8th of August
Where to start? – A sentence I’ve used too many times. Well, maybe to start with the present.
It is half past six in the afternoon. I’m sitting at a living room of a hut to which I arrived around 3 pm. Around me, British, American and Norwegian hikers talk about their past trips and all those relatable hiking struggles that make up for easy conversation starters. Usually, I would appreciate those simple pieces of connection with people that share a beautiful hobby in common. Around us, through the windows on all 3 sides of the hut that stands on a slope just below 1000 meter altitude, a green valley of low, yellowish bushes, and scattered birch trees that exist in spite of extreme winters and, as I experienced, extreme summers.
And the conversations unfold, about legendary British mountaineers, Scottish Highlands, Norwegian politics, oil, difficult peaks, and similar first-world topics.
“What am I doing here?” the question came back, although not as previously, due to walking 10 hours daily through extremely uncomfortable conditions, with freezing feet and hands, climbing over rocks, walking through flooded trails, and passing through overflowing streams.
The question comes back, but not due to imagining a comfortable summer, being home, or anywhere else warm, drinking a beer, with friends around. Now the question comes in the dullness of the atmosphere in the hut, and almost nerdy, and it makes me question why I find myself in these circles. But in my tent, that little military capsule up on the field above the hut, although the question stays, it has its place, and the question rings and echoes throughout the green valley that stands still while light rain passes through.
The question had its place every day while walking, ricocheting back to me off the black and brown and grey and white rocks that lie naked above the tree line, revealing the pure, harsh geological reality of the place, intermingling with patches of snow, and patches of permanent ice.
There was a lake I had to pass next to on the first day of walking. The lake, gigantic and terrifying, stood silent like a glass of strange liquid on an even stranger planet. Illvanet was its name, and it looked as dreadful on the maps as it was in reality. It was a 3-hour navigation over, between and under slippery boulders, covered in some kind of micro moss, that in some places was completely black, as if any other colour would require far too much nutrition in the inhospitable environment. The boulders eventually ended, and gave way to massive, overflowing streams that filled in the lake. Roaring with abundance of water, once poured into the lake, the streams were soon silenced, like having entered a black hole, a terrifingly still and peaceful pool.
I had to walk through those streams, at first aiming to walk over rocks, and soon realising the absurdity of trying to stay dry. In I went, more than ankle deep, cutting through cascading streams. Once on the other side, it would take about 10 seconds for the freezing water to reach the skin on my feet. The barefoot boots that I optimistically bought for a 350 km trail through Norwegian mountains felt like rubber pools overflowing with water. Nevertheless, something was empowering in crossing the stream decisively, without avoiding the water, like cutting the knot with a sword. After 3 hours, the lake was finally behind, but I would often look over my shoulder and see it stand there still, a terrifying omnipresence.
Currentlyently, most of the people have left the living room of the hut for the dining room. The hut caretaker is giving them a speech about the place and about the food prepared. The guests overdramatise their amazement, putting on those fake smiling “I’m so grateful and amazed” eyes, and those frozen, mouth half-open smiles. I hear a beer can opening every half a minute, and it’s starting to get on my nerves, but most of the noises produced by other people get on my nerves, especially while writing. Regardless, it truly is a miracle how these huts in the middle of nowhere, often without road access, manage to cater to all of our complex 21st-century consumerist needs and comforts. Even this far away, there is wine tasting, Pepsi Max and cake.
It is raining more and I have to put my poncho over the tent, but I hope to say something more about those first days of the Massiv Trail, of crossing the glacier and sleeping at a hut at the top of a 2000 meter high mountain, of more slippery rocks of any colour the heart could desire, of unexpected heaven-like valleys, of overeating for breakfast at an expensive private hut and storing energy like a bear, and of those short moments of sunshine and patches of blue sky that warmed my face, froze my palms and lit up the thoughts.
After covering the tent
In difficult moments, and especially those on the first day, having to ascend and descend, and ascend again over boulders and through storming streams, I was driven by pure anger, anger against those extremely uncomfortable conditions that aggravated me like chips eating and beer drinking sounds of other guests in the living room aggravate me now. Anger was a conscious choice, and it was a choice against the unconscious sinking into desperate thoughts and passivity; screaming and storming through the trail over stopping and crying. At first, I screamed cautiously, turning around to see if somebody might be watching. “Who could see me? There is no one.” Then, I overly dramatised it, or rather, acted out. “You are going crazy. You’re talking to yourself and pretending to be an angry Viking,” the criticism came. “Look at yourself, you’re miserable”. “Scream more,” another voice said – “Scream fully”. I screamed more, and it felt good, and then I screamed like a madman out of my lungs, feeling the rush transfer into my palms and feet. With every scream, I walked faster over the boulders, more confidently through the streams, and in this confidence, there was zero possibility of slipping and falling.
In the diner next to the living room, the desserts are being taken out, forks and spoons click and clack, and not so many beers are being cracked open any longer. The guests are lulled with food. Through the window, over the valley, low clouds are passing by as the rain and wind have returned once again. The Massiv Trail is a never-ending source of plot twists. Just when the wind would settle, and the sky promised the end of rain, gradually either or both would again come down, quickly killing my hopes.
No matter how many times I’ve experienced this, I would still get too happy when the good weather came up, and too disappointed when it ended. This has led to a gradual development of a reverse motivational message that keeps me going at such times – it can always get worse.
11th of August, from Sletningsbu
It is 9.15 in the evening. I’m sitting at a self-serviced hut Sletningsbu to which I arrived somewhere around 6 pm. There are 3 more people here – an Austrian couple, and Mads from Denmark who reminds me of Mat Damon. The Austrian couple I met in this hut, and I met Mads briefly the previous night in Fondsbu. Today he caught up with me on the trail when I made a stop to hide from the rain and eat some food.
