Hallingskeid - Finse

How lucky am I? It just so happened that I’d been invited to give a breakfast lecture for the student society in Bergen about the topic of my BA: Norwegian female foreign fighters to the Islamic State. And a free train ride right to my trailhead right afterwards! I love how life works out sometimes.

Right. First attempt: red wax. Skiing down from the train station on a cringy slope to reach the ski track. Holyshit. Red wax clearly not cutting it. Wave those flailing chicken arms like a maniac to not fall on precious face. There was no way to look even remotely upright to salvage my image in front of the dude sitting outside his cabin - no doubt laughing his ass off watching me. I just wanted to sit on my butt and inch my way down the pure ice. Mountain skis have metal edges to prevent you from slipping on icy downhills, but my whole ski could have been metal and it would not have made any difference. After some more flailing and gut-wrenching slips, I was finally down on the tracks and could begin my journey eastwards. Ah, no less slippery on level ground, alas. Soft wax to the rescue! Sticky gooey soft wax all over hands (bearable, for now).

It was crazy hot. Wet strands from my braid clung to my face as I tried skiing with something faintly related to elegance on the crystalline snow, melting in my wool layer. The sun baked me from above, the snow from below. Traction was bad, but not terrible. Luckily the terrain was forgivingly flat. It felt odd to start at 14 in the afternoon, completely alone in the mountains save a few grouse even whiter than the snow. The Bergensbane train tracks drifted away on my left as I plodded up and around hills for hours, my skis getting increasingly slippery despite the soft wax I added semi-regularly. The “I’m an Arctic explorer and the coolest person ever” feeling was fading fast as I boxed through sastrugi and inched my way down slopes to avoid falling on my face and rearranging its features to resemble a pug…

Sticky from sweat and sunscreen, I crawled into my dorm bed at Finse. After crossing the lake, I bought skins at the cabin, which was brimming with activity. Two lovely girls in my room allowed me to test their full-length skins in the twilight on the frozen lake. Well… I’ve never worn snowshoes, but I can imagine it feels like full length skins. There is no glide. Absolutely nothing. It was horrible, but I had no choice if I wanted to keep moving across Hardangervidda. Luckily my roommates and I shared a wonderful evening outside in our puffy coats – I was digging into freeze dried chicken fried rice while they made a mess trying to cook hot dogs on their ancient primus stove. I felt a tickle of “I’m an Arctic explorer and the coolest person ever”-feeling watching the stars pop into the night sky, steam from my tea warming my cold nose. Somewhere, someone is hiking the Te Araroa trail, and they don’t know that I’m thinking about them. Maybe someone is thinking about me too. I am not backing down yet.  

The tracks of a hundred pairs of skis were frozen solid into the ground. I found it easier to stray a few yards from the marker sticks and tread the virgin ice instead. Not that it mattered much by way of speed. I had to lift my legs with each step like I was walking, accompanied by a whizzy sound which was slowly driving me crazy. You could summit K2 with these things. Despite my handicap I was trying to keep up a decent pace. I passed two older women crawling out of an expedition sized tent a few paces off trail – we hollered back and forth about the biting cold and terrible track. “Are you completely alone?” she called, obvious concern in her voice. Always, ma’m. Always.

I was plodding up a small incline quite happily until two guys came blazing past me. They had racing skis with half skins, and glide. I watched, stunned, as they flashed by and disappeared into the distance in less than a minute. Yeah, fuck this. My skis felt glued to the snow. Here I was, facing two massive days after this one, moving at tortoise pace and feeling utterly defeated. AAARGH! I wrestled my skis off, cursing at the hard buckles, chucked off my backpack and threw myself down on my back in the snow. My sweat turned cold as the icy crystals pushed into my back and legs. Squinting up through my sunglasses at the sunny sky, my pride felt wounded to the core. This trip had been on my agenda so long. I needed it to be a success. Not once during 1400 km on the TA had I contemplated quitting – and here I was, on my back like a bug after a day and a half. Blast it. My resolve was melting at the same rate as the snow seeping into my pants.

Still on my back, I turned my head to look at the bright orange skins clinging to my skis. How could they feel so silky to touch and not provide any glide whatsoever? I cursed them lamely, my voice thin in the empty air. Laboriously I got to my feet and looked out across the white expanse where the two men had disappeared on the horizon. Yesterday’s morale remains: there is only one way to go. Forward.

By the time I turned right towards Kjeldebu at the intersection between Finse and Krækkja, I’d developed a blister underneath my foot – the first real blister I’ve had since day 20 on the TA. I’d pre-taped the hotspot this morning to no avail. Every step brought an excruciating burn. The tracks sidled alongside a round mountain where I walked completely lopsided to avoid putting pressure on my foot, and I felt increasingly desperate. I was snailing along, and now I was in intense pain too. Lunch & a whole bar of salted caramel Tony’s chocolate to the rescue. This would be the moment in Mamma Mia where I needed an Auntie Rosie to pick me up (“Oh God… Nurse, donkey testicle, quickly!”). Sigh. It felt slightly absurd to sit alone in my stockings on a patch of heather in the middle of a hundred miles of wilderness, melting snow in my cooking pot and still feeling a blistered kind of love for this lifestyle.

After 7 hours of skiing through all emotions, I reached Kjeldebu – three huts at the bottom of what would have been a roller coaster-style descent if I hadn’t been stuck to the ground like a fly on fly paper. The place looked eerily abandoned. An axe lay tossed on the snow, and only one cabin was open. A room of one’s own… to air out stinky socks and inspect the damage to my foot from ill-fitting insoles and the rubber band of my leggings digging into my hipbone. I donned my red puffy coat and fluffy white slippers and walked outside on the cabin deck to read The Sellout. My already freckled face soaked in the sun’s warmth as I leaned back against the hut wall and looked out at my solitary world. Harsh, but still so beautiful.

Later that evening I would be joined by a paediatrician and two Spaniards who’d taken several falls and almost 10 hours on the same route as me. Company is always welcome as the day wanes and you feel like you ought to enjoy dinner with somebody. Purple light encapsulated the night as I crawled into my duvet cave and contemplated the choice that I knew lay ahead of me.

 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.

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.

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”.

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.

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.”