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Wild at heart: Northern Norway -
SOUTH TVERRFJORD, northern Norway- Flying fish splash back in the glassy still fjord. Sea eagles perch on jagged cliffs. Aboard our fishing boat, we spray the water with pellets feeding 80,000 waiting salmon.
Henning and Frank pour me cups of fishermen’s muddy, black coffee. I can’t stay awake. My eyelids are as heavy as bricks – too many seasickness pills again. Another typical day salmon farming in South Tverrfjord, Troms, Norway.
I’m criss-crossing northern Norway collecting Midnight Sun stories. It’s a wild ride – living, laughing (and crying), walking a mile in the shoes of Arctic people. We wind along the fjord road; passing store/post office, ferry dock and grazing goats. We visit elderly ladies and a British choirmaster.
And everyone tells me the same wartime story – The Embracing Couple. Fleeing the Germans, they escaped into the mountains and hid in a remote cave. When the war ended, a local boat came to rescue them. The couple were found, frozen together in a heartbreaking, last embrace.
Wild, beautiful, tragically romantic? Northern Norwegians are characters, every last one I meet. Characters straight out of a Knut Hamsun novel or a Monty Python movie. I’ve met fishermen, farmers, adventurers, artists, entrepreneurs…..even a German chef named Ringo.
The landscape shapes people born, bred and living here it seems. For instance, many mountain people seem shy, kind, solid as a rock, deep, soulful thinkers. Sea people seem moody like the sea; passionate, spontaneous, charismatic charmers.
Northern Norway is Norwegian Sea, Barents Sea, islands, fjords, mountains, forests, stone deserts, coast, frozen tundra. So maybe Northern Norwegians are a dramatic, frothy blend shaped by it all. “Vesteraalen is the sea, and the meeting of waves with mountain, heaven and horizon,” writes Lars Saabye Christensen, in “The Other Side of Blue.”
The Vesteraalen Islands, Norway’s lush, green mountain islands, lie north of the Lofoten Islands. I meet Ole Petter Bergland, a dead ringer for a skinny Ernest Hemingway. He has eccentric charm and quirky humour. He is the ‘Safari Man’ of Vesteraalen. Deep in the valley of Forfjord, Bergland his sheep farmer cousin Kristin and I hike through swampy marsh and start ascending. The mountain ridge eventually comes into view. Kristin and I straddle the gravely ridge on our stomachs exchanging looks of sheer panic.
“Ole Petter, I thought you said the ridge was 10 meters wide!”
“Yes, 10 metres wide on average,” he smiles.
It’s only a false top. The real mountain ridge lies much higher up.
I lose it on a narrow mountain ledge. I freeze against the mountain face. I’m terrified to move or look down. Stones loosen under my boots and skip down the mountainside. The falling scenes in Cliffhanger and Vertical Limit flash through my mind. I feel dizzy. I begin whimpering, begging Bergland not to leave me stranded there. Slowly, I break through my wall of fear. Bergland chews dried cod on our mountain top lunch break, contemplating our options. The valley lake is a turquoise smudge below. Sheep bells tinker on the other side of the mountain. Kristin and I can’t finish. There is no other way. We have to slide down the entire mountain, zigzagging on our asses. The !#&#¤ rocks bang my tailbone. The !@#&¤& shrubs rip open my pants. The !#¤%@ boulders scrape my hands.
“Sooooonya, I’vvvvve nevvvver heaaard anyoooone sweeeear as muuuuch aaaassss yooooou dooooo,” Bergland yells.
Finally, we reach the valley floor. I hug Kristin, I hug Bergland, I hug myself. I can barely stand up but I’m so, so happy to be alive.
