NORWAY

I pull on my gloves; wiggling each finger into its warm protective nook. The Norwegian air swirls around me, kicking up snow, trying to persuade my judgment to turn back. My mind keeps me firmly planted though overpowering natures reasoning’s. My eyes dance across the painting below, straining to savor every last detail; the hues of blue in the fjords, the oranges of autumn, the greens and grays of the peaks beyond. The corners of my mouth turn upwards with a big smile as the calmness of nature washes over me.

This is just one of the images that circulate through my mind after recently returning home from Jotunheimen, Norway. A place that is as captivating as the sagas of the trolls who roamed these glacier-carved mountains. A place that will be etched permanently into my memory, kept alongside many of the other impactful places I have visited as a photographer. Places like the Dolomites in Salewa’s backyard, the Alps of Japan, or my home range the Rocky Mountains of Colorado.

Jotunheimen National Park is a swathe of towering, glacially carved peaks, with knife-edge ridges, and broad steep faces that plunge into the fjords below. There is a reason it is known as the “Home of the Giants.” November though is a trying time to visit. Ullr, the legendary snow god, has typically begun to coat the hills in a sugary dusting not yet plentiful enough for skiing and riding but enough to become troublesome for hiking and climbing. Unusual timing and unpredictable weather weren’t going to detour me from these giants though, as I tacked a few extra days onto a photo shoot to head north in search of a solo adventure and to feed my imagination of Norse sagas.

“That route won’t be passable, maybe two days ago, but certainly not after last nights snow,” said Niklas Hollsten, as we sipped an early morning coffee and looked over a map. My adventure would begin here, at the Bygdin Hotel, 1,048 meters above sea level. The 100-year-old lodge sits at the edge of the 25km long Bygdin fjord and fed all points of my Norse imagination; old steamboats, red buildings abreast an inky blue fjord, and mountains peering out of grey clouds in every direction. Thankful to my coffee companion, the lodge’s resident guide, I adjusted my plan to ensure my day wasn’t going to end here. Instead of an overnight loop, which was certain to contain some serious snow tunneling I would take advantage of the lower mountains, ascending the Bitihorn peak (1608m) right out my front door, then speed hike down valley to a broad ridge that serrated two fjords, giving me access to on an unnamed peak at 1340m where I would turn around for a 28km out and back.

With a light daypack, I set out wandering in and out of shadows on the trail, relishing when the morning sun coated me in the warmth of its golden glaze. I have to admit, as I started out I felt sluggish, and dull the creaks of my body made their presence known groaning at me after too many days of photographing from a static line. I wasn’t sure my legs were going to prove to be of any use for the day and I wonder if I would need to turn home early. As I made my way up the icy ridge of the Bitihorn the cool morning air bit at me, I could feel my pulse increasing, my lungs burning, and my heart pumping. With each breath my stride came a little more natural, my senses awoke, and I shook off the last dull feelings of the previous weeks. I was moving in the mountains, I was full of energy, and I had left behind any worry of the day or distance. I was in paradise, no wait, I was in Norway, I was in the mountains, and I was ecstatic. Feeling more like myself my legs carried on for the rest of the day. I wound across the valley floor, over marshy golden meadows of autumn colors that meandered alongside beautiful blue fjords. If ever my legs put up an argument to stop my surroundings and excitement would rebut convincing me to carry on just a little further, to at least burn a few more kilometers into my memory. Before I knew it I had reached the unnamed peak, my mid-point. Knowing I had only come halfway I turned around ignited to chase the views of mountains draped in melting and molding light as I made my way back to the start on tired legs and energized spirits.

I rolled over in my sleeping bag, eyes barely parting, my mind hazy with sleep but then, slowly, like the twisting of binoculars, it came into focus. Sprawled out above me was the Milky Way wrapped in purples and gold, a celestial present. Selfishly, it was all mine to enjoy as I benefited bountifully in my secluded camp spot enjoying one last night of Norway’s liberal Right to Roam camping policy.

In the morning I woke to another coating of winter, which left me thankful my plans had ventured out of the higher peaks. Today, I was going to enjoy a short run to Hovdongo, an ancient Viking farmland near Flåm. Although the trail was steep and in some spots slippery from the snow my imagination quickly fueled me as I ascended into the clouds above the Aurlandsfjord. Looking out over the misty grey spans I could picture wooden ships rhythmically dipping their paddles into the water, silently gliding across its glassy surface. And as I made my way through the lush forest I could imagine the downed trees overgrown with moss being the perfect hiding spot for trolls and mystical creatures.

As I descended from the thatch-roofed farmlands of Hovdongo the fjord below showed clear through the murky clouds as if to align itself with the calm and refreshed feeling that had washed over me as I closed out two impactful days of solo adventure. Laughing to myself with a big smile I knew Norway had left its mark on me.