Our Norway Road Trip

Part 3
A Momentous Day

This is the ongoing account of our 25^th anniversary trip, which included

• Passport Problems,
• Medical Emergencies,
• an Overnight in Reykjavik Hospital,
• Lying Abed in Bergen,
• and Starting Our Norway Road Trip.

Much of these previous accounts dealt with very negative aspects of the trip. We're finally arriving at the turnaround point, where life just gets better and better, really and truly. Enjoy; from here on out we certainly did.

Morning dawned like most Norwegian mornings: uncertain skies, cool, and still. We were up well before Solvorn was rising. Morning people Norwegians are not, at least not yet. The culture is changing, shifting like most western countries toward the neurotic, harried pace of life Americans can’t imagine anyone living without. I’m told the transition is pretty well along in Oslo; but for awhile, one can still find a calmer, gentler way of living in most of Norway. Most shops and businesses open at nine or ten; though a few things, like ferries and gas stations, open earlier. And in the same manner, most things close by four or five.
This isn’t to say Norwegians are lazy; far from it: they are on the whole industrious, organized, and hard-working people. They just haven’t allowed ‘work’ to monopolize life. Mornings are devoted to a relaxed breakfast or an extra hour of sleep for those who stay up late - which turns out to be a fair number of citizens.

We listened as the Urnes Ferry began the day’s runs. From our tent, we could see her berthed below, watch the crew put things in order, hear the engines sputter to life and chug lowly as they warmed. Since we wanted to utilize her services, we ate our breakfast, gathered a small supply of gear, borrowed two likely-looking bicycles, and pedaled down to join her for an early run across to the other side of the fjord.

Eplet's owner, Trond Henrik, had described a day’s pedaling tour on the other side of the Sognefjord. Thirteen kilometers (8 miles) northwest of the Örnes pier rumbled the second tallest waterfall in Norway, Feigefossen. A short trail led from the road up to a good viewpoint. Along the way we would pass an outfitter who offered sea kayak excursions on the fjord; we might avail ourselves of their services. Pedaling back, we could visit the Urnes Stavkirke, perched on the hill above the dock.

The sun struggled to push through the mist as we paid our fare and settled in for the ride to Urnes. I pulled out the camera and snapped shots as we moved away from Solvorn into the middle of the fjord, framing scenes of cloud-shrouded cliffs hovering over the distant water. I wondered if we might not get a good soaking while we rode. There certainly seemed to be a lot of cloud-cover sweeping across the mountains. Whatever, we didn’t care. Without knowing what amenities were available, we trusted to Providence to provide. If it rained, we had raingear stashed in our packs. If it poured, we would look for shelter and hope for the best. Both of us had a touch of cabin fever; getting out was a swift, pleasing cure despite the weather.

In just a few minutes, and without much ado, the little ferry docked at Örnes and we disembarked. A fellow Eplet lodger, touring Norway from Australia, bid us good bye and pedaled strongly up the steep road ahead of us. I struggled to pump up the hill while Robin intelligently walked her bike to the crest. A rest area lay conveniently at the point where the road leveled and turned along the fjord; from its vantage we could see across to Solvorn. Only a few structures stood between us and the dock; mostly outbuildings: storage sheds and barns. Örnes is not even a small town; it’s barely a thorp, lying at the end of a single-lane, paved road twelve miles or more from Skjolden to the northwest. We wondered what it was like to grow up in a place like this, so far from the flashy metropoli of Oslo or Bergen; but then our own children grew up similarly and are none the worse for it. I suspect some have the urge to run away as soon as they can, make a mark on the world, and then sometime later in life perhaps, have another compulsion to return. It’s a pattern played out many places, many times.

Behind us, the road swung steeply up around a bend toward the stavkirke, invisibly tucked away on the slope above. As it was not yet open, we opted to ride to the falls first. A long, gentle stretch of downhill lay ahead of us and we began coasting down it, enjoying the wind even as a few stray raindrops pattered against our faces.

The previous week’s invalidism cut a good chunk out of my stamina, but enthusiasm helped push me along. I’ve never been good on a bicycle. Small stature and short legs don’t manage a tall person’s activity well to begin with; and since I ride about once a year, there’s never much improvement. Nevertheless, I welcomed the exercise and enjoyed every moment I was capable of doing it. This was a far cry from lying abed in Bergen in the throes of kidney stones!

