Hiking in Hardangavida

“Norwegians are hilarious.” Matt’s statement by far the driest thing of the trip, considering the relentless conditions that ravaged us for two weeks. “Look what I’ve done Olaf” (feel free to replace this with another stereotypical Norwegian name – if you can think of one), “look what I’ve told the silly British hikers how long this path will take!”
I slid across a rock onto an outstretched tree root. Hilarious. It was like Bambi had formed an ice hockey team with Thumper and his gang of woodland creatures, such was our incompetence on the slippery slope. Our heavy bags acted like tortoise shells, protecting us from the rocks, yet marooning us whenever we plundered. ‘Plundering’ occurred regularly.

Andy was at an all time low, his in-growing toenail impatiently pushing against the end of his boot, incessantly poking and prodding. Bloody – raw. Swollen like our tired eyes and Matt’s allergy-ridden face. Agony, as the accumulative weight of body and bag squeezed tightly against the tiny pressure point of pain. The group took their frustrations out on the jokers that had produced our map. Our map. The root of all that was evil in the world.

“We could book some flights to Oslo, roughly £30 each way, back pack through the Norwegian wilderness, taking advantage of their pro wilderness camping rules. Fish, hunt, build fire, MEN MEN MEN!”

Matt’s email. The one that got the ball rolling (our traditional annual road trip in the camper-van had been scuppered by time constraints.) This ill-researched scheme coming from the “man” who moisturizes daily and once brought a pair of gas-powered hair-straighteners on a surf trip to the West coast of France. Matt, the elder of the Coles brothers, known as Jimmy Hill for his prominent chin, epitomizes the new age ‘metrosexual’. If there was a wilderness-off between Matt and Jonathan Ross, the peacockish presenter would probably win.

Andy, or ‘Toad’ is a city slicker at heart. Having spent the past year working in London for ‘the man’, he looks strangely unfamiliar in anything but an impeccably trendy suit. He does not mince his words. Especially it seems, when it comes to expressing his dissatisfaction with Norwegian... quirks.

The younger Colesy can be equally vocal with his grievances. He is also renowned within the group for his over-average ability to build fires. Unfortunately, it transpired that this adroitness was largely worthless, as trees, or indeed any sort of vegetation, were scarce.

I looked back on our departure over a week previously, and wondered where it had all gone wrong. Embarking from our hostel in Finse into the dull morning mist, our collection of wannabe explorers vacated with a vigor reminiscent of the Vikings, who graced these shores centuries ago. A clear path, not too steep. Bags heavy but manageable. And the weather would improve right?

Seven hours later and we were lost. Certain we were next to a big bit of water and some large rocks, exactly which ones were anyone’s guess. Prediction weren’t necessary when some fellow hikers (Norwegian as it happens), took out a completely different map to ours. This alien map illustrated that we had taken a wrong turn six hours earlier, at the ‘quite big rock’.

Disregard for compass bearings had cost us. Our reward was a wood-shed. Too far to turn back and nothing but uncertainty ahead, we were stuck between a rock and... some more rocks. With no other options for shelter, we broke into the shed in a valley called Fagernut. Complete with stagnant ‘Utedo’ (Norwegian for ‘toilet’) and some resident rats, our stay at the Fagernut Hilton did not surpass expectations. The morning found many of us questioning what we were doing there. It found all of us questioning why Matt looked like he had spent the night face-humping a toilet plunger. Red and swollen, we observed our gangly friend with a mixture of pity and amusement – the latter far outweighing the former. Our situation that evening however, was far from comical.

Swathed in darkness, the four conquerors shuffled blindly down a cliff-face. For the second night in a row, we had got it wrong. Very wrong. Matt later admitted to being fearful of our lives. Although a tad melodramatic from the man whose face now looked like a scolded puffin, I conceded that our plight was far from ideal.

Our suspicions had been aroused earlier that day. Stopping for some well-earned Super Noodles, we were passed by some hikers coming from our intended destination, Rembesdalseter (a name only Tom ever got the hang of pronouncing, meaning he had to interject any time we wished to articulate our past whereabouts.) Their skin was haggard like old leather boots, each facial line representing a treacherous mountain route they had once scaled. As Tom told them where we were headed, their wrinkled faces contorted into looks of apprehension. Far from serve as a warning, this negativity merely galvanized our over-inflated egos. We pushed on. Our second mistake in as many days.

