Words by A. MUNCH. Music by H. KJERULF.
Der aander en tin-dren-de Som-mer-luft varmt o-ver Har-danger
fjords Van-
de, hvor højt op mod Him-len i blaa-lig Duft de mæg-ti-ge Fjel-de
stan-de; det skin-ner fra Bræ, det grøn-nes fra Li, sit
Hel-lig-dags-
skrud staar E-nenkæde i; thi se——, o-ver grønkla-re Bøl-ge hjem-
gu-der et Bru-de-føl-ge. O-ho! aahej! la la la la la la la la
O-ho! aahej! la la la la la la, thi se, o-ver grønkla-re Bøl-ge
hjem-
gli-der et Bru-do føl—-— ge. O-ho——
—— ——]
[Illustration: _The Troltinderne by Moonlight._]
The previous woodcut shows the north side of the house and
farm-buildings. The _stabur_, or provision-house, is there, with the
bell above. This bell is rung regularly for the farm labourers to come
in, as they are always fed by the _bönder_, and the meals, though
very simple, seem frequent. It was at this good hostelry that Lady Di
Beauclerc stopped and described the French count who was in search of
good “chase” of reindeer there, and the lady whose pursuit was _le
saumon_, and who had a fly of the same colour as her costume. One
becomes imperceptibly very curiously impressed by an association of
ideas. Several people have mentioned that they felt rather surprised
that they had never seen the count with his French hunting horn, nor
the lady. There is still an idea that their ghosts linger about the
spot, waiting, we suppose, for the reindeer and the salmon to come to
them. The friend who was so kindly received here some twenty years ago
was offered a little fishing by Herr Landmark. A portion of the river
Rauma runs in front under the house, and the good sport made the happy
fisherman rabid for life on salmon: he has been to Norway almost every
year since, and taken many with him.
A few miles above Aak, leaving the sand plateau behind, we enter the
Romsdal valley proper, with the Romsdal Horn rearing its grand peak
on the left. The Troltinderne, or the Witches, is one of the most
remarkable groups of fantastically jagged rocks in Norway, ever varying
in effect, the mist wreathing and most delicately veiling or throwing
a film over them, which makes them more gigantic and weird than ever.
The outline of the peaks when clear is very serrated indeed, and with
the Northern people a fair share of superstition attaches to them.
These two elements have brought about the tradition that the series of
_aiguilles_ represent a wedding party going to the church. First, the
_spilleman_ (fiddler), then the _kanderman_ (best man) with a tankard;
the next large peak is the priest; then come two peaks, turning away as
it were one from another: these were the unhappy bride and bridegroom,
who foolishly and injudiciously quarrelled. Next come the father and
mother. But the most curious character yet remains. By the side of a
sharp point is a mass of rock, which certainly does look very much like
a figure: this is the disconsolate lover, who, seeing that the bride
and bridegroom had already quarrelled, makes a frantic rush to cut in
and carry off the lady. This must have been the precise moment when
they were all turned into stone, and so they remain, a warning to all
frequenters of the valley. That the peasants believe in spirits and
“little people” living on the fjeld, even in this year of grace, cannot
be denied, as they say they do; but why they should think that these
little people have blue heads I cannot imagine.
[Illustration: _Meal House: Fiva, Romsdal._]
Exactly opposite to the Romsdal Horn, on the other side of the valley,
is an immense _couloir_, originally an enormous landslip, leaving the
perpendicular sides of the Troltinderne to gradually crumble and fall
down, the finer stuff and _débris_ filling up the interstices between
the bigger rocks. After frost the thunder of the falling rocks and
stones into this terrific shoot will last as long as thirty seconds,
and the nightfalls create constant alarm to new-corners; whereas the
_elve-wakker_, or river-keeper, merely remarks, “The old ladies are
quarrelling,” or “The old ladies have finished _aftenmad_ and are
throwing out the bones.” Still, this brings about a new range of
thought to a person who has never observed portions of the earth’s
surface in motion. After seeing a huge rock, the size of a stucco-faced
villa, hop down the side of a mountain, there arise a certain
impressiveness and grandeur unknown before. About once a year there is
an important landslip in Norway—hardly more. Most of the loose rocks
have their regular grooves, and the peasants know how to avoid them;
still, as the vast country is so sparsely inhabited, many must occur
which do not “get into the papers.” A curious instance of the effect
of a small landslip occurred in this valley to an old man personally
known to us. A slip came down behind his house, of good timber stuff,
and fortunately stopped just short of it. He and his wife decided to
leave, and go to live at a place called Aalesund; they did so for a
twelvemonth, after which time they became home-sick, and, chancing
all further damage, returned to the old house, where they were living
very happily last year. In another part a description will be given
of an important _steen-skreed_—a scene of terrible destruction and
considerable interest.
