Hello Sunshine!

During breakfast, in the 70s Bond-villian-lare of a hotel, I discover the reason for the difficulties I had at the end of yesterday. The track had not been marked as the hotel was not sure if it could be open for business during the winter months as the hotel was still housing refugees up until a few months ago... Kinda puts my grumblings into perspective :-/

I am in no rush to leave the magnificent views overlooking Lake Hornsjø, but once I do, the skies turns blue as the blank canvas of white awaits my tracks...

With the sun high in the sky, it is not long before I meet a fellow skier - despite taking the route less travelled. The old gent and his bouncy, happy, chocolate labrador had been snowed in their cabin for the last three days and were now taking advantage of the sunshine to escape.

The floodgates appear to have opened as I pass a tsunami of skiers heading for Hornsjø during the first hour. After this tho, the trail goes quiet until I join the prepared tracks at Reina. With the true wilderness now over, I launch down the løypa and along the narrow spit of land separating the grand lakes of Reinsvatnet and Mellsjøen.

With its pristine pistes, fantastic views and gently undulating terrain, it is clear to see why this place has become a World famous cross-country skiing area.

On the outskirts of Nordseter, I rejoin the Trolls Trail to make the final push to Sjusjøen. Nothing too strenuous for the final day, this wonderful trail provides stunning views down to Lake Mjøsa and beyond.

Shortly before the centre of Sjusjøen, the Trolls Trail seems to just disappear and so I join the Birkebeineren Løypa to begin the grand finale of the trip. I follow this 15km ribbon of white all the way down to the Olympic Ski Stadium in Lillehammer. An excellent downhill to finish off the trip. Whilst I may not enter the stadium in the same style or panache as an Olympic athlete; I am just as grateful for making it here.

Sting in the Tale

I find it amazing that the best of days can so easily turn into the worst of days in one brief moment.

6am: It is an early morning start in the cabin as I have a long journey ahead of me. Outside the cabin I find roughly 10cm of fresh snow. With my skis on, I set off to lay the first (and possibly only) tracks of the day.

I head steadily south through the now familiar birch woodlands, past hibernating hamlets and frozen farmsteads; all of these abandoned for the winter months. Whilst the weather makes the journey testing, following the Trolls Trail is a sheer delight and it is with a heavy heart that at Langmyråsen, I leave the Trolls Trail to head to my accommodation in Hornjø. It is here that the problems begin...

Crossing the open mountainside to Lieden is tough as the sticky snow steals my glide. These two kilometres are hard work and easily the toughest of the trip. Things improve after Lieden, but then the trail just disappears. I am not able to find where I am on the featureless slope and in near whiteout conditions, so I simply descend to the road and follow that to Hornsjø. It is a difficult ending to a long and ultimately enjoyable day.

My overnight stay in Hornsjø Høyfjellshotell. Originally built in the 1870s, this place has been everything from a mountain farm to posting inn and from boarding house to hotel. For a period in the 1970s, Hornsjø Høyfjellshotell was the biggest in the country. Tonight, still with a 1970s feel to the place, I can enjoy the calm atmosphere and get myself ready for another adventures day.

Breaking Trail

The cold wind slaps me in the face like an old girlfriend this morning as I first venture outside my snug cabin. Breakfast is served a short walk away in the local cafe. I feel a little out of place, filling my face for the day ahead whilst old dears daintily digest each morsel. That said, it does not stop me :) With my boots filled, it is time to cross the road and continue the journey south.

The icy prepared løypa soon lead back to the freshly covered Trolls Trail. I am the first person of the day to lay tracks across the virgin snow. At some points I glide effortlessly and other times it is like wading through treacle as the sticky snow slows my progress. Even the few tumbles caused by the transition between these two states cannot spoil my enjoyment of this great route through the open birch forest.

With just 4km to the cosy little DNT hut at Vetåbua, the winds pick up and the sleet begins to fall. It is time for me to get indoors.

I ski along, with my head down, hoping that the bad weather of the past few days would work to my advantage for tonight. Lady luck shines on me as I am only sharing the hut with two lovely French engineers: Sébastien and Gwendoline.

The DNY huts are brilliant! They are stocked with food and logs for the fire. I love spending time in remote cabins like this. This hut is not staffed, so my time is spent collecting water, keeping the fire going and preparing dinner. All of these jobs are good fun and complete the mountain experience. So after my feast of smoked salmon on potato cakes for starters; Cashew Nasi for mains (thanks to Jan, Pia and Tom) and a huge slab of Melkesjokolade for dessert, I stoke the fire one last time and head to bed as I have a long day tomorrow.

Following the Canes

I wake from my daylight-saving-time-deprived slumber to the sound of the windows being rattled by the howling wind. Not the most promising sign for the journey ahead. The worst is confirmed when I read the weather forecast... Severe weather warnings for the mountains, I am not going into the mountains today tho, I am just popping into the next valley ;-)

After what has become a morning routine, I retrace the last part of the route from yesterday to rejoin the Trolls Trail. On this cloud covered morning, the scenery is monochromatic. It is as if the strong winds have blown away all the colour.

