Troms Day 5: Down to the Beach

I wake still lying on the hut floor. A hut not like the others. This one big, with many rooms, all cold. Hence the floor. The decision to sleep in the main room next to the stove had been a no brainer. I lie listening to the fall of boot on wooden floor as the others gather their gear and head out of the door intent on their Alpine start. They’re off to bag a top. Their desire to bag it is the main reason we’re in the hut and not a tent. I’m more than happy to skip the dawn activity.

There are enough kilometres left to satiate my wonder lust without adding on side branches. Besides, I’d been up late, revelling in our second showing of the Northern lights and life doesn’t deal me a lot of lie ins. Even this bone chilling, backbreaking wooden floor holds and undeniable attraction.

Fifteen minutes later I’m up and about anyway. The stove is lit, just a couple of logs, enough to blunt the airs edge, and there’s a kettle on for porridge and a brew. Glowing like a Ready Brek kid I pack my kit for the last time. Carefully and methodically. For once without haste. Done and dusted, I head outside with my camera and am met with partial views. It’s reasonably open to the North under low patchy cloud but the tops to West and East are closed in. I imagine the boys up top squinting into the mist and am glad I stayed low.

A half our later the others are back and, after a warm and a brew, are packing up. By the time we leave the hut the cloud is lifting. No longer obscuring the view it hangs in swathes adding interest to the scene. It's going to be another fine day. It's going to be that much harder for me to say goodbye to the high North.

The walk out is to be simple. All down, all way marked, all the way to Snarby eidet and the road where we hope to catch the bus out of Oldervik. When having fun however, hikers fly and we find ourselves, regardless of all those stops to take photographs, at the road an hour early. Dilema! One hour before the bus leaves Oldervik and five kilometres of road. The question is do we sit and shiver or do we sprint to Oldervik. The latter gets the vote and, after strapping snow shoes and sticks to packs we stride off down the road.

Road walking’s not usually my thing but it occurs to me as I thunder forwards that this road walk has something going for it; it will take us back to the coast. The route, unintentionally, has become a sort of coast to coast. There’s something about that that appeals to my compulsion for symmetry and order. Some trips just peter out. This one will stop, literally, at the end of the road where the tarmac meets the dark Northern waters.

The tail of this route becomes both a bout of stiff exercise and a gentle re-entry into the world. Another positive of road walking is that you spend less time looking at your feet. With no alarms and no surprises you’re free to look up. I watch, with fascination, as the trappings of civilisation roll towards me. First come the widely spaced houses accompanied by the sound of barking dogs. Then come the overhead cables. Then the speed restrictions making the edge of the village. Then the houses get closer, then bunch up and all at once we’re in the village.

With ten minutes to spare before the bus leaves we dump packs in the shelter and wander round. I head down, past the racks of air drying cod fish to the beach. It’s a fascinating place. I’m confronted by a sea, improbably open for this improbably Northern latitude. What a different place this would be where it not for Mexico’s gift of warm water. The beach, wide and stony, is studded with large blocks of ice. Not sea ice but fresh water ice lifted from the river mouth and placed artily by the rise and fall of the tide. I walk to the waters edge and, in lieu of a toe, dip the tip of my vibram. Job done.

Then there’s just the bus. A few short minutes of rewind has us speeding back past the trail head at Movik, then back through Kroken and finally over the bridge into Tromso. The bus spits us out under Amundsens monument and, after a few moments of reflection stood at the foot of this man amongst men, we head off to look for a grill-polse (with bacon!) and the bus to the airport.

Troms Day 4: The Highlife

How many ways are there to fix a broken snowshoe? Well, lock three engineers in a remote mountain hut and they'll come up with a long list. Put those same three engineers in a remote mountain hut without tools and materials and they'll pretty soon work out that the real-world options are close to zero. Close but not quite. A first attempt with mild steel strip, a hatchet and a nail came remarkably close but failed on account of the nail being the wrong diameter. A second attempt with a metre and a half of Bob and Roses glow in the dark guy line and yet more duct tape herded all the separate bits back into a single piece of outdoor kit. As I stand, favouring my good snow-shoe, under soft morning light in front of Nonsbu to take another photo before moving of I am wondering just how long the low-tech repair will last.

Other than the snow-shoe krypton factor and a spectacular sunset that turned out to be the lights of Tromso, the evening before had been comfortable and uneventful. Comfortable and uneventful hut nights are, as it happens, just the thing for separating February days in Troms. I'm very sure that a cold night spent listening to the mad flap of tent fabric in anticipation of a breaking pole and a mad rush to make good, would have left me somewhat less refreshed and raring to go. Given that, had we camped, we'd most probably still be digging parachute anchors out of snow with the consistency of Bell Metal, we'd have been later starting out to.

