I leave Oslo. It takes me two days to get to the southern terminus of the Kungsleden.
I fly to Stockholm, then Kiruna, Sweden. Then, I take a train to Gällivare, spending the night in a hostel-and I take two more buses, first to Jokmokk, then Kvikkjokk.
I arrive in Kvikkjokk in the evening. It is sunny, and the light slants long-it feels like Maine on the Appalachian Trail.
I start to walk. Everything is very green, and blueberries dot the side of the trail-blueberries and another small dark berry that I will have to look up later.
Water is running everywhere. This also is like the Maine Appalachian Trail. Parts of the trail are flooded, with water running in streams down the trail-and in other places, someone has built lovely bog bridges over the marsh.
I stop hiking at 7:30 and set up my Hilleberg tent for the first time and set up my new gear, which is somewhat more challenging than it might be, because the instructional pamphlets are all in Norwegian.
I’m glad to finally be out here. I blink as I reflect on the fact that I lost absolutely all of my gear, and rebuilt the entire pack in 2 days, to spend three weeks inside the Arctic Circle. The trail felt very far away in Oslo.
The next morning, I wake up with the morning light-and then audibly groan, looking at the time-it is 3:58 am. I am inside the Arctic Circle, and it is August. I pull my wool hat over my eyes and double the brim over-this helps me go back to sleep until about 7 am.
I start hiking a little bit late. It takes me a little longer than usual to pack up my new gear and figure out where everything should go in my new giant backpack. The pack is similar to an Osprey Atmos pack, which I haven’t carried in about 10 years because of its weight, a little over 3 pounds. But, it’s sturdy and has a thick padded hip belt and a big frame.
The trail in this section reminds me of the AT in Pennsylvania-thick forest, with a lot of intermittently spaced rocks in the trail. It is overcast, and the wind blows in the trees. I feel a bit glum. But, I make pretty good mileage on the flat ground.
There are mushrooms growing absolutely everywhere- brown and red and orange and creamy white. I recognize some, and more do not. In the afternoon, I am passed the other direction by a Swedish man who asks me, “do you like it here?”
I shrug my shoulders. “It’s alright. It’s a little boring in the trees.”
“It gets better up ahead. Like hiking in Scotland!” He assures me.
Soon, I start to climb about 1000 feet up-and I see that the man is right: I am above the tree line now, and for the first time I can see why this trail is world-famous. Tundra shoots out in rolling Lapland for miles in every direction, to distant snow-sided low mountains. Far below me, a massive lake glitters in the late afternoon light. It is dazzlingly beautiful.
Looking at the map, I notice that the line runs through the middle of a large lake about five miles ahead. I realize that I have absolutely no idea what this means. At the next couple I pass going the opposite direction, I ask kind of stupidly, “hey, how do you uh….get across the water up ahead?”
They wrinkle their brows in confusion. “Well, there’s a bridge.”
“There’s a bridge? Across the BIG water?” I wonder for a moment where my own English literacy has gone.
“Oh, no no, the lake, you mean? There are ferries at 9 am and 5 pm. It costs 250 kroner. Or, you could row across-but then you have to bring the boat back, with the rowboat on the opposite shore, so it’s a total of three trips, and it’s a big lake.”
“Ooohhh, ok. Thanks.”
We chat for a few more minutes-they are a Danish couple in their mid 20s, with a black poodle on a leash. There are a lot of dogs on this trail, I have noticed.
At the lake shore, many people are around, camping I would assume in preparation for the 9 am ferry tomorrow. I strike up a conversation with a young Swede with huge innocent blue eyes, brilliant blonde hair, and an absolutely massive blonde moustache. He tells me his name is Marcus and he is hiking a very long route in Sweden called the Green Ribbon. He has been out for 52 days.
“Have you seen many Americans?” I ask.
“Oh yes. I met Coyote and Shroomer a few days ago,” he says, using trail names.
My eyes pop open. “WHAT!” I yell, scaring some birds out of a nearby bush and some Germans in a nearby Hilleberg tent into silence. I know both of these names well-Shroomer is a hiker trash legend in the US, heavily involved with ALDHA West and the Triple Crown. Coyote hiked the PNT with Veggie, Karma, and everybody else in 2016, and has actually stayed in my apartment. I am totally delighted to hear these familiar names-and Marcus tells me they had started to called him “Sixty-Seven”, because he was the 67th person in history to attempt the Green Ribbon. I decide not to tell him that if he did decide to wait until hiking an American trail to receive a trail name, I am positive he would end up being Chef- because of his heritage, and because of his moustache resembling that of a certain beloved Muppet.
