Norwegian Water Works

Adam and Eve

As we step off the train in Finse at 1222m above sea level, it occurs to me that we could be lounging on a sun-dappled beach instead. The wind sweeping down from the spectacular Hardangerjøkulen glacier seems intent on getting intimate with us. Its icy fingers sneak under our clothes and probe our most private parts. The temperature has dropped twelve degrees in the few hours on the train from Oslo and the sun is beginning to set. Oh, and is that a rain cloud in the distance, moving swiftly our way?

Just a few steps out of 'town' (one ski lodge, one train platform, 2 shacks and 3 picnic tables) we cross a concrete bridge over Finsevatnet, a shallow mountain lake that seems to have been squeezed out of the surrounding spongy earth. Managing to find a dry(ish) camping spot on the lee side of a rocky outcropping lifts our mood. From our tent we can't see any signs of human life. No sound or movement breaks the illusion that we are the only people in paradise.

That beach seems very far away indeed.

Splashing around
On the first day of our four-day backcountry hike, we get lost. Not lost exactly. There's never a point where we don't know where we are. It's just that for a long stretch we can't find the trail. All the stories I've ever heard of hikers disappearing into mountain wilderness never to be heard from again ring a few alarm bells in my head. But I can't imagine anything bad happening on a day like today. It's as though the sun could protect us from our own stupidity.

So we cross quite happily through long patches of loose copper-tinged earth, and boot-ski down short slopes of snow with child-like glee. Snow, in August! Who cares if we're lost? Our packs seem light and we're confident we'll find the path just over that next hill.

Suddenly we're confronted with a mountain stream that gushes and crashes menacingly down the rocky slope. We hunt for a place to cross, but nothing seems suitable. Or safe. Finally, we decide that a large boulder is our best bet and my companion steps gingerly into the water.

He is immediately wrong-footed as the water grabs his left ankle and yanks. He sits down hard, bum bruised and pack dripping.

Comfortingly, he doesn't die, so I follow, and manage to keep my pack dry. The sense of accomplishment upon conquering this tiny (or so it looks once crossed) stream is so great that we have to sit down to catch our breath. A half-kilometre away we spot two teenage girls happily scampering along with their dog. Aha! We have regained the trail.

Water water everywhere
In this glacial landscape, water is constantly changing and shaping the land around it. It scuttles down the sides of mountains, slowly eroding channels that could one day become canyons. It bubbles up from the earth, and collects in pleasant pools and cool caves. It is almost a miracle (we are told by many Norwegian friends) that it doesn't pour down from the sky at all during our hike.

We have plenty of opportunities to get soaked nonetheless.

One night we set up our tent at the edge of a slow boiling river that is fed by two churning waterfalls. My companion happily scampers into the river. He rockets out again twice as quickly when the cold sears his bare skin.

A few minutes from our camping spot on another day we stumble across a secluded deep pool. A lush overhang of foliage dapples the water with shade and thick blanket of moss clings to every available surface. The beauty is such that if we were in the desert, this would surely be our mirage. But no. It's only Norway, where Mother nature has splashed beauty about like paint on a Jackson Pollock canvass. My hiking companion, game as usual, leaps from a boulder. He manages not to scream in anguish as his body is gripped by icy tendrils.

Later, it seems as though we've been walking steeply uphill for days. We are sticky, exhausted and coated in trail dust. It's the hottest day yet (28 degrees here — later we learn that most of Europe has soared into the 40s).

With our knees screaming for relief and our shoulders in outraged anguish, we hear the siren song of a nearby waterfall. Following her call we stray five minutes off the trail. There she is in all her glory, crashing and splashing down a 20-foot rock wall. We strip off and plunge under. The near frozen water batters our tired bodies. It is deliriously painful and glorious all at once. Our breath is knocked out of us. We can only stand a few seconds of the impact. Those few seconds energise us for the rest of the day.

This type of visceral experience is the essence of a backcountry trip. You'd never pitch yourself naked into a freezing shower at home, but on the trail, it seems sensible. And these are the moments you will remember with longing from your office chair.

Hytte summer nights
In Norway, these primal daytime pleasures are interspersed by evenings luxuriating at mountain cabins along the route. The cabins, called hytte, are maintained and staffed by the DNT, an organisation that has been overseeing Norway's wilderness trails since 1868. Each hytte provides bunks and showers for trail weary hikers. The huts with staff (almost all huts in the busy areas in summer are staffed) also serve up mounds of hot food, and glasses of cold beer and wine.

Hikers that stay in the huts don't need to pack tents, bedding, food or cooking equipment. While our knees and shoulders were punished by the strain of carrying our packs, Norwegians twice our age strolled happily by. They carried only a couple of sandwiches, a change of socks and a stack of cash to pay for the extravagances of a meal and bed each night.

The hytte give people who don't have the strength or desire to carry a full-weight pack the chance to enjoy the trails. For others, it's just a bit of luxury that increases the pleasure of being out in the wilderness. For us it meant being saved from days of freeze-dried mush as our only sustenance. Long live the DNT!