We haven´t seen a forecast. Nor have we been visited by a Swedish female nocturnal snow runner carrying false messages of improving weather. All we have to go on is the here and now and, frankly, I like what I see. As we move away I´m almost convinced that we have a half decent chance of a fine day.

We drop down a few metres to cross a stream bed and then swing round to the North East. On our right hand lies a massive virgin snowfield. Perfect white, unmarked by man or beast and enclosed between the bulk of Rund Fjellet and a line of peaks that rise, all of a sudden, on it´s South-Western edge. Little interrupts the white other than a subtle play of light and the odd isolated tree. The trees have my attention. They look like they don´t belong. Bent and twisted I get the feeling that they´re being taught regular hard lessons. Those that dare grow too tall are all, literally, cut short by the wind.

It takes me longer to work out than it should but standing in the ridge line bounding the South-Western edge of the snow-field is yesterdays bagged top. From this side, as small as it is, it looks imposing. Steep, too steep to hold snow, a glowering black boundary wall. Looking from this side I´m suddenly glad that we didn´t drift East on yesterdays long blind bearing.

As we move through this wild place the sun hangs low in the sky. Giver of light and life what must it be like to see it reappear after the long, dark arctic night? Right now it´s giving a beautiful soft low light. My camera says cold blue. My eye says warm bronze. One of us is confused. Whatever the colour, a photographers dream, it turns every millimetre high ripple on the snows surface into a line of defining contrast. I feel the urge to just stay put and watch the world spin past me. I keep moving though pulled along by a need. A need to see what´s on the other side of every brow and round every corner. Every step reveals new interest. Snow sculptures. Mountain profiles. Tree studded distant hills every bit unshaven chins. I think of Benjamin, placing his little hand against my stubbly cheek and saying "spikey".

Light we get but giver of life? As warm as the light looks there's no discernible heat in it. I turn the bare skin of my face towards it and close my eyes but feel nothing but cold. If there´s a heat signal in the rays striking my face I can't feel it above the noise. Winter still has the upper hand. Wind her weapon of choice. This land hasn´t woken up yet. This world of white is reflecting everything the sun throws at it. Giver of light and life it may be but today, here, giver of warmth it isn´t.

Our route lies some way of the marked route and takes us over a little top at three hundred or so metres elevation. On the top we feel the teeth of the wind again but are rewarded with long views over Skittenelva and beyond to Grotsundet. The air is clear, the light is good and I have a strong sense that we´re on the front edge of the high point of this trip. We survey the ground ahead and decide to follow the line of sight to the next little top three kilometres distant. Geithaugen looks like a great vantage point from which to peer over more of this magical landscape and, at this rate, we´ll be there in time for lunch. As we stride out I can already see the snow bench cut into it´s lea slope.

We stomp forward, single file, pretty much along a single contour but working through fine-scale rise and fall that, tough it doesn´t find it´s way onto the map, I can still feel in my thighs. We cross stream beds, pass through stands of birch and cut across open spaces, always with the valley and the flank of Snyfjellet on our right hand.

We move up the slope onto the top of Geithaugen and find a reward out of all proportion with the few metres we've had to climb. The view, long and uninterrupted, is magnificent. Sea, mountain, sky. Its all right there before me. Despite the wind we hover on the summit, feet lost in swirling white, soaking it all in. Then we drop off the North side, just a few metres but enough to gain some shelter, and Willem-Maarten cuts a bench. Today, for the first time this trip, we'll stop and take a proper lunch. As we sit cocooned in down we chew, observe and say little. On such days food tastes good, especially hot food, but location is nine tenths of the experience. I set up the camera and take some shots with the remote. Some of our lunch spot. Chimping as I repack the camera I see that we look like an add for PHD. Truth is we're sponsoring them not the other way round.

As great as it is here we don´t linger. Rations consumed the chill takes hold and, after one too many cold blasts of drifting snow from behind, we pack up quickly, strap on snow shoes, strip layers and move out. First, to avoid the too steep Northern side, heading in totally the wrong direction, but soon switching back on the gentler eastern flank .

Then, as if I haven't had enough reward already, I'm treated to a true highlight. I've long believed that adversity is the taxation of hillwalking. Hang around long enough and put up with enough shit and the mountains will repay you for your effort. Today is pay day with a bonus thrown in. Just two hours ago I thought the light perfect but It's just got even better. My camera stays at my eye and I find myself moving in short spurts. Step up the pace, pause, frame, shoot, repeat. Willem-Marten and Thim, striding out and kicking up plumes of white, provide foreground perspective and movement against a background of pure winter.

