Phase 2: Kystriksveien & Abisko
My plan, conceived way back last year before I'd even been awarded the Churchill Fellowship, was to drive the length of the Kystriksveien - the Coastal Highway - or RV (Route) 17, some 650 kms, linking up outdoor activitiy providers, schools, and where possible education authorities to ascertain scope, marketing, and development. The route is reckoned to be one of the most beautiful drives in the world.
However it's a bit of a logistical nightmare is this route, especially as I started on the last day of April. To amass all the facts, figures, accommodation, petrol points, and ferry details, including costs, timings (the most important), route, and 1001 other bits of 'route logs' I stayed in Steinkjer and all but lived in the RV 17 Tourist Office, with help from my contact via email, now in the flesh, one Anne Kjelaas. There are 24 tunnels, each up to 7.6 kms in length (short, then!), six ferries, two of which can take an hour to cross fjords (yes they're that wide), and will cost up to NKr 195 each (£15-60). Some tunnels will be toll tunnels. I wont even begin to relate the cost of the bridges eg Helgelandsbrua (below left). The number of islands along the route is incalculable, the views....stunning, and the weather is notoriously unpredictable. It looked like I was in for a demanding week, because that's how long it would take to drive the 650 k's of this tiny often single track road linking islets, islands, villages, hamlets, and gardstun - farmsteads. I couldn't wait.
I stopped in Roytvoll overnight - at a rorbu. Roytvoll is not the sort of place you'll find on a map - at least not any old map; get a really large scale one and check out a peninsula SSE of the Holm ferry....and there it is, a handful of houses and cabins, a tiny ferry service of its own and general store. My sort of place then.
I'd actually planned to camp but the surface of flooded, rock strewn, moss covered boulder and regolith precluded any attempt to pitch my Solar II. But I needn't have worried - the jaw-dropping beauty of the fjord and its surroundings around the 'village' was compensation enough. The cabin's owner even gave me a side of salmon as a gift as I moved into the rorbu. What a place! And it had a real cooker! Well, what more can I say - a full meal tonight , and toast, that most rare of Norwegian staples which I'd missed as no grills available.
So with the midnight sun dipping along the horizon about 11.30 pm I dozed and ate, ate and dozed, with just the odd tipple of Scotch for company. After the late ferry had departed I hunkered down for the night - ready for an early start the next morning.
The sun was up at about 2.30 and I followed it about 5, away by 6 and across the 14 klicks of fjell-route by 6.45. Breakfast Part II was in the cab waiting for the Holm-Vennesund ferry, with small tornadoes whipping and smashing into Winston as I poured another brew from the flask. But then I was cocooned in one of Solihull's finest so comfortable in the warm fug of the cab with a bit of Rick Braun's quiet saxophone playing in the background.
Despite the storm the crossing was smooth. In the 20 miles traversing the fjord it was a barely perceptible chug from the ship. These ferry captains are a truly remarkable breed, linked by some socio-cultural-spiritual trait to Norwegian road engineers and ship designers - all three breeds left me with nothing but admiration after experiencing their creations in 3,722 miles of Norwegian driving .
I trundled along the 17 at a steady 30mph. You can't really do much more with frost shattered tarmac for a surface, but then the speed was absolutely fine for me - I wasn't in a hurry to get anywhere today; through Vik, Berg, and (by-passing) Bronnoysund on super-quiet roads with skerries and beaches to my left and farmed land and cliffs (abandoned sea cliffs for my geomorphologist friends) to my right; I got a land-line call in to Gary to keep him up to speed with developments here; his crystal-clear voice covering over 2,000 miles was great to hear. He monitors the whole journey and is my link with the BBC. Whilst talking to him not a single vehicle passed my small light green phone box outside the 'Til-24' Co-op in Vik, only leaves and bits of flotsam from the car park opposite. Not a single person of the 360 population seemed to venture out. It's a bit special, though bizarre, journeying where you see no-one at all: no vehicles, no farmers in fields, no boats out at sea, no shops open, and petrol stations closed (very rare). Five hours of driving, and all I saw was the ferry crew; I was the only vehicle on the ferry.
ABOVE: Mevik's strand looking roughly north, taken about fours hours before the heaviest rain of the whole expedition; katabatic winds tore down from the mountains and slammed into the cabins and Winston.
