July 11, 2019: Chris battled through the short crux pitch, taking the name “Fingertip Traverse” a bit too literally as he clung onto the exposed slab with his finger tips. This was no easy task, because his rubber gloves (which he still wore despite my intermittent suggestions to remove them) wrinkled and flopped around like over-sized dish gloves as he tried in a Herculean effort to traverse the thin horizontal crack. A bit of graceful footwork and controlled breathing would have gone a long way. He got it through, though, collapsing with a grimace at the belay where I sat. Once again, he had the same expression on his face he had had after the first pitch on Vågakallen - a worrying look like he wanted to kill me. Later, Chris admitted that he had dislocated his pinky finger during the struggle and had had to force the little appendage back into place, mid-route. Even more remarkably, he confided to me that finishing that pitch was among the most rewarding experiences in his life. In the summer of 2019, I (Erik) went on a bike tour in North-Norway with my friend and old classmate from engineering school, Chris Pope. Along the way, I managed to convince him to rope up with me and climb some classics moderates. After our ascent of “North Ridge” of Vågakallen I figured he’d never want to climb with me again. Just two days later, though, when I asked if he wanted to climb the “Normal Route” of Stetinden, he agreed. I had told him it was a lot easier. InspirationIt was in a painting that I first saw Stetinden. The painting was featured in a book called “Norway’s Mountains” which I flipped through lazily while staying at a cabin near Rjukan in Telemark for New Years 2019. Once in a while, a painting stops a person in their tracks, sucking in all their attention. This was one of those rare moments. The mountain soared straight out of a fjord and into the grey Arctic sky. The colours were sinister, the peak impossibly steep. I picked up my phone and searched “Stetinden” in Mountain Project and read that a few classic lines go up it. Thoughts set off like fireworks. How would I get to this mountain? Who would climb it with me? It was in the middle of nowhere and I had no climbing partners. I had just moved to Norway two months before and at that time had an injured foot from an aid climbing fall in Yosemite, just weeks before the move.
By bike to StetindenThe stretch of riding to Stetinden was the most enjoyable of our bike tour in Northern Norway. Compared to Lofoten’s archipelago, the roads were much less trafficked. We rode with our shoulders relaxed, free from the far-too-close passing of rental cars and RVs. The sharp smell of klipfisk from cod stages was exchanged for manure wafting from pastures. The air was warmer. Happily, we cycled towards the town of Drag, passing farms, forests, incredible mountains, and sleepy towns. The pavement under our tires was smooth. But we had no time to spare if we wanted to catch the ferry to Kjøpsvik departing at 9:00 PM. Before long, a sense urgency dawned upon us as we cycled towards our ferry. We went into an improvised racing mode, taking turns leading while the other coasted, yelling encouragement to each other. “Keep the shoulders relaxed!” yelled Chris. “Use your butt!” I yelled back. We stopped for just enough time to devour an energy bar, pee, and then we sped off again. On a bend in the road, we startled a moose who sauntered back into the woods with a long, loping gait. The landscape was remarkable. It almost seemed a shame to be zipping through it so frantically. We climbed a huge hill, reaching the top sweating and breathing hard. Later, Chris said this is what broke him. We sped down the rolling terrain, once in a while shouting over our shoulders about a target pace we needed to make our ferry. With each hill, though, it looked more and more hopeless. Turning off the highway to a sign for the Drag ferry, I sped off ahead, imagining I could tell the ferry captain to stop and wait for Chris. I checked the time: one minute until departure. Cycling now with everything I had, I turned the last corner to see the ferry just leaving dock. Coasting to the end of the dock, I watched it sail away. My watch read 9:02 PM. Chris followed a few minutes later, covered in sweat. His bike was probably 20 kg heavier than mine. At that moment, it was all too much - he looked like he was about to cry. “Let’s eat some dinner,” I said, patting him on a shoulder and pointing towards a picnic table. I prepared a meal of re-hydrated mashed potatoes with sausage, fresh red peppers, and dried onions over my gas burner. Chris strode into a small diner by the ferry terminal and emerged a few minutes later with a burger and fries, which he devoured without saying a