A Norwegian Ski Touring Saga
The Albanian turned to me and grinned with his snus-stained teeth. We both knew the situation wasn’t good, high consequences if either of us fell. We broke into another fit of laughter. A laughter when you know things are bad. You laugh at your stupidity, for the decisions that led you there. But panicking isn’t going to help. Instead: laughter.
Vinnufjellet is a massif on the edge of the Trollheimen mountain range in Norway. It has two major summits that can be climbed in winter with touring skis: Kongskrona (King’s crown – 1814m) and Dronningkrona (Queen’s crown – 1816m). And there’s a reason why these stone giants have “royal” status.
Of the two, Kongskrona is much less commonly skied, and for good reason: my biggest saga on skis was an attempt up its imposing slopes. The original aim was to be back in Trondheim by 6:30pm for an authentic Chinese dinner. Eventually this was traded for a soggy chicken burger in the nearest petrol station, arriving home at 2am, eyes red and exhausted. A day when we made almost every mistake in the book, but made it out to tell the tale. A valuable learning process.
Asides from essential avalanche kit, the only safety equipment on our person was a litre of suncream. Mistake number one: the whole day being spent in the shade. We set off with a good base of snow: a long, but straightforward, tour ahead of us, opting to leave ice axes and crampons in the car. A “trophy mountain” I’d been told, me leaving the details to the Albanian, after waking up fuzzy-headed from too many beers – another mistake.
Skinning up through the forests, reaching the meadow, all going well. We were following a ski skin trail, and despite the imposing cliffs above us, we could see a route snaking up the mountain. We kept climbing.
But we eventually realised they weren’t going up Kongskrona at all. They veered to the right to a different summit, and raced back down through a razor thin couloir. We were following a mad Norwegian, and we certainly weren’t in the same shape or mindset. At this point we should have realised the quickest way was back down to the meadow, then up the correct route, but up we continued – a gambler’s fallacy.
We hoped to traverse over a snow covered glacier, above some of the ragged cliff edges, then get back onto the right trail. It looked steep, but not too steep. But we were wrong.
It was too steep.
The snow too icy and hard. The skis couldn’t grip. Two millimetres of traction on thin steel ski edges. Tiptoeing, trying to avoid falling.
The Albanian fell. He managed to stop himself racing down the 45° incline by using his ski pole to self arrest. We opted to take the skis off, strapping them onto our bags. We’d continue on foot until we reached shallower ground. But it just didn’t come.
As we traversed over the cliff, the situation really hit home. If we slipped now: a long, steep slope to accelerate down, culminating in a drop off of a 20+ metre cliff. Strewn across the slope were remains of avalanche debris, and high above our heads blue ice crowning the edge of a glacier. Not a good place to be.
With crampons, this would have been a fairly easy stomp up. Instead, it turned into a torturous bootpack: kicking step after step into the hard-packed snow. The Albanian’s shiny new boots were agonisingly tight – meaning I became the donkey at the front, kicking step after step into the névé. Hours passed.
Averaging a pace of 500m per hour, it was exhausting. I had contemplated bringing up the conversation about bailing off the route. But I also felt that it was safer to try keep going up rather than negotiate a downclimb, or a transition to skis on this featureless death slide.
I could feel my toenails starting to bruise and blacken from the constant punishment.
In hindsight, it’s lucky we didn’t hit any big stretches of blue glacial ice, or we’d have been stuffed. Although it would have forced our hand to retreat and end the madness.
Hours later, absolutely exhausted, I didn’t even care about seeing it through to the summit. I just wanted to get to the safety of the plateau underneath it, sit and eat something and escape from the claws of this mountain. On we pushed, hitting the plateau not long before sundown: moving a measly 2km in 4hrs. Putting skis back on was a fantastic mental boost, but the final climb lay ahead of us. I was cajoled into seeing it through.
The final ascent again had a solid 45° gradient, skis off, and lack of sleep and mental fatigue had well and truly joined the mix. Barely able to lift my legs, I went on one last assault by boot. This time, my legs gave in. I fell. Somehow I managed to stop myself.
My legs barely were able to sustain me, but I trudged back into the staircase I’d already cut with my boots, not even caring any more – any fear of death had been left below the plateau.
And we hit the big flat dome on the summit, exhaustion fading for a moment as the insane beauty of the area hit home. We had reached the summit exactly at sunset – coincidentally the same time that I was supposed to be having dinner in Trondheim. Instead, a 360° panorama of intense snow-covered mountains, fjords, the sun a burning inferno of gold and red. More laughter. We realised likely very few people in history have been at the top of this mountain, in winter, at sunset. The reason being: you then need to get off of the mountain in the dark.
And that meant the day was not over, not by a long way.
Skis changed into downhill mode, zooming down to the plateau before the light completely faded. We then had to pick the right line between the cliffs. There were two options: an insanely steep couloir, or trying to find a slightly less steep section in the darkness. There was not a lot of margin for error.
We found the couloir first, the Albanian voted to go down here. Blue glacial ice at the top. Too steep to peer over the edge. Too dark to see if we were facing snow or ice; no idea if it was just steep as all hell or a cliff. I didn’t know if this was the right or wrong route. But we felt we had to try get through this dangerous section before sundown. The Albanian led the way, both of us side slipping, anxious about hitting ice in the dusk. Ice would mean falling. And this terrain, in skiing jargon, was a “No Fall Zone”.
At a snail’s pace, we made it through the gully to a bowl of powder snow. Thankfully no cliffs, or ice patches to greet us en route. The anxiety finally started to ease as the slope angle became less insane. Maybe we would manage to avoid a brutal night bivvying on the mountainside after all.
But we weren’t out of the woods yet, literally and metaphorically. Only one lacklustre headlamp between the two of us, creating a new ski system: me behind with the torch, and the Albanian skiing for 10m, then waiting for me to catch up to illuminate the next section.
Then avoiding chunks of avalanche debris in the dark. Then the tightly packed forest. And the river crossing, where we’d already had one incident on the way up.
But we were on the home stretch, and were making progress towards the end of the saga.
Back down, skis off, the joy of sitting, the joy of a blaring heater, laughing again. A laughter of relief. Nearest gas station, and some pretty mediocre fast-food. Fucking amazing.
A mix of euphoria and exhaustion. Being honest, this was hands-down my favourite ski-day of the season. But in equal measures pretty terrifying: too little margin for error. Mountains take no prisoners, and this day we were lucky in a lot of ways. I’ve also never been as exhausted from any day in the mountains, ultramarathons included.
But we came away to tell the tale, and with a huge list of lessons learned: hoping for no repeat performance. For one, swapping the world’s biggest bottle of suncream for crampons and axe; checking route finding; knowing when to turn back and try another day.
But a trophy mountain in the bag, and a tale of two morons who despite their stupidity, got the job done. And after far too little sleep, I trudged back to the office to drink coffee, and be content just sitting in a desk chair. Until the next adventure.
Cover Photo: Dronningkrona, from plateau