In Abisko in the morning, I pack up my things and check out of the fjällstation just before 10. I had noticed last night that the only grocery store in tiny Abisko is on the other side of town. Abisko really is centered about 3 km (1.8 miles) down the highway-the trail just spits out here, at the STF fjällstation, but there aren’t any other services here.
I peruse the little fancy store-there’s no way I should resupply here. They do technically have backpacking food, but it is exorbitantly expensive-11.50 USD for freeze dried dinners. I had asked at the reception, but there is no shuttle or bus, strangely, to the other side of town.
I start walking along the highway and try to hitchhike, but no one is biting. There is no real pull off along the way, so that is a major discouragement for people to pick me up. Also, I can see that many, many camper vans pass me-this is a touristy area, which is always absolutely the worst for hitchhiking. I finally give up and power walk the 1.8 miles to the grocery store.
The grocery store, the only one in Abisko, is incredibly odd. It’s not too bad at all, and the prices and selection are good-but one half of the building is this massive candy-and-soda store. I can’t make sense of it. There are extremely few stores, at all, in Abisko, and nothing else for at least an hour in any direction. What’s up with the candy?
Later, I learn that Norway has a hefty “sugar tax” that Sweden does not, and Abisko is a border town. Norwegians cross the border to get cheap sugar, and the Swedes benefit financially from this arrangement.
I walk back to the Fjällstation, once again failing to get a hitch. I don’t feel well. Maybe some microbes did creep into some of the water I have been drinking untreated, despite being assured that “you don’t have to treat the water here”. Or more likely, my body is reacting to stopping hiking by trying to shut me down. Many zero days on the CDT, GDT, HRP, etc, I have noticed that when I stop hiking, my body reacts with dizziness, exhaustion, and gastric upset. It’s like when I am pushing on the trail, my body stays dialed-but when I stop, everything breaks down.
I sit in a chair in the lobby for awhile and then finally decide there is nothing really wrong with me, and I hike out. I hike fast for about 10 miles out of Abisko and into the forest.
I wake up very late-about 8:30 am-I notice that I am starting to have a similar sleep schedule to the Swedes I met in the Swedish huts-go to bed late, wake up late. It must be an effect of the light here. The sun sets right now at 9:40 pm and rises at 3:55 am. I have kind of gotten used to continuing to sleep when it is light out, a little like I am working night shift.
This trail is no longer the Kungsleden. It is steep, and rocky, and it goes straight up and down the hills it crosses. I stay in the forest for a while and then see a huge yellow cairn-I realize this is the Norwegian border. Pretty cool.
I walk into Norway for the first time since leaving Oslo. The trail stays in Rohkunborri National Park for awhile. I come to my first Norwegian DNT hut that I bought the key for and let myself in to look around-it is extremely nice. Full kitchen, living room, wood stove, bunk room. Everything is spotlessly clean.
I hike up above tree line and stay there for a lot of hours, eventually exiting the national park. In the afternoon I see a man hiking the other way.
“Are you hiking the Nordkalotrutta?” I ask.
“No, the Green Ribbon,” he says the name in Swedish, and it takes me a minute to understand. I ask him about Marcus, but he hasn’t seen him.
“Hey, how is Abisko?” He asks me.
Realization dawns on me. “I’ve got some bad news for you, man. The Fjällraven Classic started three days ago. You’re gonna be walking into Abisko with 2,000 people coming the other direction.”
He swears. “I thought they were heading south towards Nikkaluokta!”
“Nope. Headed your way. But if you don’t need laundry and are fine sleeping in your tent, it’lll probably be really fun.”
We part ways and I continue onwards. The trail isn’t really a trail so much now-it’s just walking across the tundra, cairn to cairn.
I eventually drop down and catch a dirt road late in the evening towards Altevasshytta, the next DNT hut.
I’m not really planning to sleep inside, but I arrive at about 10 pm and notice that the DNT lock has been set aside and there is a code lock on the door. A sign says to make a reservation online to get the code vis email.
I smile. This cabin is very close to a paved road, and it seems like lots of people in Scandinavia have that key. They probably had a problem with partiers driving up here and trashing the place.