word. The next ferry arrived at 11:00 pm and we boarded, sleepily. The ferry Chris had a kip on the benches while I looked out the window. Towering white granite walls rose straight out of the fjords and low clouds clung to low-lying spruce. Shortly before midnight, we arrived at Kjøpsvik. Groggily, we took in our new surroundings and set off for the final stretch towards Stetinden. Just outside town, we entered a long tunnel that slowly gained in elevation. Inside, the air was frigid, just a couple of degrees above freezing. Water dripped onto the road from the tunnel ceilings and ran down the walls. I yelled at the top of my lungs and heard the sound echo down the long, empty tunnel. Finally, the end of the tunnel appeared ahead. I knew that Stetinden would be visible around the first bend in the road. Sure enough, there it was, a gigantic monolith in the summer night. We pointed at it and yelled and laughed like maniacs. Tomorrow, I thought, we’d be on top of that mountain, looking back at this point on the road. It was shortly after 1 AM when we rolled into the campground parking lot. A few climbers were ambling around their van, looking at the newcomers. We made it! CampThe camping at Stetinden was top-notch. Right off the main highway lies a parking lot with a small campground (at no cost) with parking, toilets, and picnic tables. A very short walk up from the picnic tables was space for about 15 tents located in and around the small trees. Access to a river with bitingly cold, fresh water is stumbling-distance walk away. In my experience of highway camping grounds, it doesn’t get much better than that. ApproachThe approach follows an obvious path through the trees and into a large valley. We left camp at 12:30 PM, having slept in after the late arrival the previous night. Huge clouds lumbered across the sky, and only a suggestion of Stetinden’s presence could be made out through breaks in the clouds. Slowly, the path gained elevation. Eventually, the path reached a huge boulder and Svartvatnet, a small glacial lake, appears out of nowhere, down and to the right. From there we hung a left, never passing by Svartvatnet, and instead approaching a step path strewn with large boulders. We stopped here to refuel with generous amounts of snacks and water, before picking our way through the cairns among the boulders, eventually gaining a wide ridge. Along the ridge, it was an easy walk up the peak of Halls Fortopp (1,314 m). At the summit we met a family and their little chihuahua, who had apparently walked the whole wait up unaided. Chris asked if he could pet the dog, and rolled onto the ground as it scurried across his lap, its tail wagging. “Here we are thinking we are hardcore climbers,” he said to the owner, “and we come to peak to find a little chihuahua.” The family laughed. The sight of Chris and the tiny little dog certainly took the edge off any concerns were had about the climb. This was easy terrain, after all. But we weren’t done yet! We still had another peak to bag. The family returned down the trail with the Chihuahua in tow while I started flaking the rope and racking up. Chris looked on, his reluctant gaze landing on Stetinden's peak that was half obscured by clouds, looming ominously to the North. “So we’re going over there?” From where we stood, the peak appeared very steep, separated from where we stood by a narrow and spectacularly exposed ridge. “Yeah!” I said, smiling, trying to make it seem like it was totally normal. He seemed to be buying it. The clouds were still thick and only occasion views were awarded through peremptory breaks. The climbPitch 1: (N1 / 5th class for 300+ m): Walk along the slab and down and around the large blocks and onto a whale-back ridge. Cross the ridge, taking in the spectacular stance. Continue until you reach a towering block (the “cheese block” feature). Up to here, we were attached by a rope but not fixing anchors. Here we met two Finnish climbers who had just topped out the Sydpillaren (N6- / 5.10-) and I stopped to chat with them. Incredibly, they had taken over 24 hours to climb the route, apparently climbing non-stop. In Finnish, I joked with them, asking if they were going for some of slow ascent record. “No. Now we’re just really tired.” He replied, in a typically Finnish way. “And we’re going down to drink beer.” Pitch 2: (N4+ / 5.6): The famous “fingertip traverse” is exactly what it sounds like! Leave the comfort of the roomy ledge and trust your shoe rubber as you traverse the slab, using the prominent crack for handholds. There are several old pins in this crack, although it will take a range of bomber gear. After only about 10 m of traversing, climbing up and to the left leads to a good belay with a view of the