My Second Chance at a Real Norwegian Overnight Hike

After reading about my family’s adventurous and in many ways unsuccessful journey to Kalvedalshytta six years ago, my Norwegian friend Aina took it upon herself to ensure that I had good memories of this national Norwegian pastime. She invited me to hike to Selhamar, another cabin operated by the Norwegian Trekking Association (DNT), in the Stølsheimen mountains near Sognefjord.

And how could I say no? I was desperate to prove to myself that I could hike a DNT trail to a mountain cabin. It would be a sort of test: Have I in fact become more Norwegian in the past six years?

I also took it as an opportunity to learn. While Aina might not consider herself an advanced hiker, she grew up in Norway and knew what I didn’t: how to be prepared in the mountains. Her backpack was stocked with tins of mackerel, a fish rich in vitamins, protein and oils. She had a flashlight (so very useful when needing the toilet in the middle of the night), a knife, a waterproof folder for the map and a compass. (By now all of you real hikers are probably thinking, “Umm … Yes. Who wouldn’t think of those things?” So I guess you know what kind of novices we were on the Kalvedalshytta hike.) Aina also carried a survivor’s kit containing an emergency tent and bright orange ponchos.

I was full of questions, as any good student should be. “Aina. Let’s say we need to use this pop-up shelter, and okay, we have the orange to make us easy to spot, but how is anyone even going to know to look for us out here?”

“Well, Berent knows I’m going to call him by 8 p.m. tomorrow and if I don’t call by, let’s say midnight, then he knows to call a helicopter.”

“Midnight tomorrow? That’s a really long time!” It was one o’clock, which would mean “surviving” for over twenty-four hours.

“That’s what the mackerel is for,” she said.

Her calm assurance in the face of doom was astounding. It reminded me that so much of hiking depends on preparedness.

Aina’s other piece of advice? Talk to everyone you see (which, in any other circumstances, would be the most un-Norwegian thing to do). Every single person on the trail is a source of information and a possible key to your survival.

We only passed three people that first day, and only one on the second, but to each of them Aina dutifully asked: “Where are you coming from?” and “Where are you going?” She also inquired about the condition of the trail ahead of us.

I thought back to our mysterious savior on the Kalvedalshytta trail. I didn’t think anything about it at the time, but he had asked where we were headed. The question, which seemed like the sort of small talk one makes when hiking, was the information that allowed him to check on our safe arrival later. When it was getting dark and we still hadn’t showed up at the cabin, he knew to come out looking for us.

“That’s such a good system!” I told Aina.

“It’s not a system! It’s instinct.”

Instinct. The instinct that comprises the very core of Norwegian culture: I watch out for you, you watch out for me. I could not help but reflect, once again, on why the attacks on the 22^nd of July were such a shock, and why they produced such disbelief that this sort of thing could happen in Norway.

We talked about the 22^nd of July and how incongruous the attacks were with the tremendous peace we felt hiking along these mountains lakes, a peace that surprised me because six years ago a similarly wild and isolated terrain had induced panic. Then, the terrifying realization that my mobile phone did not have a signal, now seemed a joyous benefit. (Maybe I am just a little bit more Norwegian?)

I thought about how much fear plays a part in American culture, how it keeps us from waking alone at night, or keeps us from giving our children true independence. How it prevents real moments of solitude because, just think of what might happen!

So I shared my American instinct with Aina: “An American might say, ‘Is it safe for two women to go to a cabin and spend the night in the middle of nowhere?’ Would you be scared if two mean-looking men showed up at the cabin? I mean, what’s to keep them from raping us, or killing us with no one else around?”

Aina was incredulous. “Why on earth would two men who wanted to rape women drive up into the mountains and then hike for three hours? Wouldn’t it be a lot easier just to stay in town?”

Point taken.

“So it doesn’t scare you to sleep alone in a cabin with strangers?”

“I’m actually more afraid of the sheep.”

“The sheep?!”

“They can be really aggressive.”

I imagined Aina wielding her knife to defend us against a charging sheep, the bell around his neck clanging out a war cry. But then again, she had thought to bring along a knife.

I decided if the worst I had to fear was the sheep, I would be all right. If the second worst was sitting under an impromptu shelter for twenty-four hours eating mackerel and scanning the skies for helicopters, then that would also be okay. If I lost my footing and slid down the side of the mountain, well, I was sure Aina would know what to do.

Three hours later, with no ovine confrontations, no emergency tent-making, and even before I had reached the point of total exhaustion, the cabins at Selhamar appeared on the path below us: two neat little wooden cabins painted olive-green, sitting firmly between two glistening lakes. I was elated.

Our evening at the cabin was a tranquil delight. We enjoyed a can of hearty soup from the cabin’s well-stocked, and thankfully not-expired pantry and then lit candles and read through a stack of well-used books we found on a shelf by the fireplace. One told the history of Stølsheimen, the area we were in. In summer a “budeie,” often a farmer’s wife or the oldest unmarried daughter, would come up to the mountains with the cows and sheep to let them graze on the vast grasslands. These women would stay in a small cabin, called a “støl” for the six to eight weeks of summer and make butter, cheese, and sour cream. “Stølsheimen” thus means “home of the støl.” Most of the støler in this region fell into disuse in the 1950s, but in other areas of Norway the støl tradition is still strong (although now men commonly share the work of the budeier).

Six to eight weeks on my own with sheep and cows, even amidst so much natural beauty, sounded both wonderfully freeing and, well, frighteningly lonely. But time spent on one’s own, times of thoughtful solitude, whether through long walks, hikes, or weekends at DNT cabins, is also a significant part of Norwegian culture, and these women must have come to know themselves and nature in a way that I have not.

That night I climbed into my wooden bunk-bed and stretched myself flat under the comforting weight of the duvet. I relished the blissful exhaustion of a body that had spent the day moving over rocks and moss, breathing in the fresh air, intoxicated by endless beauty.

Throughout the night I could hear the howling and thumping of the wind as it roared across the valley. And I heard the sound of sheeps’ bells as they, too, came in from their mountain rambling, seeking shelter for the night beside the cabin walls.

 

Takk for turen, Aina!

Photos from the hike follow. Click on the individual picture if you would like to see a larger version of it. We hiked out the next day via a different, and longer route, but we made it back to our car in 5 1/2 hours — this time at the point of sheer exhaustion! It was a wonderful and very memorable trip.

Has the path of the sun divided this landscape? Our trail cuts through juniper and moss, and along rolling white stones, but across from us loom bare and jagged black rocks and the stubborn remnants of last winter's snow.

The pastures of Stølsheimen: clearly a sheep's heaven! In the distance a stream curls down into one of the hundreds of mountain lakes in this area.

The soft "soapstone" found here was used for carving out pots in the Stone Age. (People lived up here in the Stone Age?!) "When do you think they stopped carving pots here?" I asked Aina. "When they discovered iron?" she quipped. She's so clever.

The DNT cabins at Selhamar (880 m./ 2887 ft. above sea level.) We have arrived! ... WE HAVE ARRIVED!!!

Important notice to cabin dwellers: Drinking water to the left, bathing water to the right. And do not brush your teeth in the drinking water for heaven's sakes!

A different, and longer route out the next day. Visible in the distance is the red top of Raudberget (The Red Mountain), which we will eventually hike around.

The collapsed side of Raudberget ("The Red Mountain"). What a bummer it must have been to be the first hiker to find this mess! Nothing to do but go over, under, around and through. And, as we didn't meet aggressive sheep or need helicopter rescue, we voted this the worst part of our hike.

Island hopping.