[Illustration: _The Laave at Fiva: Romsdal._]
The centre of the valley has two or three good farms, highly productive
for Norway, and presenting a very curious appearance to a foreigner
when the corn is cut, as the sheaves are stuck upon a pole, sometimes
five, sometimes ten, with the head facing the sun, and, as the sun
works round, the heads of corn are kept turned to it, so as to get the
greatest amount of heat, which is an advantage when the peasants arrive
at the happy time for carrying their corn, as they have only to pull up
the stakes with the five or ten sheaves on them, and they are easily
carried. Whilst on the subject of corn-drying, it is a most remarkable
thing that during the fine weather of the short Norwegian summer the
wind helps materially by blowing what the natives call a _sol-gang_:
the wind goes round with the sun all day, beginning to blow from the
east in the morning, clue south at mid-day, and north-west in the
evening.
[Illustration: _Rauma River Boat._]
Having paid especial notice to the Trols, we must turn to the Horn,
which rises on the left side: 4,000 feet is the height of it, and it
goes sheer up out of the valley; in fact, one morning, as we were
sitting by the river, a carriole came hurrying by, and a voice from
it inquired, “Where’s the Horn?” The old fisherman with me stared at
the flying folk in search of information, and pointed straight up over
our heads. The summit has never been reached yet, either by the
Government engineers who surveyed the country, or by Alpine men, who
have all given up the Aiguille Dru as hopeless, or by captive balloon,
which has been proposed. A very likely party from a yacht made a bold
attempt at it, but even some of these looked upon it as a hopeless
case, from the fact that there is a lean-to on a huge shoulder on the
north-west side. Perhaps the most beautiful time of all to see this
wild valley is after the first sprinkling of snow, when the tops are
powdered, which happens when the “iron days” come, the first snow
falling about August 20th. After a little sharp frost the weather
recovers from its first shudder, but by the 29th of September all is
snow again down to the river. Patches of old snow are always lying
in the valley, even during the hottest summer, but much more in the
_couloir_; and, from the immense scale of everything here, the real
quantity is most difficult to appreciate.
[Illustration: _Romsdal Snow._]
[Illustration]
At the foot of this Romsdal Horn is the Rauma itself, the first fall
caused by the rocks thrown down when the _couloir_ was originally
formed; and between the river and the base of the Horn runs the road
through the valley to Gudbransdalen. There are a few sheep here in the
advanced farms, and these, like all animals in Norge, are wonderfully
docile. For some time we heard sounds of music at a distance, but
could never discover either the music or the musician, until one day
a boy was found playing in a barn, or _laave_, on a goat’s horn with
six holes in it, and with a reed mouthpiece. The sound is quaint. This
instrument was intended and used for the amusement of the sheep, and
the boy’s mission was to play to them on it. The sheep and goats here
always follow instead of being driven; and, like all other animals in
this country, they are remarkably tame, never exhibiting the least
signs of fear. This is another pleasant feature resulting from the
kindliness of the people and their domestic happiness. Long may both
remain to them!