We chat for awhile longer, then I go and set up my tent, retiring for the night. The temperature drops after the sun sets. There will not be much more summer here, I think.
I wake up a little later this morning-5 am-and then wake again at 6, and 7. I faintly hear a motorboat as I am eating breakfast, and a group of Germans hike up my little hill and enter my camp, looking for the trail. I pack up my things and head down to boat dock.
It’s deserted. All of the people who were around last night, including Marcus, are gone. I see a group of people on the other side of the beach, casually drinking coffee.
I panic. I must have somehow missed that I crossed a time zone. I look at my phone-8:50 am. It must really be 9:50 am. The boat I heard must have been the 9:15 boat, and the hikers were people who had come from the other side. I eye the little rowboat and look at the expanse of blue water, 3 kilometers away to the opposite shore.
There is no way I can row across this three times by myself.
Well, I think-I’ll have to sit here all day until the 5:15 boat, there’s no way around it. But might as well wait until 9:15 according to my phone just in case.
The other group packs up slowly and comes over to the dock.
“Hey, what time is it?” I call to them.
One girl checks her watch. “It’s 9:05.”
I feel relief flood my body. There must have been two boat trips this morning. It is amazing what stories your mind can create and how effectively you can convince yourself of things that aren’t true.
“Are you all Swedish? Would anyone be interested in trading some Euros for Swedish Kroners?” I ask hopefully. I had not gotten very much Swedish cash out in Jokkmokk, and I am not sure if these ferries take cash or card.
A young man laughs. “Oh this is a merchant situation, is it? That’s not such a great deal for us, you know. What snacks are you offering along with this exchange?”
“I promise a lot of exposure on my Instagram”, I joke. Oh, well.
The motorboat arrives presently and we motor across lake Lájtávvre. The Sarek mountain rises majestically above the lake
with its glaciers. The sky is clear blue, reflected in the lake.
Ten minutes later we unload at the opposite shore and I walk up to the Aktse fjällstation to pay. They take credit card here, which is a relief. The proprietor tells me that I need to call ahead to reserve the next boat, in about 6 miles. She gives me a phone number to call. I struggle for awhile to figure out how to make the call-then finally search it on google, where I am instructed to remove what seems like a random number of numbers at the beginning, add 46 for the country code, and add 7 because it is a cell phone. I finally manage to make the call and my reservation.
I feel tired, headachy, and irritable-and is only later in the afternoon that I realize I am withdrawing from caffeine. I had picked up some cheap instant coffee in Oslo, but it is not nearly as strong as what I normally drink, long gone in my lost backpack. Ah well. Nothing wrong with resetting the system.
I reach the next lake at about 3 pm, and a motorboat is just finishing packing a group of about 8 hikers on. “ I’ll be back at 5,” the driver says, as he motors away. I feel irritated by this for no logical reason but sit on the bank and make some ramen. A few minutes later, to my delight, Marcus sails into camp on fast hiker legs. “Hej!” He has just climbed Sarek and come down, adding about 10 miles to the day. He was on the first boat out of camp this morning that I heard from my tent.
We happily chatter for the next hour and a half until the boat returns. He tells me he hopes to hike the PCT some day, and the Green Ribbon was his first attempt at a long hike. He has the clear eyes and open heart of every long distance hiker I have known. I know that I won’t be able to match his pace in the days going forward, but it is sweet to have a few minutes with a kindred spirit.
I take the second boat of the day and we go to the fjällstation to pay. The proprietor happily chatters with Marcus in Swedish for 10 minutes, then her face literally falls when she comes to me and she says abruptly in English, “three hundred fifty kroner.”
I’ve loved it here in Europe. But I’m not going to lie, I’m looking forward to not being a foreigner again.
I continue on. The sun slants low in the sky across the windswept Lapland. The land stretches out for miles in every direction. I set up my tent next to a little blue lake, rippling in the gentle wind. I’m starting to get the hang of my Hilleberg tent.
A little fat fluffy bird hops under my tent fly and eyes me assumingly. “What do you want from me?” I ask it. It hops off without an answer.
I hear evening hikers passing my tent from time to time, lilting Swedish drifting in. I have almost no comprehension of this language at all, and my brain is so very tired from the dizzying array of languages this trip-Italian, and German, and Dutch, and Spanish, and Swiss German, and French, and Norwegian. It feels expansive, but I feel myself reaching capacity. I miss feeling comfortable, and have started to think again of taking care of women in the hospital, the cozy nurse’s station, my competence in my profession, my home culture and language. It is the cycle of things.
