Kjeldebu - Riksveg 7

-20 C degree morning. All plans of evacuating bed abandoned until further notice. Took a moment to inspect the bodily damage. Aiaiai… Only at 09.30 did I work up the courage to wrap myself up in three layers and head out into the freezing wind that numbed my face and swept the icy ground clean of any precious powder snow that might have been left. Wobbling away from Kjeldebu I felt a bit like an Arctic explorer having a bad day.

Friction sore from the waistband of my tights

My Tasmanian hiker friend Jo’s words from the West Highland Way echoed through my head: “I feel like I’m walking on a cheese grater”. More like bacon slicer at this stage. I knelt in the freezing wind, undid my boot laces and removed my insoles. Walking directly in the shoes without any sole at all felt slippery and cold, but it was better than the high-friction insole tearing at my freshly popped blister with every step. I had almost 10 km to go before reaching the road where I could get a hitch to Geilo, and from there a train back to Oslo. There was no way I could go on. All hands on deck now to see this day through. Into the Wild to the rescue.

Rather laborious things these uphills in head wind. Come on Eddie Vedder, help me out. My superglue skins put the gradient to shame, searing foot pain and all. The edge was just there… and oh! You know the scene in 101 Dalmations when the puppies come over the field and the policeman says “Why, will you look at that”? The same awe hit me with the force of the wind throwing my hood back off my face.

Ahead of me lay the real Hardangervidda, a great plateau so flat and so bright white it hurt to look at it. How could anything be this beautiful? The vast expanse beneath my feet shone like a galaxy of diamonds. It felt like being trapped in the moment when your camera flash blinds you. The sky begins at your feet.

I abandoned the tracks, I didn’t need them anymore. Far and away lay Rauhellern, too far for my foot and my skins. But I felt afloat with happiness in this solitary world of absolute stillness. How can I not be grateful for being made of the sort of stuff that would allow me to undertake adventures like these? How can there be anything greater than walking in the sky? A writer at the thinktank I was currently involved with through a youth programme recently asked me about why I trek. Every time people ask my answer changes slightly – there are so many reasons for how this all came to be. But right now, suffice to say that I trek because I love it and I need it. Doing this makes me feel like a million dollars. “Gonna rise up, find my direction magnetically”.

Depending on which part of my body you ask (heart or foot), the glorious runway ended all too fast or couldn’t have gone on any longer. From my perch on top of the plateau I could see the road cut across the land below. Nothing to do but stagger down until I reached it. The snow was piled almost two metres on each side of the road. Throwing down my gear and then myself onto the hard tarmac was a most unwelcome reunion with civilisation.

Over the course of the last kilometres I’d constructed a new plan in my head. My dad would head up to our cabin at Rjukan the day after tomorrow. The original ending point could be the pitch for a northbound day with a return. Further south the snow would be soft, I could change skis and give my foot a day’s rest. Done deal! Now, all I had to do was catch a ride on this godforsaken stretch of road. Definitely Clif bar time. Somehow people driving by don’t seem to take you as seriously when you’re eating…

After the sixth car passed without acknowledgement, I grew antsy. Not securing hitches make plans of trail abandonment seem like increasingly unviable solutions. I almost didn’t bother sticking out my thumb at the fancy silver Tesla gliding by, but miraculously it pulled over! Shit, all my gear was so dirty. Fine leather seats and soft ski wax ain’t no great combo. Indeed, the guy seemed relieved that I was only asking for a lift to Geilo. We small-talked our way down to the treeline where the snow became scarcer, at which point he suggested I might as well join him all the way to Oslo.

My thru-hikes have led to many pleasant hitchhiking encounters, but Kenneth was truly one to remember. When you’re stuck in a car with somebody for over 5 hours you find yourself delving into conversations that touch upon deeply personal and vulnerable things. I told Kenneth how I became a thru-hiker. It seemed to strike a cord with him, and he opened up about major grievances he was dealing with in his personal life too. He drove me almost to my door, and fondly departed with the words “I think I was meant to meet you today, Kristin. Thank you”. Wandering is never just wandering. Wandering is connecting with humanity.