Bumping Between Borders

After a double zero in Yellowstone, the legs feel much more recovered, and my headspace has improved too. It has been a lot of fun to walk around the Old Faithful area to look at all the geysers and hot pools.

The air is rich with smoke

Evening sun reflecting off a hot pool

It’s a vacation! Also, thanks for the birthday beads, Fran!

I came here a fair amount as a kid and remember feeling like I didn’t really understand the hype. I’m not sure if I was underwhelmed or overwhelmed, but now, sitting and looking into Doublet Pool, feeling the ground thump beneath us, I’m in awe of the whole Park.

Catching bubbles rising up

Morning Glory Pool

We walk along more pools in the morning, it’s a popular area, but it’s early yet, and the swarms of people haven’t made it out yet. Sapphire Pool blinks blue in the sun, and steam rises from the Firehole River.

Sapphire Pool displaying her glory

Streams raging with life

The day quickly becomes dominated by water sources, and we stop for lunch and water at Summit Lake.

Summit Lake

It’s a gorgeous lake, and I would take a dip, except it’s cold and clouds are moving in. We stop to look at the last geothermal area, enjoying our own personal hot pools and mud pots.

We cross the Idaho/Wyoming border and attempt to take one of those classic photos. But I’m uncoordinated and fall a lot before we get a decent shot.

Stop laughing, what is wrong with you?

Whoops

Hey look, Idaho!

We laugh when we leave Yellowstone National Park and are immediately dumped out on an old dirt road. So classic CDT.

Goodbye, Yellowstone National Park!

The next morning we are clumsy and uncoordinated. Trip, stumble, bumble, bobble. Maybe it’s a good thing we’re taking a cut-off through here. Maybe, at this point, the body is just not happy. Maybe it’s just tired. But we are close! Closer, anyway. Lunch is an incredible Chinese meal that catches us off guard as we walk through Sawtelle, where we meet a couple that we ate lunch with on Mt. Taylor, way back in New Mexico, Liam and Kate, and then a long climb up a dirt road before finally branching off onto trail again. Beautiful trail with purple, yellow, and red wildflowers.

As we neared the top, we stopped and chatted with a sobo hiker. He spent some time in Spain and hiked the Kungsleden, a trail in Sweden that we’ve talked about hiking. But the sun was setting, and we all respect the value of daylight. After a short downhill, we hit the source of the Missouri River. There is an ammo box with the story of how the source was found and after filling our bottles right at there, we spend the night in the tent reading this rather than looking at our maps for the next day.

Lewis & Clark never found this. The source of the Missouri!

Brower’s spring, the source

The rain patters on our tent as we fall asleep, and at one point, we wake to coyotes howling and yipping and an owl hooting. I snuggle deeper in my sleeping bag, searching for the pockets of warmth. It’s cold.

As we drag ourselves from sleep, the sound of rain pounding on the tent greets us. Gladly, I would tuck back in and sleep, but instead we pack up and head out, hoping there is a spot of sun sometime in the day to dry our things.

Lots and lots of green

It’s my birthday, and some might be bummed, but the rain is beautiful. A few miles down, we meet Kate and Liam as they are heading out for the day. Immediately afterwards, we find ourselves practically swimming through a swamp. I don’t feel much wetter than before, as it’s been raining so hard all morning. My rain jacket is delaminating, but I’m hoping to coax it through the rest of this trip.

It’s entertaining to walk and talk with people, and we tick off the time chatting. When the sun peaks out for a second, the four of us explode our packs to dry things out and take a snack break. Kate is from South Africa, and Liam is from Canada, so we all have fun talking about different places. Eventually, we drag ourselves up and continue on.

We’re literally on the Continental Divide in the section, and this involves lots of climbing up and down. I hear this is the story for the next couple hundred miles. We are crossing between Montana and Idaho all the time, and I can’t keep track. I’m tired, and I trip, but my legs aren’t burning with lactic acid all the time. That double zero paid, I think. The views are beautiful and the undergrowth has begun to change, reds and oranges beneath the trees.

Ridge walking in Montana

At second lunch, Dan surprises me with a whole box of Chips Ahoy that he brought from Old Faithful. This is truly delightful, and soon half the box has vanished.

At last we reach our water source, and Dan and I begin to set up camp. Liam and Kate decide to stay as well. Liam builds a fire (the Canadian says there is always dry wood, as a Colorado kid, I was convinced everything was soaked) and we spend a good evening cooking, eating, and talking as more rain falls. And then the sun has set and everyone is tired.

I am cold, cold, cold, and there is frost on the ground as we hike out. But soon forward progress come to a halt as we find berries.

Raspberries, and then huckleberries, and then blueberries. As we crest yet another rise, the sun peaks out – and out comes the tent to dry. Sarah and Liam show up and set up their stuff to dry, and before long, Numbskull does too.

It is one of those days that miles aren’t coming easy. I’m not that tired, necessarily, but definitely dragging. Dan says he feels like dog, which spurs a conversation on slang, as apparently that is a phrase not used in Canada or South Africa.

Finally we make it to the cross road we had set as a goal. It turns out to be Cow Area, with cow poop all around, but the option is to set up here, or to do a 2,000′ climb. It’s 8pm, and nobody wants to do that, so we set up.

Around our pots of food, we discuss social media, and how it has influenced people’s lives. We talk about #vanlife and all the “hip” things – how social media spreads the misconception of perfection and simplicity, yet the real story behind these photos is one of stress and time, definitely not simplicity. And then it is quite late, and we’re all too tired for this conversation anymore.

The walk to the highway is boring the next morning and so I plug in a podcast. At the start of the hike, I felt badly about this. On other hikes, we hadn’t even brought a phone. But at this point, I no longer feel that way. We’re out for a long time, and if a podcast is going to help in some sections, I’m going to do it.

It’s just a short wait at I-15, and then the guy who runs the motel pulls up. He gives rides to hikers to town, and the five of us pile into his truck. So far, I have to say, I’ve really loved this section. The hills, the expanse, the feeling of The North. I’m falling in love.

Numbskull, Kate, & Liam as we all wait for our ride

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A huge shout out to everyone who has followed and supported us on this adventure! You guys are all so amazing and bring us strength and inspiration every day.

— Dan and Elaine

North to Yellowstone National Park

Foggy morning in Yellowstone.

North. The word has power. It invokes images. Wild images of deep pine woods, dancing aurora night skies, wolves sliding through the shadows, fog rising off lakes, owls hooting calls to one another through the night. In the north everything intensifies: the sound of a twig breaking raises the alert, a recent bear scat invokes a glance around, the smell of decomposing vegetation a harbinger of changing seasons, of autumn in the not so distant future. 