Our route rolled along gentle hills, usually within sight of the Sognefjord; often right beside it. To our right, the ground swept up quickly, via moss-cloaked crag and cliff, into the cloud-smeared heights. Birch and ash trees – neither quite like our home varieties – clung among the talus where they could; their numbers fading into spruce or firs not far above us.

We took our time, as neither of us was in shape to do otherwise. We passed very few dwellings along the way, one of them the kayak outfitting center, another a sort of hidden resort tucked into a slot canyon beyond our view from the road. Mostly, the region was uninhabited, dense forested mountainside on the right; more woods, with occasional hayfield or pasturage to our left. After awhile, we seemed to have gone far enough. Our best decipherment of the map we had didn’t clarify our exact location, but I was tired enough to think we might be approaching our destination. We were on a rise descending to the mouth of a ravine, so we figured perhaps the falls trail would be down there. We managed a good head of steam on the way down, braking right after we crossed a bridge. A gravel road wound along the stream, turning away from it by a big drop, then snaking upward out of sight. There was no sign of the Australian’s bicycle anywhere, and whilst I suspected he was quite capable of pedaling the steep road, I thought I would see marks of his passing if he did so. The nearby waterfall was impressive, but it didn’t seem likely that it could be the second largest in the nation. Perhaps we only saw its lower extremity? Further inspection convinced me that we had more pedaling to do. We took a few pictures of the falls and hopped back on the bicycles.

Pedaling over another small rise and around a bend, we came to a single-lane tunnel. I rode into it, expecting a short stretch with daylight ahead, but soon I was in inky blackness. I had to stop for fear of whacking my head on the side walls. Turning around, I made for the spot of light I’d come from. By the entrance, a small box indicated it contained flashlights to borrow for the darkness. Two were in it; neither worked. I dug into my daypack and found one of our shiny new Tikka Plus headlamps. Robin donned the headlamp and we entered the tunnel. I had to follow close behind to keep on the road. The total darkness did not last long, as it turns out; had I pushed on for another few seconds before, I probably would have seen the other side of the tunnel. All the same, it was a bit unnerving; pedaling through there, wondering what would transpire should a car come along.

Shortly after this, we pedaled down to another, larger stream and spied a wooden sign declaring “Feigefossen" beside a trail winding up along the water. We pedaled far enough up the path to safely stow our bikes in the weeds and rested a moment. Our Australian friend came down the path, and he heartily recommended the walk before hurriedly mounting his bike and pedaling off to catch up with his schedule.

We then began walking up the trail. It promptly turned right, tucking behind a farmhouse, then curled back toward the stream, which by now was tumbling chaotically down a steep mountainside. The trail wound back and forth, generally within sight of the stream but occasionally moving away to gain a safer ridge away from the narrowest, steepest gulfs. Soon the stream’s noisy descent was joined by a lower, distant rumble. I ducked off the trail, sliding down toward the torrent, and found I could see Feigefossen in the distance.

The stream was hurtling through a narrow channel now, spilling over man-sized drops and shed-sized boulders. Clambering back up the slope, I caught up with Robin, and together we made the last few yards to trail’s end, a picturesque viewing spot on a ridge crest.
Directly ahead, the falls careened off the edge of a nearly thousand foot cliff, shooting violently outward, some falling free the entire height, some vaporizing against a rocky projection part way down. We were perhaps another ¼ mile away still; but one look convinced me it was unsafe to go farther. The trail ended, and the woods were dense, almost impenetrable; but farther, we could see the entire zone at the base of the falls was littered with giant rocks, broken and fallen from above. There were no trees near its terminal pool; those farther back were twisted and deformed. Spray circled in the hollow and strode upward toward the sun, water striving to return to its source. We relaxed long enough to eat a light lunch, take some pictures in the developing sunshine, and then turned back down the trail.