The next hour becomes a blur. I´ve been looking for more of this since that evening in Oyer in 2010 and, on the back of the winter storms, its taken me by surprise. The pace slows right down. Even Willem-Maarten slows to a shamble and, as I find myself ahead of the group for the first time in days, I look back and watch my friends, good friends, get their kicks. Smiles on every face. Sometimes its good to share.

We slowly work our way into the neck of trolvasdalen and make for higher ground on its western side. First across a wide sweeping flat, home to an army of Ents, that leads the eye to a first glimpse of Ullstinden. On the map clearly a majestic hill but in real life, its huge bulk rising a 1000m straight up from the shore, a thousand times more impressive. I feel the need to climb it but not today.

Instead, after a quick conflab, we choose to make use of the remaining light to climb up to the Trollvatnet. Willem-Maarten reverts to type and scoots off like a ferret up drainpipe. Thim follows and I follow Thim. Though the numbers don´t suggest it, for me, the climb feels long and hard. For the second time this trip a switch gets thrown inside my head. All at once the post-lunch euphoria ceases and I'm in a fowl mood. The last kilometer becomes a sweaty, sweary, stumbling affair and I'm sure, as I approach the top, my companions see it written across my face. I turn away to look over the lake that's not there, delve in my pocket for my last eat natural bar and chow down. The heady hit of chocolate and nut throws the switch again and my happy circuit starts to hum again. The lake, invisible under layers of white, sits in an impressive, deep sided, corrie. A cathedral to the gods of glaciation.

Turning around again the true reward becomes apparent. On the climb a long wide- angle view of the troll and oldervikdalen and Ulls and Urtinden had sneaked up behind me. I now get to dive into it in slow motion on a long gradual descent under the last flicker of the days light. What a contrast from twenty four hours previous. Trollvassbu, our most probable destination, though a tiny dot, is visible. No need for blind compass work we can simply walk in a straight line and enjoy the scenery.

Tent or hut? Half way down we regroup and vote. I keep my cards close to my chest but secretly want to stop right here and pitch the tent. The nays have it though and, as the light finally fails, I follow the others to the hut and through the door.

 

 

    Photo courtesy of Willem-Maarten van Haaften

Troms Day 3: Break and Make

Another cold morning after another warm night. The Norwegians have got wood-burning stoves down to a fine art. A moments over enthusiasm with the firewood leads, in half that time, to a sweat lodge. Perhaps its the contrast but this morning it seems colder. I'd been later to bed. A trip outside to answer a call had revealed a brief glimpse of the Aurora. Almost too faint to see but after a few moments of screwing up eyes and disbelief definitely there. Thereafter, some time had been spent outside, stamping feet and blowing on fingers, waiting for the next hole to appear between the fast scudding clouds.

This morning the reluctance to leave my bag is greater than usual. The most important room in the house is not in the house. Nature always prevails. Not able to hold out any longer it's on with the down and out of the door. On occasion a walk to the pan has it's advantages. Once outside the air's crisp. It's colder, perhaps a few degrees under zero, but the only thing obscuring the view is the steam from my breath. For the first time since arriving in the snow storm I get a good view of our situation. It's stunning. Left and right of the hut lie high fells, behind, Tromsdalstinden pokes it head through the clouds, to the front stretches a long view under a sky with drama. There's a lot more snow on the ground. None of it apparently where it landed it's piled up to left and right of patches scoured clear by the wind. The long, soft light reveals form and throws shadows that catch my eye and keep my attention. The bog run takes me a good twenty minutes.

I look back at the hut and, for the first time, really see it. The dark walls and red door powdered with yesterdays snowfall, the cables holding down the roof just in case, one cable just a little slack like it's been put to the test. There's a story right there in one glance at a simple wooden building. Another glance around and beyond the hut tells the story of why I keep doing this.

    Photo Courtesy Willem-Maarten van Haaften

The morning plays out as did the previously one. Hot breakfast, strong coffee and packing bags. Routine has kicked in. As I step outside I'm taken by surprise. The clear views of an hour ago have been swallowed up once more and, wherever I look, fine hard snow is streaking horizontally across my line of site. Googles and buff, carefully stowed high in the pack, get immediately retrieved.

Being first out, I stand around in too few layers, waiting for the others to lock up, strap on snow-shoes and cover their faces. After a few minutes fidgeting and last-minute-adjusting we're back on the stick-marked route, this time travelling in the opposite direction. I look back at Skarvassbu and feel an unexpected reluctance to leave this fine little hut in it's dramatic situation. Looking forwards again I'm met with a familiar site: I'm at the back of the row again and my companions are disappearing into a swirling wall of white.