Bleik Beach, 3 km of white sandy beach on Vesteraalen’s northern island, soothes me the next few days. I collapse in the sand dunes. The crashing waves lull me to sleep. Grassy reeds brush against my tent and wake me occasionally. Far off on the horizon, flocks of puffins and kittiwakes congregate on Bleik Island. Far, far, far off on the horizon is Iceland. Bleik comes from the Old Norse word ‘bleikr’ meaning light or white. Villagers still carry on the tradition of gathering down and eggs from the birds’ nests on Bleik Island. Every May, egg-hunting expeditions are arranged and those with most land get the most eggs.
Sortland, the capital of Vesteraalen Islands, is my final island stop before Tromsoe. The Blue City By The Sea, an art and environmental project which is the brainchild of artist Bjørn Elvenes, is designed to unify the downtown in shades of blue. Cobalt blue, sky blue, cornflower blue, baby blue...I wander the eye-candy streets searching for the artist who paints only blue mountains.
Ingunn Judith Moen Reinsnes is easy to find by her little white villa and its blue mountains outdoor gallery. We chat over coffee in her garden. “Mountains are fascinating forms to paint. Mine are becoming more and more abstract. I see mountains in everything like skyscrapers in New York. What’s special in Vesteraalen is the short distance to the mountains and sea,” she says.
The Lyngen Alps, known as the Arctic Eldorado, is one of Norway’s wildest mountain chains, 70km southeast of Tromsoe. Extreme sport skiers and mountaineers alike make pilgrimages to this non-commercial mountain region. Serendipity and kind locals lead me to legendary goat farmer Bjoern Birkebaek.
“The mosquitoes are bothering the goats up at the summer farm. I’m herding them home at midnight, would you like to come along? “ Birkebaek asks. “I really hope the goats haven’t climbed too high though.”
In his wooden Nordland boat, the boyish farmer rows us across Jaegervatnet to his secluded farm. We pull the boat ashore. The Norwegian mountain goats come galloping, hearing Birkebaek’s voice. He talks to them in gentle and affectionate tones. “All animals must have love. It’s an incredible life living with animals,” he smiles tenderly.
Shaggy, black, brown, and white goats surround us. They nibble at my anorak and eye me closely. Their horns make me nervous. Strangely it’s like being in a crowd of people; all very distinct personalities.
“There’s no milk, she’s empty!,” I laugh falling over on the barn floor. The goat I’m (not) milking turns around and gives me a “well get on with it!” look. Milking mountain goats here, Birkebaek’s humor, the fairytale aspect of it all strikes me as hilariously funny.
Milking done, Birkebaek swings open the barn door. No need for herding, the goats simply follow him through the dense forest. They soon disappear. I’m alone on his rustic, hand-carved farm.
There are approximately 30 different types of mosquitoes in Norway, 20 of them found in northern Norway. They’ve all bitten me twice. The air is black with mosquitoes on Beskades, the stormy section of Finnmark Plateau. I’ve bussed it from Tromsø to Alta, and further to Gargia Fjellstue, 25 km south of Alta between Kautokeino. I’m hiking back the dusty dirt road down from Sautso Canyon, a common Finnmark Plateau mountain trip.
A German mobile home drives up. Suddenly a stocky man in cardigan, dress pants and shoes hops out. He waves me over and I show him my German map explaining the hike, the routes, distance…”Das is Expedition!”, he dismisses me, smiles and walks away. The encounter reminds me of the chilling German wartime occupation of Norway. Finnmark was a strategic location, allowing Germans to control allied convoys between Britain and Murmansk and base submarines and destroyers in her ports. Stunning photographs of adorable penguins bring me back to the present.
I’m studying Lofoten photographer Kjell Ove Storvik’s latest exhibition at Gargia Fjellstue. He shyly addresses the audience at the exhibition opening that night.
Storvik’s passion for discovery has lead him to the North Pole, Northern Canada and Russia. Like many Norwegian born-adventurers I know, he prefers life on the margin. Meeting and living alongside penguins in the Antarctic, he says, was an especially intense experience.
“One day, I heard a beating sound, it was getting louder….It was the beating of my heart.”
