Norway Day 3

Ferries, Fjords, Fish Stew, Warming Huts, and Huskies (and more of those wonderful dancing lights)

Sep 24, 2023

One December, I took an epic trip with a special friend. While we waffled between Peru and something a bit colder, we landed on seeing the Northern Lights. While there would have been easier ways to see them, we chose Norway. Why not?

I tried something new on this trip and sent a live blog to a small group of people who followed along. Nothing easy about doing this, but it’s something I think I’ll in the future. While my sleep suffered, my memories are here forever. I’ll put this on my list of good decisions. With that, forgive any typos and the like. Let’s get into it.

December 19, 2022

Seeing those lights last night was a relief, and I can’t shake how incredibly grateful I am.

I mentioned as much to Q today, and he reminded me that I played a small part in bringing him into the world (and we should all be so grateful, was his undertone), and the universe was rewarding me. Right. How could I forget?

Where are we?

Reminder, we are in the Arctic Circle—the top part of Norway and west of the biggest city in the north, ~~Winterfell~~ Tromso. Winter has come.

See that island to the north? That’s Svalbard. We almost went there. It’s where you find the seed vault, and it’s also the northernmost city. We are just to the south in a set of small cabins hanging out over the water1.

With 22 hours of dark, I didn’t get the sleep I wanted last night—just under five hours. If I’m being honest, that’s typical for these kinds of trips. Stop whining, get out of bed, and make the eggs. You’re burning daylight, sarge.

Self-catering, instant coffee, and rustling him up.

The Narrow Sea

The totality of my plan includes: Go to the ferry. Figure out the schedule (why would you do that before you go? Because that’s not how we do it on these kinds of trips, we just go). Make way across the narrow sea. Explore. Come back. Here’s a bit of the drive.

I Like Boats

I spent time on boats like this. Not ferries, but working ships. One of them even got us out of St.Croix when it all went sideways after Hurricane Hugo. My stepfather was a captain, and he had me crew on many of them. First on his small work boats, then the bigger ones. The nostalgia is real at moments like this. The smell of the engines, the vibrations, and the utility. I heard his voice as this ferry moved closer to the dock. Calm, steady, present. Thanks, Paco.

She’s a beauty. It is double-ended, as you would expect, and packs a punch. We would stack eight semis in with us on the way back. She pulls gently into Lygen. Good work, Captain.

We are going to go along this dotted line :).

Brown Cheese?

I like these waffles. Strawberry jam, please.

Quiet, Still, Calm

We leave Lyngen and make our way to Olderdalen across the fjord. This area is known as the Lyngen Alps, and I can only imagine how incredible it is in the summer. Lyngen is named after the Lyngen fjord (Old Norse: Lygnir). The name of the fjord is derived from the word logn which means "quiet", "still", or "calm.”2 And that makes sense.

I Can’t Feel My Fingers

What Is It Like Over There?

After last night’s light show, I imagined what was across the fjord. We are landing here where you see the bright light.

We drive off the ferry and take a right on the coastal road (the only road, actually). Lovely homes, many decorated, lined the water. Q racks out.

It’s hard to describe the way this place makes you feel. I’m in awe of the formations. I could sense the danger of rapidly changing weather, dangerous roads, and what it must have felt like to live here 1,000 years ago. The respect for those that still do. Fishing, teaching, and building.

I drive for 45 minutes taking side roads whenever possible.

The light is fading—time to head back. I pull over to make a three-point turn. Bright lights are barreling at us. The large buses and semis take these icy roads with reckless abandon. There is no shoulder to the road, and this will be close. The snow is whipping across the road, and their stacked headlights are the brightest thing we’ve seen in days. The Toyota’s proximity sensor goes off as that truck misses us by inches. Nothing wakes the slumbering prince.

I could spend days walking this coast. Heading back now, the massive formations loom to my right. Across the ‘calm’ fjord, which is anything but calm today. I pull off and shake Q.

“Do you want to come down and walk on the beach with me?”, I say. “No,” he says.

I find this rock-filled place of wonder.

(If you are wondering where Q is, he’s racked out in the car.)

We make it back to the ferry with 20 minutes to spare. But there is a problem. There are nine semis stacked up with a smattering of passenger vehicles too. If we don’t make this ferry, it’s 2 hours to the next one. We’d be sitting here, in the dark, for two hours. It will take a passport to get us to the nearest Starbucks. Nothing is open.

I consider zipping over a lane when things start to move but remember that karma is a cat, and she smiled at us last night. Good vibes still flow as we get called out of the line to fill in one of the front gaps between semis. We keep winning. So lucky.

Should we keep going?

The car is wedged in behind a HiLux pinned by a semi hauling a 40’ concrete pillar. I think there are 8 of them with us. It’s snowing now. I consider crawling out of the window but squeeze through the cracked door.