• • • • •
The sight of the square-sailed craft with one mast and a bold rampant
black stem at once shuts out all intrusive thoughts of civilisation,
for these same vessels—relics of very old days—are seldom seen
anywhere save on the wild shores of Heligoland, working down to Bergen,
or still farther south round by the coast, and up to the town of
Christiania. These craft are mostly from the north of Trondhjem: their
lines are very fine indeed forward, the after part, with quarter-deck,
forming a kind of citadel for the captain. As these vessels come from
the coast opposite to the Lofoden, they are closely allied with the
fishery of that district—the great national fishing ground of Norway,
to which rushes every able-bodied fisherman from Bergen northwards
as far as the North Cape. In the month of February the fish are
in force—principally early arrivals; and ultimately such immense
quantities are gathered together that tradition has handed down to us
as a fact that there are times when a deep-sea line will hardly sink
through them. Lines and nets are both worked with the greatest system.
The take is generally tremendous, and the results lucrative. The fish
are cured as stock-fish until April, when they are split, salted, and
dried on the rocks like Scotch cod. It is a simple process to gut and
hang up these cod-fish two and two across poles; not even salt is
used—nothing but the sea breezes, sun, and wind. Many years ago the
takes were even more enormous than at present, amounting to as much as
16,000,000 fish, or 8,000 tons dried, to say nothing of the cod-liver
oil and roe; but when we consider that these fish are gradually
dispersed over Europe, even 8,000 tons would soon go during the period
of a continental Lent. About April most of the fishers return home, and
are ready for any chance of herrings, which are as great a blessing to
the Norwegians as to the Scotch and Irish.
There was a very striking instance of an old custom in one of the
outlying fjords, where the fashion of bygone centuries is still
faithfully kept up. At the entrance of the fjord is a boat, in which is
stationed the watcher, with a horn or bugle. As soon as the herrings
are descried the watcher, or rather the look-out, stands up in the bow
of the boat and sounds his horn. The notes are quickly caught by the
anxious longing ears on the beach, the boats put off, and soon the
herrings feel that they are “fish out of water,” and will ere long
be adding much to the happiness and support of all the _bönder_ and
agricultural peasantry of the neighbourhood.
[Illustration: _Making for the Fjord._]
Near our herring scene was a well-to-do but scattered hamlet, for
it could scarcely be called a village; and, having visited some of
the good people, who were much interested in the foreigners—N.B.,
it is a curious sensation when it first dawns upon the mind of an
Englishman that he is a regular foreigner in the eyes of others—we
came to the conclusion that, all in all, the Norwegian _bönder_, as
a class, are more comfortably provided with the good things of this
world than any other of similar position. Their outdoor life brings
sound health; they work hard, especially the women; and their reward
is abundance. Their farms produce all they require to eat, drink, and
even wear. In the fine weather they work for internal comforts; in
the bad winter weather they provide for external wants in the form of
carding, combing, and weaving in their houses, and making _vadmel_,
or homespun—a material in which “shoddy” is unknown, and for which
“everlasting wear” is the best name. They have their ponies, their
boats, a wholesome love of God, and veneration for true, practical
religion. Their houses are of their own building—sound, solid, and
warm. There is no money greed amongst them, until spoilt by tasting
the fruit of the tree of civilisation, and then the reaction is all
the worse. Another great blessing that remains to them is, that there
is no tendency to extravagance, no wish to launch out in competition
with their neighbour. A peaceful, contented, simple life seems to them
the _summum bonum_: this they possess, and are careful not to part
with. Until savings-banks were introduced they really had no use for
money, and when they acquired silver, instead of investing it, they
had something new made of it, in this respect strongly resembling the
old Dutch farmers, who were sometimes quite at a loss to know what
they should have made next. The latter, indeed, went so far as to have
candle-boxes, as well as other domestic utensils, of silver. Again,
Norwegian servants are in good relationship with their masters and
mistresses: much kindly feeling exists, coupled with a sense of duty
and a proper regard for relative position, which is never forgotten.