Article provided by kind permission of The Leader Newspaper
SOUTH TVERRFJORD, northern Norway- Flying fish splash back in the glassy still fjord. Sea eagles perch on jagged cliffs. Aboard our fishing boat, we spray the water with pellets feeding 80,000 waiting salmon.
Henning and Frank pour me cups of fishermen’s muddy, black coffee. I can’t stay awake. My eyelids are as heavy as bricks – too many seasickness pills again. Another typical day salmon farming in South Tverrfjord, Troms, Norway.
I’m criss-crossing northern Norway collecting Midnight Sun stories. It’s a wild ride – living, laughing (and crying), walking a mile in the shoes of Arctic people. We wind along the fjord road; passing store/post office, ferry dock and grazing goats. We visit elderly ladies and a British choirmaster.
And everyone tells me the same wartime story – The Embracing Couple. Fleeing the Germans, they escaped into the mountains and hid in a remote cave. When the war ended, a local boat came to rescue them. The couple were found, frozen together in a heartbreaking, last embrace.
Wild, beautiful, tragically romantic? Northern Norwegians are characters, every last one I meet. Characters straight out of a Knut Hamsun novel or a Monty Python movie. I’ve met fishermen, farmers, adventurers, artists, entrepreneurs…..even a German chef named Ringo.
The landscape shapes people born, bred and living here it seems. For instance, many mountain people seem shy, kind, solid as a rock, deep, soulful thinkers. Sea people seem moody like the sea; passionate, spontaneous, charismatic charmers.
Northern Norway is Norwegian Sea, Barents Sea, islands, fjords, mountains, forests, stone deserts, coast, frozen tundra. So maybe Northern Norwegians are a dramatic, frothy blend shaped by it all. “Vesteraalen is the sea, and the meeting of waves with mountain, heaven and horizon,” writes Lars Saabye Christensen, in “The Other Side of Blue.”
The Vesteraalen Islands, Norway’s lush, green mountain islands, lie north of the Lofoten Islands. I meet Ole Petter Bergland, a dead ringer for a skinny Ernest Hemingway. He has eccentric charm and quirky humour. He is the ‘Safari Man’ of Vesteraalen. Deep in the valley of Forfjord, Bergland his sheep farmer cousin Kristin and I hike through swampy marsh and start ascending. The mountain ridge eventually comes into view. Kristin and I straddle the gravely ridge on our stomachs exchanging looks of sheer panic.
“Ole Petter, I thought you said the ridge was 10 meters wide!”
“Yes, 10 metres wide on average,” he smiles.
It’s only a false top. The real mountain ridge lies much higher up.
I lose it on a narrow mountain ledge. I freeze against the mountain face. I’m terrified to move or look down. Stones loosen under my boots and skip down the mountainside. The falling scenes in Cliffhanger and Vertical Limit flash through my mind. I feel dizzy. I begin whimpering, begging Bergland not to leave me stranded there. Slowly, I break through my wall of fear. Bergland chews dried cod on our mountain top lunch break, contemplating our options. The valley lake is a turquoise smudge below. Sheep bells tinker on the other side of the mountain. Kristin and I can’t finish. There is no other way. We have to slide down the entire mountain, zigzagging on our asses. The !#&#¤ rocks bang my tailbone. The !@#&¤& shrubs rip open my pants. The !#¤%@ boulders scrape my hands.
“Sooooonya, I’vvvvve nevvvver heaaard anyoooone sweeeear as muuuuch aaaassss yooooou dooooo,” Bergland yells.
Finally, we reach the valley floor. I hug Kristin, I hug Bergland, I hug myself. I can barely stand up but I’m so, so happy to be alive.