I find the Trolls Trail without any hassle and continue to travel through the open high mountain terrain. The cold wind stings what little skin I have exposed to the elements and the visibility is poor. I struggle to navigate in the near whiteout conditions, but thankfully there are canes to guide the way.

I am granted a short break from the elements as I ski through a serene birch wood. It is almost long enough to forget how harsh the conditions are, but I am reminded all too soon as I begin the exposed pull up towards the plateau above Oksendalen.

On top of the plateau, the canes that have been my lifeline for today disappear without rhyme or reason. Out come the compass and map once more to see if my skills are up to the job.

Pleasingly, and somewhat fortunately, they are!! After approximately 2km in near whiteout conditions, I happen upon a signpost that confirms I am on the correct path. Moments later the canes reappear as I work my way over the final ridge line and down into the next valley.

As I descend out of the mist, I enter a winter wonderland of untracked fresh snow. I weave my way through the pine forest to spend a night at the Friisvegen Turistsenter. This is the strangest place that I have stayed at so far, but good Norwegian cooking is on offer, so I am a happy bunny :)

Testing Times

There is a cold bite to the air as I lock up the hotel and hide the key. With my mind preoccupied with the challenge of most of today being off-track, I took a tumble skiing down the nursery slope as I set off to rejoin the løypa... How embarrassing!?

I leave the beautifully groomed løypa at Nestra and begin the climb onto the plateau. I wind my way, on a narrow icy track, through the trees. Popping out above the tree line, I stop to take in the stunning views into Frydalen. Shortly later I reach the sheet of ice that is covering the plateau.

The going here is tough as every two or three strides, I lose grip and slide backwards. The icy crosswind is also not helping matters and occasionally causes me to lose balance. There is a real wild feeling to the route today as I work my way across the mountainside past the DNT hut at Eldabu. The route then alters course and headlong into the icy winds.

For a brief moment, the wind dies down and the sun begins to shine. I take advantage of the respite to pause and take in this beautiful place. In the distance, I see two kite skiers dancing across the plateau. The winds begin to pick up and so my head drops to battle onwards and upwards.

Eventually, I reach the tracks coming from Venabu and snake my way between the small hills to my overnight in the quaint fjellhotel.

The route today has really tested me, so I eat, prep for tomorrow and get an early night ZZzZzz...

A Good Friday

Henrik Ibsen described the landscape that now make up the Rondane National Park as a “palace piled upon palace”. To be honest, I will need to take his word for this, as the visibility this morning is poor. I put on my skis on right beside the fjellstue. As I am adjusting my bindings, the first fat snowflakes begin to fall. I stand up, ready to depart, when suddenly a piste-basher appears. There is now a perfectly smooth white carpet to follow into the mist.

After the initial climb out of Høvringen, the terrain gently undulates. Soon I reach the end of the prepared løypa and head into more mountainous terrain. Despite the poor visibility and the more isolated location, there are still quite a few people out on the fjells. I later learn that the Easter weekend is traditionally the time when families in Norway head into the mountains.

The Smuksjøseter Fjellstue appears from between two peaks as I continue to slip and slide my way along the valley floor. Moments later a noise catches my attention. At first, I thought was a helicopter, but then what looks like a converted 2CV ploughs past me towing roughly twenty skiers behind it. As I stand there, bewildered, a second vehicle with more skiers shoots past me.

Given the number of new arrivals, I ski past the lodge and continue to wind my way across the mountain plateau. When I reach the tiny Peer Gynt-hytta, I take a short break. Gradually more and more folk appear out of the mist until the place is overcrowded. When the blue sky finally puts in an appearance, I take this as my cue to leave and start the silky descent to Mysuseter. The blue skies finally overpower the thick grey clouds, I take a look back to se the rounded peaks, deep corries and steep cliffs of the Rondane National Park.

Skiing through the tiny settlement of Mysuseter is a sheer delight. The route follows a babbling brook that has recently been awaken from its frozen slumber. I dodge between Silver Birch on my way down to Fujusjoen. Here, I ski along the edge of the frozen lake trying to find a safe place to cross to Rondablikk.

I am exhausted by the time I arrive in Rondablikk and horrified to see that my accommodation is a building site! Norwegian hospitality being what it is, I should not have worried. The owner has delayed her holiday to greet my arrival (as their only guest of Winter 2016). I am given solo use of a cabin that sleeps more than twenty and has a fully stocked fridge!

Norwegian Words

The doors shut and the train slowly pulls out of the station. Through the window, the sights I have spent the last few days exploring whizz by as if my memory is on fast forward. As Lillehammer fades into the distance, my attention turns to the starting point of the epic journey along the Trolls Trail.

The train ploughs northwards along the valley floor. There is evidence that the sun is beginning to breathe life back into the frozen landscape. Time passes by quickly as I chat to the friendly locals and I am soon leaving the train in Otta.