Mevik's ablutions were potentially comical as I was about to find out. After a long journey a shower beckoned - excellent thought - water was hot and no-one about....which was just as well because the proprietor, a gruff German, said the Men's showers were out of order and I'd have to use the Women's equivalent. So checking surreptitiously that there were no females on site I raced back into the ladies washblock, stripped off, dived into the shower and....nothing. Nothing but freeeeeeeezing water. I turned the taps this way and that....water screaming out hissing on the quarry tiles. It was loud enough to mask the sound of the diesel engine that had driven up outside.
Getting heartily fed up with freezing water I turned the taps off - silence - broken after 15 seconds or so by the sound of laughing - females laughing - lots of females laughing. I'm in their shower, with my dry clothes and towel out in the main part of the washroom.
A man has never moved so quickly to get dry. I flew across the room as soon as I could get out of the shower cubicle, to find a window to suss out these females. This was not a good move as, looking out, they looked in. Five of them, all laughing...all leaning against a huge Citroen camper van. Very nice too. So was the camper van.
I speed-dried, dressed in lightning-quick time, and then sauntered casually out of the Women's wash block, down the steps as though I do it every day. I don't. Then, as if a set up, they all got into the camper van and drove off! A close shave or what?
However, this wonderment of ablutionary technology had yet more secrets and drama in store. Every morning, wherever possible I filled my jerricans which lived behind Winston's two front seats: six gallons of water. Self-sufficiency is largley dependent upon one's water supply, so my last task that morning after packing the wagon and doing a PETROL check was a vist to the womens' washblock where I had noticed, during my embarrasing escapade the evening before, a deep sink with a high tap - just right to fill the jerricans.
Placing the aforementioned jerrican under tap - turning tap on, water came gushing out - excellent, as it should, so I turned the tap on full. The pressure was great and filled the jerrican in no time at all; rather than turn the tap off and on again to fill the second jerrican I simply swapped them over - a bit of splashing but nothing much.
The real problem came when I went to turn off the water.
The tap didn't work.
True, the velocity and volume had served to fill the jerrican in 40 seconds - that's one gallon every 14 seconds, but now the tap, however many times I turned it would not even slow down, let alone stop the waterfall, no deluge, that the drain in the bottom of the sink could not get rid of fast enough. So the sink filled rapidly, the noise deafening, and the floor flooding. Fast. I had to find the stop-cock. No-where to be seen. Trust, I thought, the sink's overflow near its lip. Don't be funny, the water is above that! I worked frantically to turn the tap, but it was a no-go.
I eventually ran over to the boss's house (it was just after 7am) and he was not amused. A door in the ground was lifted and he clambered, ungainly, down earthen steps. As he did we both heard the Niagara of water which started to fall out of the washblock and cascade down the steps. He ran to the washblock, ran back to the hole-in-the-ground, all the time in his candystripe pyjamas, regained the bottom of the pit where I now learned the stop-cock was located. Off went the tap in the washblock. "You use the WRONG tap!" he shouted. I displayed mock sheepishness, said "oh!", fired up the Land Rover and quietly motored away.
I felt he actually got off lightly. I could have been the sort of bloke to have left the tap running, and simply drive off. That's the thing with taps, they have a function: it's that they must be capable of being turned off. It's not my fault if this doesn't happen.
As I drove across the grass, leaving the cabin I looked in my rear-view mirror to see an enraged middle-aged German running around in candystriped pj's with a mop. It was a nice sunny morning.
That image will stay with me for many, many years!!!!
Four hours of Guri's centrally heated offices, thick pile carpet, and triple glazing was a touch too unreal for me. I took my leave saying a big 'thanks' and walked the length of Bodo Centrum north back to Winston, checked into the Vandreheim, and luxuriated in a bath, some beers, and a huge evening meal in a virtually deserted members' kitchen. Nevertheless I had a pretty constant urge to drive out of town away from 'urbania' and back into wilderness. As my diary said ".....I reckon it's a sanity thing, being far more at home [and in control] and comfortable in fact, some 300 kms from the nearest settlement, than in it."
I was back on the road the next morning at dawn - it being a Sunday it was even quieter than normal which probably accounted for a rather courageous young elk which had climbed up onto the road in front of me above Valnesfjordvatn - and simply stood his ground thinking he could take on Winston's two tonnes. Not wise. I slowed to a crawl and eased the Land Rover gently past the beast. Memorable.
The peaks were so sharp up above me, just as I remembered from early days up here, they'd not look out of place on a junior school classroom's wall - the result some might say of an eight year-old's over-imagination. Well, there they were (photo: RIGHT from one of my expeds in 1979 taken in July at 11.00pm), caked in crystalline icing sugar too.