The first part of the route is simple enough. Visibility extends just far enough to see the next stick so we hop from one to the other for a couple of kilometres, until we're back in the head of the Tonsvikdalen. As we move the snow fall lightens and the sky begins to clear. As we cross the stream that marks the bottom of our descent Skarltinden comes into full view.

Our loosest plan yet allows for a side trip to the top of Skartlinden. At 857m it´s a modest top with an easy approach along it´s North West spur but a glance at the map suggests that the view from the top should be far from modest. On it´s South-Eastern face the contours merge into a nasty brown mess, the valley lies almost all of those 857m straight down, and across the other side lie bigger, pointier tops of a different calibre altogether. Not a bad deal for 500m of toil. As we stand at it´s base, having walked through two days of shit, we can´t believe our timing. After a quick discussion of the best route up we head off slightly left of straight up.

The climb is toil from the first step. The unexpected ruts, dips and energy sapping drifts add flavour. As we climb the wind strengthens but, being at our backs is tolerable. As I move I keep throwing glances up the slope. Sometimes I see the peak sometimes cloud obscures. If we´re to get our view our lucky streak will have to hold out. As I trudge up, trying in vain not to sweat, I consider dumping my pack and picking it up again on the way back down. The thought hangs in the air for a second before I shoot it down. I´m not going anywhere in this landscape without shelter and a sleeping bag.

As we climb further I sense something hitting the bare skin of my face. A minute later the lights are out and we´re back in the maelstrom. At the click of a finger visibility has gone from better than we´d hoped for to worse than we ever could´ve imagined. We huddle, pull out map compass and altimeter and confer. Climbing further seems pointless. We decide instead to get back onto our main itinerary and contour North. Easier said than done. Walking with just wind and slope as guide isn´t enough, the irresistible tendency to turn our backs to the now bighting wind means that we find ourselves drifting too far East, not an immediate problem but too far East and it gets steep, so we resort to shuffling forwards on a compass bearing. It takes time to cover ground in this way first moving a few metres then stopping to check the bearing, where possible sighting on visible features, but more often than not sending a human out to act as a marker pole. Left a bit, right a bit, stop.

   Photo Courtesy Thim Zuidwijk

For some time, visibility is so poor that we can´t see more than a handful of meters and we slow to a crawl. Until this moment I thought I knew what a white out was. Now I realise that I´m in the middle of the real deal. The air around us is so impenetrable I loose almost all sense of orientation. I know where down is because that´s where my feet are. Up is presumably still in the opposite direction somewhere up there past my head but left right, forwards and backwards are a cold swirling blur. As Willem-Maarten sets the needle and shouts another muffled instruction from behind his buff and goggles we move off towards the big boulder just visible twenty meters further on. Three steps later I trip and almost fall over the boulder that's both closer, and considerably smaller, than either of us had envisaged. Even when there´s contrast for the eye to lock on the brain can´t compute it properly. I notice Willem-Maarten smiling under his buff. The only sense that still works is the sense of humour.

The snowfall slows to reveal that although we're slow we're accurate. A lovely bit of navigation, mostly on the part of Willem-Maarten and Thim, see's us right above the Hesteskovatnet 2km further along the same contour. We stop to snatch at lunch, quickly shovelling in a few calories and swigging some fluid, before moving off again to make the most of the clear air. We make a second attempt to get on top of something; this time a little 600m top along the Bla- Nova ridge. Either the snow fall is making a difference or this slope is holding more of what's already fallen because my feet are sinking deeper. Even though we only have to cross a hand full of contours to make the top it takes real effort. The top, in contrast, is bare and rocky. On another day we'd most definitely sit and enjoy the reward but today we look over the edge, turn back round and head off again.