There is an urgency to this quest. The seasons are changing. The morning light is less than it was a month ago. The mind says move. The body, tired from the 2,000 mile journey thus far, does its best to keep up. At this point, that’s what this is – mental fortitude versus physical fatigue. But then there is something wholly unnatural about walking north in the face of a northern Rockies fall. Your mind plays games with you. Through it all, into the wild, we walk. At this point, it’s what we do.

After a quintessential northern night at Upper Brooks Lake – crisp air, a shimmering moon, a fire – we head northwest. A deep dew coats the land so we wear our rain pants to avoid a soaking from the dense vegetation. That’s a big change from the south…the plants are higher here, thicker, wetter, more. 

The trail rolls thru the Absaroka Mountains. It’s a hard range to get a grasp of, to feel. It’s exceptionally jagged, in many places looking almost unclimbable. The rock is loose, the peaks towering. We pass thru, thankful for a route, because negotiating this mountain range without one would be hell. The northern Yellowstone elk herd does it every year of course, but they are – simply put – better than us. 

Fire has ravaged this range. As recently as four years ago the Cub Fire burned thousands of acres. Black skeletons cover the hill sides, and in between them, vibrant flowers. Fireweed, the first flower to return after burn, resides prominently. 

Our bodies are up and down in this segment, both from the land and how we feel. We have not had any real source of fat in a week, and the lack of that is making us inconsistent. Hills hurt a little more, endurance isn’t quite as deep. It’s a long haul from Pinedale to Old Faithful. From somewhere, Elaine leads us up a long 2,000 foot climb, and it feels like we are fresh again, moving fast, peppy. And then on the next climb, for no reason, we’re sluggish and slow. It’s like that at this point in time. Mental strength, always mental strength to do a marathon a day.


We pass a place called “Parting of the Waters.” Here, phenomenally, a creek divides, never to be rejoined again until it reaches the ocean. One branch heads east to the Atlantic, one branch to the Pacific. Being a human, I change the course of nature, taking a Nalgene full of Atlantic water and dumping it in the Pacific Creek. Always have to tamper with things, that’s the human way.

We camp at the edge of the national park. It is our last day without the requirements of a permit for some time. A site at the bend of the Snake River. I catch a cutthroat trout and release it back into the world. We’re hungry, but not too hungry to negate a life. Maybe later, but not now. It’s a great night – more fires, relaxation. It’s really part of the reason we are here. To be, not just to move. 

We enter Yellowstone. The southeastern part of the park is basically empty of humans. The CDT follows the Snake River drainage west thru fire charred lands. This area was anihilated in the 1988 fire, that great inferno that changed western fire management forever. Thirty years later, and the land is alive. Twenty foot high pine groves are everywhere, healthy. Meadows with flowers abound. The land feels right. Like death, fire is not the end. 

Rain greets us in the morning. We enter the cocoon of wool and Gore. We’re transplanted back to the Hardangervidda, to the far north, to the place of past and future adventures. We pass a lake, a stiff wind ripping across it, driving rain into us, making us wake up and feel alive. There is the smell of wood cutting, as rangers work on putting a roof onto a new cabin. We chat, traveler and caretaker, as a fog drifts over the top of Mount Sheridan. We are technically in Yellowstone, but right now we could just as well be in Alaska, the Yukon, Norway. It has that feel. I imagine Dick Proenneke building his cabin on the edge of Lake Clark in Alaska and envision Elaine and I doing that same thing, sometime down the line, in similar conditions.


We enter the land of smoke and geysers. It’s a land of mist and fire, Nyflheim and Muspell rolled into one, and it feels as ancient and godlike as those realms. The crust boils, a kaleidoscope of boiling water and steam. We reach into a creek, discover it’s hot – perfectly hot – and decide to take a dip as the rain beats down. It’s perfection in nature. 

The days clears, we pass thru pine forests, rolling hills, a large lake, great beauty. In the morning we wake to a world of fog. It engulfs the forest, enters the body as we breathe, cleansing, bringing back to life. In my book, a foggy morning by the lake in the woods is nearly impossible to beat. At this rate, autumn isn’t some distant concept. It’s just about here. Beautiful goes to phenomenal as we enter more geysers, steam and fog mixing. What is this place, how is it that so much beauty can converge in one spot? We are a lucky duo to be here at this time.

And now, a brief respite at the largest campground in Yellowstone, Grants Village. Last night, beans in a can and hot dogs for dinner over a roaring fire, and a campfire talk from a ranger like we used to do as kids. It’s good to be back in civilization, however briefly. Tomorrow, we hike to Montana. 

A thousand miles left. Less than two months. This thing is in grasp. The best part, the northern part, is yet to come. We are happy, we are well, we are loving the moment and this hike of the Continental Divide Trail. 

CDT Journal: Crossing the Great American Desert


Let me tell you what walking 1,000 miles does to you. You have plenty of time to think; you have plenty of time to ask yourself why you are doing what you are doing. You have plenty of tests of your faith and conviction along the way. You have plenty of opportunities along the way to change your mind. To stop or to go back. A bunch of people along the way might tell you how crazy you are for doing what you are doing. Every day has its own test of faith and endurance. After awhile you just expect it, and when it shows up along the trail, you recognize it for what it is, and trudge on.

– Charles Decker: carried mail along the Pony Express and crossed the Continental Divide 49 times in the 1840’s, 50’s and 60’s. 

There are a million reasons to quit. More, if you really put your mind to it. Blisters. Illness. Boredom. Fatigue. Money. Hell, our dog died – nobody would say anything if we ended the hike for that reason alone, grieving. It would almost be the expected thing to do. Sometimes you have battles with yourself. Things like, “well, I know how to ski and bike, so this hiking thing is just for people who can’t do other sports.” It’s an easy out, a way to save face and be “better” than the trail. But deep down, you know that’s not true.  

Before leaving Rawlins, Wyoming on our four-plus day trek across the Great Divide Basin, we were anxious and pissy. We took an extra rest day, and sat around doing nothing. We needed the rest we told ourselves. Maybe we did. But really, deep down, I think we were just scared. 

We’d heard the horror stories of this part of the trail. Endless miles of nothing. Zero water. One hundred degree plus temperatures. The difficulties on this section of the trail extend beyond just the two dozen or so folks hiking the CDT this year. It’s historical. The Oregon, Mormon, California and Pony Express Trails ran through this area, smack dab where the CDT was taking us. Many people and animals died and countess hardships were sucummed to. We had 200 years of history staring in the face of our mid-July 120 mile crossing of the Great Basin, the Great American Desert, the Red Desert.

Before we departed Rawlins we got a message of encouragement from our friend Jill. Jill is the picture of endurance and persistence, a multi-time finisher of the Iditabike and Great Divide bike race. She wills herself to do things most can’t. She inspires Elaine and I. She comes from a heritage of people who cross the Mormon Trail, who struggled on it, who almost drowned in the Sweetwater River trying to make it to a better life. Her story stuck in my head, gave me something to think about. Because while there is a 200 year history of failure, there is also a 200 year history of persistence and overcoming the odds. It was a well-timed, perfect message. 