I set up my tent just outside. I pass out within a few minutes.
There is a little rain in the night. Then when I wake up, the sun is shining. I pack up and hike down the trail.
The day starts sunny, but clouds move in within a couple of hours and there is a dense, gray blanket that sits over me. I walk through an old burn zone, and my mood feels low, as well as my energy. In a marshy area, I am temporarily delighted to find a large collection of cloudberries growing. I had heard and read about cloudberries, which are a delicacy in Sweden, but I hadn’t seen any to collect. They taste delicious-not too sweet, almost velvety.
I make it to a DNT hut just after midday, and I use my key to let myself in. It’s empty. I am amazed once again at how nice these are-this one has a large kitchen table, wood stove, and padded benches for sitting. I eat some lunch and an older man comes in that I have seen on and off today. I try and make some conversation, and he only smiles.
“Do you speak English?” I ask.
“Only a little.”
“Where are you from?”
“France.”
We make basic conversation as I finish my lunch, and I leave him to hike on. I climb up about 1400 feet, over a large scree field.
The clouds begin to clear in the evening.
Ovre Dividal national park shines in all its glory, lakes, open space, and distant low peaks.
I see a group of three hikers coming my way. As I reach them, The first man asks me if I am staying in the next hut, Vuomahytta. Then he asks me how the trail is south from here.
“Trail? Oh there’s no trail, really, just a big ass scree field. But it’s pretty.”
The other two hikers arrive and we are asking all the normal questions-then it comes out that two of them have just finished the Appalachian trail, 2 weeks ago.
My eyes pop out of my head. Then it comes out that they are both triple crowners. The third hiker, a Swedish girl, is on the Green Ribbon, southbound.
I start asking a million questions, barely able to contain myself. In this moment I realize with a wry inward smile that I have become what Veggie and I used to call “squirrely NOBOs”. When we hiked the Continental Divide Trail southbound in 2015, our initial group stayed together, stable, for about 800 miles. We were happily walking south together with nothing much to cause a split (until Veggie realized she needed to pick up the pace to get the San Juan mountains before it snowed, and I “realized” I was more interested in traveling as a couple with Scallywag for awhile.) anyways, for the northbounders who had started from Mexico, there were a plethora of objective challenges that had split up most groups. The snow levels were extremely high. The weather in Colorado was bad. So, in southern Montana and northern Wyoming, when we started to see stray fast NOBOs here and there, all of them had been alone for a very long time-and all of them had crazy eyes and would talk your ear off for twenty minutes once they had you cornered in the trail. Standing in the Nordkalotrutta talking a mile a minute to this little group, I realize things have come full circle. Ah well.
We split ways and they head on down towards the previous-for-me hut. I hike fast to Vuomahytta, boueyed by the energy from this chance encounter.
I let myself into the hut and can’t believe my eyes.
Half of the building is windows, letting the evening light into a stylish large living room decorated in light blue and cream. This looks like a luxury chalet for rich people in the mountains, not a hiker’s bunkhouse. I select a bunk in a room with just one other German woman. On the couches, three teenage boys are lounging, speaking what sounds like German. They talk to me in English as I make my dinner-they decided to hike the Nordkalotrutta northbound right after graduation from high school. They are Swiss.
I lay down to sleep at 10. We close the blinds to try and keep out the 4 am light.
In the morning, my German roommate politely waits until I stir at 7 to open the blinds. The sun is high in the sky, but I notice that the wind has really picked up.
I have bread, sausage, and two cups of coffee-I gave up on my “cleanse” and bought coffee in Abisko-the Swiss boys are staring glumly at their huge bowls of
oatmeal. “There’s just nothing interesting about it,” one of them moans.
I leave at about 8:20. The weather doesn’t hold. Clouds move in, and a light rain starts, and I make my first mistake of the day-I don’t stop and put on rain pants, thinking the cloud will pass. It doesn’t. My legs soak through. The weather gets worse-what started as a warm wind in the morning suddenly has cold Arctic blasts as I climb higher. I start to feel that my body temperature will not hold if I stop hiking, and I walk as quickly as possible to the hut. It is 2:30 pm when I arrive.