We have mentioned the “home-madeness” of everything in a Norwegian
farmer’s house; but we have yet to refer to the woodwork supply,
namely, sledges, agricultural implements, _stolkjærs_, rakes, scythe
handles, carrioles, tankards, teenas (written _tine_), butter-boxes,
and bedsteads. These last-mentioned items are the worst things
produced in the country. The beds are all too short—never are they
long enough. It seems as if the Norwegian has not quite grown out of
the idea that in sleep the body should be bent up with the knees to
the chin, and in the Isle of Skye tradition assigns to the Norsemen
certain stone graves composed of nearly square slabs. The only way in
which a tall traveller in Norway can avoid pushing his feet through
the footboard is by bending his body up. The best carrioles are built
at Drammen and Christiania, but they are advanced specimens, with
springs; and springs are considered a little foppish, as well as liable
to break, length of shaft being all the spring required. When these
vehicles have to go on to steamers or large boats—a very frequent
necessity, as the whole seaboard is constantly incised by fjords and
arms of the sea—it is usual to take off the wheels, when the body is
soon removed. Where rivers have to be crossed, and a small boat only
can be procured, the best way is to bring the latter side on to the
carriole, place a plank with one end on _terra firma_, and the other
on the gunwale of the boat, where the wheel of the carriole nearest to
the shore should ultimately go. The object of this is to run the wheel
along on this plank to ship the carriole in the boat. This done, there
is still a difficult part to be performed: the river has to be crossed,
and if once the balance is lost, all is over. The rush of the river
is very strong in parts, but even a kind of race makes no difference.
A pull on one side, then a shoot and a pull on the other, and smooth
water is reached, safety insured, and the carriole is over. Sometimes
a river may be forded, but great care should be taken, as the want of
local knowledge may in a moment cause a loss of life, or at all events
a ducking.
We were once fording a river when Old Kyle, our blind dog, was
travelling very comfortably in a dog-bag, or _hund sac_, under the
carriole. The excitement and novelty of the ford made us forget our old
pet, and the first hint we had of his discomfort was the sorry sight of
the dog vainly endeavouring to stem the current, while the only way of
recovering him was by wading back. The carriole is used for everything;
even the post-carrier is a carriole-driver, and is provided with a
huge leather bag or portmanteau, with an iron rod running through it,
and padlocked at the end. The postman carries a revolver, more as a
staff of office or official status than anything else, for no one ever
hears of such a thing as a robbery in this part of the world. The last
few years have brought about a very great facility of communication in
Norway, for which all travellers are much indebted to the energy of the
Government. One can telegraph to any part of Norway for tenpence, and
the stations are numerous—surprisingly so, when the extent of country
and sparseness of population are considered; and for English travellers
the convenience is very great, because almost all the telegraph-station
masters speak and write English well.
[Illustration: _Shipping a Carriole._]
The woodcut (see page 55), with the sea-houses close to the water and
_jægt_ lying close in, shows the character of the country round that
beautiful spot in the Hardanger fjord generally known as Rosendal,
a place of great interest to the historian as the last seat of the
Norwegian nobility. Nestling in a wood on the rising ground beyond the
seashore lies this baronial residence, the home of the “last of the
barons.” Baron Rosenkrone still lives there, and in this secluded spot
art has been cherished and loved, for Rosendal possesses a collection
of pictures which is considered the finest in Norway. Who would
expect, after trudging for nine hours over the snow expanses of the
Folgefond, and rapidly descending on the Hardanger fjord, to find there
such examples of highly civilised life?
Close to this point is the island of Varalsoe, famous for its sulphur
mines. It lies out of the regular beaten track, but is sometimes
visited by the _Argo_ when the steamer is ordered to call for a
freight. On such occasions the vessel is naturally light, and the first
shoot of ore sent into the hold from the shipping pier above is, of
a truth, a shock to the strongest nerves; the rattle and bang of the
first few waggon or truck loads would startle any one, and make him
fancy they would go through the ship’s bottom and sink her. Not so,
however: the people here understand their work, and it is not by any
means the first time they have shot ore into an empty hold. May it not
be the last!
[Dropcap caption: _Grave-board, Mølmen Churchyard._]
The Gudbransdalen valley is characterized by an immense _vand_, or
lake, which is the source of the two rivers Rauma and Logen, the former
running south-east, and the latter north-west into the Christiania
fjord. Coming up from the Rauma valley, it was twilight as we reached
the plateau of this upper valley, lying about 4,000 feet above the
sea—a vast mass of far-stretching moorland, with heather, matted
cotoneaster, and every variety of berry, in all the prismatic colour of
the west coast of Scotland, but more vast, mysterious, and weird; and
like witches looming moodily away from anything with life, we came ever
and anon on some bleached relic of the grandeur of those noble Scotch
firs which now seem fast fading away into mere skeletons and dried
bones, the fibre in many cases appearing twisted like the strands of a
rope, as though the dissolution had been one of agony and torture.
