After waking to the sound of rain drops on our tent tops on the south side of the Naeroyfjord, I opened my "front door" to a spectacular view . . .
As we crested the summit line, a broad plateau of rocky terrain, dotted with small lakes greeted us. We picked our way toward the cliff's edge . . . nearly a mile above where we'd camped. At first, clouds obscured the view completely, but soon we began to get brief breaks that revealed just how staggeringly abrupt the contrast between water and mountain is in the fjords.
The clouds soon stopped their mischief and we enjoyed a delicious breakfast prepared by Jake and Einar on the great iron griddle. Fried eggs, bacon, assorted jams and bread, orange and apple juice, yogurts (for those who like such things) gave us fuel for the day ahead. In order to ensure we remained well-fueled, Einar had us prepare ourselves niste pakker, translated as lunch in bags. I whipped up peanut butter and jelly, and a second smordbra of salmon and cheese. Not realizing at the time that I was going to really need all the fuel I could muster later on.
Filled with food, we restuffed our sleeping bags, disassembled the dining tables and hauled them back to the shed, re-jammed all our belongings and foodstuffs into the kayaks and headed across the fjord to Dyrdal, a village with a single permanent inhabitant we were told (though last year apparently he left the village in the winter, and so for the first time in 400 years there were no Dyrdalians in residence). We secured our kayaks and stored our gear in the barn beside the house that would be our accomodation for the night (the family whose home we borrowed had not yet left by the time we arrived) and set out for a little stroll . . . to the top of the land above the fjord . . . some 4,000 feet or so above us.
Jake led our crew, while Einar stayed behind to make final preparations for our evening repast . . . reindeer stew. The first few miles of the trek were exceptionally non-White Mountain like, with a gravel road that took us first to the not-quite-high farm of Dreggo.
The high farms lay ahead and above us. In the past, women and children would go to the high farms for the summer, along with the sheep, while the men would do the mowing and storing down below in preparation for the seven or so months of winter to come. (An interesting factoid about why Norwegian barns have ramps up to the "second floor" . . . it allowed the farmers to roll the hay bales up and in and then just push them off onto the main floor; no stacking required in the pre-mechanized days.) While sheep still roam the high (summer) farms, no farmers occupy the abodes any longer. Today some of the buildings are summer get aways, not unlike New Hampshire lake and mountain houses, for city dwellers.
As we made our way up higher and higher, we came to two high farms, occupied by sheep, who noted our passing with bleats and not a little confusion over why we'd come to interrupt their routine. We never saw any other hikers. The trail became more reminiscent of the White Mountains, with lots of rocks (though not too many tree roots) and a boundless supply of ripened blueberries, which we snacked on most of the rest of the way to the top. We stopped and indulged in our niste pakker at the highest farm, before heading up the steep and muddy slope to the top of the fjord.
As we crested the summit line, a broad plateau of rocky terrain, dotted with small lakes greeted us. We picked our way toward the cliff's edge . . . nearly a mile above where we'd camped. At first, clouds obscured the view completely, but soon we began to get brief breaks that revealed just how staggeringly abrupt the contrast between water and mountain is in the fjords.
Before we headed back down, Jake had one more sight to show us. We crossed a small brook, and carefully crawled to the cliff's edge to look over and watch as the brook tumbled into a waterfall. I am pretty certain that I've never witnessed where a waterfall begins and ends all at the same time!
