curling in the usual defiance of tired nails. The old man and the children reemerged and approached the slick still blue water, its almost oily surface holding dust, pollen and untethered seaweed. Further on, sheep sheltered from the sun in the shade of a partially overturned rowing boat held up by a plank and in quiet hamlets people sold home-smoked salmon from their doorsteps. As tempted as we were, smoked salmon wasn’t what we needed. We wanted something refreshing, so after a brief stop to exchange wary stares with reindeer across the flower borders of a fjord-side meadow, we bought half a watermelon and devoured it in a layby.

If Glacial Terminology is a Trigger For You Just Stop Here

On a a well-worn trail of earth and rock through a steep forest, we were glacier-bound. At the intersection of the thunderous milky blue glacier water and a glassy mountain stream, we refilled our bottles and poked around the idyllic surroundings of a mountain cabin. Not far beyond the cabin we emerged from the forest and into a wide U-shaped valley. To our right were monumental vegetated alluvial fans whose rocks had once poured down from the stacked ridges high above and onto the fringes of the vast expanse of long grasses and berries laid out before us like a luxurious rug. Following the rapids and meanders to our left, towards the featureless heap of grey glacial till at the end of the meadow, we found ourselves somewhere to pitch up for the night, scoffed some crisps under strict snacking orders from Emma and set off for the grey moraine. Despite its difficult appearance the climb was mercifully short and it wasn’t long before we got a good view of the glacier.

Pouring through the saddle in a tumble of pressure ridges and crevasses the ice was finally released by its dark rock handlers and flowed out as a fan, an estuary of ice whose frontier met the lake of melt water and dotted icebergs. Sat on the grey sand beach beside the gently lapping water, you would easily be fooled into seeing this water as an idyllic pool, not understanding that it sits on the precipice of growling waterfalls and the thunderous rush through forest and meadow to the sea.

Emma read and I cooked us some pesto pasta in the wind shadow of a boulder before we headed back. The beauty of the meadow, our home for the night, continued to impress as we descended the grey mound of till. The braided stream, unwinding as a cat o’ nine tails in the sunlight, suddenly played host to a reindeer splashing about and running along the lush green banks. We retreated to the interior of our tent, to lie down, do some crosswords and drift off to sleep. It did take me a while to drift off though. This was because I hadn’t been able to relieve myself before bed due to a couple of hikers appearing and inconsiderately perching on the grey moraine above us. Of course they were savouring the tapestry of nature but they were also keeping watch over all the possible locations for me to defile).

Final Thoughts

Worry not about my colonic distress, that particular problem was solved in the hazy twilight of the arctic witching hour. Worry not for my flavour bereft camping days, for incredible Ethiopian food would soon be discovered in Tromsø. In fact, dear reader, worries may have abounded for others on this particular Nordic adventure. Perhaps, the total lack of planning, the total trust in the kindness of strangers and the total and indescribable vastness of the Norwegian landscapes may have caused worry in others. May have brought them to anxiety or distress. But not I. This was not because of the fortitude of my soul or the vigour of my physicality. Nor was it the courageousness of my heart or my faith in my wits. No, it was merely because I had given up. I had toiled in an earthly Tartarus for the last year. In the shackles of my PGCE labours, I had lacked the time or freedom to do anything other than:

1. Verbally abuse/give life advice to a 21-year-old girl with the social acuity of a lobster.
2. Drink.

I was now free. The stifling shackles of conformity had broken me down to my constituent parts but I was ready to rejoin the wonderful dance of unpredictability. To embrace the delicate alchemy of adventure. To rediscover what it meant to be James Slater. Jimmy Slates. Lionel Richie’s talentless nephew. And I couldn’t have chosen a better venue for this elucidatory expedition than the playground of trolls, the home of Vikings and one of Europe’s last vestiges of wilderness. Norway, dear readers. Norway.