Tom and I wanted to ‘Ray Mears it up’. We even debated whether to purchase an air rifle from one of the many ludicrously expensive outdoors shops in Oslo. It wasn’t just these stores that stretched our wallets. Norway is the second most expensive country in the world – a point we failed to fully appreciate before seeing a Mars Bar priced at the equivalent of £3.50. Pricey sustenance was yet further motivation for Tom and I to try some hunter gathering, and endeavored to fish for our food at every opportunity. Our rods had come in vacuum-formed plastic packaging. A hallmark of quality. After each attempt we would return from the waters edge to our expectant wives, Andy and Matt, empty-handed. Each time we would claim that the lack of fish made our task impossible. In the back of our minds, we recalled the countless tales of tourists doing little else but compliment the fish on their shiny scales to coax them onto the dinner plate. What were we doing wrong?

To survey a map of the Hardangervidda region – or indeed any of Western Norway – is like observing a Jackson Pollock painting. The rocky canvas is spattered with thousands of blue specs, each fjord impossibly unique in form and volume – products of the end of the ice ages, when the glaciers cut deep grooves into the land and flooded the vast, rolling fells. Though, according to the Hitchiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, it was Slartibartfast, the designer of planets, who created these natural wonders, and for which “he won an award.” When Earth Mk. II was being made, Slartibartfast was assigned to the continent of Africa. He was unhappy about this, because he wanted to make more fjords, arguing that “they give a continent a baroque feel.”

The largest of the remaining glaciers, Hardangerjøkulen, set an imposing figure amongst the jagged horizon. The westerly winds whipped off the peak – inescapable – relentless, the plateau’s commanding presence always felt as we attempted to circumnavigate the 1,863 meter turret. A baron, treeless moorland (not dissimilar to Mordor in Lord of the Rings) surrounded us. It was slippery underfoot and the lack of any colours but neutral greys was starting to take it’s toll on the moral of the group. However, to the west side of Hardangerjøkulen, the landscape finally began to transform, becoming much flatter and vegetative. The afternoon sun made an unpunctual appearance, transforming the many pools and lakes into mirrors, and casting a warm orange glow on everything it touched. This was all very idyllic, but we were yet to see any sign of our cozy cabin. Tom’s knee, outraged by the steep gradients and heavy bag, was beginning to cause him discomfort. He grimaced with every jarring movement as he tried to keep up with the group’s anxiously swift pace. Matt had become disconcertingly silent. His usual array of witty comments set aside to concentrate what little energy he had on forward motion. By contrast, the city boy’s energy was unwavering. Office life had clearly not dashed his enviable natural fitness.

Nightfall became a stitch in our side, impossible to ignore. A hand-painted sign balancing between a small pile of rocks, told us that the cabin was close. Another Norwegian prank? Or was it really nearby? “No amount of money could persuade me to walk back to Finse right now” Tom remarked; one of those comments that despite being unrealistic and inconsequential, was still worth considering. I decided five million (after tax) would have done it. Not a penny less. To Andy’s utter disgust, the warm glow of one of Hardangervidda’s communal cabins did not materialize before us. Instead, we were forced to shuffle sheepishly down a near vertical mountainside that would have been sufficiently tricky in full daylight. Matt further hindered our chances of fishy glory when he dropped one of the rods into the black abyss. Despite the fact he probably would have fallen to his death had he have tried to rescue the doomed instrument, the 2 hunter gatherers were enraged by his clumsiness.

The dangerous decline smoothed out into a more defined path, yet there was still no suggestion of the hallowed cabin. Dispirited and disheveled, we finally gave in, settling on the first suitable camping spot (the first patch of grass) we had seen all day. A tasty, caramel flavored hot chocolate was scant consolation for thwarted dreams of a crackling fire and dry bed.Morning brought sunshine and breathtaking scenery. The cabin, which turned out to be just over the hill, was heaven - truly worth the intense muscle fatigue we were all now feeling. The two adjacent cabins had all manner of luxuries. One had a gas stove. The other held an unimaginable wealth of food in its larder. Shelves were lined with tinned fish, pasta and sauces. Cans of meatballs accompanied powdered mash and a variety of tinned meats, with names like ‘Bog’ and ‘Sag’ further examples of the Scandinavian sense of humour. Biscuits were plentiful - fish were not. Despite our best efforts, they continued to elude Tom and I. We were beginning to worry that we were not hunters at all. Merely hapless.