I wake up to the pat-pat-pat of raindrops. Well, that seems inevitable. I slowly pack everything up, staying inside the tent until the rain lets up just after 8 am. I’m hiking in my wool sweater, anorak, and thick hat that I got at the Oslo thrift store. It definitely isn’t too much clothing.
This part of the trail is nearly flat. It runs in every direction for miles, to distant peaks looming darkly. Lulep Gierkav Mountain sits almost directly on the edge of the next lake, dropping vertically for thousands of feet into the water. With delight, I see a small group of reindeer wandering across the trail. One walks up the trail towards me, sniffing the air.
I turn my phone off of airplane mode for a moment and am surprised to see that I have service-and five minutes later, I’m even more surprised to see I am receiving a call, from a Norwegian number.
“Hello, this is Robert, from Oslo airport. We have your backpack.”
I am thrilled to hear this but laugh when he asks if I can come pick it up.
“Robert, I am very much not in Oslo anymore, it’s been 8 days. I’m thousands of kilometers away inside the Arctic Circle in Sweden.”
I arrange for the backpack to be sent to my parents’ house in Roanoke, Virginia. At least my gear isn’t gone for good.
I make my way down to the Saltoluokta fjällstation to wait for the 3 pm ferry across the next lake. This is an incredibly cozy and kind of fancy mountain hut-it reminds me of the National Park Inn at Mount Rainier. I get a local beer and settle in front of the crackling fireplace. A young Swedish girl sits down next to me and we strike up a conversation-she lives in Stockholm and works in IT, and she hiked the Camino de Santiago in 2020. The conversation is very engaging and we are deep into the various pitfalls of her ex-relationship with a Danish guy she met at the airport-when I look down and realize my boat is leaving in five minutes. I apologize, run out the door, and tear down the hill to the dock with my backpack half on, just catching the little ferry before it pushes away from the dock. The next boat doesn’t go till tomorrow at 9 am. These boat crossings really are a force to be dealt with on the Kungsleden.
The boat ride only lasts for ten minutes, and then there is a bus for about 15-20 paved highway miles before the trail picks up again. I have picked up all of these details by talking to people along the trail kind of right before it was relevant. Any idea of a “pure Nordkalotrutta” was shot and murdered for me by my backpack getting lost and I couldn’t care less about skipping 20 miles of pavement walking in the rain.
The bus pulls up to the Vakkotavare fjällstation just before 5 pm. It’s raining steadily. I stick my head into the mountain hut to ask about the next and thankfully final boat crossing in 10 miles-a very old man, the proprietor of this small simple hut, slowly stands and shows me the schedule-7:15, 8:15, 5:15, 6:15. Man, that is incredibly inconvenient, I think-I’ll hike a few more miles tonight and probably get to the shore about midday. Oh well, that will be tomorrow’s problem.
I hike straight up steeply in the rain, which is lighter now. I see a nice flat place to put my tent up but then read the interpretive sign next to it-“this is an ancient permanent Viking camp and is protected.” Never mind, the Vikings liked the look of this place too. I hike on for another kilometer or so and carefully set up the Hilleberg tent so that it will be as weatherproof as possible. It is forecast to rain all day tomorrow as well.
Maybe I’ll stay in one of the fjällstations tomorrow night-especially if there is a crackling fireplace and a chatty friendly Swede in need of relationship advice.
I wake late, feeling drowsy and cranky. It is raining intermittently. I slowly pack my things and head on down the trail-after a few hours, I drop down to the fourth and final lake shore. There is a couple there, waiting-I have seen them several times over the past few days. I learn they are from Israel, living in Tel Aviv.
The three of us stare at the opposite shore, one kilometer away. The wind is blowing cold rain and the water ripples on the shore, creating occasional whitecaps farther out. It is 1 pm-the motor boat is scheduled to go across at 5 pm. Not great timing.
There is no shelter of any kind on this side. The man goes and talks to a fisherman a little ways down the beach-and he comes back and tells us that another person had tried to row across a couple of hours ago, but the wind was very strong in the middle of the lake, pushing the little boat far downstream from the opposite shore. They gave up and headed back. The fjällstation on the other side saw him struggling, and sent the motorboat to get him.
The three of us peer across the lake, looking for any signs of life at the fjällstation. They don’t seem to be coming to get us off schedule. It is windy and raining a cold rain, and I feel my body temperature dropping-hypothermia combo. I finally decide to set up my tent to wait until 5 pm, which I do, putting my feet in my sleeping bag and making some tea.
I am just boiling water for ramen when the man says, “I think they’re coming now.” I quickly stick my head out of my tent fly-and sure enough, a distant figure is moving around the dock, and a moment later we hear the rumble of a motorboat.