There is a certain consistency to the Basin that doesn’t lend itself well to blow-by-blow daily accounts. Like the terrain itself, the story is more flowing and melding. It’s a series of memories, both good and bad, of endless landscape, massive skies, thunderstorms and a place so wild it defies modern logic. 


Did we suffer? Absolutely. The heat – it was incessant. There was no escape. There are no trees in the Red Desert. We picked up two umbrella from the Dollar Store in Rawlins and they provided our only shade from the 100 degree heat and direct sun. Our pale nordic complexions scorched, blocked only by the clothes we wore and SPF 50. 


When we moved, the heat wasn’t so bad. Even walking at three miles per hour, there is something of a breeze created. When stopped, the heat clamped down like a vice, coating every inch of the body, oppressive, baking from above and below. The cracked ground, cacti, shrubs, a hollow shake of a rattle snake’s rattle betrayed the heat of the area. Sometimes the wind blew, and that wind was a welcome relief, a cause to smile and realize that at that we didn’t have it so bad. 


We both suffered in the heat but Elaine fared worse. She does not have desert feet. They swell and blister and explode. She is designed for cold places, and I suspect after this trip we will adventure almost entirely to places of high latitude or altitude. Sixty degree north sounds like a good future guideline! But in the Basin, her feet blistered, and her big toe blew up to such an extent that we had to cut holes in her shoe to accommodate the swelling. You do what you have to do to get the job done, to finish and see it through. She is, without a doubt, as tough as they come.  If her weakness is her feet in hot conditions, her strength is her fortitude and strength. The latter will win every time. 


Water was not as big a problem as we thought it would be. A system of springs is well documented. Names like Immigrant Springs and Mormon Springs make it clear we are not the first to rely on these water sources between long stretches of dry. Beyond the springs, in an ironic twist, the oil and gas industry boom has helped the situation. As a compromise for drilling and because there is an infusion of cash, they have constructed out-of-place but heaven-sent reservoirs in the middle of the Basin. These “lakes” provide water and even a chance to swim and escape the heat, dust and sweat. Beach like? Not quite, but better than nothing.


Beyond the heat and water issues, the other challenge of the Basin is the sameness of the terrain. It’s often very flat, and the two-track trails we followed didn’t meander very often. On day two in fact, I don’t think the route did anything but go in a straight line deep into the horizon. Thank goodness for podcasts, audiobooks and music. 


I think there are two ways to approach sameness of terrain. Suffocate in the lack of stimulation or allow your mind and imagination to flow with it. To travel, to wander, to drift. It was here, on the endless plains of the Basin, that Elaine and I may well have come up with the idea for our future, a plan for prosperity and freedom and adventure, and I dare say it’s a good one. People talk about these epiphanies and life changing things that happen on the trail. Maybe you need the boring terrain, the almost zen meditative places, to make that happen. We had that in the Basin. To have quit and missed that would have been tragic. 


Scarier than the heat is the lack of coverage and protection in the Basin. When lightning storms roll in, and they did every day and night, there is nowhere to hide. It is essentially a gamble that you will not be in the place of the storm when it hits. And except for once, we were not. The storm that was came at midnight on the first night, and the seconds between flash and boom was under two. The world exploded and then fell dark till the next round.  We crouched on our sleeping mats in our tent, fingers over ears, and basically practiced faith, like the many who crossed before us and encountered the same fear. We lived, we were not electrocuted, and that’s a good thing. 


If we had not crossed the Great Divide Basin we would never have travelled in the exact footsteps of the emigrants who crossed this nation during the great western migration. As we approached South Pass, the California, Oregon, Mormon and Pony Express Trails merged into one distant two-track wagon route disappearing over the divide into the horizon. We camped directly on the trail for two nights, watching the sunset, feeling the coolness of the day finally take hold, the birds feeding on mosquitoes and black flies. The sage plains take on a beautiful life in the evening, the golden glow bathing the land, the crickets chirping, the coyotes howling. It’s easy to sit and imagine the excitement and hubbub 150 years ago, the sounds of wagons rolling, the calls of the pioneers, the tromp of mule and oxen. Today, it’s quiet, but you can’t help but feel deeply connected, part of something bigger. 


If we had not crossed the Great Divide Basin we would have never enjoyed the simple pleasures that only extreme conditions and hardship can make you appreciate.  The clear cold water at Mormon Springs defies belief, for it sits in the middle of the hot desert, and yet it quenches the thirst and tastes sweeter than any water I’ve had on the planet. Or sitting down for a burger in Atlantic City, at a place where gunslinger Calamity Jane used to haunt, enjoying the sensation on the taste buds of meat and cheese and other things unavailable in the land of dust and heat.




If we had not crossed the Great Divide Basin we would have never known the magic of wild horses. In the Basin, they thrive, huge herds of them thundering over the ground, making it rumble and come alive. It’s a disconcerting sensation to have a wild animal come TOWARDS us, but that’s exactly what wild horses do. There are sentinel guard horses, perhaps eight to ten strong, who turn, drop their head, and gallop directly at us. And then they stop, maybe 30 feet away, lined up in a row and stare our way. These are not tame horses, they are maginificent creatures, every fiber of muscle showing, their manes blowing in the wind. When we walk, they walk, creating a barrier between us and the main herd. This continues until we leave their valley, when they relax, go back to playing, running and making the entire earth shake like ancient Norse gods. The Basin may be where the deer and the antelope play – and we saw many of them – but it’s the wild horses who turn the land into magic.




Had we not crossed the Great Divide Basin we would have experienced none of these things. The memories of this place are ingrained in my mind as strongly as anyplace on the trail. Dread and fear became respect, awe, and maybe even a smidge of love for the land that tries, tests and then provides the ultimate reward. 


Thank you to all who contributed to the Care Packages and Donations fund. Your help means more to us than you can imagine. We would love to send postcards from our stops to contributors. Please click the “Contact” link and send us a good address and expect a regular stream of good old fashioned, handwritten, snail mail from the American west!


Harteigån to Liseth: Day 3 Hike Across Norway

August 29, 2016 – Nedsta Soltjørni to Liseth – 23 miles, 2,867 feet of climbing

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There was a noticeable change in the weather overnight. The wind picked up and by the time we woke there was a light drizzle pitter-pattering on the tarp. Survival instinct said curl deeper into the sleeping bag, while our ambitious itinerary said get up and go. Motivation was still high, so we did the latter, despite the grey day.

A deep fog had moved over the valley of moss, and it was bone chilling. This was a morning for all layers, including rain top and pants. As the trail descended for most of the first part of the day, it required more layers than normal since exercise induced warming wouldn’t happen for some time.