   Photo Courtesy Willem-Maarten van Haaften

Back off the top and back in deeper snow the lights go out again. Re-goggled and buffed I fall back into line and, a million white micro-ninjas flying around my head, follow the arse of the man in front. The ninjas that don't succeed in numbing what little skin that remains exposed on the left side of my face collect on my goggles and obscure my view. As we struggle forward the snow gets deeper still and we decide we need a little more flotation. In the ultimate gesture of friendship Willem-Maarten attaches my flotation tails as I remain standing. As I bend down to return the favour I hear an audible crunch. On trying to stand again something feels wrong and looking down I see my left snow-shoe is sticking out at an unnatural angle. W.T.F? Bending back down I undo the binding and, after a few moments of struggle, extract my foot. A glance at the snow shoe initiates a major Oh Shit moment; a big crack has ripped through the metal foot-plate and the whole thing is hanging loosely on one pivot. It's totally unusable. The Oh Shit moment is closely followed by the realisation that there's close to 20km left in the planned route and 10km to bail out to the nearest road. 10 to 20 kilometres of post holing is not high on my wish list. Also not high on my list is standing on one foot in a white out trying to rig a quick fix to a broken snow shoe but needs must. I delve around in my pack for my repair kit and look over my options; neither super glue nor needle and thread are going to cut it, it's going to have to be duct tape, dyneema or both. Cold fingers growing colder I fashion Q&DFR (quick and Dirty field repair), offer the god of snow-shoes my soul and strap the offending item back onto my boot. As I move off again my snow-shoe clearly isn't right but it's considerably less wrong. The repair has brought it back to just the right side of broken.

A few more minutes along the way the now familiar cycle of blizzard and fair spells repeats. We pick up the stick route again and follow it, first upwards around the Northern end of Bla Nova and then downwards, across a wide open North-Eastern slope. We hover a moment around the place I thought might make a half decent camp and then a few steps further my repair gives in. At an average of 2km per repair I'm going be fast through my supply of duct-tape and fancy string. We carry on towards the hut in search of tools and wire. As  we draw near to the hut in failing light and flailing snow I'm one legged post holing and dreaming of skis.

Troms Day 2: Hut to Hut

It's the morning after a night in a comfortable hut. A small hut, quick to heat, too warm in the evening but cold in the morning. The call of nature pulls me out of my down bag, straight into my down jacket and onto the thunder-box. Camera in hand. You never know when the next opportunity will present itself. An unexpected luxury, the po is under the same roof. Even so the down jacket isn't overkill. As I hang over the hole staring at Norwegian wood I feel the familiar fresh breeze from the South but there's something else. Something unfamiliar. It's warmth. A warm seat and I'm first first in line! Wow. Whoever invented the expanded polystyrene toilet seat should make it onto the honours list.

Job done I make my way outside. It's light already. Grey and overcast but light. There's something in the air. Rain or wet snow? Time will tell. I negotiate the ice sheet and look around. The steep South Western side of the Tonsvikdalen rises up behind the hut. To all sides stretches a thin birch wood. Snow cover is patchy. I suddenly feel that I don't want to be down here. I want to be on the tops. Nothing inspires me to point my camera and I head back inside.

Hot porridge and strong coffee get me rolling. I pack. Day two is always the day the load begins to shake down and those last minute decisions and things purchased underway find their proper place. A little while later I'm packed and ready. I love this feeling. In a few minutes I'll be outside and underway. Just me with all the things I'll need, whatever the weather brings, whether things go to plan or get bent out of shape, whether we sleep in or out, on my back and between my ears.

During the long evening before we'd drunk tea and snacked while making plans. Several plans as it happens. The Alps, North America, Scotland andWales had all taken turn. We'd been reasonably efficient, we'd even got round to planning some of this trip: this morning we'll head up to the Skarvassbu hut. Short but at least decisive. A leg of 6km or so,  there's an option that will take us onto higher ground, just shy of 600m. What we do after that will depend on the weather. The last forecast before departure had promised unstable weather on all but the last day. On making Skarvassbu there should at least be enough light to either move on and set up camp or dump kit and do an out and back. Skarvassbu is due South. In the days remaining we'll most likely turn North East and make for Oldervikdalen and the bus back into Tromso. The route leaves lots of options. We can hut to hut or camp as we please. We can stay low or bag tops as we go. The direct route is about 35 thumbs wide. Spread over three days, even on slow-shoes, that should be a doable thumb count and we can add thumbs as we please.

Stepping outside I'm at first too cold. Start with too many layers and you just have to stop and strip after the first kilometre. Better to start cold and get the blood running. The stuff that I felt was in the air earlier is now falling out of it. It's snow. Big fluffy flakes. A little wet but I'll take this over the ice rain of yesterday. We weave our way through the birch and undergrowth. Sometimes on the path, sometimes loosing it but always with the Tonsvikelva to our left. It's a bit up and down, a bit stumbly, but the going is okay. The snow continues to fall but for the moment at least visibility is good.

We choose to leave the valley and head over the top. There's another dotted line denoting a winter route but it's not clear where it is on the ground so we make our own. Working from the contours, slanting gradually uphill and counting off stream beds. As we climb the trees become bushes which in turn become boulders. As we hit the third stream bed we turn and head straight up the slope, keeping to the right hand bank until the contours widen and we can be sure it's safe to cross. Looking across I see Willem-Maarten pass what appears to be the last tree. I can't help but smile. We're back!