We rode cautiously back toward Urnes, because by now cars were plying the road in both directions. We also rode slowly, partly to enjoy the increasing sunshine and partly because we were both tired. While the hike hadn’t been difficult, it was slippery and steep in spots; so all this exercise after being sick abed just two days earlier wore me out. We weren’t in terrible shape, but a day like this was plenty enough for our condition. After awhile, two young boys came pedaling by, stopping alongside me as I rested. They were perhaps ten and eleven, clad in fluorescent vests and big helmets. After my halting Norwegian response to their greeting, they switched to a sufficient English; but they did not stay to chat for long. In moments they were again pedaling away, racing each other down the road. Soon the rest of their family came into view: Mother, Father, sister, and piloting a support vehicle, Grandma and Papa. These last two drove off to pull reins on the boys while Robin and I chatted with the parents. The entire family was from Oslo; everyone but the grandparents had pedaled all the way from the capital city. Physical fitness and outdoor activity are an integral part Norwegian life, and here was a perfect example of the fact.

The family moved ahead of us, pedaling out of sight expertly; while Robin and I labored along. I was nervous about traffic. Cars came by every few minutes now, and in several places the road was very narrow, with sheer twenty foot cliffs on one side, rock walls on the other. I wasn’t sure in some places whether a car could pass us at all. I wondered what it would be like as a parent with such small children, doing this. We arrived at the tunnel and pedaled furiously through, afraid of meeting a car within its darkness. The Norwegian family had been so calm about the affair! We passed no bodies along the route, so I they must have made it safely, and probably enjoyed the trip more than I did.

After passing through the tunnel, the road widened and I deemed it safe to pedal at our own pace. I pulled ahead of Robin until she was out of sight, then parked the bicycle to have a closer look at Norwegian flora.
Most of the roadside flowers were familiar, though not identical, to those of the southern Adirondacks. Yellow Hawkweed, Red Clover, Water Hemlock, and Buttercups dotted the banks and ditches; in all likelihood their distant relatives, their own ancestors exported by chance to the New world long ago, grew along the roadsides of Thurman, New York.
In one wet area, I spied something very like Horse Nettle, though I didn't test it for stinging effect. The clover's leaves were narrower than those back home, the nettles shorter, denser, and smaller-leaved. The hawkweed was perhaps smoother-stemmed, and had more, smaller flower heads. I also noted that some sort of fly seemed to be doing the bulk of pollen transport here. Perhaps the wetter climate made it less hospitable for bees.
I've mentioned the tree types before. There are species of ash, poplar, and white birch very like the Adirondack's own, but each bears some sign of distinction from its New World counterpart. I didn't get a chance to study the local spruce trees closely, but from a distance they appeared similar to our own Red Spruce, perhaps a bit fuller-leaved. I didn't think to check if they were, or resembled, the Norway Spruce that were such a popular homestead tree in America during the early 1930s. I do remember noting the absence of maple and beech trees throughout our travels. Their only representatives were obvious plantings in urban locales, particularly Bergen.

Reflecting on my entire trip, here are a few more details about the plant life.
I suspect there must have been some form of pine tree, but I never noted one in the wild.
I later climbed a high mountain north of the Arctic Circle. Ascending from sea level to about 4000' elevation, the trees reduced in size and variety until the only ones left were twisted white birches. Above these, a low-lying evergreen shrub became the dominant flora. Here in the Adirondacks, the birches fight with spruce and balsam in the higher reaches, with the evergreens always prevailing at the highest altitude, before they too, surrender to a variety of ground-hugging shrubs.
It would be wonderful fun to go back with the conscious intention of detailing the botanical difference between home and Norway, but at the time a multitude of other concerns vied for our attention and time. We did a fairly good job of balancing them all, without hindering the pleasure of any one of them.

I continued onward, pedaling laboriously up the long, gradual hill back to the knoll above the ferry dock. I struggled to ride the hill up toward the stavkirke, but to no avail. It was very steep and twisty, and cars were coming and going on the single lane beside me. I couldn’t pump the pedals hard enough to climb and keep the bike pointed straight enough to be safe, so finally I hopped off and began walking. Beside me on one hand, a lush pasture rolled down toward the fjord; to my left an orchard’s apple trees were just beginning to blush, and a raspberry patch speckled Christmas-like in deep green foliage and big, bright red berries. Each were neatly aligned in undulating rows following the lay of the land, with well-kept walkways beside each one. The sun was now shining almost unhindered. I could see the distant mountaintops flashing with patches of snow, and far off, a bright blue-white cloud lying like a blanket upon the mountains revealed itself to be not a cloud at all, but a glacier straddling the peaks. Norway is lovely in any weather – a good thing, since one is likely to encounter every type of it – but when the sun shines clear, it is nothing short of heavenly.