Soon after passing a monolith supposed to have been erected to the
memory of Sinclair and his Scots we approach Mølmen. Judging from
its appearance on the map, any one would fancy it to be a town. Such,
however, is not the case, for it merely consists of a church school,
open on alternate Sundays, and a station, or farm, for the convenience
of travellers. Within the last few years this station has greatly
improved. We arrived late in the evening, and, feeling very chilly,
huddled up to the fireplace. As we inquired from the _pige_ what
_aftenmad_ we were likely to obtain, from the depths of the dimness
of darkness muffled peals came from under a heap of “somethings” in a
long parallelogramic case, but really a bed, containing the mistress of
the house, and the muffled peals were to summon a supper for us, and
quickly. So delighted were we get it, that we said “Tak for mad” before
we began, instead of waiting till we had finished.
The church is of wood, larger than most Norwegian churches, and has a
spire with four turrets, each with an elaborate weathercock. Mølmen
must at one time have had weathercock on the brain, for there is one
at the end of the roof, another on the top of the spire and on each of
the turrets, and even one on the lych gate. This crop of ironwork is
accounted for by the fact of there having been iron works at Lesje,
some seven miles farther to the eastward. Passing through the lych
gate, which is ponderous, the grave-boards attract attention from their
variety; one in particular had the novel feature of a weathercock on
the top, and at the back might be seen quite a contrast in sentiment—a
small simple iron cross firmly mortised into the solid rock.
[Illustration: _Interior of Mølmen Church._]
Entering the church, the general appearance is most striking, very
quaint old carving, rudely painted—most comically rudely painted,
especially on the rood screen, which is above—running from the pulpit
to the two pillars in the centre, through which the altar is seen. The
church floor is strewn with juniper tips, and the altar covered with
a white linen cloth, whereon were two large candlesticks, which are
lighted in the great festivals. The panels of the altar are painted in
rather good colour, the back of it being of a slate colour; and, on the
right side of it, standing back, is the carved stall for the use of
the bishop when he visits the district. On the rood screen, over the
centre, are the arms of King Christian V., with supporters, and above
these a large but very uncouth figure of the Saviour on the cross,
with I. H. S. above. On each side is a figure rudely carved
and painted, as is the case with the pulpit. There are traces, too, of
the delightful annual custom of these good people, who, when the summer
bursts suddenly and joyfully upon them, and the flowers come rapidly
out, cull the earliest, and take them to the church as first-fruits of
thankful joy. After viewing the front of the altar we went round to the
back of it—the Sanctum. This was a treat. There we found old silver
chalices and curious cases for the sacred wafers; for these good people
consider the form of worship immaterial, if the spirit be sound. The
size of the wafer is about one inch and a quarter in diameter.
A very fine old vestment is still worn for the communion; it is richly
brocaded, with a large purple cross on the back, and in the centre
of this is a brass crucifix. The verger said it was a pity to have a
new one until this was worn out. It certainly wears well, for it has
been in constant use ever since the Reformation. The great feature,
however, has yet to be noticed. A curious instrument is used as a
persuader during the service: it consists of a pole, painted red, about
eight feet long, with a knob at each end. On inquiring the use of this
instrument and for what ceremonial, the verger, with surprise at our
ignorance, said, “To wake the sleepers.” How? “Here, sirs,” continued
he, placing his hand on his waistcoat, as indicative of the best place
to tilt at effectually. The reader will be glad to know that the knobs
did not betray much sign of wear.