Bleik Beach, 3 km of white sandy beach on Vesteraalen’s northern island, soothes me the next few days. I collapse in the sand dunes. The crashing waves lull me to sleep. Grassy reeds brush against my tent and wake me occasionally. Far off on the horizon, flocks of puffins and kittiwakes congregate on Bleik Island. Far, far, far off on the horizon is Iceland. Bleik comes from the Old Norse word ‘bleikr’ meaning light or white. Villagers still carry on the tradition of gathering down and eggs from the birds’ nests on Bleik Island. Every May, egg-hunting expeditions are arranged and those with most land get the most eggs.
Sortland, the capital of Vesteraalen Islands, is my final island stop before Tromsoe. The Blue City By The Sea, an art and environmental project which is the brainchild of artist Bjørn Elvenes, is designed to unify the downtown in shades of blue. Cobalt blue, sky blue, cornflower blue, baby blue...I wander the eye-candy streets searching for the artist who paints only blue mountains.
Ingunn Judith Moen Reinsnes is easy to find by her little white villa and its blue mountains outdoor gallery. We chat over coffee in her garden. “Mountains are fascinating forms to paint. Mine are becoming more and more abstract. I see mountains in everything like skyscrapers in New York. What’s special in Vesteraalen is the short distance to the mountains and sea,” she says.
The Lyngen Alps, known as the Arctic Eldorado, is one of Norway’s wildest mountain chains, 70km southeast of Tromsoe. Extreme sport skiers and mountaineers alike make pilgrimages to this non-commercial mountain region. Serendipity and kind locals lead me to legendary goat farmer Bjoern Birkebaek.
“The mosquitoes are bothering the goats up at the summer farm. I’m herding them home at midnight, would you like to come along? “ Birkebaek asks. “I really hope the goats haven’t climbed too high though.”
In his wooden Nordland boat, the boyish farmer rows us across Jaegervatnet to his secluded farm. We pull the boat ashore. The Norwegian mountain goats come galloping, hearing Birkebaek’s voice. He talks to them in gentle and affectionate tones. “All animals must have love. It’s an incredible life living with animals,” he smiles tenderly.
Shaggy, black, brown, and white goats surround us. They nibble at my anorak and eye me closely. Their horns make me nervous. Strangely it’s like being in a crowd of people; all very distinct personalities.
“There’s no milk, she’s empty!,” I laugh falling over on the barn floor. The goat I’m (not) milking turns around and gives me a “well get on with it!” look. Milking mountain goats here, Birkebaek’s humor, the fairytale aspect of it all strikes me as hilariously funny.
Milking done, Birkebaek swings open the barn door. No need for herding, the goats simply follow him through the dense forest. They soon disappear. I’m alone on his rustic, hand-carved farm.
There are approximately 30 different types of mosquitoes in Norway, 20 of them found in northern Norway. They’ve all bitten me twice. The air is black with mosquitoes on Beskades, the stormy section of Finnmark Plateau. I’ve bussed it from Tromsø to Alta, and further to Gargia Fjellstue, 25 km south of Alta between Kautokeino. I’m hiking back the dusty dirt road down from Sautso Canyon, a common Finnmark Plateau mountain trip.
A German mobile home drives up. Suddenly a stocky man in cardigan, dress pants and shoes hops out. He waves me over and I show him my German map explaining the hike, the routes, distance…”Das is Expedition!”, he dismisses me, smiles and walks away. The encounter reminds me of the chilling German wartime occupation of Norway. Finnmark was a strategic location, allowing Germans to control allied convoys between Britain and Murmansk and base submarines and destroyers in her ports. Stunning photographs of adorable penguins bring me back to the present.
I’m studying Lofoten photographer Kjell Ove Storvik’s latest exhibition at Gargia Fjellstue. He shyly addresses the audience at the exhibition opening that night.
Storvik’s passion for discovery has lead him to the North Pole, Northern Canada and Russia. Like many Norwegian born-adventurers I know, he prefers life on the margin. Meeting and living alongside penguins in the Antarctic, he says, was an especially intense experience.
“One day, I heard a beating sound, it was getting louder….It was the beating of my heart.”
Article provided by kind permission of The Leader Newspaper
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