Set deep in the Gudbrandsdalen, Otta occupies a strategic position at the confluence of the Otta and Lågen Rivers. Being the gateway to the Rondane National Park, Otta is the quintessential feeder town for the Norwegian wilderness: there is not much here in town and what little there is has already closed for Easter.

With nobody to ask and no information about the local bus, I simply trust the Internet research that I had completed days earlier. I retire to the waiting room to sit out the three and a half hour stopover. I am not the most patient person, so it is fortunate that the waiting room provides some much needed entertainment…

I enter the room to find one guy lying across several seats trying his best to get some sleep. Moments after my arrival, a rotund Norwegian lady enters the room. She barks, presumably Norwegian, words at me and my reply is simple: “English?” She huffs loudly to clearly show her lack of approval, and then wanders over to the sleeping guy. She then proceeds to talk at him for the next three hours!

In between there are several cameo roles. The highlights are: a Belgian couple who read the summer bus timetable instead of the winter one, resulting in an eye-watering £230 taxi ride and an English girl and her Canadian friend who somehow ski off the wrong side of the mountain – it will now take them two days to get back to their car!

Suddenly, as if there was a signal that only Norwegians can hear, people start to appear and, within the space of ten minutes, the place is again empty and I am on a bus heading to Høvringen.

The bus snakes its way up the steep cliffs that hold the Rondane National Park in place. At 1000 metres above sea level, the steep cliffs give way to the snow covered upland plateau. The old mountain village of Høvringen is the western gateway to the Rondane National Park and has several mountain lodges. Høvringen Fjellstue is one of the oldest and will provide me with food and lodgings for the night.

In the Saboteurs' Footsteps

Day Seven: Rjukan Fellstue to Vemork

After a leisurely breakfast, I retrace my tracks from yesterday back to the final section of the Saboteurs' route. For only the second time during my trip, I attach the skins to my skis to tackle the steep ascent up to the col. Sweating at -10ºC is a strange sensation, the voice in my head is screaming at me to take off a layer, although I know this is not wise. So I try to occupy my mind with imagining what this must have been like seventy years ago...

The descent towards Rjukan begins as a wide and gentle slope, but soon the trees are coming thick and fast... The camber of the slope changes as the col closes in. I am now descending a steep, narrow gorge filed with trees and huge boulders.

With approximately one kilometre to go the route is just too narrow and steep for me to ski with any type of control. I remove my skis and slither down the side of the valley on foot. Through the trees, I spot the Vemork Hydro Plant perched on top of a cliff on the far side on a seemingly impenetrable gorge. How the hell am I going to get there!?!

As I slide further down the valley wall, I discover a small plaque confirming that I am indeed on the Saboteurs' Route. From here, there is a grand view of the Vemork Hydro Plant. The world's largest power station of the time in 1911 still looks as impervious to an attack as I imagine it was seventy years ago.

Soon after I pop out of the trees and join a road. With my skis now strapped to my bag, I slowly walk along the road to Våer. There is one road in and out of the Vemork Hydro Plant, which spans over a deep chasm with steep icy walls. As I cross the rickety old bridge, I wonder how these brave, resilient men managed, on the evening of the 27th February 1943, to cross this huge expanse.

The answer to this question and many more lies in the many interesting exhibitions in the museum which now fills the building of the old Vemork Hydro Plant. Before entering I sit at the memorial to the Heroes of Telemark and take a moment to contemplate my journey...

Travel is a demanding feat on the Hardangervidda Plateau. Here, man is not the measure of things. Here we are visitiors, and it is only fitting that we should feel small in such surrounding.  So few people wander into the remote corners of the World, I wonder how many more will come to follow? Who else will put on a pair of skis and break trails in pursuit of those secrets told only by wild places?

Once inside the museum, I soak up the history and decide that here is the perfect point to end my story. Before I go, I will leave you with one of my favourite quotes by Benjamin Franklin:

“Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing.”

Hopefully with this trip I have done both :)

Trip by numbers...

Distance: 8.8km

Vertical: 833m

Creature Comforts

Day Six: Helberghytta to Rjukan Fjellstue

The morning of my final expedition day starts with a discussion around the breakfast table. Kurt knows of a route that will, first, be shorter than my intended route and secondly be similar in nature to that used by the saboteurs... Of course, I jump at the chance :)

With my bag packed, I head away from the warmth of the hut and the security of the advised route. As I weave my way between the densely packed peaks, I can see why the saboteurs would use a route like this. Nobody would be able to find me in this maze of granite giants. There is a wonderful fascination about being amongst these majestic peaks. There are periods of quietude when all sounds recede until true silence reigns. For some people perhaps, true silence may seem unnerving, but for me it is reassuring, calming and conducive to feeling of peace and well-being. Here, beauty meets harshness; splendour meets seclusion.

I celebrate rejoining the main route (and shaving approximately 8km off my route!) with a short break to consume my special pink energy bar :) Just as I am ready to set off two Danish girls on their outdoor leader training arrive. We exchange pleasantries:

"where have you been?"