We must now return to the station, which is associated with greyling
in the river, and wood-carving executed during the winter months in
the farmhouses—spoons, bellows, tankards, mangel brats, and culinary
implements. It was our good fortune to meet at Mølmen a delightful
Austrian—his grey and green jacket informed us of that fact—but his
general information was an oasis for travellers. A great botanist,
it was delightful to go out with him, especially as he was, at that
moment, perfectly mad about saxifrages and the flora of Norway. Then,
again, “flies.” He had been up the North Cape, to the Namsen and other
large rivers, and some one had given him a few Namsen “Butcher’s”
salmon flies of immense size. These he showed to us; and we, finding
him so interested, asked him if he would like to see our collection
of _natural_ flies. “Certainly.” The flies we exhibited were the
mosquitoes we had shut up between the leaves of note-books when the
flies had been thickest in our tents on a warm evening. “Ah!” exclaimed
our Austrian, “ten tousand of dose fellows did I swallow at the North
Cape, and they bite all the way going down.” Happily, however, he had
survived. We also met here a distinguished Prussian—large forefinger
ring, _très Prussien_—whose favourite exercise at the festive board
astonished us. Mountain strawberries at Mølmen are a treat, and at
dinner we had some. Our aristocratic foreigner plunged them into a
tumbler of sparkling wine, but alas! how did he extract them? The
Count must have been in a lancer regiment, for with a tent-peg action
he tried to pig-stick each strawberry and raise it to his mouth with
his toothpick, persevering until the tumbler was emptied, and the last
strawberry pierced and entombed.
[Illustration: _A Norwegian Salmon Stage._]
In passing along the shores of the fjords a kind of stage may be
seen occasionally, which would give the casual observer an idea of
preparations for pile-driving; but the object of this construction
is for quite a different purpose. It is one of the dreadful means
used by the Norwegian farmers to obtain salmon. The system is
this:—_Netting_.—A man sits in the perch-box; the net is laid round
to the buoys as indicated in the previous illustration, and, as soon
as the fisherman (if he may be designated by that name) sees a salmon
underneath and within his net limit, he hauls in, and generally gets
him. The salmon, being in the habit of returning to the same river or
_fos_, are sometimes the victims of an inquiring mind in the following
manner:—The Norwegian whitens the face of the rock, or places a light
plank so that the fish’s attention may be attracted, and, whilst making
up his mind as to whether it may be right or wrong, his fate is sealed,
and he will soon be hung up in the farmer’s house, with two sticks
across his body. After it has been rubbed with sugar and smoked in
juniper fumes it is certainly a goodly adjunct to a breakfast; but when
the weary traveller finds only smoked salmon, he cannot help thinking
of the days when he was young, and had fresh meat regularly.
[Illustration: _Hardanger._]
When coming down from the Haukelid Pass out of Sæterdal to the
Hardanger, we had not time or space to refer to a very beautiful
passage between the two, which we will now notice. We came from
Haukelid a little gloomy; we had seen a corrie which had been the
scene of a reindeer slaughter, or Glencoe, the result of misplaced
generosity on the part of an Englishman to a Norwegian. The former had
given the latter a double-barrelled breech-loading rifle, with a good
battue supply of cartridges. The consequence was that the local Nimrod,
assisted by a confederate, drove a herd of reindeer into a _cul-de-sac_
corrie, and then shot down more than twenty. This was worse than
the friend who gave his river watcher a salmon rod and flies; the
_elve-wakker_, or keeper, fished hard with fly and worm, and with much
glee wrote to his lord and master in England that he had caught “plenty
salmons, or _stor lax_,” and the river would soon be ready for him, but
he would like two new tops brought out for the rod so kindly given to
him.
Journeying from Haukelid, we came down to Roldal, where the pass
combines to produce a scene of great grandeur. The old wooden bridge,
the blustering torrent falling with ponderous leap down into a chasm
below, the serenity and peace of the distant snow range, and the placid
lake far, far below, formed a combination which causes regret that it
can never be adequately depicted on paper. The scenery is immensely
grand, the living proportionately sparse and meagre. It is the old
story, the quotation of Bennett’s Guide-book—“Magnificent waterfall at
back; only two wooden spoons at this station.”