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After the chilled ritual of pulling camp and shaking out the near frozen tarp, we made our way down a narrow trail on the side of a lush canyon. Waterfalls roared to our right, while sheep on the hillside wandered above us to the left. The sheep looked completely unfazed by the weather and I was glad that two of my layers were indeed wool so I could at least pretend to be as warm as they were.

There is something about hiking on a rainy morning with your hood up that lets you isolate into your own mind. I rather enjoy this state of being, simply following Elaine through the narrow path, as fog, rivers and mountains surround. Sometimes it’s good to be quiet and just enjoy the sound of footsteps on trail and rain drizzle on hood. We talk to much in our society…it’s better to listen.

The trail made its way down the valley to a more lush land, filled with blueberries and thicker brush. After indulging in a short berry feast, we crossed an ice cold river. On the other side was a tiny hamlet of three dark wooden cabins, complete with a sod roof. An elderly woman with a bucket was heading into the brush near one of the cabins, no doubt on the hunt for blueberries. A lucky, rare life she had. Of course, who knows what tragedies she has lived through – we all have some – but at least from the external appearance this was an ideal life.

dsc07009dsc07010We continued descending. We had been in this country before, last winter, on a ski between Hadlaskard and Torrehytten. Free of snow, it was drastically different. Travel would indeed be easier in the winter, for in the summer a dense brush and bog replaces a perfect winter cross country skiing surface. Fortunately a trail cut through the brush, making for quick going. We soon were crossing an elaborate suspension bridge right to Hadlaskard Hytte.

dsc07011dsc07014dsc07016-recoveredHadlaskard is one of our very favorite huts – remote, well equipped and located in a spectacular valley. Upon arriving, a couple from the Netherlands was leaving, and we shared stories from the trail and plans for the future. They were heading to Trolltunga…we were simply heading north to somewhere in the Jotenheim Mountains.

We stopped at Hadlaskard, dried some of our clothes, ate some Raman, and made a navigational choice. We had the option of heading up and over the central Hardangervidda on an exact route we skied earlier in the year. It would be straight forward and likely boggy. We also had the option of taking a trail on the west side of the plateau that dropped into the town Liseth before heading back up and circling the remote Hardangerjokul ice cap. Given that we have a penchant for new adventures, we chose the latter.

dsc07017dsc07018The trail worked its way down valley before rising onto some smooth rocky terrain that provided outstanding travel. We passed through a few remnant hamlets from the stone ages, and the combination of that and sheep on the hillside made for a medieval feel to the afternoon. Clouds raged below us, billowing down the glacier carved valley. We finally left Hardangervidda National Park and made our way down to the creek bed.

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dsc07029The trail turned heinous here. Rocky as can be, deep mud trenches and trick brush slowed our pace down to a crawl. Fortunately the berries were good at this low, birch forest elevation, and we feasted between struggling through the tricky terrain. We passed a shelter with a roof made of a section of rock that must have weighed many, many tons. If the weather was bad, this place would hold up.

dsc07026dsc07027As we continued down valley the trail got more and more muddy, to the point where it was quite comical. We would sink to our knees in the mud, the black muck pulling us down. Streams were a respite to clean the feet, and then it was back into the mud to repeat the process.

Before the trip began Elaine and I had a scheme to hike nine days to this spot from the north and then compete in the Hardangervidda Marathon which started in the nearby town of Eidfjord. After figuring out that the logistics to do this would be challenging at best, we decided to scrap the marathon plan. Nevertheless, we were now on a portion of the course, evidenced by the copious flagging the race organizer or a volunteer had placed a few days earlier.

What a course it was – a muddy trench with thick, thick brush all around. When it wasn’t a muddy trench, it was super slick rocks and sheep poop. (We checked times of the marathon upon getting home…winning time was five hours…not exactly the Boston Marathon smooth travel). We climbed yet another pass and it began to rain. The descent to the hamlet of Liseth was perhaps the slickest trail I’ve ever been on, and both Elaine and I took numerous crashes on our way down the steep gully. There are popular trails in Norway, and there was this one…it looked like nobody had used it in months.

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dsc07031As the light rain came down and the fog re-rolled in, we were not sure what to do for the night. The map made it clear that once we hit the valley we were in for 5-7 kilometers of bog before the trail eventually made its way back up onto the Hardangervidda. We hit the river at the bottom – absolutely raging in power and volume – crossed a bridge and just relaxed for a few minutes. As we stopped, the sun peaked through the clouds and a rainbow arced over the northern horizon.

We enjoyed some leisurely road walking before heading up a dirt road to the town of Liseth. According to the map, there was a “hikers pension” there. After a long day, a warm shower and bed seemed like the right call. Our goal for this trip was to spend frugally, but this seemed like a luxury too good to pass up. Besides, everything was soaked and it would be nice to dry out a little bit. We passed two horses, and the scene of the rainbow arcing over them made the whole thing look like a real-life Lisa Frank painting. And at the very end of the rainbow was our lodging for the night, the Liseth Hostel.

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dsc07040We were soaked to the bone and I imagine quite the sight to see, but the hostess was extremely friendly and for some reason charged us an inordinately cheap fare for the night. We went to our room, pulled out items to dry and quickly made a mess of the place! We were hungry, so we took our chances that we might be able to get some dinner. No problem whatsoever – tonight’s meal was salmon, potatoes and hot cocoa – to which we happily obliged. It was fantastic fish, no doubt caught in the Norwegian Sea about 10 miles west of where we were. We enjoyed the warmth and luxury of civilization for one night. It was a brief respite, for the next day would test our mettle to the hilt.

Reindeer Skull Camp to Hårteigen: Day 2 Hike Across Norway

August 28, 2016 – Nibbetjørn to Nedsta Soltjørni – 21 miles, 4,150 feet of climbing

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maptiff

What’s a natural alarm? How about a brisk wind blowing from the west, rippling your tent, letting you know that nature waits as an honest partner, never too easy and never too hard. We woke on day two, calves a little stiff from 8,000 feet of climbing yesterday, but honestly we didn’t have time to listen to that nagging cry.

A quick pull of camp while simultaneously trying not to freeze and soak the hands while shaking the wet tarp and picking up frozen aluminum pegs. Mornings can be rough when things turn a little brisk. There is only one thing to do: move.

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The predominantly rock terrain crossed a number of short, 150 vertical feet, climbs and descents, over and over again, demanding snap from legs that gave a lot of snap the day before. After an hour or so of this, the route began descending, and to our left, it appeared the world dropped away. We scrambled up a mound and jaws dropped. Words don’t describe this view, and thankfully they don’t have to.

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You just have to soak it in at such times and realize these moments of perfect pureness are brief in life, and need to be savored. We continued on along the ridge and made our way to one of the most bizarre and non-pure scenes of the entire trip: Trolltunga.