"where are you going?"

"yes, they are heavy skis!!" :)

I actually no longer mind answering this question as it is nice that people show a genuine concern for another human being. Incidentally, the next time I see these adventurous ladies, one will be upside-down and the other will be in a tree!

The main route winds it's way to a col where the descent to Rjukan Fjellstue begins...

I descend through tightly packed trees. It is like trying to sprint through a tube station during rush hour! There is no point looking for why I fall, just when. That said, my most spectacular tumble occurs when a branches catches my left ski, stopping it dead. Meanwhile I continue to balance on one ski for the next 200m with as much control as Frank Spencer on his wild roller skating journey. I eventually have to decide hitting the ground and hitting a tree. The ground gets my vote :)

Shorty afterwards, and panting heavily, I pop out onto the løype tracks and begin to meet people who are not kitted out to survive in the wilderness. This must mean that creature comforts are just around the corner...

A short, sharp descent from the tracks leads me to the cosy Rjukan Fjellstue. This historic mountain lodge is crammed full of farming artefacts from its days as a farmhouse. Tucked in one small corner is an exhibit to the Heroes of Telemark, which includes skis, outfits, parachutes, photos, the propeller of the plane that crashed,... It is all fascinating stuff and gets me in the mood for the final leg of my journey.

Trip by numbers...

Distance: 11.8km

Vertical: 668m

Gone Fishing

Day Five: Kalhovd to Helberghytta

Now I do not want to appear ungrateful, but every single morning a Norwegian has promised me a nice flat day with no hills. This morning, during breakfast, I could feel the build up to this very comment. I had two reasons for doubting this assertion. First, I have heard this so often when it simply was not true.  Secondly, as I stared past the lady who made the comment, I could see the first hill of the day and it looks a big one!

The seemingly endless climb from Kalhovd certainly got my blood pumping. Climbs like this have often resulted in a somewhat disappointing downhill section where the output was in no way equal to the input. This time, however, my effort is rewarded with a 2km downhill! It is a fantastic feeling, relaxing on my skis and watching the mountains sail on by... Happy days!

My momentum runs out half way across Store Nivstjønn. In the distance I can see a figure that appears to be sitting on a chair. Now it is another glorious day, but I am not too sure that -15ºC is the correct temperature for a spot of sunbathing!

As I get closer, I can see that there is an old man fishing through a hole he has drilled into the ice. Unfortunately he speaks no English and my Norwegian can be described as pigeon at best. I have no idea what he is saying (my guess is he is telling me that my skis are too heavy!), though I could listen to him for hours. It does not seem to matter as we share a few giggles before I head off.

Soon I reach the lowest point of the route for today where I take a short break before tackling another big climb. Half way up I see all the snow is churned up - very similar to the path of an avalanche. I am later informed that these are reindeer tracks. I am also given another piece of trivia about reindeer: they only ever run into the wind, so they can smell danger coming.

With the second climb of the day over, I am rewarded with another lovely descent to the Helberghytta. This is the hut I have been looking forward to the most. The hut is named after Claus Helberg, one of the Heroes of Telemark, and is in part a museum to the mission. It so happens that when I got lost on the third day, my bodged route took me right past the hut used during operation Gunnerside. For the next two days, my route has ran parallel to the original route. This knowledge, for reasons that I cannot quite fathom, gives me an enormous sense of pride.

I arrive to find the hut with one spare bed. I sit down to unwind and chat to my fellow travellers, when a Norwegian lady informs me that her husband is a chef. Before I realise what has happened, a pile of smoked trout with scrambled eggs is placed before me closely followed by a pork steak, mash potatoes and veggies. It makes my pasta and tomato sauce seem woefully inadequate. Only one thing I can do... Break out the whisky! The perfect end to a great day :)

Trip by numbers...

Distance: 21.5km

Vertical: 980m

In the zone...

Day Four: Mårbu to Kalhovd

If a walk through sub-zero temperatures is not enough to wake you up, the stench of a chemical toilet should do the trick! Two sensations embed themselves into my consciousness when I venture into the frozen wilds. Coldness and whiteness might come immediately to mind, but these are not for me the things that most command my attention. On all my journeyings, I have always felt more aware of the silence of this frozen land, coupled with a sense of space: a realisation of the vastness of uninhabited territory, reminding me of my own smallness.

After a few repair jobs on my skis and heels, I am fired onto the icy Mår by the slope on which Mårbu is perched. It takes me two hours to ski the full length of the lake after which my route takes me back into the mountains.

I feel in the zone right now. I find any expedition takes a few days for me to acclimatised. I now have and despite the climbs being tough, my equipment being too heavy and not having as much glide as someone on Nordic Skis; I am loving being in the wild mountains of Norway. I am fast running out of exclamations of incredulity. I try to share these views through words, like the ones I write this very second and I share my stories through photographs, though nothing can quite capture the life of this place; but I try.