The engine hummed on silk-smooth tarmac beyond Fauske as I was now on The Arctic Highway. One of the Marine Jaegerkommando troop guys I chatted to back down in Alesund recommended I did some trekking in Rago National Park if I had time, and as time was on my side I diverted inland to a roadhead; it was still early morning and I reckoned on having a good six or seven hours to spare. I hove to in the hamlet / gardstun of Nordfjord and was only there a couple of minutes before grabbing my already packed mountain sac and walking off. To say Rago [BELOW] is stunning is too well-worn a statement in this tome; the 'park' may be small - but it's non-stop wilderness into and beyond Sarek west of me now, into Sweden. I spent most of the day up in Rago, though as this was bear country I chose my route - and escape routes - wisely. I was, after all, solo.
For the purists amongst the readers I was driving a Land Rover Td5 Defender CSW. I had considered other 4x4s and I know many of these types quite well, but none so well as Solihull's finest. The Defender is the definitive expedition vehicle. Driving it 6,000 miles gives you an insight into such a machine and I ended the exped with the question "Who led who along the routes each day?" The Defender had everything thrown at it with a huge variety of driving surfaces, potentially chassis-smashing frost shattered tarmac, gradients that no sane human would drive up - or down, rime-ice on frozen sand and gravel - on the edge of a 300 metre sheer drop with a 'waterfall' come stonefall of meltwater cascading onto the roof and bonnet from the 1 in 2 that I was ascending. Or rather Winston was because I just shoved the box into first, took my feet off all the pedals and sat back at a constant 4mph with me concentrating on steering the beast. It worked a dream.
My main concerns choosing the vehicle were strength; it had to be chassied, then universality of servicing was key plus load carrying capability, and ground clearance, with low ratio gears, and economy. Being almost two metres tall it would help if I could fit in my chosen vehicle. I could. I fitted, with all the kit.
What to make so far of all the research I've undertaken over the past two or three weeks? Well it came as a bit of a shock that the Norwegians appear not to be in the same 'game' as us Brits where qualifications and safety are concerned. Oh they're safe - very safe, but it's borne out of a lifelong association with the outdoors which of course everyone's involved with. Or are they? Because there are now whole sectors of the urban population that maybe have lost - for the first generation ever - the 6th sense of safety in the outdoors, and the savvy to interpret Nature in the way their parents have. Accidents are occurring. The various agencies I have spoken to - public, private, charity, SAR, military - are now aware for the first time of youth with a lack of what I'd term 'outdoor behaviour infrastructure'. I've thus landed up a number of times reversing my interviews and delivering mini-workshops on how we go about things in the UK. It's been an education I never expected. No less good though.
LEFT: Ferry linking the Kystriksveien. ABOVE: Looking west nr Bronnoysund RV 17
BELOW: Berg in Somna near where the Haugvikbåten a 2,500 year old boat remains were found recently. The skerries (low islands) can be clearly seen offshore in this photo. Remarkably for its latitude, grain is grown here.
Staying nights in Alstahaug then in Mevik the scenery was spellbinding. I tracked down a new sea-kayaking outfit between the two and spent a morning with Elin Pedersen paddling with her through the close-by skerries; being so tall my centre of gravity is uncomfortably high for sea kayaking, though it's my watersport of choice and have gone through my BCU personal proficiencies; beautiful though the location of the Centre is I wonder about the number of users in the future. Do you locate where the end-user is likely(?) to turn up - or where the market is, and travel to your activity area? It's a question every commercial outdoor activity provider has to grapple with. However a dreamy, sunny, flat-calm morning of paddling with a beach lunch and then lots of tech. discussion with Elin and her logistics honcho Hanne about setting up businesses in this profession. Valuable time.
At Mevik, now north of the Arctic Circle, I took stock of all the research I'd amassed. No more fjords to cross for a few hundred klicks but the Kystriksveien had lived up to everything it claimed to be, and I reckon I drove it at the best time of the year. I now had half a cubic metre of research papers that were fast taking over the back of the Land Rover. Bodo was coming up so I had to get them all freighted out to KJ to store for analysis later in the year. I reckoned on the weather breaking during the early evening so I delayed the paper chasing until then to now make my way up onto the cliff line of this beautiful place to get some pics and stretch my legs.
Then it was a few kms trek back to a double curry with a dessert of pudding and custard, washed down with copious mugs of tea; the rain came down in stair-rods, hissing on the roof of my cabin, all the while hearing katabatic winds slamming into Winston and the other huts. Was I bothered? Not in the slightest!