follower. Chris battled through this pitch, managing to dislocate his pinky finger in the effort. Mid-route, he forced the little appendage back into place. Apparently this was a nagging injury from his competitive soccer days, and for some weeks after the climb the little finger wasn't quite right. Pitch 3: (N1 / 4th class): Walk up easily to the summit. We were still roped up while we walked, and I basically had to drag Chris of the last 100 m to the summit. He was chugging along slowly, apparently gassed from the extreme effort of the “fingertip traverse.” Finally, we reached the summit (1392 m) at 5:30 PM, making it in a leisurely 5 hr ascent from camp. The summit covers a large, almost flat, surface. You could almost play a game of football up there if it wasn’t for fear falling off the sheer walls on the West side. We signed the summit log and took in a long moment just sitting around and looking out over the fjord below. The clouds were piling up on the face below and spilling over the summit in giant swirls. I spotted the road we had biked the day before. We hung around for more than 30 minutes, just taking it all in, before marshalling our will for the descent. I packed away all the gear and clipped my prusik to my harness. The descent involves reversing the route, bypassing the fingertip traverse by rappelling off the top of the “brown cheese” feature. Chris had never rappelled before, so I would have to give him a quick lesson. A more awesome place to learn to rappel I could hardly think of. The rappel went smoothly and we snapped some photos of the return crossing along the ridge. A more heroic stance, at such a friendly grade, might not exist anywhere else. Maybe West Ridge of Pigeon Spire in the Bugaboos deep in Interior British Columbia, but Stetinden has the distinct advantage of having an invitingly straightforward of smiling Norwegian climbers (Norwegians as a rule are much friendly outdoors), Stetinden may be the most approach low grade alpine adventure on the planet. I really mean it! We made it to Halls Fortopp summit cairn again and continued down, reversing the ascent trail and occasionally passing hikers vying for an evening ascent. Svartvatnet became visible again, this time with the low sun casting a golden light over the snow. Chris and I lazily swapped stories, mainly about girls and about moving the experience of moving to Norway from Canada. By the time we reached the treeline, Stetinden was fully visible in a cloudless sky. We passed two climbers - a smiley girl from Tromsø and a guy from Trondheim - who told us they were climbing the Normal Route overnight. Incredible, I thought. With light around the clock, why not? Back at the camp, we chatted with the Finns for a while who had made the snail-paced ascent of Sydpillaren, and then we made dinner - dehydrated mashed potatoes with sausage, red onion, zucchini, red peppers, and plenty of salt and pepper - then returned to our tents to enjoy the deep sleep that only comes after a great day in the mountains. Return to HenningsværThe next morning, July 12, we packed our bags once again and hit the road. A few climbers had marvelled at us, wondering how in the world we managed with just bikes. “It wasn’t a good idea.” I responded, telling them I didn’t even have space for climbing shoes or a proper rack. Even the rope was a trade-off in weight, being just 40 m long. Secretly, though, I relished in the freedom of hitting the road on a bike, with minimal gear, when all the other climbers were burdened with cars, cluttered with all manner of boxes and extra gear. We biked lazily back to Kjøpsvik, stopping for ice cream along the way. Once we made it back to Drag, we knew we had to hustle to catch the Skutvik ferry. Last time, in full race mode, we had missed the ferry by 2 minutes. We had 55 km to cross in less than 2 hrs 30 min, not such an easy task with over 700 m of elevation gain and about 70 pounds of gear on our bikes. We went into our familiar race mode again, this time damned if we’d miss the ferry. Once again taking turns breaking the wind ahead, and this time taking no snack breaks, we made it with 5 minutes to spare, having made the return trip 7 minutes faster than on the previous attempt in the reverse direction. The highlight was the huge hill by Ulsvåg, where we whipped down reaching a maximum speed of 66 kph. My eyes were strewn with tears even under my sunglasses. My bike, a Giant TRX cross-bike, handled the speed well, smoothly accelerating down the smooth asphalt surface. I had opted for new tires before the trip - thick, heavy ones meant for electric bikes - and they seemed to be a good choice. At Kjøpsvik, Chris and I celebrated our race-against-the-clock victory by taking off our shirts and