Inside the hut, it is warm and dry-the Swedish girl who had stayed at Vuomahytta last night is an extremely quick walker and arrived an hour before me, even though I felt like I was walking as fast as I could. She has started a fire in the wood stove.
Another couple enters with me-the woman is Czech, and the man is Swiss, and they are doing a week-long section on the Nordkalotrutta the other direction. I take all the wet clothes off and change into dry hiking leggings. The Swiss boys explode into the cabin 5 minutes later, a bundle of wet clothes and gear, and energetically begin hanging up all of their dripping things on the drying racks and hooks next to the wood stove.
“Your things are dripping all over the floor. You need to clean that up,” the Czech girl complains. One of them hastens to mop up the few drips that have collected.
I make pasta and tea and the boys heat up water to make the Swiss version of Mountain Houses. They are all comparing what flavors they have left-they talk about food constantly. I pull out a ramen pouch.
“I wish I had ramen. This chicken curry is the worst,” one of the boys groans.
I fish an extra ramen out of my food bag and hand it to him. His eyes light up a lot more than I would have expected from a crappy chicken ramen packet. “Aw, YAH!!!” He gloats proudly in Swiss German with his prize to the others. I give them some leftover Wasa crackers too-they carefully split them up and put peanuts and honey on them, exclaiming about how delicious this surprise snack is. Those crackers had been hanging out for a week or so in the bottom of my bag-I just can’t bring myself to eat any more of those beloved-by-Scandinavian dry tasteless wafers.
I like these boys a lot. Last night another of them had alternated talking US politics with me like it was football stats, with gently probing to find out *just* how strict the 21 age drinking regulations are in the US, and how easy it is to get weed in the various states. I don’t often think about how far I am from age 18, but moments like this make them look, well, cute.
I finish my meal and look around. The little cabin is completely full-eight people sit and chat with each other; the Swiss boys, my German roommate from last night, the fast Swedish girl, the Frenchman I had met yesterday, the couple. I absolutely do not want to walk back out into the weather and leave this happy scene. But I have only hiked 12.5 miles-I need to make at least 20 today to make it into Kilpisjärvi in 2 days, and it will already be tight.
The Czech girl sees me getting dressed- she had been regaling the Swedish girl about how surprisingly comfortable she had been on this trip-and says “do you have walking sticks for the river you’re going to need to ford? It’s pretty big, you know. Don’t leave your shoes on-I made that mistake and then I had to take them off halfway through because I couldn’t cross all the way on stepping stones.”
Two things annoy me one hundred percent of the time-needlessly competitive women, and people who assume they know more than others and give unsolicited advice (especially when it’s dumb advice). We all spent the first half of the day stepping in puddles and marshes that were up to mid-calf deep, and my shoes are already completely water-logged. Also, if there is ever any concern about the safety of a river crossing, taking your shoes off reduces your stability and traction underfoot and is a terrible idea. I reply, “I’m definitely going to be leaving my shoes on.”
Her eyebrows go up. “Oh! Well…”
“I’ve been in enough big rivers to know better than to take my shoes off. Anyways, nice to meet you!”
Maybe it isn’t so bad to not spend the next 15 hours in here with this girl.
I put on my puffy coat, raincoat, rain pants, and hat and step back into the rain. The wind is absolutely whipping, and I slowly climb up above tree line, following the large red-blazed cairns one by one across a massive scree field. I can only see one cairn at a time ahead of me, because the visibility is about zero.
This feels, today, like one of the dumbest endeavors ever to pursue by choice. I stumble on, regretting even coming up here in the first place-it has been kind of a shit show since I touched down in Oslo. A couple hours into this section, I realize my Oslo Goodwill rainpants are leaking and my second pair of leggings is getting wet. The cold rain is driving at me sidewise, and I really hope my puffy coat isn’t getting too wet-down doesn’t insulate when it’s wet. The wind is pushing me and my backpack sideways as I struggle along.
