A Journey Across Arctic Norway
A huge thank you to the Scottish Arctic Club/Scottish Arctic Expedition Fund who funded the purchase of my tent for this trip: a piece of kit that worked flawlessly, and which my survival all but depended on. (The remainder of the trip was entirely self-funded)
The bus had pulled away, leaving me alone at the side of the road, surrounded by imposing mountains. It was 9th March, the sun just dipping below the peaks to the West. Another mountain lay besides me: a mountain of equipment and supplies.
I clipped my skis onto my feet, flicked my legs a few times to get used to the feeling of the planks that would hopefully carry me to the Norwegian/Russian border.
A few final gear checks, and I snapped the two karabiners to connect the pulk (sled) to my harness. The pulk was in many ways my lifeline: containing enough food and fuel for one month of skiing across Northern Norway, and the equipment needed to survive in a tent above the Arctic circle. It was also to be my ball and chain: weighing more than my total bodyweight. The only way to move it was to haul it, the whole way.
I started to slowly climb up the first little hill in the dark, each step the sled trying to drag me back to the start. I was trying to avoid thinking of the enormity of the challenge that lay in front of me. 650km to go.
32 days later, I glided with my sled down the final slope. We were at one now, the pulk no longer feeling like a burden so much as a part of me. The snow was thick and heavy from the Spring warmth and rain. Winter felt a distant memory as I skied the last few turns down to the edge of the border town of Kirkenes. A mix of emotions: sad that the lifestyle I’d become so adjusted to was ending. But the prospect of a bed and a shower seemed like luxuries beyond my wildest dreams.
The Plan
The plan was to do a long trip in the Arctic, travelling on foot using fjellski (rugged cross-country skis), and camping the whole way. Already being based in Norway, I chose to cross from the West to the East: starting as close to Tromsø as possible, and ending in Kirkenes, a few kilometres from the Russian border. For context, Kirkenes is a town that is closer to the North Pole than to Oslo.
If you’re wondering why someone would want to do this (a question I often asked myself too), a few reasons included: to see new places, to learn new skills for possible future expeditions, and to push myself, both physically and mentally. But basically, I had been cooped up in an office too long: I had to get out and do something.
I estimated it’d take around 30 days to complete, and I opted to take all supplies I’d need from the start. I’d be towing everything in my pulk: sled-hauling was something I’d have to learn quickly, as my first practice run was only 6 weeks before departure.
And I’d be doing all this solo: adding to the challenge, and the unknowns. In other words, I didn’t find anyone dumb enough to join me.
A final farewell to work, followed by a flight to Tromsø a few days later. The monotony of working behind a screen for over a year suddenly vanished. Instead, replaced with the excitement of the unknown, and the anxiety of a big challenge ahead.
Leg 1: Signaldalen to Kautokeino
Deep down, I always knew the first leg would be the hardest. It was the longest (185km) and the most mountaineous section (over 2500m of climbing), and the pulk would be at its heaviest (75kg+). My body would also still be getting used to the daily routine of pulk hauling and skiing.
After the bus left, I set off along the Signaldalen valley after sunset, following the roadside. The aim was to reach the end of the valley that night, to be able to start the climb up into the mountains in the early morning. I snaked along the valley bottom, surrounded by silhouettes of huge peaks and crags, the moon lighting the way ahead. I was overtaken by a pedestrian, as I struggled up the first icy incline. He asked if I needed any help: I declined, explaining what I was up to. “Oh shit!” was the first response. He then laughed, as he resumed walking: “yes, I think you do need help.”
Things were off to a shaky start, a lot of falls as I tried to get used to the push and pull of such a heavy pulk. I felt clumsy, a lot like a toddler trying to learn to walk. It was going to take practice, but progress was better than I’d expected. It’s incredible how efficient pulling such a heavy load in a sled can be, at least on the flat. Eventually, I reached a suitable camp spot around midnight, a few kilometres from my goal and opted to call it a day. I was getting very tired, and didn’t want to burn myself out on the first day.
I awoke in the early morning, tore down camp and rushed to start the climb as soon as possible: I was trying to hurry to avoid rain that was forecast later that day. Rain would likely mean my equipment getting soaked, eventually freezing solid. I had no real means of drying anything for the trip, other than body heat, or if I was lucky a day of sun. I had hoped to climb above the snowline before the rain started. But, sod’s law: as soon as I started the long climb, probably the toughest of the trip, the rain started to pour relentlessly.
It added to the collective misery. I just had to keep bad thoughts at bay, and continue plodding uphill at a snail’s pace. The pulk strained at my shoulders, my back, my legs. Climbing with a pulk is a completely different game to the flat: every step is arduous. The skis kept slipping, unable to get enough traction, the pulk sliding back at any opportunity. But I just had to keep moving. I kept telling myself this, in all likelihood, would be the hardest day of the trip: good to get it out of the way early.
This was a lie. There were at least five days in the first week and a half that I used that same phrase. But it was necessary: to try to keep my brain in a positive place when things looked bleak. Trying to not think too far ahead. The scale of the challenge was beyond daunting.
The constant climbs over this section meant the thighs really started to fatigue after a few days. Nights with winds howling up to 100km/h, building snow walls to protect the tent. Chipping and brushing ice off all of the equipment: zippers frozen shut from the rain, boots frozen solid. A harsh introduction to Arctic life.
But it wasn’t all bleak, the landscape and surroundings were truly incredible. Travelling over vast frozen lakes, fractured blue ice poking above the surface. An alien, almost moon-like feeling. Past vast mountains, open plateaus: a feeling of being extremely small in such a huge environment.
The skies eventually cleared, giving way to intense sun and amazing views from summits, but only after I’d sweated my way up with the pulk. Sunsets burning orange, fading to soft purple. Northern lights dancing at night. And lots of Arctic wildlife: reindeer, rock ptarmigans and pawprints of the elusive lynx.
Things were milder than I’d predicted, but the clear skies also brought sunburn and made the snow wet and slushy: easy to sink into. The snow clumped to the skis, adding more friction, and making it even harder to pull the pulk. I opted to try to follow snowmobile tracks to keep moving: I had to ski around 22km per day, to have a chance of reaching Kirkenes before supplies ran out.
Things settled into a routine, and the kilometres were ticking down. I was nearing Kautokeino, the end of the section, but there was one last plot twist before I hit civilisation. Because me being me, bad decisions are never far away.
Continue reading: The Long Haul
For anyone interested in the specific equipment, there is a rundown here
Also, if you missed my pre-departure post, it’s here