Here, higher up, it seems we're suddenly in a different world. The wind is harder, the snow chiselled into a million abstract shapes, colours are muted. Blue-white snow overlays blue-grey ice each is studded with darker grey rock. Where there's contrast there's depth. On the wider snow drifts, where ice is absent and rock is buried, the world becomes a flat, white blur. Willem-Maarten and Thim are the only points of focus until the next rock looms into view and normal service is resumed.

Higher up still the ground levels out. Somewhere in front of us lies a lake, one of the Storskarvatnan, and we make an exaggerated detour to the left to avoid crossing the ice. In doing so we gain a few metres elevation and are greeted with another small cairn carrying a red T. Back on the summer route the weather is now pure winter. As we cairn-hop the last kilometre to the hut a sharp wind drives snow bullets into my face and eyes.

Skarvassbu turns out to be a collection of buildings. The main hut is large and appears to be undergoing repairs. The interior is open, jumbled and not at all cosy. Nevertheless, shelter from the wind is welcome and we sit, in all available layers, to lunch. To my disappointment my flask is cold. There's no obvious damage but I guess it's not survived the onslaughts of the baggage handlers. Willem-Maarten softens the blow with a cup of hot stock.

Lunch over it's decision time again. Camping seems a poor plan B. The wind is strong and the snow is shallow. Armed with parachutes and snow anchors a solid pitch is going to be hard to achieve. This hut though doesn't really appeal. We decide to check out the other buildings before committing. Opposite lies a smaller hut that looks more suitable. It's locked but ten minutes of clutching the iced up lock and fiddling with the DNT key gets Willem-Maarten cold hands but us access. Once inside we're sold. This is prime real estate in a great location.

It's still early. Inside we take some time to light the stove, collect snow and, stripping out all but a few calories and overnight essentials, repack bags. We head back out into the cold. The wind, now stronger still, dictates. It's a day for full armour. Hood up and cinched in tight around my face, buff across my mouth and nose, ski-goggles filling the hole in between, I lean into the wind and fight my way forwards. Out in the winter storm but somehow still inside looking out through a window.

It appears we're now on a marked winter route and we stomp to the South West, stick to stick. In pausing to take photo's along the way I fall behind. I peer through the murk and see two shadows wobble and almost disappear. I keep moving, following the fresh snowshoe tracks putting on a spurt and the shadows pull back into focus. We cover another three kilometres in this way. Me falling behind and then catching up. I stop and wipe down my goggles and visibility improves, some of the murk has been smeared across the front of them all along.

Then comes the end of the line. In front of us stands the bulk of Tromsdalstinden. We stand and look on. Another peak to be saved for another day. Then, after a short huddle over the map, we decide that we can, if there's light enough, make the top of Skarsfjellet and we start out up the slope at a good pace. As we climb we string out, me at the back as always. On the ground, there's more up and down than is apparent on the map. We weave left and right picking a line and then, a kilometre and a half in, the ground levels a little and we're on a minor top. With the light now fading fast and three kilometres between us and the hut we agree to call this our summit. With the wind at our backs, the return is easier. By the time we make the hut it's dark, it's snowing again and my stomach says it's time for dinner.

Hut nights are mostly uneventful nights. This hut night brings with it two events. The first comes as we sit as we sit drinking tea. The hut now warmed by the stove, there' s an unexpected sound. The sound of feet stomping in the porch. The door swings open and a bright head torch enters the room. Under the head torch hangs a pretty young girl carrying a small day pack and plastered in snow. Her first attempt at communication fails. We stare blankly as she spouts a stream of Norwegian. Her second attempt works better: “Hi.”. “Hi.” “Wasn't expecting anybody up here but saw the light.” “Still snowing?” “Still snowing!” “Where're you from?” “Holland.” “Wow, this's something different.” “Yeah, we don't have mountains.” “My friend said she'd been skating.” “Yeah it's colder there than here!” “You skiing?” “No snowshoes.” “Oh. Snow's not so good!” “We book in advance we don't get to choose.” “What've you got on your feet?” “Running shoes.” “Running shoes?” “Yeah, with Spikes, look.” “Oh.” “Where've you come from?” “Sweden.” “No today.” “Oh. Tromsdalen.” “Where you headed?” “Tromsdalen.” “Been out long?” “Since this morning. Snow's too patchy to ski on but sometimes knee deep in running shoes!” “How far is it back to Tromsdalen?” “Hmm... three hours.” “Three hours?” “Yeah.” “There's a spare bunk. Want to stay?” “Erm, better get back.” “You sure?” “Erm...yeah, my friends will be worried and I know the way from here.” “In the dark?” “Yeah. I'll get going while I'm still warm.” “Sure?” “Sure!” Then she goes back through the door, there's some more stomping and she's gone. We sit in silence for a few minutes and then, all three of us being fathers, comes the first, but not the last upwelling of parental concern.