At 7 pm, I finally descend off the ridge, and the wind is a little lessened here. In front of me is the large river I will need to ford. I am already cold, and I can see that there will be no wind protection for a long time after the ford. I decide to set my tent up here, which I do, this time angling the door into the wind, which is still present, just at a less intense clip. I start to empty my backpack. Everything inside is completely soaked, except for my clothes bag, and my sleeping bag, although water even managed to get through a little bit somehow into the foot box. The actual backpack is dripping and heavy. I put on my final layer of dry clothes and my damp hiking clothes over top and get in my bag. I am uncomfortably cold and shivering, so I make a hot water bottle and put it in the foot of my sleeping bag. It’s going to be a long night.
I wake up at 11:30 pm, shivering. This really, really sucks. I go about reheating my hot water bottle and making tea. I notice that running my stove inside the tent heats it up, so I do this a few times-the warmth is a huge relief. I eat the rest of my fatty sausage, spread my raincoat under my sleeping pad for increased insulation, and dream longingly of my Feathered Friends 0 degree bag, safely tucked away at Constanza’s house in Seattle. I finally drift off around 1 am, sleeping till 7.
I get moving late. The sun is shining today, and I hear the voices of hikers passing my tent who had gotten an earlier start-probably most of the previous hut’s inhabitants that I had left yesterday afternoon.
I cross a massive bog, which is frustrating in the way that it is two steps forwards, one step sinking in the mud to mid-calf-but am delighted to find the area totally covered in ripe cloudberries.
I press on to Dærtahytta, the last hut inside Ovre Dividal National Park. The afternoon sun is shining brightly on the porch-so I pull out my soaking wet clothes to dry for a little bit, do that they are lighter to carry.
I hear a bit of a ruckus going on inside the hut, but pay little attention. A moment later, the door to the hut bursts open and the Swiss boys all pile out onto the porch.
“Where did you camp last night? Was it very cold? Does your friend know there was a storm? He should wait for you in town, you know”- they barrage me with questions and commentary and I look over at the reserved Swiss girl also staying in this hut.
“Well, I’ll be leaving you with them again…” I say. She laughs. One of the boys rattail-whips another with a hiking towel and the recipient loudly protests. “If I spoke Swiss German, I don’t think I would make it,” she says. I smile. It’s true that there is a running energetic commentary in Swiss German with this adolescent crew, but I find it endearing.
I continue on, up and over a large talus field and down towards the next hut. The sun slants long and low in the sky.
I try and pick up the pace. Finally, as the sun is setting, I arrive at the last hut in Norway-Rostalhytta. I quietly peek in the bunk room- a woman is getting her toothbrush out and walking by, and I whisper, “are there any bunks left?”
“Yes, there are beds, but you very well could just use the dog-owner cabin, because there’s no one there…”
I walk across to the adjacent cabin and use my DNT key to open the door. This is a private studio cabin with a kitchen, pristine, with a few dog kennels for hikers with dogs. I shake my head. The Norwegians really are unbelievable in terms of the services they set up out here. I make some dinner, pull out all of my wet things, and pass out at 10 pm.
I wake up at 3:40 am as the sun is coming up. I need to hike 20 miles today to the Kilpisjärvi boat dock, which will save me a few hours of hiking into town, and the last boat leaves at 5:30 pm. I hike fast across the tundra to a SNF Swedish hut. The hut warden is incredibly friendly and helpful-I think to myself that this is no longer the Kungsleden, and the services are not overburdened the same way.
“You should text the boat driver on WhatsApp to ensure the boat is running today,” he tells me. He gives me a phone number of a woman named Evelynn. I squint at the sky. Moody clouds are moving across the horizon, but it is not raining, and the wind doesn’t seem too bad, at least here.
I move fast out of the hut, up and over the final ridge line and with relief receive a text from Evelynn that yes, the boat leaves at 5:30 as scheduled. I power-walk down the hill, and a mile from the dock in the forest, see a group of people examining a Sámi hut. They turn out to be the driver, a few other passengers, and my friend Zach. We happily walk down to the dock, ride the 30 minutes into town, and relax in Kilpisjärvi for the evening. It is hard to overstate what a relief it is to come into town after a tough few days, almost irreproducible in normal life.
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