A tremendous zigzag is being cut by the Government in connection with a
road which is ultimately intended to be opened over the pass. From the
top of this zigzag a very commanding view is obtained of the valley of
Seljestad and the Folgefond—an immense expanse of snow. We were very
tired on arriving at Seljestad, and could get nothing but a recorked
bottle of beer, which must have been put back several times on being
declined by previous travellers. There was nothing to eat or drink;
but such a _blakken_, or Norwegian pony, was put into No. 3 carriole,
with the proprietor up as _skyds_. Having gone about five miles, the
owner thought that the animal was not showing what he could do, or
even up to his fair average; so, taking the rope reins, he stood up at
the back of the carriage, grunted at him, and with deep growlings of
“Elephanta!” sent him flying at a tremendous pace downhill, and, when
far down the valley, we flew along the road through the spoondrift of
two fine falls. The owner explained that the pony hated being called an
elephant, and always went better when a little abused.
VII.
THE FJELD AND REINDEER.
OPENING DAY FOR REINDEER—AALESUND—AURORA
BOREALIS—INQUIRING FRIENDS—BERRY VARIETIES—TO THE
FJELD—NECESSARIES—REINDEER-FLOWERS—TO THE TENTS—THE
DOGGIES—DANJEL AND OLE—MØLMEN—THE ARRIVAL—OUR
CONCERT—PTARMIGAN—REINDEER SPÖR—TROUT-FISHING IN THE
VAND—GOOD SPORT—THE TENTMASTER’S STORY—PASSOP AND THE
STOR BUCK—SNOW-WORK—SÆTER LIFE—MARITZ’S LONELY STATE—HER
KINDLINESS—THE SWIZZLE-STICK—THE OLD BOAT—THE EAGLE AND
NEST—REINDEER AND RED DEER HEADS—THE DIFFICULTY OF GETTING
THEM—INDFJORD—OLE ERIKSON BOE—HALVER JACOBSEN—INGEBORG AND
THE STEEN-SKREED—INGRANA’S ACCOUNT—INGEBORG’S FUNERAL—RUNIC
STONE—GRAVE-BOARDS—ISTERDAL—THE MEAL-MILL—OLD KYLE—A
SIMPLE-MINDED COW—OLE FIVA—AIGUILLES—VALDAL—THE SOURCE OF
THE ISTER—EXPEDITION TO A FROZEN LAKE.
Ever and anon we arrive at some landmark in life which stands out
prominently for the rest of our terrestrial journey. Perchance it
is one that, surrounded with pleasant associations, invites us back
to chew the cud of past happiness, and rises before us as an angel
of comfort from time to time, when shadows, storms, or squalls of
trouble cross our path, or the hurry-skurry of advanced civilisation
has ruffled our calmer nature, and we have become irritable and
overstrained, liable to spontaneous combustion of temper, and less
kindly than usual. Such a happy landmark is “after reindeer” in
Norwegian travel. Let us, then, look back to it, and enjoy it over and
over again; and may others derive equal pleasure from similar outings!
The 1st of August is the opening day for reindeer-shooting. About the
end of July the enthusiasm gradually increases, everything is supposed
to be ready, lists are gone over, fine weather hoped for, and the 1st
of August eagerly anticipated. On our way to Gudbransdalen we stopped
at Aalesund for the night; and what a night! We had hardly settled
down to our _aftenmad_, or supper, before a servant came in to tell us
of a grand sunset, which she thought the English gentlemen would like
to see. We all rushed up-stairs, clambered through attics, and finally
came out on a kind of platform; and what a sight met us here! The whole
heavens were bathed in the most astounding crimson; at our feet lay
the harbour of Aalesund, and on the horizon, out in the Atlantic, long
ultramarine-purple islands. It was sundown in its most intense arctic
grandeur, with a few golden scraps of cirri in the upper heavens. So
impressed were we that we mused in silence; adjectives had no power of
expression; and we tacitly admired with awe and reverence.
On our return to the table some Cantabs had just arrived, and finding
we were compatriots, the all-prevailing subject of the latter days of
July rose to the surface. “Were we going after reindeer?” was followed
by a sort of mitrailleuse volley of cognate inquiries. They had heard
of three Englishmen—did we know them? as they were anxious to meet
them before starting. At last the suggestion was thrown out, “Had we
not better go another time?” We thought not. Then they divulged the
name of him they sought, and the Patriarch revealed himself, quoting
the _Duke’s Motto_, “I am here.” General rejoicing, fraternity, and a
_skaal_ for good sport succeeded, and the next morning we all started
off together by steamer for our happy hunting-grounds.