Trolltunga – which means Troll’s Tongue – is an iconic Norway tourism destination, gracing the pages of travel magazines, Lonely Planet guidebooks and YouTube drone videos. And there in lies the problem. It is a mob scene of ridiculousness. It’s literally SnapChat central, the place to do a handstand on the rock and send it to your friends on Instagram. The direct route to Trolltunga is no slouch, and every day folks have to be rescued from the large vertical, rocky climb on the edge of the North Atlantic Ocean. We were glad we took an alternate route with no people even if it added a day to the trip. People fall off Trolltunga too – perhaps a handstand gone awry? We observed the chaos (as well as the toilet paper strewn around and about on the cliffside) and quickly made our way out towards more sane locales.

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It’s amazing how easily it is to avoid the crowds. If you see a tourist destination, go someplace else. Ask the locals too – they know where the gems are much better than a British guidebook. Or, just head 500 meters from the destination and find your zone again. And so it was as we headed east away from the fjords and onto the Hardangervidda.

This area is the heart of Norwegian water. There is water everywhere. Water in lakes, water in copious streams, water running from snowfields, water permeating every rock and crack in the area. As such, it’s also a huge area for Norwegian hydropower, with reservoirs and human impacted waterfalls weaving their way through the wilderness. It allows the country to be powered by natural, non-polluting sources. Industry uses it too…my Dale sweater is made from the power of waterfalls in the Norwegian mountains. It’s not perfect, but it’s as good a source of energy as I’ve ever seen.

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This was an exciting day as we were heading into an area where we actually skied back in February on our winter jaunt across the Hardangervidda. Our destination for the evening, somewhere in the vicinity of the mountain Harteigan, was almost exactly where we slept six months earlier. That was sort of the motivation for this trip – we were wandering around the hut, found some patches of tundra popping out through the frozen wasteland, and decided we needed to come back here during the snow-free(ish) months.

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We worked our way east across the rolling, Lord of the Rings-esque landscape marveling in the abundance of water, rock, snow and green. We eventually made our way to Tyssevassbu, one of the very few DNT self-serve huts that has electricity. This is possible because this hut is in the middle of Norway’s hydroelectric hub, and it was nice luxury to be able to charge our electronics while enjoying a snack of hot ramen and solbaer drink. Even on nice days the climate here is raw, the cold wind a constant reminder that things can get brutal in a hurry. Any respite is welcome. As we were leaving the hut, a woman showed up who looked at us in disbelief when we told her we hoped to be at Finse in two days. I’m not sure if her reaction motivated us or made us wonder if we were insane – probably a bit of both!

It was time to head back onto the trail. It meandered over the high plateau, crossing stream and snowfields, with the massive flat-topped mountain Harteigen acting as a lighthouse for our campsite for the evening.

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As the day moved on and the kilometers grew, the temperature began to drop. We were both beginning to experience something of a bonk, with cravings for food moving to the forefront of the brain. Yet the beauty of the landscape acted as something of a distraction, and we began to enter that strange zone where discomfort actually accentuates beauty and wildness. There is something very ancient about feeling this way, in perpetual motion, in a bit of pain, yet overwhelmed by beauty.

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We crossed into a ravine and descended down a slightly sketchy snowfield with a river running underneath it. I tentatively led the way across, hoping the bottom didn’t drop out and we both ended up in the river. Fortunately, it held. Harteigen emerged in front of us, and we knew our day was nearing an end.

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Except for it wasn’t. The trail did one of those annoying meandering things that turned a kilometer into three, and when you are very hungry and bonking that’s not fun. After another half-hour, we made it to Torrehytten (Thor’s Hut) and cooked up four packets of Pasta-di-Parma. This was a decision triggered by extreme hunger, but it was too much as we struggled to eat 3/4 of the feast. Stomachs loaded and temperature still dropping, we headed out into the wild to find camping for the night.

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After another 30 minutes of hiking we found a flattish plateau with thick moss. A fair bit of hemming and hawing later, and we settled on a campsite, pitched the tarp and, as the wind howled and light drizzle started to fall, settled in for a  cozy night of sleep in the heart of the Hardangervidda.

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Odda to reindeer skull camp: Day 1 of the hike across Norway.

August 27, 2016 – Odda to Nibbetjørn – 20 miles, 8,517 feet of climbing

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It’s amazing what a night of sleep can do to take care of physical ailments. Be it a bad headache or feeling car sick from an 8-hour bus ride, a solid night’s sleep, even if it’s in a rainy pyramid tarp in a muddy field with Norwegian teens ripping up and down the road all night on motorcycles, will do wonders for the spirit and the body.

As the first light glowed off low clouds, we rose. There was a lot of work to be done – expressly walking a long way across Norway – and daylight was wasting. We quickly got ready, pulled down camp and filled up our water bottles before anybody else in the campground even stirred. A quick “before” photo at the campground and we were soon walking through the early morning dampness towards the fjord and Odda.

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The click-click of our trekking poles tapped on the pavement and echoed off homes, schools and yet-to-be-opened stores. The first steps of a thru-hike, no matter how long, are always a “feel it out” situation. How does the body feel? Labored or smooth? What about the pack…too heavy or just right? That was a pleasant surprise. For the previous month we’d both been hiking up the hill behind our house three days a week with packs loaded with 50-pound bags of beans. Walking down those early morning Odda streets, I knew this pack was lighter. That boded well.

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We didn’t pack quite enough food for this trip, planning to supplement some of our dinners with snacks from the huts and towns we’d pass thru. In our rush to get out of Oslo, we’d failed to pick up one of the main staples of a thru-hike: cheese. When you are tired, cold, bonking and starved for protein, cheese is hard to beat. We decided to wait 30 minutes for the grocery store to open, enjoying the morning quiet and the views to the north. This would be the lowest elevation of our entire hike – sea level on the edge of the Atlantic Ocean.

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The market opened, so we picked up two very large cheese blocks (probably the heaviest single item we had for the whole trip), a little pastry and fruit for breakfast, and a bag of Cheez Ballz for later consumption on the trail. There is nothing like cheese and salt to quench the cravings of thru-hikers. Those chips would come in handy later on.

As we walked down the street, we got smiles from people driving through town, even more so than when we walk down the streets in Norway with skis. We obviously looked the part of hikers, tights with shorts over them, wool tops, ski caps, backpacks and trekking poles. I think in Norway, while skiing is celebrated, the simple act of walking is revered. It seems everybody walks. Most, old and young alike, like climbing to the top of mountains. Walking is part of life in Norway, and there is no better thing to do than go for a walk in nature, in the mountains. I think this is why people smiled at us.

Across the river, onto the other side, and up through a subdivision right to trailhead. I’d looked at this squiggle on the map months before from home in Colorado. There was no other information other than the contours of the map and the way the trail worked its way up them. It was surreal to see those symbols on the map transformed into real life.