The final descent to Kalhovd is down a steep icy slope. A Norwegian I met enroute joked that it would be the only time on my entire trip that my skis would be suitable. My skis may have been tailor made for this slop, but any advantage I gained is quickly lost in my tired legs and heavy pack. As a result, I struggle to find my balance point and maintain control as I fly down the icy slope of death at over 50km/h.

I land in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the slope. Fortunately, the only witnesses to my disastrous run is a team of husky dogs who I swear are laughing at me!

Once I had found the entrance to the hut, I enter the time-zone of hut life. Here I eat when I am hungry and sleep when I am tired. It is a hard life in the mountains ;-)

Trip by numbers...

Distance: 19.4km
Vertical: 673m

Are you English?

Day Three: Rauhellern to Mårbu

After such a warm and cosy night in the cabin, I felt ready for another day on the skis. It begins with me retracing part of the route from yesterday to a crossroads of routes. Upon arrival, I check that the signpost is orientated correctly... I have made this mistake before! The post points in the correct direction for Rauhellern and Heinseter, so off I set.

I keep a good pace as I climb onto a plateau. Crossing this frozen desert is a wild and windy experience. It is a bleak expanse where little exists but snow and ice. Off in the distance, I can see the cloud filled valley that holds my destination, so I get my head down and ski hard.

Before I descend into the valley, I take a short break to eat, wax my skis and check the map... Something is not right here!

Moments later a Norwegian Father and Son team greet me:

"Are you English?"

 "Errr... Yes" I reply.

"Ah! We have heard about the English man with the wrong skis!!" replies the Son with a triumphant tone in his voice.

I am not too please that my fifteen minutes of fame is being wasted with such trivialities, but I fake a smile and strike up a conversation with my fellow travellers. The outcome of the discussion confirms that we are heading to different destinations, on different routes and all three of us have no idea where we are! The Son consults his iPhone. This suggests a fourth possibility which is quickly dismissed by all three of us.

A heated discussion ensues between the Father and Son in Norwegian, as I stare into my map then around, searching for an answer. The discussion ends and the Son informs me that he knows where we are... Bugger! He is right. They are on the right path and I am eight kilometres off course.

As is so often the way among big mountains, complacency is a poor companion. I thought my brief check of the signpost was sufficient. It was not and now I have two possibilities:

1. Go back to the start and find the correct valley.
2. Bodge a route together that leaves the recommended tracks.

The Father and Son team leave me to consider my options. As they depart, the Son wishes me a safe trip and reminds me that "navigation in Norway can be tricky".

I consider the first option for a nanosecond and then busy myself planning a new route...

Once again, I took the strain of my rucksack. As my ski skins gripped the crystalline surface the heavy sled lurched into motion. My lungs heaved in the cold raw air. I continue along the trail until I am round Lake Skrykken.

Deciding where to cross the frozen lake is difficult. I stick to the shore for as long as possible to cross the lake at the narrowest point. I pause for breathe before leaving the security and safety of the shore. I ski as quickly as I can with the frozen lake moaning and groaning beneath my skis. Approximately two-thirds of the way across, I meet a set of skidoo tracks which puts my mind at ease.

I enter Skjortedalen at the end of which stands Mårbu, my final destination for the day. Being the first person to ski through shin deep snow is not easy and makes my journey more arduous; my progress begins to slow. The sun is at eye level, just floating above the horizon. The wind has a bite to it. I need to get to this hut before the sun goes down...

As I creep up and over the shoulder of Kosadalsbrotet the hut comes into sight. One more hour should do it! I weave my way through the lumps and bumps, choosing the path of least resistance each time. Weary and aching I arrive at the hut. Once inside, I meet a guy who lives just down the road from me! What a small World we live in.

Trip by numbers...

Distance: 26.8km
Vertical: 944m

Crossing the road...

Day Two: Krækkja to Rauhellern

Leaving the chaos of breakfast time at Krækkja behind, I strap on my heavy back pack, jump on my skis and ready myself for departure. A ski expedition is a bizarre occupation, best suited to those with short memories, a high tolerance to pain and no access to huskies or skidoos. All the aches, pains and negatives soon vanish from my mind as I fly along the frozen lake to Fagerheim. Upon arrival I need to remove my skis to cross a road!?!

After a short climb, the road disappears and I am back on a frozen lake; skiing along, enjoying the view and soaking up the sun. Before I even think of checking the map, the wind turbine that powers the Heinseter Turisthytta comes into view. Here I stop for a spot of lunch, knowing that the downhill run is waiting for me like a big chocolatey desert.

I got a little carried away, enjoying the downhill section, and ended up descending right down to the hut. Now I have a much longer and steeper climb...

Upon meeting folk today, my journey provokes two reactions:

1. "That's impressive!"
2. "You're crazy!!"

I prefer the former. One woman I meet on the climb from Heinseter provides my third lesson in how to be a Norwegian: how to hold my poles.

It is amazing how a great morning can become a shitty afternoon.