eating Polar Bread smothered in Nutella. Once on the ferry, we debated what to do next. Two classic climbs were ticked off the list, and when I suggested a third - the famous “Geita” near Svolvær - Chris responded with a look that said his climbing days were over. We decided to go back to Henningsvær and celebrate with a night out at the Klatrekafeen. After a quick text to our only friend in the town, a bartender at the Klatrekafeen named Sofie we met during our first visit days before, we were invited to stay the Fisherman’s Apartment Complex, which she managed, free of charge. The stars were in our favour. Once back in Henningsvæar, we dumped our stuff at the Fisherman’s Apartment Complex, showered, put on our cleanest clothes (not so easy for me who had one pair of pants), and headed to the Klatrekafeen. That night, a live band called Trinity - a husband wife duo - played a set on the small stage in by the far wall in the small cafe. The place was packed. Chris and I took turns buying each other rounds. Sofie poured us a round free of charge. It was shaping up to me a good night. When the band started playing, the mood switched from jovial and reserved to wild and uncontained, like we had let go of the handlebars and were now coasting wildly. People started dancing, singing, spilling beer. Meanwhile, the two musicians played on calmly, a vague hit from the 80s that everyone but me and Chris seemed to know. Chris danced with a woman who turned out to be a climbing guide, her brawny shoulder muscles showing from under an orange tank top. I stood at the bar and took in the scene, sipping a Nordlands Pils, when I noticed a girl at the table by the door. She had on a grey wool sweater with colourful knit patterns around the collar and shoulders. She had been smiling at something her friend sitting next to her said, and we caught each other’s eye. When the person sitting next to her got up, I went over to her table at sat down, introducing myself. Her name was Lise, and she was from Kirkenes, a small town in the far North of Norway. She complimented my Norwegian, which was kind of her - I was giving it an honest shot, but it was still clearly quite bad. It turned out she was at the bar alone, having just met the others at her table. She was in Lofoten with her father, a seasoned climber, and her childhood friend from Kirkenes, who was just learning to climb. We made plans to climb the next day at a nearby crag called the Gandalf Wall. Meanwhile, Chris danced with the muscular climbing guide. The mood had once again shifted - this time from wild and uncontained to just plain drunk. An old man and lost his balance and fell loudly onto the floor and was hoisted back onto his feet. I returned to the Fisherman’s Apartment Complex relatively soon after. My ears were ringing from the band’s set. The night was bright and the sky was clear. I was completely filled with joy. Then I remembered that I would have to get up early and climbing with Lise the next day. I had agreed to climb a 3-pitch 5.8 with her and said I would happily take the lead, yet I didn’t tell her my rack consisted of two cams and a quarter-set of nuts that I had only running shoes and half a rope. Let’s see what tomorrow brings, I thought, and went to sleep in one of the rooms of the Fisherman’s Apartment Complex. My alarm went off and immediately got up. I got dressed, made breakfast, registered that Chris had made it back, then headed out the door with my bike. It’s a 20 minute bike ride from Henningsvær to the Gandalf wall, located just around the bend from the Festvågstinden trail head. I spotted her car, a silver Toyota, and saw that she was with a friend. I introduced myself. “Erik snakker Finsk!” said Lise, cheerily. “No sehan on mukavaa!” said her friend. Incredible, I thought. Two Norwegians who speak some Finnish. We racked up and headed off for the Gandalf Wall, while Lise's friend went off to hike the Festvågstinden. She said she would also watch us and take photos. Even though we had agreed the night before that I would lead the pitches, we swapped leads and topped out the Gandalf wall in a leisurely two hours. I climbed the first pitch, a steep 5.8 (N4) hand crack with excellent gear. Lise led the second pitch, an adventurous 5.8 (N4) with varied climbing and creative, yet bomber, gear. I led the final pitch, a committing small roof (which took a couple humbling attempts in my less-than-ideal footwear) and then romped up to the top in an easy scramble. We exchanged high-fives at the summit and decided to rappel the route via a rappel line that Lise had read about in the guidebook. I cleaned the first rappel but found to my discouragement that the rope ended about 15 meters shorts of the next rappel station. I