Downstairs in the galley, there is no brown cheese. There is coffee, but no one to pay. The truck drivers all stop talking and watch me. I go back up empty-handed. Was I supposed to turn off the car?

When I say we push it on these trips, that might be an understatement. We’ve put in what most consider a full day, and it’s not even halfway over yet. We have what I’m most excited about still to come. Dogsledding. At night. Just us. The problem is that it only happens when the weather is good. I text the number I have to see if we are still on for tonight.

Hege wants to talk. She is the mother in the family that runs the dog sled safari. Is safari the right word? Did I mention they have a similar logo to the mark of the House of Stark? This really is the north.

In a thick Norwegian accent, she says, “Is it possible maybe we go another night? It is snowing, and my granddaughter is sick.”

Ugh, what do you do here? Well, technically, we can’t go another night. This is it, no manana for us. We are smoked, and a night of relaxing and reading in the cabin would be wonderful. I can’t do that without consulting with my adventure partner. I’ll ask him later.

Me: “We are only here for one night. I’m sorry your granddaughter is sick. We don’t have to go. Really.”

With mostly her talking, she convinces herself that we should go. The weather is not that bad, and she will stay with her granddaughter.

Me: “See you at 6, Hege”

Hege: “See you then. Remember, we moved the dogs up the hill.”

The line goes dead.

Decision Time

In my photo albums, it’s titled Iberia. It was spring 2019, and it was our fourth night of full-blown adventure. 14-16 hour days. Sunrises, sunsets, and no two nights in the same place. Spain, Portugal, and everything in between - including Gibraltar.

The last person to check us into our Airbnb said, “That is very American of you,” when we told him we were driving 3,000km in six days.

That night, I asked Mason, “Sunrise tomorrow? Or should we sleep in?”

I look at Joe. Joe looks at Mason.

Mason says, “It’s not an option. It’s a rule. We see sunrises and sunsets. And we are in Spain. Let’s not waste it.”

Roger that. And that morning turned out to be one of the most glorious sunrises of my life.

Marek is asleep. I walk down the hallway of the ferry, thinking about that morning in Spain. If I’m being honest, I’m ready to call Hege back and stay in for the night.

Me: “Hey, do you want to cancel the dog sled tonight?”

Q: “No. Let’s go.”

Roger that.

A Glorious Night of Memories

We pull up, and it’s massive - 25 feet tall. It’s a giant Lavvu (think Tipi). You can read more here.

Adela meets us.

She is measured in her approach and kind. Soft-spoken to us but in command with the dogs. Later she would tell us about her two years in equestrian college (I think I got that right). Her family had been running snowmobile tours for a while, but last year, they bought the dogs. Now she runs these tours. Her mom, Hege, helped her buy it.

It’s her daughter that is sick. Not bad, small fever. :(

Two temporary containers that serve as changing rooms.

She asks us if we want boots. What is she talking about? We have boots and I even brought our own headlamps! (here’s looking at you, Princess Buttercup)

“The dogs are dirty, and they will jump on you”, she says.

We suit up.

Me: “Can I take my camera?”

Adela: “I wouldn’t. You might crash out there.”

Me: “I’m good. We have insurance.” I say with a smile.

Q: “Bad idea, Dad.”

I really want to take my tripod too. I don’t take it. I regret it immediately. I will never do that again.

There are two breaks. The one in the back (white strips leading to black) is for slowing—the one with her foot that is for stopping. Two spikes dig deep. Even at 175 lbs, I struggle to keep the dogs from pulling us away.

They are excited. Adela shows us how to put on the harnesses, and we get to work. It’s not easy, but they are incredibly friendly. Before long, we are off.

I love snowshoeing and being in the snow out in the forest. When there is no wind, it’s peace. You and the snow. This is like that. Or a rocking sailboat in a peaceful harbor.

The dogs are working their craft quietly, occasionally grabbing a bit of snow. All you hear is the sled. Lean to the left. You go left. Lean to the right, and we go right.

Thirty minutes of heaven. Q rides up front. I enjoy it. We talk the whole time. We love the trees. They look like paper.

Peaceful. Stars. Joy.

Over a lake and field. Q and I talk about the movie The Call of the Wild. I’m fascinated by this process. The dogs want to pull us. They are excited. They follow the leader. It works.

There is a hut, fire, and fish stew. And northern lights. And no tripod :(. Don’t ever leave the tripod. Ever. You know better.

I’m on my stomach, making a stable platform from snow and gloves. This is happening. Photos never do it justice.

Q: “Dad, we are being incredibly rude. They laid out all this food.”

Me: “Okay. Okay. I’m coming.”

It’s wonderful. The warming hut, the humans, the fish stew, the everything.

Q drives us home. The substorm is raging.

We hit a rock, and I go flying (literally), and Q takes a few bruised ribs from the sled. The main brake is bent. I should have gotten insurance on this too.