“Oh no !” In a panic, I start throwing things into bags and struggling to repack my backpack. It only takes about 5 minutes for the motorboat to make its way across the lake. The man helps me, stuffing my sleeping bag in its stuff sack and breaking my tent down for me. Holding my hot tea and barefoot, I have a packed backpack as the boat pulls up to shore.
“You know, in the Israeli army, they teach us how to break a camp down as quickly as possible,” the man jokes.
“I think that’s a personal record for me!” I reply.
“Yes, think of all the time you’ve wasted in the past, taking longer!” The girl teases me.
We ride across, alighting on the opposite shore-and I walk up to the little store to pay for the boat. I look around, and ask the proprietor, “does the bunk room have a drying room?” She says it does. She also tells me there is a storm moving in tonight.
I am assuming a storm to northern Swedens is different than what is happening outside right now. I decide to stay the night here and dry everything out.
The bunk room is unbelievably warm, heated by a wood stove in the middle of the room. I hang everything up to dry and walk back over to the store to buy something for dinner. The wind is kicking up, and I hear the boat driver call to a slightly bewildered-looking young man juggling a couple of cans of food and wearing his backpack-“we’re going now! You can eat on the other side.”
“The driver is concerned he won’t be able to make the journey in an hour, when the boat is scheduled, because this storm is moving in,” the shopkeeper explains.
“Well, I don’t feel too bad for the hiker, considering what I had to do to get myself over here,” I reply.
I settle into the hut with the other hut dwellers. Everyone else is Swedish, except for one chatty middle-aged Austrian man.
In the morning, I wake and leave at about 8, just as everyone else is getting up. It is a rainy, cold day, and I only stop hiking for about 15 minutes mid-day to eat.
I finally reach a little unmanned hut at about 6 pm. The wind is whipping, driving sideways rain. I open the door of the hut and peer inside-it is crammed from floor to ceiling with hikers. Clothes lines hang in three different directions, packed with drying clothes. It is deliciously warm (although ‘eu de hiker’, a perfume no one would buy, is strong.). Everybody looks at me when I open the door.
“What’s that Quinton Tarantino movie with the cabin in the storm where everyone dies?” I ask.
Everyone laughs. “Forget it, I’m going to camp!” Says one German man.
There is a sign at the entrance that says, “Emergency overnight use only.” I eat my dinner and drink hot tea, then take the Hilleberg tent out and try to set it up.
The wind is gusting above 30 miles per hour. I finally get the tent up, but realize it should be 90 degrees rotated for the wind-the doors are the strongest wind points, unlike the Duplex. While I am considering this, a huge gust pulls one stake and then another out of the ground, and the tent flaps wildly in the wind.
This isn’t going to work, and I am going to end up with a broken tent. I take the tent back down and head back into the cabin. Four other people are also spending the night-a German girl, a Swedish man who was extremely shivery and wet when he came in, and a completely delightful Swedish father/son combo who are doing an off-trail peak bagging trip. Everything of theirs including the sleeping bags got wet in last night’s storm. The boy is seventeen years old and having the time of his life out here.
We have a brief organizational conversation about how to set up the sleeping mats. The Swedes are just so polite and accommodating. I am warmly reminded of the Appalachian Trail shelters, with all the sleeping pads every which way with strangers, hanging wet clothes strewn on every possible hook and line.
The next day passes without any real significance. It is still rainy and cold. I hike 23 miles, to just before the Allesjaure fjällstation. I sleep in my tent because it stops raining in the evening. I am cold, even though I am in my puffy and raincoat inside my sleeping bag. Not great. I finally drift off around midnight.
I wake up at 8. The sun is shining, which feels like a shot of caffeine that I haven’t had in 9 days. I make my way down to the boat dock and am pleasantly surprised to see that the boat across the huge lake departs at 10. It is 9:30.
I go into the shop and buy a black tea bag. Then I head down to the dock and make myself a cup of tea while I wait. Another girl is sitting there. She is Danish and happens to be a PICU nurse. We talk shop while I sip my tea until the boat driver shows up. He is Sámi, which is the native peoples of the far north in this region. He tells us lots of stories about living in their summer and winter villages, and herding his reindeer when he is not driving this boat.
He turns to me. “Your ex president is in big trouble, you know,” he informs me.
“Great. Throw him in the slammer,” I reply. He chuckles.
He then tells us that this is the week of the Fjällraven Classic, which is an organized backpacking trip and festival of the entire Kungsleden trail. He tells us 1800 people registered this year and will be walking north over the next week towards Abisko.