After leaving Mevik, I arrived in Bodo not really wanting to be back in a town. It had been 10 days since I drove into a built up area, and if you've followed me this far you'll know I'm no towny; but it's an important place for me. Whenever I'm up here - and this is the third time - I use Bodo as a sort of 'Advanced Base' for taking on the north. It may only be 40,000 in population (the size of Benfleet) but it's Nordland's regional centre and because of this the Nazis delighted in razing it to the ground in May 1940 (see picture LEFT). Bodo has logistic support, accommodation 365 days of the year, good comms with the 'outside' world, good and extensive shops, an international airport, and friends.
Parking up next to another one of Solihull's finest just south of the Vandreheim I found a cake shop and a telephone, got a few calls in to KJ and the family and then went off to find Berit in the Education Office. How good it was to walk these streets again! I even found one of the newspaper vendors I chatted to a few years back - and he recognised me too. Amazing. We talked for nearly ten minutes before the rain drove me inside to a coffee shop. I was having real difficulties locating the Education Office so in my faltering Norwegian tried for some help....amidst not inconsiderable laughter as they all, of course, spoke perfect English...but I laughed and persevered. After five minutes of giggling at the Englishman standing up and acting a sharade to ask for directions to the Ed office in the steamy atmosphere of a coffee shop they asked me to look through the condensation of the big west facing window - and there opposite in plain view was a sign 'Nordland Education, Rådgiver: Berit Bang'.
I used the coffee shop's phone courtesy of the delightful Anna Kristin and within a minute had an interview with them opposite in an hour's time.
Guri Adelsten Iversen, Berit's Deputy, was welcoming, informative, and relaxed, and as (yet more) sleet lashed against the window of her harbour-side office she introduced me to their new projects aimed at encouraging youth to get out more. Some of Guri's initiatives could be useful back in the UK I thought. It was a good feeling throwing ideas around and questioning Guri; she was very accommodating and made valuable suggestions about new leads to follow in my research.
I eventually got back to Winston after spending less time than I expected in the area, realising it was Sunday and the ferry's frequency would be different to a weekday.... after a bit of scoff I heard the tyres humming and singing at a steady 30 mph, heading for Bognes and its multi-ferry-terminal. Phoned Sean on a sat-phone link - remarkably clear, and then waited for my transport - one of the last ferrys of the whole exped. - to the sound of Anita Baker smooching out of the stereo. And then a thought....."Could I make Sweden tonight?" I hadn't really considered it before, but the feasibility was certainly there as vandreheims are closed in Narvik and Tromso today, the weather's crap, I have time - and more importantly, currency - and it's a relatively short hop over the Bjornfjellet on the Kong Olavsvei to Abisko. The hostel there is open tonight.
Wow! Shall I? Or not? On the ferry I dozed and thought I bin the whole idea and find a hotel in Narvik. Then driving off the ferry thought I'd go for Abisko. We'll see............I gambled on a hunch and went for it, chucked a right, sign-posted 'Kiruna 160 kms'. It was only 66 klicks to Abisko. Let's get out of this rain!!!!
And what a journey. Good call BJ.
It began to snow as I wound my way round and up onto the Bjornfjell. There was no traffic. At all. Valleys gave way to vidda with occasional weekend huts, and all the while the snow was getting heavier - blowing now, horizontally along my route and overtaking me, at 700 metres asl.
Made some video clips outside the Land Rover (yes, I know - it was warm in the vehicle and I didn't have to get out and do it ....but I would lose the moment otherwise) although the cloud base was getting visibly lower by the minute and I wasn't even at the summit of the pass yet. Visibility dropped and the snow began to fall heavier. I could see about 100m ahead. Oh! deep joy! This was what it was all about.
Riksgransen came and I stopped by the MRT's red Alouette - very impressive. Snowmobiles everywhere and best of all now in Sweden, a speed limit of 90kph, not the Norwegian's rather prissy 60kph.. As if to confirm my decision to come into Sweden was the right one, the sun came out and blue sky stayed for the rest of the day.
And what a view unfolded before me as I drove down off the col. I'd come down from about 900m and was descending to a vast lake - what looked like an inland sea called Tornetrask; it was an Arctic view, and very bright with snow glare; donning my shades I was doing a good passing impression of one of the ice cream boys.
Abisko Mountain Station is a very high class vandreheim - youth hostel. I checked in; very nice quality everything; spacious, warm, friendly, informative, and very functional like the living embodiment of everything IKEA. I planned to spend a few days up here, high level, remote, mountain trekking, and hopefully finding more out about Swedish outdoor safety. And catching up with my washing.