The trail went up. Almost comically so right from the start. This was no manicured Colorado switchback route. This was a near vertical wall, hiking on your toes with no way to drop the heel, legs driving, lungs bursting type of climb. We were fortunate though – we were at sea level and our packs were lighter than what we’d trained with. It was doable, and it was even at times satisfying. Hard work and preparation yields results.

We entered into a pine forest and stumbled upon bushes and bushes of wild raspberries and wild blueberries. Memories from my youth of picking berries in the woods outside Oslo and in Vermont came flooding back. It was early, but we ate nonetheless. Berries are one of nature’s best treats, and a little vitamin C after days of immune system depleting travel is something to take advantage of.

The trail went up and up steeply. One-thousand feet of climbing turned to 2,000, turned to 3,000 in a remarkably short amount of distance, maybe a couple miles. We chuckled a nervous laugh from time to time…it appeared Norway was not messing around. Eventually the trail broke out of the woods and into a green lush wonderland with a small barn in the middle. The fjord dropped away behind us, and we simply stared at the mountain on the other side of the valley with an ice cap glacier on it. The western fjords were delivering a punch of beauty and challenge right off the bat.

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As we climbed further, we were met by a constant companion for the next nine-days, sheep. Just like the U.S. uses public lands to graze cattle, Norway uses the land to graze sheep. The sheep are used for wool and meat, and are the top livestock animal in the country. I can’t complain, as I have a couple Norwegian wool sweaters that are unbelievably comfortable and warm! For all the synthetic fabrics used to make clothes, wool can’t be beat for warmth, lack of odor and functionality in wet and variable conditions.

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The trail kept climbing though not as steep as before, leaving the sheep country behind and entering into a rocky tundra landscape.  From this vantage, we could see the massive ice cap to the west.

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After 72 straight hours of travel, this high vantage point, combined with the big climb and a night of sleeping on the ground, far from airports, hotels and cities, reminded me why we travelled all this way to hike. As the wind picked up and landscape unfolded, we were once again adventurers, and this made us happy.

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Norwegian trails have a different marking system from American trails. Often, there is no trail, as routes will take you across rock, river and snow, surfaces non-conducive to trail treads. This is not to say there are not trails in Norway, because there are, but in the region we travelled there was probably an absence of trail tread 80-90% of the time. While there is not tread in many places, there are large cairns spaced every 50 to 100 feet. The cairns are marked with a large red “T” representing the last letter of DNT. Volunteers come out and repaint them every year. Intersections are also very well marked, with posts propped up in rock piles, giving clear direction where things are.

In this regard, backpacking in Norway falls in a weird middle ground. The tread is much rougher than the Colorado Trail or that found on popular 14ers in Colorado. It’s also rougher than the Indian Peaks. More often than not, there is no trail. It’s more like Alaska in that way…use rock, river beds and ridges to get around. But, on the other hand, the entire “route” network is exceptionally well marked. There are these massive cairns with giant red “T”s on them at close range (a necessity in a country with such wild weather, fog, snow and white-out conditions). Intersections have signs that would rival road signs in the U.S. There are huts every 15 miles or so. You can choose to sleep and eat in them or not use them at all. They are not luxury but they are not shacks by any stretch.

For Elaine and I, autumn backpacking trips are used in part to build a base for ski season. The nature of the Norwegian trails allows us to hike steadily without having to check navigation every two minutes, but also provides extremely varied and challenging terrain. We can push our bodies, but also enjoy a wilderness experience.  That’s what makes hiking in Norway so unique and that’s why we came here.

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We passed an older couple heading quickly down from the mountain we were heading up. They were much more bundled up than us, head-to-toe in Gore-Tex. They shouted something in Norwegian through the wind, to which we responded a common response, “Beklager jeg snakker ikke norsk så got (sorry, I don’t speak Norwegian so well.)”No problem, the entire country speaks fluent English and they can switch between the two languages easily (this makes it very hard to learn Norwegian). They told us we were heading to Møyfallsnuten at 1,450 meters and that we could stamp our book at the top. I wasn’t sure what they meant, but I could tell they were happy and having the time of their lives. It seems Norwegians rather like hiking on the tundra in windy conditions. I have to agree – it’s much more enjoyable and satisfying that 85° days with perfect sun and no wind. The harsh weather keeps you alert and alive.

We made our way to the top of Møyfallsnuten and its accompanying cold, gale force wind. We stamped our journals and signed our name in the book (tucked into a little cubby built in the rock), and by the time we were done our hands were starting to not work so well from the cold. It was time to move on. To the west, we saw clouds moving towards us quickly. We descended into a little ravine in the rock and put on more layers, including long pants. They would not come off for the entire rest of the trip. We continued across snow fields, into a fierce wind. Licks of rain touched our skin, but it never reached downpour state that morning. While it didn’t rain right on top of us, it rained hard all around us. As the sun broke through sucker holes, the water was illuminated and rainbows shot up on all sides. This was a typical pattern – there was only one day on the entire trip where we did not see at least one rainbow, and that was because on that day we were in a pouring rain fog from first light to last. If Norway changed its name to “Rainbowland” it would not be an inaccurate description of the country.

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There was an incredible amount of snow on the ground for late-August. The ice age was not that long ago up here. Traveling on snow was no problem, and usually a respite from tougher terrain. It’s smoother and softer than talus, and a snow-confident traveller can make good time across fully supportive snow fields.

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We navigated through the snow and rock covered plateau to its edge, and then began a steep descent down to a valley with a small cabin and a raging river. It was back into the land of green and berries, and after 5,000 plus feet of climbing and lots of calories burned, we were happy to supplement our walnuts, dried fruit, cheese and chocolate with fresh berries. Next up, our first experience with a swinging suspension bridge. Basically, you climb a ladder to get onto the bridge, walk across as it swings precariously, and then go down a ladder on the other side. They were great fun and a nice little shot of adrenaline on endorphin filled days.

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After the river, the trail climbed steeply again to a rocky and snowy valley. A light rain picked up, forcing me to tuck my camera in my jacket. Because of the wet weather, this remote, talus filled valley felt exceptionally wild. By accident, we ended up taking a little detour to the top of the 1,446 meter mountain Einseten. It was a good detour, as the climb was very fun and top offered an exceptional view of the surrounding rock, snow, mountains, waterfalls, glaciers and fjords.

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After Einseten we backtracked to the valley and continued east, past a small lake with grey mountains rising into the clouds around us. We shouted at the walls, and were answered once, twice, three and four times with echoes, bouncing from one wall to the next, wildly and indiscriminately. Happy and alive feelings overwhelmed the senses.