“Wanna walk together?” He asked me bluntly, loudly chewing the candy I offered him.
“Yeah, why not,” I said, rather hesitantly, not in a very sociable mood, agitated by my own thoughts that have been spiralling down for the last two days. Prolonged exposure to cold, constantly wet feet, humidity in the tent and checking the weather in some sunnier places with 30°+ degrees, including home, has taken its toll.
We walked together for about 30 minutes through mud and over more stones.
“So what is your favourite movie?” Mads tried to have a conversation. “Lord of the Rings” I responded absently.
“Nice. All of this reminds me of it. Doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, it does. Hey Mads.”
“Yeah?”
“I think I’ll go in my own rhythm now. You go on.”
“Of course, buddy. See you there”
Now we all share this tiny living room – the Austrians are sitting together in a warm hug, each reading their own book. Mads is sitting on his knees on the floor, writing some sort of a diary in a tiny notebook. Here and there, he looks up, with a subtle, cheeky smile, glancing at us under his brows, then proceeds to write again. There is no signal, and logically with it, no Internet. Out of habit, I pull out my phone and open Instagram – there was a saved post on the feed from an account posting a random bundle of photos, semi-related through those topics that make us human – “Love is the language all animals understand. It is shown through closeness, gentle touch and shared space.” It stood in the description. I put away my phone and look up towards the couple in a warm hug, and at Mads pressing the blue ink into his notebook. Warmth radiated from the 3 white candles, each on a wooden table and the fire in the stove. For this one night, these people are family, and the hours of the evening felt like a whole winter.
“I should write as well”, an urgent thought pulls me out of the contemplation.
Outside the hut, the wind blows relentlessly, and the fire dances according to the wind’s rhythm. I’m sitting on an old-fashioned red sofa, leaning against the wall, parallel to the window. Outside the window, a view stretches over the lake located just 10 meters from the hut, and a white boat lies upside down on its shore, covered in yellow grass soaked with last week’s rainfall. It is not a big lake, at least not as big as a few I’ve passed along the trail, but it preserves some grandiosity nevertheless. It stands on a high plateau, around 1400 meters elevation or so. I am not sure whether it’s because I’m aware of it, or because it simply somehow gives off this impression, but the lake feels like it exists high up in the skies, rising from the surrounding cliffs like a castle in the sky.
On the opposite shore, black rocks guard the lake, and their heads are also covered in the yellowish grass that dominates the landscape. Here and there, small patches of snow lie on them like accidental brushes of white paint. Behind the rocks, further in distance, snow-capped mountain giants rise like monuments of winter. The wind is carrying low clouds over the lake, now dark grey, then of lighter colours, but consistent rain clouds nevertheless. Below the clouds, on the lake’s surface, small waves move rapidly towards our side of the shore, and this movement brings a distant memory of the sea. It reminds me awfully of the sea, but in this nostalgic processing, the mind encounters an error – it cannot process that the sea is landlocked, and that this unfolding of waves coming in from somewhere far away is now encapsulated in a body of water with all shores so close and visible.
This is the first self-service cabin on the Massiv, meaning without any staff working. Previous huts were staffed and operated as simplified, mini hotels in the middle of nowhere, and it is quite remarkable how they manage to operate so seamlessly, with often the only access being one road leading to a village (maybe just a gas station with holiday homes around it) 20 kilometres away.
The functionality of self-service cabins is equally impressive. There is a fire stove with prepared logs, a gas stove for cooking, 2 rooms with beds and a big shelf with food supplies and some other essentials. Every visitor is required to register themselves in the book, and subsequently pay for the night and any provisions they might have consumed or taken, through the specific app for Norwegian huts. The supplies are usually brought up to self-serviced huts by a helicopter at the beginning of summer, and subsequently replenished by DNT workers on foot.
But I’m afraid that after tonight, another helicopter might have to re-supply. My Matt Daemon-looking friend and I scavenge through the supplies like two hungry bears who broke into a rich winter pantry. The Austrian couple went to bed, and we walk around on our toes, like two raccoons having a sweet feast.
I cooked my couscous and added some cheese from the shelf for luxury. Then I added another one, and then spread some honey on the bread. In the meantime, Mads cooked about half of the pasta he found on the shelves, and opened more cheese and crackers.
“What is that?”I asked, pointing to a meat-like substance on his plate
“Meat”, he stated, stressing the T.
“What kind of meat? “
“I don’t know, meat is meat.”
I got up and went back to the shelf for about the 6th time. A can of preserved pears stood there tempting me. I took two and went back to the table.
“There is definitely better canned fruit”, I said, gulping half a pear, remembering indulging in those cans as a kid with my father and brother. – “Like cherry or peach. These are not even that sweet”
“They ain’t much, but at this moment they are perfect” Mads stated optimistically, loudly slurping the juice. Something was soothing in his loud, unbothered eating – it was a statement of complete and deserved relaxation and enjoyment. It was a delightful celebration of 20+ km walked, and each bite equalled a step taken on the trail.
Soon, a tower of cans stood on the table, among piles of other food packages. The wind howled relentlessly, but we lay on the couch comfortably, burping out of protruding bellies.
-“Just write it in the book” Mads joked
-“It’s on the house” I added, rolling around and laughing like a hyena. It was difficult to remain quiet and considerate to the couple sleeping next door.
-“I’m afraid there won’t be much left if we stay another night.”
-We can call in the helicopter – “hey! Listen, we urgently need a package of pears. And while you’re on it, stop by at McDonald’s.”