yelled to Lise about our predicament. By now, I had switched to English. “Are you sure this isn’t meant to be a double-rope rappel?” I yelled. “I’m coming down!” she yelled back, as I stood perched on a small ledge and fixed myself to a small horn of rock to my left. She joined me on the ledge and agreed that this seemed to be a double-rope rappel. We laughed, nervously. “Now this is turning into an adventure!” she said. I smiled at her. She was level-headed and optimistic. We decided to rappel of the horn of rock. She had tat with her, which is used exactly in situations like this. Once on the ground, we laughed about our willingness to promptly rappel a line we didn’t know anything about - clearly a newbie mistake. The bright orange tat was visible from the car. Lise pulled out snacks and a thermos. We sat in the brush by the coast and ate green pesto sandwiches and hot coffee. Later in the afternoon, I met Chris back in Henningsvær and went fishing at the Finnholmen dock and caught three mackerel and one small cod. I caught each fish quickly, handing off the rod to Chris while I cleaned them, who didn’t manage to catch anything and ended up getting the lure stuck on the bottom and breaking the line. We cooked up a huge feast at the Fisherman’s Apartment Complex and invited everyone we knew: Sofie, Lise, and Lise's friend. They all turned down the invitation. Of course, I thought, fresh mackerel and cod are no way to lure Norwegians to a dinner party. Chris and I cooked and stuffed ourselves happily. That evening, we said our goodbyes and left town to catch the Hurtigruten ferry in Svolvær, which would cross over to Bodø where our train home awaited. Once on the Hurtigruten we self-consciously sat ourselves at a corner table on the top floor where we had a panoramic view over the fjord. Almost all the passengers were tourists who had boarded in Bergen and had sailed all the way up to Kirkenes and were now on the return journey. They were disproportionately overweight, old, and American. I opened a can of makrell i tomat and the wafted in the warm room. Then Chris opened a Tupperware container with yesterday’s leftovers of mackerel and then the smell really got funky. I asked Chris if he had noticed a girl our age sitting by the window and reading a huge textbook. He had. “Should I go talk to her?” he asked. Without waiting for a reply he walked over and to my amazement, crouched down by her chair and started chatting with her. I came over an introduced myself. She was a thin, pretty, blond from Tromsø, where she was studying to be a lawyer. She was with her much less attractive sister, who didn’t look anything like her. We bought a round at the bar which was just closing. The girls bought white wine, we bought a beer each. We chatted and laughed while all the old tourists started ambling down to their their rooms to go to bed. I told them about the hot tub and suggested we go. The girls laughed at this, but said they didn’t want to join. Chris managed to convince them, though, pointing out that it might be their only chance to be in a hot tub with such a handsome Canadian with a moustache. This meant we had to miss our stop at Bodø, which arrived at 2 AM, but we calculated that the next stop in Nesna, would allow for sufficient time for us to bike over to Mo i Rana and catch our southbound train there. We sat in the hot tub, marvelling at the midnight sun that started to rise again without having dipped below the horizon. The lawyer looked fantastic in a bikini. Eventually a deck officer emerged and kicked us out of the hot tub, pointing to a sign that said it was closed at midnight. The next morning in Nesna, Chris and I got off the ferry and heard “Ha det!” ringing through the morning air the main deck high above, where the two sisters were waving at us. We biked the 70 km to Mo i Rana, taking in the surreal Northern Norway landscape one last time. When the train came we boarded and just like, our trip was coming to a close. In Trondheim, we had a few hours before Chris’s train continued to Oslo and I invited him to come up to mine and Kristin’s apartment and shower. Kristin and I had broken up the day before we set off for our trip. Now he pulled me aside and we stood in the front corridor, away from the tension in the apartment. “Erik, thanks for a great trip. You’re a great guy. Remember that.” I was surprised by this remark and wasn't sure how to response. We hugged and said goodbye. A great trip was over. A natural starting place, it seemed, for the next one.
1 Comment
Lindsey Wareham
6/7/2020 05:46:26 am
Fantastic account of a trip of a lifetime. Love the detail and the writing. Can't wait to read your first book, Erik!
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