“Eighteen HUNDRED??” I exclaim. I cannot imagine that many people tramping through here all at once, using the little huts and the rest of the services. This must be totally overwhelming.
We arrive at the opposite shore, and I walk fast all day. In the afternoon around 2 pm, I am nearing a huge blue Fjallraven tent with a sign that says “CHECK STATION” on it. There is a slim male backpacker just in front of me with an ultralight pack. As he approaches, everyone at the check station cheers, and he waves his hiking poles in the air and jogs off.
I put 2 and 2 together. “Is he Number One to finish the Fjallraven Classic?” I ask the check station people.
“Yes!” They all exclaim.
“Well, I’m not #2! But I’m gonna go walk right behind him and make him nervous,” I joke.
Yah, right. He’s already cresting a little hill a football field length away from me. I keep on walking, and an hour later as I approach Abisko, I see a group of about 12 people in front of me near the trail, apparently having a barbecue. I step to the side to let an attractive older Swedish man in his 60s pass. His eyes linger what seem just slightly too long on me and he is smiling.
“Tak!” (Thank you!) He says.
As I pass the group, a middle aged woman turns to me with what can only be described as admiration in her eyes. “Great work!!” She tells me in Swedish.
“Ha-ha, thanks!” I reply awkwardly. Great work for what? I think. Walking?
50 feet later I stop in the trail and cackle out loud when I realize that group thinks I’m one of the Fjallraven Classic speed setters. The event started yesterday, 68 miles south on the Kungsleden. For some reason this cracks me up to no end.
My feet are not doing so hot right now, though. Wet socks and shoes for days and no medical tape with me to cover hot spots has resulted in the tops of my toes being rubbed raw. I finally limp into town just before 7. I go to the STF Abisko Fjällstation.
I check in for the night. This really cannot be described as a “hut”-it is like the fanciest of hotels, all with a mountain theme. Classy-looking Swedes wander about in sleek sweaters and slacks, chatting and laughing and sipping craft beers out of the correct types of glasses. The Fjallraven Classic event planners are everywhere, and big party tents are set up all around with lights and music.
I am totally overwhelmed. I wander up to the reception desk like I am in a dream. The girl at the desk greets me brightly in Swedish.
“Hi, uh…..I kind of just wandered into Abisko by accident during this week and am not affiliated with the Classic. I’m hiking the Nordkalottleden. Can you give me a bunk tonight?” I ask with a mild note of desperation in my voice.
“Oh, my! The Nordkalottleden! Yes, of course. And if you hurry you can get your laundry in. You need to get it in by 8,” she says.
“No problem. I can make that happen in about 30 seconds,” I reply hurredly. I know I can strip down and throw all my dirty clothes in a stuff sack quickly if it means laundry gets done tonight.
She makes all the necessary arrangements and gives me a key to my shared room in the bunkhouse. I limp across the compound to the simpler hostel building and let myself in.
There are four people in my 6-bunk room already, all much younger than me. The room is silent, and everyone is on their phones. Without even looking around too much I can see these young people are not doing what I am doing-they are wearing city clothes and shoes. Everything and everyone is very clean.
I drop my pack and step out to use the bathroom. When I come back, someone has opened a window.
I half-laugh. “Sorry, I’m sure my stuff doesn’t smell very good,” I apologize to the room.
I firm-faced young man says, “it’s ok. …what is it?”
I shrug. “Living in the wet mountains for 8 days? My shoes, my clothes, the trash I’ve carried?”
It is strangely dissociative to be in a mountain town, in an STF fjällstation, and feel like a dirty thruhiker instead of amongst friends.
I decide to go eat dinner in the restaurant. The host, a young man of about 30 named Tomas, makes me feel much better with his chatty warmth. He tells me he lived in Maine for a bunch of summers, working at a summer camp near Lewiston.
“It‘s so….FANCY here!” I exclaim.
“Really? I guess it depends on your perspective. We have a fair number of people who come up from Stockholm who don’t agree and have a laundry list of complaints,” he replies.
I realize that this structure serves a parallel function for the STF, Sweden’s trekking club, as the expensive catered huts in the White Mountains of New Hampshire do for the Appalachian Mountain Club-bring the wealthy into the mountains, wine and dine them, and money and attention will flow towards your organization and goals, including protecting those very same mountains. I cannot fault this technique-to some extent it is the way of the world we live in.
I make a call to Zach after dinner, a travel nurse friend who will join me for my final week on the Nordkalotrutta, out of Kilpisjärvi, the next town. I try to think of all of the details of things he might need, but my brain is fuzzy now, I am so tired. It is after 10 pm.
I lay down in my little bunk and sleep until 9 the next morning.
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