The disheartening climb from Heinseter is false summit after false summit. Without having a map with a detailed enough scale, there is only one way for me to figure out where I am. My research indicated that the length of today's route is approximately 28km. It is, in fact, closer to 33km.

Now five kilometres might not sound like a lot, but every false summit is a hope dashed. Every uphill is a struggle as logic tells me not to stop and wax my skis as I am nearly there!!

I am an idiot and have learned my lesson here.

Imagine my despair as I slip and slide my way to the top of a hill only to be confronted by another wall of white. I lose my composure at some points as I look for someone or something to blame for my predicament.

All is calm and everything is forgotten as I round the final bend and Rauhellern comes into sight. I even manage a wry smile to myself.

This charming little hut has everything that I need for a comfortable stay. Latecomers, i.e. me, get put in the cabin with no amenities or electricity... I love it! Especially lying on my bunk putting my thoughts down on paper by candlelight.

Trip by numbers...

Distance: 32.7km

Vertical: 1155m

How to be a Norwegian.

Day One: Finse to Krækkja

During the sumptuous meal last night, I was joined by a Norwegian called Paul. Due to Earth Hour, the meal was conducted purely by candlelight, which was a little weird considering we had just met... I kept an open mind and I am glad I did as Paul turned out to be the perfect guide for my Norwegian adventure.

Paul has been traversing the Hardangervidda once a year for the last thirty nine years. It was this experience that made him look at me in disbelief as I answered every question he had about my adventure. I went to bed with lots of nagging doubts about my route, equipment,...

This morning at breakfast, Paul informed me that his plans for the day have changed and he could give me an introductory lesson in how to ski across the Hardangervidda. So I delayed my departure and took my first lessons in how to be a Norwegian.

Lesson One: Making Sandwiches

I am still slightly embarrassed to admit that I did learn something!

Lesson Two: Waxing Skis to Grip and Glide

The look of disbelief returned to Paul's face when he saw my skis, "these are downhill skis!!"; "I know" I replied timidly.

With my lessons over, I head out on to the frozen lake and up on to the Hardangervidda. Any scepticism I had about the Norwegian methods are soon dispelled as I ski uphill without any problems. As the sun shines overhead, I skirt underneath the impressive Hardangerjøkulen. My journey quickly settles into a rhythm. Up and over a col, then ski along the lake.

En-route I meet many other folk who inform me of two things:

1. The weather is not normally like this.
2. My skis are too heavy for this journey... I am finding this out the hard way!

That said, days like this are worth suffering for! Skies are blue, the snow is crisp and the going on the whole is good.

I am a lonely traveller in this vast landscape. Overlooking the frozen lake and the ancient peaks that flank its shores, I realise that even though I am alone, I am in great company.

The sun is getting lower in the sky as I begin to labour up one more col. The wax on my skis is wearing out and my spirits are beginning to dip. They soon lift as I reach the top of a col and see a hut off in the distance. It is a bit further away than I hoped, but I will take it.

As I descend from the col, I am surprised to see another hut come into sight. It is my hut!

There is another surprise waiting for me when I find my room in the hut. Me. One floor. Twenty mattresses and fifteen Boy Scouts! It is a good job that I packed my earplugs :)

There is no time to gripe as I establish what will soon become my evening routine. Sort skis. Sort maps. Shower. Food. Bed. Zzzzzzz......

Trip by numbers...

Distance: 23.4km

Vertical: 1066m

Like a bullet from a gun...

Time marches on and the temperature counts down as my train winds its way northwards between the lakes and rivers. Often described as the World's best train journey, the Bergen Line links Norway's two main cities, Oslo and Bergen. This journey takes in some dazzling scenery, with the most spectacular stretch being the one over the Hardangervidda, Europe's highest mountainous plateau. Finse, at 1 222 metres above sea level, is the highest point on the line and my time to leave the train. As I am collecting my gear, the display informs me that the temperature outside is -9°C.

I step off the train and the cold biting air slaps me in the face. The perfect antidote after five hours of drifting in and out of consciousness. Finse nestles between Hallingskarvet National Park and Hardangervidda National Park on a wide open expanse of white, as if I have landed on a frozen moon.

First, I check into my accommodation for the evening; the historic Finse 1222. Built in 1909 as a rescue lodge for passengers on trains that were obstructed by snow or bad weather, nowadays it is a museum-cum-hotel. The place is littered with artefacts from the building of the railway. A little corner of the hotel grabbed my attention straight away. Here there are photos and memorabilia from when Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back was filmed here.

After dumping my bag, I decide to go for a quick ski to warm my legs up. As I tighten my boots, I watch two Norwegians being catapulted through the air by the rickety old button lift. Now it's my turn...

I take hold of the button. Nothing happens. A huge bear-sized man shows me the lever that needs flicking. I flick and my arms feel like they are stretching cartoon-like as the lift snatches me from my standing position.

Fortunately I keep my balance, although I am never comfortable on the ride to the top of the hill. The views Southwards of the snowy plateau stretch for miles show me what the days ahead have in store. I see another train pull into the station below me. There, a few hours earlier, one journey ended and now another begins...

