Skrio - Helberghytta - Skrio

How amazing a fresh start can be. Setting out from Skrio, my cabin, on familiar tracks with padded feet, new skis and a different pair of soles flipped the coin back toward success. Breaking my southbound line had felt like ruining the aesthetics of my trip, but at least I was still out basking in the sunshine. I hadn’t had to abandon the wild. For once I was trekking in my own country, with the flexibility it entails. There were no plane tickets to rebook, all I had to do was throw myself into the passenger seat of my dad’s Peugeot and let him take me back into familiar terrain. The first kilometres guided me gently along on prepped tracks where my dad’s half-skin mountain hybrid skis slithered along without a sound.

Rjukan is at the southeastern corner of Hardangervidda, where temperatures are much warmer. The frosty nip I’d experienced up north at Finse was replaced with a pleasant coolness offset by the warming rays of the sun. The first couple of hours remained below the treeline, where I could enjoy gliding along in my thermals, sleeves up. Everything felt different, welcoming. Gone was the harsh wind and crusted turf, this snow was all balmy and the terrain gentle, rolling. And yes, dad snuck along, trailing a few hundred metres behind me. Fomo runs in the family. At least my photography repertoire was now expanded beyond selfies!

Once up and over the treeline, an old wooded sign pointed me in the right direction, and my course to Helberghytta was set. During summer I’d walk this land, when it’s covered in soft moss and marshy patches flank the little round lakes. Now I could cut across the open expanse of the frozen lakes, through the major gap in the mountains that would lead me into the hillier jello-top-like terrain towards Gvepseborg.

I was floating on the rhythm of dreams. Every arm and leg movement completely in sync, gliding effortlessly along the dizzying white ground. Muscle memory swept me along uninterrupted for miles and miles. The vast expanse of the Hardanger plateau stretched out as far as the eye could see. Staking across it hardly broke out a sweat on my forehead. The sun blazed high above from a cloudless sky, and my cheeks hurt from constant smiling. This is as effortless as it gets. The occasional dip of a slope was enough to send me laughing in delight like a child. After my unbearably slow pace and blistered foot, I couldn’t believe how this trip had come around. Hours and hours went by until the shadows grew long, but arriving at Helberghytta was almost disappointing. I just wanted to keep going, extend this moment forever!

Dad and I have our own little rituals at DNT huts, stemming from our first hiking trip in 2011 when I was 16. We always have canned peaches for dessert. Dad makes a point of stuffing one peach half in each cheek like a chipmunk. It looks unbelievably hideous, and always sends me into a fit of disgusted laughter. We played cards and read by the candlelight, my bottomless-pit-hiker-stomach devoured a whole packet of chocolate oat cookies. Stars popped into the purple night sky outside, but a cozy fire illuminated our sanctuary in a fuzzy glow. Our return trip tomorrow would be equally stunning.

The hut warden at Hellberghytta, a none too experienced German by the looks and sounds of him, asked with fascination how I’d prepared for this trip. Running? Weights? I blinked, suddenly feeling like a sheepish rookie. How could I explain that ever since the Te Araroa, I’d considered myself absolutely invincible? That I took my physical capabilities for granted after walking 1400 km in supreme confidence? It sounded dumb even in my head. Even experienced trekkers need to maintain their physique to perform, and my 23 year-old body would only get me so far in its default state.

But then… how amazing wasn’t it that I’d developed a confidence in myself so absolute that it hadn’t even occurred to me to question it? Before the TA, I spent a lifetime doubting myself. The starting point was always the assumption that I wouldn’t make it, that I wouldn’t be okay, that I wasn’t capable, that my glass was half empty. A pessimist to the bone. But I move through the world in a different way now. Perhaps it comes with age too (I’ve never been older than I am, so I don’t know), but I take on the world with a certain ease now that wasn’t there before. Some people call it courage, I call it calm. Why wouldn’t I be alright? Perhaps it took 1000 km to crack me open, but now I am. All centred.

This trek had shown me one thing for certain. “I knew all the rules, but the rules did not know me. Guaranteed.”