The second event comes later in the night. It's one that will stay in my memory for just as long: I see the Northern Lights for the first time.

Troms Day 1: Up and Down

As we leave the terminal building I feel strangely conspicuous. It's a rainy day in Tromso and I'm dressed for the mountains, in winter, with snowshoes, flotation tails attached, strapped to the back of my pack. We've been travelling since yesterday evening. The late flight to Oslo, a few hours sleep in an airport hotel and an early flight North are all behind us and, already eleven hours underway, I'm impatient for it to really get started. There is though, one more obstacle between us and the trail head, we need to get our hands on gas cannisters. Hoping to avoid a round trip into Tromso centre we throw money at the problem and claiming the first taxi in the rank, which is also the only taxi in the rank, we hope that the driver really does know where to buy gas. Ten minutes later, still within sight of the airport and with shiny new gas cannisters stuffed into rucksacks, we set off, now confident that the driver knows her way around. Ten minutes later still, we're stood on the road side, looking out over the Grotsundet and zipping on snow gaiters.

There's something special about starting a mountain trip from the beach. Setting off with salt water and sand on your boot soles, from 0m elevation appeals to my sense of fairness. Every meter climbed today will be a meter earned. The antithesis, it seems to me, to bagging a Munro from the top of the cable car.

Movik is a small village, even smaller than I'd imagined, and in just a few minutes we've walked through most of it and are climbing away from the coast. It's warm. Warmer than it should be in Arctic Norway in February, but the sheets of ice that cover the track show that it's recently been even warmer. We're no more than a half a kilometre from the road when the track ends and, after shuffling over the super-slippery frozen Movikelva, we're climbing more steeply through woodland. The effort of the climb forces a short stop to strip layers. Having clearly burnt off the hotel breakfast already we also take the chance to fuel up with a muesli bar and a handful of nuts. As we climb further the trees thin and we find ourselves on a more open hillside with a view back down. As we stand to take in the view a sea eagle passes directly over our heads and with a few strokes of his wings turns for the coast and floats back down our route. I pinch myself. The reality of being here hasn't yet sunk in and the eagle just serves to add another layer of improbability.

A little higher up the slope we find ourselves route finding through bushy scrub and, more and more frequently, post-holing through patches of deeper snow. We pause again, this time to strap on snow shoes and thereafter fall into line. The going, at least at the back of the line, gets easier and we head back into the trees.

Then comes our first choice. The plan for this trip is loose, even by our standards, and other than deciding which trail head we'd use and where we'd stay the first night there's precious little else written down. Right now we're making for the Blakollkoia hut and we have a choice; the low route through Tonsvikdalen, or head over the top. There's quite some wind but it's not deeply cold and, for the moment, it's clear and dry. The better option, conditions allowing, is always over the top and we accordingly turn South, first loosing height and crossing the marshes at the head of Movikvatnet, and then climbing again aiming for the notch between Ruglfjellet and Blakollen.

The climb continues, slow and steady, snowshoes often necessary but sometimes, as we find ourselves standing on vegetation and rock, out of place. Soon we're above the tree-line and as we continue to gain height we expose ourselves more and more to the wind. Luckily it's in our backs. Luckily it's not -20°C.

We pick our way steadily through the pass stopping now and then to look back over the frozen Movikvatnet and the sea beyond. Stopping now and then to scan the distant peaks that swing into view as our perspective evolves. As we turn around the back of Blakollen the the view back down disappears around the corner and the view ahead starts to emerge. We're now so close to the top of this little hill that we decide it would be rude not to and, dropping packs, we scrabble up the last few contours to take in the view from the top. Those last few contours now under us we find ourselves in the teeth of the wind, here stronger than ever, and it's difficult to both walk and stand.

On another day this wind might be seriously unpleasant but on this day, a first day out, when still warm, dry and full of energy and enthusiasm, it´s a bringer of joy. As the wind forces clean air up my nostrils I imagine it's also stripping away the last layers of city grime from my skin and clothes. It's howl, not menacing but somehow welcoming. Thim and Willem-Maarten are clearly enjoying themselvess too. Smiles abound. For me, on every trip, sooner or later, there´s a turning point. A point where normal life stops and the trip starts in earnest. A point where the city recedes into the past and the trip becomes the foreseeable future. A point where, reminiscent of acclimatising on a cold swim, the initial niggling discomforts of carrying a pack and exposure to the elements become swamped by the love of doing this. On the best of trips this point comes sometime on the first day. In this case it comes here at the top of the first climb.