The Heroes of Telemark

Seventy years ago today, during WWII, a small group of Norwegian saboteurs put their lives at risk to stop the Germans gaining access to a substance called Deuterium Oxide or 'heavy water', a secret ingredient crucial in the Nazis attempt to make an Atomic Bomb.

In 1943 the only place producing 'heavy water' was the hydroelectric power plant at Vemork, near Rjukan. The Allies wanted to destroy this factory, but its location ruled out a low-level bombing raid, so the answer was a direct assault which had to negotiate a narrow bridge over a three hundred foot gorge. To avoid detection, the saboteurs were dropped high up in Northern Europe's most inhospitable environment, the high mountain plateau of the Hardangervidda. The men then travelled through this harsh mountain environment towards their ultimate target, finding shelter as they went.

It is not the commando raid that captured my imagination, but the saboteurs' ability to survive in these mountains and endure the horrendous conditions that actually made Operation Grouse possible. That is why I am heading to Norway...

Despite being a novice skier, I plan to undertake an adventure similar to this remarkable journey. I will not be retracing the exact ski tracks of the Norwegian saboteurs; instead I will traverse the plateau from North to South.

My starting point will be Finse, the highest point of the Norwegian Railway System, located at 1222m above sea level and the training grounds for the ill-fated Scott expedition to the South Pole. It was also the place where George Lucas chose to shoot the ice planet Hoth in Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back.

After six nights out on the vidda, I will arrive in Rjukan to see the actual attack route used by the saboteurs and visit the Vemork museum to give further insight to the original operation and to round off what I hope will be a memorable trip.

All roads lead to Göteborg

After a lovely breakfast, we all head down to the harbour and hop aboard the family boat. As we cruise along the fjord, the boys and I sit on the front of the boat riding the big waves. We dock at a little rocky outcrop for a spot of crab fishing and enjoy a BBQ. What a life! :D

Alas, I have to leave as my ferry departs this evening and I still have one more country to visit! I say goodbye to the gang and leave them to fill the crab bucket :)

One lane becomes two and then three as I hurry towards the Swedish border. The bridge from Norway to Sweden offers a stunning view out to sea. Just one hundred miles to go!

I follow the Göta älv into Göteborg and reach the area where the harbour is. I can see the ship. I can even see the sea! Can I find the entrance? Not easily. I turn left. I turn right. I carry on straight ahead. The result is the same; I head to the centre of Göteborg. I end up going through the Lunby Tunnel four times before I eventually discover the tiny turning for the freight harbour.

It is here, whilst waiting to board the ship, that I will finish the story of my latest odyssey. It is not that the adventure is over. No way – I am very much looking forward to the summertime escapades with my friends and family. Next time my wheels roll will be on the green and pleasant land of my home. I have ridden my motorbike all the way… The Long Way Home.

Distance: 179.3 miles

A Good Deed

After the best breakfast of the trip so far, I start the day with a good deed. A Swiss biker is heading North and is short of few pieces of equipment. Since I am heading South to supposedly warmer and drier climes, I hand mine over. I now hope the weather Gods will smile on me…

Shortly after leaving Trondheim en-route to Moss, I cross the three thousand mile barrier for the entire journey as suburbia gives way to farming and then forests. Southwards the scenery is mixed but the winding ascent to Støren through the Sokmedal valley is as good as any on the whole trip.

Crossing Dovrefejellet I am reminded of Saltfejellet wearing its Sunday best. Norway’s oldest national park is a wild but not bleak mountain plateau of wonderful beauty. The views are picture postcard perfect. It is all a bit twee really.

Dombås is the definition of a tourist centre. This orgy of caravans, campervans and motor homes is a bustling and lively stopping place for travellers. It is so liberating to be on my motorbike as I easily weave around ill thought out parking manoeuvres or general incompetence.

I am exhausted as I arrive in Ringebu, the midpoint for today’s route. I pull off the main highway down a small track and take a quick nap on the banks of the Lågen in the scenic Gudbrandsdal.

As I approach Oslo I begin to tire and seem to enter a trance like state as the unvarying scenery of farmland and forest does little to capture my imagination. In the Southern commuter belt of Oslo, in the town of Moss, lives my old friend Brookie and his family. I have only seen Brookie once since he moved to Norway. It is lovely to see a friendly face at the end of long day and enjoy some home comforts.

Distance: 373.1 miles

Highway to Hell

Today I leave the Arctic Highway behind. South of Mo i Rana essentially the same road has the catchy title of “European Route 6”.

As I ride through the suburban sprawl the heavens open. I cannot complain though as I ride through more lush scenery – in any weather this is a stunning place to be.

The next two days are all about eating up the miles as I have a ferry to catch!

