Glitterheim - Memurubu

I awoke to grey skies and low-hanging clouds above the skylight in the dorm at Glitterheim. Last night’s oatmeal deluxe dinner hadn’t done wonders for either morale nor physique, and I felt pretty sluggish munching my avocado breakfast outside the hut – morning dew soaking through my tights. When the weather isn’t great, I tend to think of that day’s trail as more of a transport leg rather than an inherent treat. There was no point in lingering, so I twisted my hair into pigtails and set forth on the soggy trail.

The way to Memurubu began where yesterday’s trail ended, with a long climb up rocky moonscape to the snowfield and intersection where I’d come from Gjendesheim yesterday. So far I’m not digging eastern Jotunheimen. Too rocky and barren without much charm to compensate on a cloudy day. I knew I could get to Memurubu fast if I could get into the “primal gear” zone and propel myself forward on snacks alone since I’d had my lunch for breakfast.

And into the zone I settled. Back up to the saddle, over the snowfield – where I took a moment to stand still in the utter quiet and watch the mountains loom all around me – down past the wet scree, turn right at the intersection and follow the trail as it dipped into the valley and rejoined the shores of Russvatnet. A flock of fluffy sheep eyed me curiously as I ate my energy bar with great enthusiasm without breaking stride. The landscape turned lusher near Russvatnet, where I could enjoy the little beaches and brown earthen trail (in solitude this time).

My dried mango break next to a waterfall brought me into conversation with an older couple climbing peaks in the area. “Are you hiking all alone?”, the woman asked (as they always do). “Yeah, none of my friends want to join these multi-day hikes”, I explained, not exactly lying. The truth is that I have plenty of friends who would love to come out here, but 1) I like hiking alone and 2) at this point, none of said friends can keep up with me. I like feeling the power of race-hiking when the terrain allows it. Back in the day I used to be such a lazybum, and fastpacking it solo makes me feel like a wilderness athlete. After the couple left, I plugged in Florence & the Machine and blasted ahead, digging into the mountain crest at Nedre Russglopet. At the top I reached an intersection signposting down to Memurubu, which I could see on the shores of Gjende far below. Up leftwards lay Besseggen ridge. So it is here tomorrow’s trek would resume.

After a knee-killing decent I paid for an expensive dinner and overnight stay. Memurubu is a private hut not operated by DNT, and both the atmosphere and prices reflected the private sector. It was only 14.00, and I had hours to kill before dinner. I cashed out on a massive waffle soaked in strawberry jam and sat hungrily contemplating whether I was shameless enough to buy a second from the awkward receptionist. Let us just say the cravings won out. I folded it up like a taco wrap and licked the dripping jam from my fingers like I’d hiked 100 miles already. Sitting outside Memurubu with the Ålesund guys, a Swedish woman asked us about the route I’d just hiked. I talked her through what to expect, and how long she would probably take between the huts. She scrutinised me carefully before turning back to her beer and muttered “Well, you are hardly representative”.

I sat hugging myself and purred smugly for a while. Little did the woman know that she’d poked into the reason why I’d become a thru-hiker in the first place: because I needed to claim the extraordinary. Sitting among other day-hikers at Memurubu - hikers with chunky leather boots and expensive puffy jackets who wouldn’t touch a trekking pole until their retirement – I realised that I am different from them now. This is my home turf; this trail life belongs to me.

Being a thru-hiker feels different from being a student, a writer, an activist, an equestrian. I cherish all those roles too, but they had settled pretty naturally as my life took its due course. I could not pinpoint any specific moment when I actively chose to become either of those things. Hiking is different. I very consciously decided to become a thru-hiker. I meticulously morphed into the Thermarest NeoAir XLite-carrying, toothbrush-cutting, calories-against-weight-calculating, water-filtering, don’t-think-twice-about-it hitchhiking dirtbag who doesn’t carry even a small hairbrush anymore. Did all the research, picked gear and trails with a surgeon’s precision.

Coming home to Oslo after hiking the Te Araroa, I was completely smashed and questioned whether I’d ever hike a long trail again. I’d accomplished what I’d set out to do and wasn’t sure whether thru-hiking was something I would pursue in the future. Two months later, I was browsing for new trails. Hiking now, even short little hops like these three days, feels like exercising my identity. By blazing these trails at thru-hiking speed with a thru-hiker’s mentality, I am claiming a space inside of me that I created from scratch and that now constitutes a big part of who I am. When I hike, I am more… me than when I do most other things in my daily life. Like Alice, I feel so much muchier.