The lack of running water in the cabin was a minor inconvenience, but regular forays to a nearby stream solved our sanitation issues. The sight of four English lads, theatrically tiptoeing back from a refreshing dip, was surely Norwegian comedy at it’s finest. Our high-pitched screams were like pigmy yodels echoing through the valley, our shriveled manhoods barely visible in the crisp open-air.

This method of cleanliness was less viable when other hikers began to arrive. Notably Hans and Julia, a German couple taking a weekend break from their studies in Sweden. Hans was the trekker I longed to be. His full beard, (probably grown that same day) partially covered his sickeningly chiseled features. His giant feet* propped up his bulging calves. He spoke casually of the treacherous journey we were still recovering from, prompting looks of incredulity from Andy. Julia looked fit enough to keep up with what must have been a rapid pace. We respectfully admired the impressive curvature of her toned buttocks in long johns.

After a few days of relative luxury, we begrudgingly moved on, bidding farewell to warmth and comfort, into the arms of damp disillusionment. The precipitation persisted, as we struggled south up a climb every bit as challenging as before. Our puffy-faced friend blundered on a ledge, sliding backwards for several meters, before landing with a thud on his tortoise shell bag. Later, as the ground afoot alternated between glassy rock and boggy marshland, Andy sank waist deep into a quagmire, and required dragging free with a stick. While this did nothing to improve his mood, it provided the rest of us a rare moment of entertainment. We wondered if the Norwegians appreciated slapstick.

Never before had we experienced so much rain. It was inescapable. Even when we decided to set up camp early, the best pitch available was in ankle deep marshland that seeped through the tent floor. A leaky ceiling ensued shortly after. It seemed that our accommodation was not built for anything beyond a light spattering. Andy had a tiny pair of Ipod speakers, and the four of us laid intertwined in our damp cocoon, eating a boil-in-a-bag sausage casserole and listening to old Ricky Gervais Podcasts - chuckling in spite of our sodden situation.

The weather had won, and it was time to return to civilization with tails between legs. We saw out the week staying in various hostels - each more expensive than the last. In an ultimately feeble act of retribution, Tom and I stole a boat from a particularly pricey establishment whose corridors resembled a mental asylum. Nabbing the kano was simple. Finding oars was not. Eventually settling on a soggy piece of driftwood and an old waterski, we scurried along the bank and set sail, sniggering as if we had just spelt a rude word on our calculators. Within minutes we had been swept to the other side of the fjord, resulting in an hours frantic paddling with our makeshift instruments of velocity. Needless to say, dinner did not contain fish that evening.

It was our last day and we spent it standing on the sea wall, looking out onto the large historical harbor of Bergen, in a last gasp attempt at that elusive catch. It was raining as usual and we were half an hour from giving up for good. A dread swept over me as I heard the mocking voices of those who had been to Norway with infinitely more success. It was then I felt the unfamiliar yet unmistakable tug. A glorious battle ensued - one that has already begun to be exaggerated in accounts of the event. The relief was spectacular - the celebratory dance, majestic. Fresh fish was finally on the menu and we were no longer hapless, returning to a dry England with at least a shred of dignity intact.

We wanted to hate the Norwegians. Their Mars Bars were ludicrously pricey, their maps misleading and their country did not stop raining. The trouble was, it just so happened that our true experience of our Scandinavian neighbors had been nothing but positive. A point exemplified by a lone hiker we met on our way to Rembesdalseter. As we approached, he greeted us cheerily, explaining in broken English that he was staying in a cabin with some friends in Finse - hiking by day, drinking and playing poker by night. We were envious. Beers were heavy to carry - not to mention costing around five pounds a can. To our delight, he took a spare tinny from his backpack and handed it to Tom. Our new best friend left us to savor the sweet bitter taste of the Norwegian brew atop a rickety footbridge, swinging our legs freely above the torrential river. “Norwegians are great”, Tom remarked. I agreed.

I am already planning for next year. Mid-summer may be preferable.

*I later noted that all of the German people I have met on my travels, seemed to have unusually large feet. I feel compelled to research this inane observation further.