The first pit stop is at Laksforsen, another impressive waterfall where if you are lucky salmon will be leaping. This natural beauty spot is spoilt (in my humble opinion) by the construction of a café. To add insult to injury they have also erected huge fences to prevent people from viewing the falls, unless of course you can climb – which naturally I can  :)  As I sit on top of their fence admiring the falls, I wonder what gives someone the right to prevent others from sampling one of Mother Nature’s gems…

Just South of Majavatn is a fairly impressive sign to signify the start (or in my case the end) of Northern Norway. As I set up my motorbike in the right place for the obligatory tourity photo, I drop it for the first time on the whole journey. Weary from all the riding, I struggle to lift the 350kg monster. Fortunately there is no shortage of volunteers to help lift my motorbike back into place.

My next stop has little to offer other than a cheap chuckle. For next time someone suggests that I can go to Hell, I can honestly say that I have been there and back and it was not that bad ;-)

It is a strange having ridden so far South to reach the most northerly place in Norway that merits the classification of ‘city’. Trondheim, Norway’s original capital, has a great feel to it. I instantly feel at home here. Perhaps it is the compact centre. Perhaps it is the cosmopolitan feel. Perhaps it is the student vibe. Whatever it is, Trondheim has an unrivalled charm. I wish I had longer to stay…

Distance: 306.5 miles

A day at the races

Despite the potential for supernatural events, an uneventful night results in a very good night's sleep. It is a chilly and bleak morning on the high moorland of Saltfjellet. Surrounded by snow, I set off southwards in search of warmer climes…

Approaching the summit of the plateau, the Arctic Highway is snugly sandwiched between the railway and some splendid rapids. The watershed between north- and south-flowing streams indicates the highest point of the vidde, at just over 692m.

Shortly after this I reach the Arctic Circle, which is marked by a line of cairns and the recently built Polarsirkel Senteret. It is quite a contrast with my first crossing of this significant waypoint. Still, I stop to sample the mass produced touristy tat and cannot help but feel that something of the magic of crossing the Arctic Circle has been lost.

Leaving the railway line and the tourist trap behind, I feel my spirits rising as I descend into a lush, green environment. The Arctic Highway now criss-crosses the course of the River Rana through Norway’s second most northerly spruce forest.

Further down the Highway is one of those surprises that could easily be missed. A large white sign indicates that the small road to right will lead to the Arctic Circle Raceway! I feel compelled to investigate…

I follow the narrow poorly maintained road for a few kilometres. The only thing stopping me from giving this up as a weak practical joke is the occasional set of wiggly tyre tracks; as if people were warming up their tyres for something…

As I turn onto the track of a disused railway, I feel like I have been had. What was I thinking!? A racetrack a snowball’s throw from the Arctic Circle…and then it appears. This 3750m racetrack is reported to meet the standards of Formula One racing. I head over to a man wearing a Manchester United cap and before I know it, he agrees for me to race a few laps!

It is at this point that I should mention that I love riding my motorbike, but I do not consider myself a biker. Nor am I a speed demon, as my friends Ralf and Dick will confirm. I pootle along taking in all the sensory stimuli that you miss when you are encased in a car. I do not think there is any feeling in the World like that of covering hundreds of miles on the back of a motorbike.

All that said, once I get on the racetrack I hear Murray Walker’s commentary in my head and I fly! I try to stick to the racing line marked out by the rubber on the track. This involves taking corners at 90mph and almost touching the floor with my knee. By the end of my second lap, I have a huge grin on my face, so I turn off into the pit lane, wave goodbye to the kind folks and head back to the Arctic Highway.

With only eight miles left until my final destination of the day, I stop for some lunch in Røssvoll and go over the details of my next excursion…

Route 353 leaves the Arctic Highway and passes the local airport situated on the South end of Langvatnet. Shortly after, there is a fork in the road and I opt for Route 354 which follows the Røvass, a river carrying the meltwater away from Svartisen, Norway’s second largest ice mass. My destination is Lake Svartis in the hope of seeing the snout of the glacier, but the glacier is shrouded in mist.

I head back to the junction with Route 353 and this time take Route 355 across the turquoise coloured Røvass to Melfjordbotn. The destination is not important; the journey is the part that interests me. Until 1982, the only way to Melfjordbotn was by boat. Now a beautifully engineered road climbs up on the Melfjellet. The scenery is quite spectacular: ice-scoured rock, small lakes waterfalls and magnificent peaks – this is a thrilling place to be.

Suddenly, and almost without any warning, Melfjordbotn can be seen through the thin clouds hundreds meters below at the head of the fjord. The road then steeply snakes its way off the plateau. I pray I do not meet another vehicle. The road is, at some points, barely as wide as a car and the hairpin bends are so sharp that I wobble my way around them in first gear.

Once I am below the clouds I am soaked to the bone by a heavy downpour, so after a few photos of Melfjordbotn I hop back on my bike and head to Mo i Rana.

The Arctic Highway follows the river and railway line through a magnificent gorge to Mo i Rana. Mo is home to Anthony Gormley’s Havmannen (Man of the Sea) and will be my home for this evening.

Distance: 151.7 miles