We drop back down to the packs and carry on towards the hut, first hugging the southern side of Blakollen, then over an undulating flat and finally onto the long, off-camber descent that will carry us down to the hut. The route we're following is marked on the map as both a summer and winter route. We hadn't expected any admission on the ground of the cartographers blue dotted line. Finding that the summer waymarkings, small stone piles marked with the familiar red T, are still visible was a big surprise. The snow is never more than a few centimetres deep out of the drifts. I think of the Huldraheimen and, for the first time, give thanks that I´m not on skis.

As I descend, wind at my back, hood pulled up and cinched in around my face, I can only hear the thrum of wind across fabric. Such is the strength of the wind in the gusts that I regularly have to check my stride to keep my balance. On two occasions, I prove that it's possible to fall on snowshoes. Twice more, I give thanks that I´m on snowshoes and not skis.

Somewhere round the back of Blakollen it starts to rain. The Norwegian met office had promised rain for the afternoon but I´d written it off as a bad guess. Rain, Arctic and February don´t belong in the same sentence. The stuff falling on me isn´t what passes for rain in Merseyside though. It´s somewhere North of rain, South of snow but not sleet. Superfine, I watch it land on my sleeves as crystals and, at the same moment, melt and wet out. The process takes a little longer but the end result is one I´m familiar with: I get wet. This is the reason we´ve chosen to stay in a hut tonight. Temperatures just above freezing coupled with wet snow and cold rain is just about the worst combination I can think of for overnighting in a tent. I think to myself that we´ve made a good choice. Apparently I´m a fair weather camper: I´ll take deep cold over this any day of the week.

Today is one of ups and downs, both literally and emotionally. Half way down to the hut I´ve burnt up the last of the euphoria I´d stock-piled on the way up. Tiredness, low blood sugar, tangled undergrowth, wet clothes, the discomfort of a downward traverse with ultra-wide footwear, or some such, has killed my mood. When the hut comes it´s not too soon and, once through the door, other than a quick trip to collect snow, I stay inside until morning. Time enough to plan the rest of the trip.

Reflections: Coming Back Down

Olympus e30/Zuiko 14-54mm @ 14mm, f5.6

This place has lain idle for a while. Contrary to the impression that might give I myself haven't been idle. Too much, and of too little relevance, to report here. I have, however, been out gathering fuel for a trip report. Troms was fantastic. As the dust continues to settle, and the imagery jostles to find a place in my memory, it already feels like Troms will go down as one of my best ever. Why is that? Perhaps because of the blinding white-outs that forced careful compass navigation? Perhaps because of the hard, wind-driven snow that made an already wild landscape seem all the wilder? Perhaps because of the periodically clearing skies that temporarily revealed tops we'd planned to climb and lured us into aborted attempts? Perhaps because of the gear failure that nearly, but not quite, led to an early bath? Perhaps because of the sudden appearance of the ghost-like Swedish girl who came in out of the snow-storm only to go back out again? Perhaps because, after many trips North, I finally got to see the aurora? Perhaps, simply, because of the long day spent cutting fresh tracks under long golden light? A day of days! Perhaps because the high North has become a more important part of me than even I had understood? Perhaps not due to any single one of those things but because the final tally is greater than it's parts?

Any who've dropped by in the last weeks may have noticed a steady stream of photographs has been appearing over there on the right hand side-bar. Look carefully and those photo's tell something of the story. You'll need to wait a little longer for the write-up. Although many of the words are already in place they have to find a way out of my head and onto the page. That process can take a while. In the meantime, I'm off to Norway again for some more inspiration......

A Long Awaited Winter

Langervelderslag, Olympus e30, Zuiko Digital 14-54mm mkII, 14mm, f3.2

After months of looking on, incredulous, at last summers roses living life like they've escaped the hangmans noose and next springs bulbs beating the starters gun, winter has finally arrived. It will be a short-lived affair I suppose but sooner short-lived than not at all. Today, a half hour exposed to a fresh wind and -6 on a beach bathed in that wonderful long golden light that so typifies this time of year was a good reminder of what it's all about. How can you appreciate warmth if you've never felt cold? Would long summer days be half so pleasant were it not for long winter nights? Can a person really appreciate luxury without having first a taste of austerity? Time, methinks, to recalibrate. Time for a winter trip! Now, just as the winter Queen stretches her icy finger Southwards for the first time this year, I'm packing my bag to ride North on her coat tails. Troms here I come!