Rounding another tight bend, the stavkirke came into view. It stood on top of a knoll, tottering with age, among hayfields. A mountainside swept up behind it, counterposing the church’s motley orange angles with a sinuous sable-green curve. The road swelled into a parking lot then dwindled into gravel walkway to the church. I laid the bike in a ditch and walked up toward the structure, entranced.

A tour had just ended as I walked to the churchyard gate. The tour guide walked across the parking lot to the small building that housed the museum, while her erstwhile charges wandered the cemetery for awhile, dissolving by pairs and clusters toward the ‘kro’ (cafeteria) or into vehicles or down the hill toward the ferry. I wanted to go in to the church together with Robin, who was quite a way behind me; so after walking around the perimeter of the churchyard awhile, I went over to the museum and struck up a conversation with the guide.

She wore a traditionally-styled dress and a knit shawl, and like most other Norwegians we met, spoke excellent English. We talked about the peculiar nature of Norwegian languages. She noted that in this area, nynorsk was the common tongue, and an old dialect of it at that. Her mother, she said, spoke an archaic version that was close enough to “Old Norwegian" that she could understand Icelandic. The popular language, bokmal, is strongly opposed in areas such as Urnes. Representative as bokmal is of urbanity, class elitism, and past Danish subjugation; rural areas of Norway stubbornly refuse to adopt what has become the “standard" Norwegian language, preferring nynorsk’s closer affinity to Norway’s ancient heritage.

When Robin arrived, we handed our kronars over, walked briefly around the tiny museum - essentially one room - then headed over to the stavkirke to look around before the next tour began.

The present Urnes Stavkirke was built ca. 1150, but parts from an earlier church, ca. 1070, were employed in its construction. Most notable is the western entrance. Framed by ornate* carvings of intertwined serpents, trees, and deer, this section is stunning; in all likelihood carved by people whose fathers worshiped Thor or Odin. The motifs are plainly pagan in character: mythical beasts struggling tooth and claw against each other, all wound in a web of vinelike branches from the World Tree. Whether this was intentional, to delineate the outer world's strife from the peace of the stavkirke's interior; or whether these carvings just show the carryover of old ideologies is lost to the past. Between then and now, the great gulf of the plague years has cast an impenetrable shadow.

The crowd gradually swelled as we walked around, until the time arrived for the next tour. The guide came out of her office and gathered everyone around herself, then began speaking in several languages in order to choose one for the tour. She spoke five of them, including Norwegian, English, German, and Italian. Apologizing for her lack of more languages - a fault I would be proud to share! - she settled on English for the tour, which we were relieved to hear.

The tour was about thirty minutes long, and covered most of the history known about this church and stavkirkes in general. Our guide talked about construction techniques, the make-up of the congregation, runic graffiti, and the transitional period between paganism and adoption of Christianity.
The south side of Urnes Stavkirke is a pale yellow-orange, the color of its pine planking. As one walks around to the shadowed sides of the building, a tar coating covers everything, lending a glistening dark, bluish-black tint to the church. The entire building is regularly tarred, as it has been for centuries to protect the wood, but continuous freeze-thaw cycles and the sun's rays pull that covering off the most exposed sides first.
Inside the stavkirke, runes have been carved in the main posts, the side panels, even in the floorboards. Many of these are religious messages, prayers or pleas for mercy, healing, or prosperity. Others are simple notes, ancient "Kilroy was here" stuff. Some carry social overtones, much as urban graffiti does today. Still others remain mysterious, obstinately resistant to precise interpretation.
Urnes Stavkirke is the oldest of all that remain. Skewed and delapidated, looking out toward the ocean a hundred miles distant; it stands as mute testimony to this country's heritage.