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We continued through the wild valley, past an alpine lake and then up the other side to a high pass. The fog and drizzle moved back and the light started dancing through the clouds. Fog ripped past the peaks, being blown at a pace similar to an airplane.

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We continued on over undulating, rocky and wet terrain, carefully stepping to avoid twisting an ankle or worse. We filled our water bottles and drank directly from streams, sans filtering. There were many stream crossings, but we’d given up on dry feet long ago.

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There was no trail surface to speak of, but there were massive cairns guiding the way. It was some of the most spectacular terrain I’ve ever hiked in my life, like something out of the imagination. The mind dreams there are places like this on earth, but this was the first time I ever had proof. I was coming to the realization that this might indeed be my favorite day of hiking ever.

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We rounded a bend and came across a huge waterfall, dropping off an ice cap from the plateau above. The cascade echoed off the rocks and mountains, creating an overwhelmingly beautiful scene as the wind howled from the north.

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The day was progressing on, and we were beginning to think about setting up camp. It had been a hard day with more than 7,000 feet of climbing over very difficult terrain. But, wilderness doesn’t care so much about the concerns of humans. If anything, as we got more tired the terrain got more difficult. We did a number of map checks to find potential campsites and make sure we stayed on course.

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We worked our way along the northern shore of Langavatnet and came across a discovery – a tiny emergency cabin tucked under a rock mound with a sod moss roof. The door was no more than three feet tall, but the inside was cozy.

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In addition to the regular DNT huts, there are also a number of emergency cabins tucked in the hills. If conditions get bad enough, these could keep you alive and even comfortable. Most are privately owned, but there is an ethics in this country that wilderness cabins should remain unlocked. Similarly, there is an ethic among the people of Norway not to abuse this. The entire system is built on trust. Almost all the cabins are stocked with some food, wood for a fire and mattresses for sleeping.

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While certainly fatigued from a long day of travel, we were not in an emergency by any stretch. Besides, one goal for this trip was to sleep outside as much as possible. We would move forward, but not before taking a nice little snack break on the stone built picnic table and bench right outside the sod roof rock hut.

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The route headed north. We entered an area that is used heavily for hydroelectric power. Norway has an enormous amount of water and a lot of steep vertical slopes that can harness that water and create an energy source that is much less environmentally impactful than fossil fuels and even wind farms. The western fjord region is ideal for this type of power, and we crossed a couple dams that are used for this very function. Elaine is a tremendous outdoor woman, but like all of us has a few fears. Her biggest fear is dams and potential for them simply breaking. Perhaps not rational, but who among us doesn’t have some fears that are not overly rational? As such, we moved quickly over the dams!

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The day was seriously getting late now and the terrain was not letting up one bit. We identified on the map an area with small lakes and what appeared to be flat terrain called Nibbetjørn and made that our target for the day. It was a harsh landscape, attested to by the reindeer skull we found near our destination. I can only imagine how wet, windy and brutal winters are in this place. Such conditions yield a harsh toll.

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We found a flat spot near some tiny alpine lakes and decided to camp. It was less than ideal terrain, as the ground was so soggy it would barely hold a tent stake. We gathered as many large rocks as we could and tied our shelter to them in hopes that if a big wind came over night, they would hold. Soon the shelter was up, and warming up quickly as we cooked pasta and tea before spending our first night out in the Norwegian wilderness. Despite a stiff wind and the sound of rain on our shelter we quickly fell into a deep sleep after one of the single best hiking days ever.

The first three days – Traveling from Eldora to Odda

Wednesday , August 24 thru Friday, August 16  – Travel Days: Eldora —> Denver —> Munich—>Oslo—>Odda

Traveling from Eldora, Colorado to Odda, Norway is not an easy or quick affair. We left on a crisp Colorado, late-August, Wednesday afternoon from our little cabin in the mountains. On that cool morning, I saw the first dusting of snow on Bald Mountain, an annual ritual of change. The first snow of the year heightened the happiness level on an already very exciting day…we were also going to Norway! I finished packing and went for a quick roller ski to offset the effects of traveling for the next three days.

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Bald Mountain the day of a departure from Colorado and the first snow of the year.

And then it was the last minute debates over what to bring, the final lock-up of the home, the drive down the canyon with the last minute chores, dropping Stella off with Jenny and finally the “everything is done we can just enjoy it now” drive down E-470 to Denver. Found parking with ease, took the shuttle to the airport and checked in at Lufthansa.

Lufthansa! This is no run-of-the-mill airline. This is not Frontier. This is German efficiency, professionalism and high quality. For folks like Elaine and I, who scored these tickets at ridiculously low prices the day after Brexit, it felt like a major coup. As trans-atlantic flights go, this one was maybe the best I’ve ever been on. The plane was quiet, the food good and best of all I managed to sleep for 4 hours! That never happens for me on a plane. I admit however, part of the cause of that may have been the Lufthansa stewardesses almost insistence that passengers take free wine and brandy. For lightweights like ourselves, that was plenty to make sleep a desired option. Even better was waking up somewhere over Holland, being served warm cocoa and croissants, and knowing that in less than one hour we were going to be touching down in Munich, Germany, home of Bayern Munchen, BMW and beer.

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Lufthansa – where stewardesses try to get you drunk. Elaine enjoys a before bedtime brandy. Very classy!

Germany is known for its efficiency, which is a good thing, given our modest five-hour layover and a 45-minute train ride each way to get from the airport to the city center and back again. In our pre-trip planning, this was a silly, off-the-cuff idea I proposed to Elaine. Lo and behold, she was all in. Honestly, there was a side of me that just wanted to sleep, but that’s not the Dan and Elaine way. We followed bright yellow signs shouting “TRAIN TO MUNCHEN” through the ultra-clean, somewhat sterile airport tunnels. We cleared customs and were blasted by a very warm, late summer day as we entered a huge outdoor atrium with five BMWS and five Porches parked outside.

Off to the train station. We almost got stymied right off the bat. Tickets are purchased on a machine that takes bills up to 20 Euros. We only had 50s. We decided we’d pay with a credit card, but as is always the case every single time we come to Europe, our bank put a stop on our card as soon as it read a foreign transaction for security reason. Easy enough to deal with, but we were in a time crunch. I was about to give up, but Elaine solved the problem, heading up to well-dressed German Herr, asking him if he had change for a fifty. He did, and we were in business. We managed to buy the tickets and hop on the train to Munich (we hoped) about half a second before the doors slammed shut.

We passed through lush farmland dotted with meticulous German homes and cottages. And then it was into the industrial part of town, passing the factories of BMW and Porsche and giant images of Bayern Munchen football (the real football) superstars. Our destination was Marienplatz, which I believe means town square or something similar. Upon train arrival we emerged out of the Subway hole into a new world. A cobblestoned square, thousands of people, a massive cathedral, stores selling fancy clothing and a completely different language. That type of moment is why I love travel, the initial shock to the system, the feeling of newness, of adventure.