Much of the earliest period of Christianity in Norway has been lost to history. In the mid-14^th Century, the Plague came to Norway. Twice it ravaged the country, killing off seventy percent of the aristocracy and laying waste to every shoreside community of the nation. villages disappeared, buildings lay empty for decades. In many regions, Norway's entire infrastructure was destroyed. A century passed, and another, as the populace slowly recovered.
Then came the Reformation. While this was a relatively calm transition in Norway, the Holy Catholic Church was cast aside and Lutheranism embraced. Priests loyal to the old regime fled in fear for their lives. Records were lost in the transition. What items remained that were patently of the old religion were discarded, destroyed, reworked, or hidden.
All the while, before and since, fire has worked its ruination on the country's wooden heritage. Every so often, something goes up in flames, kindled by hysterical pagan vandal or mysterious act of God. Rot and mold play their part to tear these buildings down and waste the artifacts they harbor. Like reapers going back over a field again and again, more vestiges of bygone eras are pulled forever into obscurity as these destroyers do their work.

We can no longer say for certain why the pagan carvings decorate a Christian church. We cannot always understand the runic graffiti carved into the posts and darkened corners of these stavkirkes. No one can say for certain why some designs were chosen instead of others, why some sites were chosen over others, how long it took to build many of these stavkirkes, nor exactly how. What few remain, 28 out of a thousand or so, stand largely mute, quietly guarding their ancient past.

The tour ended, and while a few families remained with the guide as she switched to other languages to clarify some things for them, others moved toward the kro, some wandered among the gravestones, and more began walking down the hill to their vehicles. We were in less of a hurry, having plenty of time before the next ferry arrival. We walked around the churchyard some more, then as the crowds thinned, went over to the kro ourselves for some ice cream. Polske was on the menu, and expecting something similar to one I had enjoyed in Bergen, I ordered one, only to be served a boiled, bland hot dog. We both picked up fruit juices that were delicious, and two of the country's ubiquitous and excellent prepackaged ice cream bars. A round loaf of fresh bread lay in a basket on the table, so we bought that for later. Nibbling a bit of it while we ate our ice cream, we found it incredible.

Finally, it was time to go. We walked our bikes down the hill, fearing a brake malfunction on the steep decline where crowds were walking in both directions. The ferry was just pulling in as we joined the line for the crossing. It disgorged its load and waited as our crowd drove or walked aboard, then headed across to Solvorn. This time, the sun was bright and deep blue shone among cottony white clouds. The day was turning out marvelously.

Back on shore, we pedalled up to Eplet, put away the bicycles, and cleaned up a bit. Robin opted for a nap, but I was feeling better than I had felt for weeks. My climbing fingers were starting to twitch, and with those huge cliffs looming directly above our tent, I decided to explore a bit more before calling it a day. The sun was still high in the sky, a factor of being far north we would never quite get accustomed to: immensely long summer days. I chatted with Trond Henrik a bit about climbing options, then hopped back on a bicycle and rode down again, passing the ferry, several rorbu - fishermen's huts - along the beach, to a dirt track leading up into the woods. I came to a large boulder, perhaps eight meters high, just off the track, and stopped to inspect it awhile before continuing.

I rode to the top of the trail and continued, expecting to find a cliff right beside it, but soon the track turned into a cultivated field, where I hesitated going farther. It seemed to turn downward and end at a farm, so I retraced my route back to the height-of-land and there stowed the bike. On foot, I headed upward, through dense, steep woods at first, that quickly thinned out to thickets of stunted trees among piles of loose talus. Finally, I reached a projecting buttress of bedrock, cluttered with vegetation, disconnected stones, dirt, and dampness. It was perfect. Grabbing a tussock of grass, I hauled up a quivering spine of mud, plant, and rocks onto a solid ramp strewn with dead branches. Working up through this maze, I gained a ledge beside a left-facing corner with an overhanging exit above. This would be as far as I could go without ropes and belay. I stood awhile, enjoying the view, then headed back down.

On the way back to Eplet, I stopped to climb a bit more on a waterside boulder. It was perhaps six meters tall, with one relatively easy climb to the ridge on its top. From there, the view of Solvorn harbor was perfect. I clambered back down, grabbed my camera, and went back up to take a shot or two before finally calling it a day.

One last Momentous Event: that evening, I passed a kidney stone, the same blighter that had been making life so miserable over the previous week. This "blessed event" gave us some reassurance that I wouldn't be having more attacks. We could therefore pursue some real adventurous goals without as much worry about needing a hospital nearby!