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Off the train and into the bustle of Marienplatz in Munich, Germany for two hours of exploration.

We didn’t know where to start, so, like many before us, we headed right to church. Elaine and I are hardly the religious types, but European churches draw you in. They are massive, austere and overwhelmingly gaudy on the inside. You can’t help but look. We headed back out and decided to turn right. It was a good choice, as we soon found ourselves at what must have been the equivalent of a farmer’s market. Only this was not your typical farmers market. Hundreds of vendors were selling luscious fruit from Spain, fish from the Mediterranean, mushrooms from the Black Forest, lamb shanks from northern Germany, cheese from France and wine from Spain. This was not the outer-regions of the continent that we always go to. This was definitely not Tromsø. This was a hub, a cross-roads of sorts, a big city in mainland Europe.

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Mushrooms galore at the farmer’s market in Munich.

After an obligatory walk through the empty and depressing Hofbrau Haus, we decided to eat lunch at the farmer’s market. We ordered two sausages (Elaine never eats hot dogs, but she said, “when in Munich!”) and two very large steins of a beer that somewhat resembled Budweiser in appearance but tasted much better. We were not alone – this is apparently the customary drink of choice in Munich at 11 am. In addition to hordes of adults enjoying sausages and beer for brunch, we noticed a number of children who couldn’t have been more than ten years old being given a stein for sipping from their parents. They start ’em young in Germany.

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Beer and sausages for brunch. When in Germany do as the Germans do!

We have a co-worker named Zach at Neptune who is a big fan of Austrian schnapps. We spotted a small bottle of something called Pear Obschler with the distinctive Tyrol logo, and seeing how it only cost five Euros, decided to buy a bottle for Zach. We momentarily debated whether we could even get it onto the plane, but then came to the alcohol driven decision that if a country lets 8-year olds drink beer, surely they will allow you to take a bottle of sealed authentic Austrian schnapps on a plane

Our time in Munich was up. Just two hours in one of the greatest cities in the world, but at least it was two hours where we went it for it and squeezed every little bit out of life we could. That’s a good thing to do…our time here is too short. Back on the train to the airport, into the atrium with the Porches and BMWs, through a breezy customs and security (everything is efficient in Germany) and it was onto our next Lufthansa flight.

Except for one little hiccup: that bottle of schnapps. Being an honest American type (just ask our presidential candidates), I told the woman working security that I had the bottle and wanted to confirm it was OK. Very nicely she said, “oh, maybe not…can I see”…trailing to…”this is very good…I don’t think you can take this on the plane…too bad.” What the hell! Sorry Zach, I guess the baggage security crew in the Munich airport had a fun night.

Frustrations like that die quickly when you are on a plane to Norway for two weeks of backpacking in the Norwegian wilderness. As we flew north, the sky got cloudier, and by the time we descended into Oslo we were in a downright fog. It was pre-cursor for the adventure to come.

The next hours were a blur. Checking into the Anker Hostel. Wandering the rainy streets of Oslo looking for food. Trying to sleep and jet-lagged badly. Up early the next morning. My first breakfast at McDonalds in a decade. And then it was off to the DNT office.

The DNT office in Oslo is a gem. It’s a government run group that basically promotes hiking, skiing and huts in the country. Pay your membership dues and you get a key for all the huts. They have maps for every region of the country, books galore and all the last minute equipment you need, including fuel, a necessity for people flying into Oslo to begin their adventure.

When we told the clerk of our plans we were met with skepticism. We mentioned we hoped to hike 30-40 kilometers a day and she told us rather matter-of-factly that we would “kill ourselves.” Nevertheless, you can do what you want in Norway, however stupid, so she pointed us to the right maps, and Elaine and I formulated a plan. Basically, a hike from Odda, through the western fjords, across the Hardangervidda to the Jotunheimen Mountains, our exact exit point very much dependent on pace and where the bus happened to be when. Between the Hardangervidda and the Jotunheim was an area called Skarvheimen. We knew absolutely nothing about Skarvheimen, but assumed it would be smooth sailing.  We were also told that it is customary practice to drink all water in the mountains without filtering because, “there are no small animals this year.” This was shocking news, as this is never the recommended practice in the U.S.

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Arriving in rainy Oslo, Norway.

We would deal with all that later. It was time to catch the bus to Odda. Before boarding, we went to a sandwich shop, where we had a very interesting and entertaining experience with the girl making sandwiches. She was almost a caricature of the typical blonde and blue Norwegian and ended every sentence with an inquisitive sounding “ya?” Except it wasn’t really a question. “You want butter on both sides of the sandwich, ya!” “I love America, ya!” “Do you want a cinnamon role, ya!” It was a great experience that had Elaine and I chuckling for days. We mimicked that interaction quite a few times over the next week, particularly when the hike got heinous!

And then it was an endless, nausea inducing 8-hour bus ride to Odda on some of the most twisting roads I’ve ever been on. It was a beautiful ride, and the weather at Haukeliseter on the Hardangervidda was ominously cold and rainy.

There was a major revelation on the bus ride that impacted the entire trip. I was surfing the web, checking out the countrywide bus schedule. A day earlier I read a prominent announcement on their homepage that stated “bus service to the Jotunheim will continue throughout the fall.” But I failed to read the fine print. Upon clicking the link, it actually said “bus service to the Jotunheim will continue ON WEEKENDS thoughout the fall.” We had planned to use 11-days to hike our already ambitious route, ending on a Tuesday. It turned out bus service ended on Sunday afternoon, forcing us to pack 11-days of hiking into nine. There was really nowhere to get out before, and we were in Odda, unable to switch course without losing at least another day or two. We were going to have to hustle and hope the terrain allowed us to move efficiently. Remembering the skepticism of the girl in DNT office, I realized this was no sure thing.

In addition to this problematic news, I made the mistake of eating my food too quickly and almost paid the price on those curvy roads. I managed to keep it down, but by the time we got off the bus in Odda, rain beating down and the day darkening to night in this town in a deep fjord, I could barely stand up.

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After three days of travel, we arrived just before darkness at the start of our hike, the tiny, wet fjord town of Odda.

We didn’t have a place to stay, but we knew there was “Odda Campground” about two miles away back up the hill from where we came. I felt terrible – probably the worst of the entire trip – on this walk, still very car sick. We staggered into a very busy campground, paid our Kroners to the disinterested counter girl, and found one of the few remaining flat spots that wasn’t in a mud puddle. About a 100 meters away, Norwegian teens raced up and down the nearby dirt road on 2-stroke motorcycles. We skipped dinner, and settled into a restless, uneasy sleep. The rain began to beat down, muffling the voices of the lonely campers next to us. It was an odd, wet and unglamorous spot to begin our hike north across the Norwegian wilderness.