On July 31st we made our head habitable quarters on the high plateau of
the Lesje Vand, and had time to enjoy the detailed study of the upper
flora and berry varieties, which are numerous in this country. Thus:—
_Tyttebær_ Red, juicy berry.
_Blaabær_ Blueberries.
_Multebær_ Juicy, hard berry of raspberry form.
_Kirsebær_ Cherry.
_Bringebær_ Raspberry.
_Björnebær_ Bearberry.
_Winborr, Ripsbær_ Currants.
_Stikkelbær_ Gooseberry.
_Silbær_ Black currant.
_Jordbær_ Strawberry.
[Illustration: _Snow Plough._]
The ponies were packed with their curious birch-twig saddles,
waterproof sheets for cork bed, deer-skins and air cushions,
provisions, a small spade to trench round the tents, cooking canteen—a
great work most cunningly carried out by the Tentmaster—lint,
chlorodyne, &c.; steel nails to screw into boots for ice-work,
_vanters_, or mufflers, long flannel night-shirts for cold, blue
spectacles for snow, a little glycerine, telescope, compass, &c. Our
beds were made with Iceland moss, waterproof sheet, cork mattress,
and skins, and we slept in thick socks, gloves, and long flannel
night-shirts with hood to keep off the flies. Hans Luther was with
us, and Trophas the faithful, the doggie with sharp nose and curled
tail. The tents had been sent up to the fjeld before us, and, after
about six hours’ walk, we spied the white dot—the tent. In making the
ascent to the upper plateau the gradual decrease of vegetation was
very noticeable, culminating in the reindeer flower, or _Ranunculus
glacialis_, which is much liked by the reindeer. Happy and buoyant with
hope the hunter who finds the flowers nibbled off! Their peculiarity
is to grow most freely where the snow has melted back. At the tents we
found Ole of Lesje, whose first news was that he had seen a herd of
about fifty reindeer, after which an important subject was mooted: a
glutton had been seen the night before near the tent. Danjel Kulingen
had been thirteen years after reindeer, and had never seen one. On
the other hand, Hans Luther had shot one, and there was a skin at
the station at Mølmen, which reminded us that at fishing inns on the
banks of the Thames larger fish are seen stuffed and glazed than the
itinerant angler generally hooks and lands.
All at once the dogs, three in number—Trophas, Barefoed, and
Storm—opened a barking chorus; but we did not seize our rifles, as
the telescopes revealed our Paymaster-general, who was returning from
his _chasse de bagage_, which he had happily recovered. The aneroids
registered 5,000 feet, and all was full of promise, save the one fact
that the rifle of our friend was below in the valley. The despair
and ferocity engendered by this unhappy discovery were soon dispelled
by good food, and plenty of it, a word of comfort and sympathy, and
last, not least, a little whiskey, after which he took a siesta in his
tent, on which we wrote “Requiescat in pace,” and left our cards as a
welcome. Being Sunday, we made it quite a day of rest, and revelled in
the flora, mosses, and lichens of our new ground, always, however, with
an eye to the glutton, which evidently had a day of rest also, as he
never appeared. In the evening, at 6.30, we had a hunters’ chorus, for
the Norwegian Sunday terminates at six o’clock.
[Music: NORGES HERLIGHED.
Words by I. N. BRUN.
Bor jeg paa det høje Fjeld, hvor en Fin skjød en Ren med sin Rifle
paa Ski-en
hvor der sprang et Kildevæld, og hvor Ryperne pladsked i Li-en.
Jeg med
Sang vil mane frem hveren Skat som er skjult udi Klip-pernes
Rif-ter, jeg er gladog rig ved dem, kjøber
Vin og klare-rer Ud-gif-ter. Klippens Top som Gra-nen bær, muntre
Sjælers
Fri-sted er, Ver-dens Tummel ned-en-for til min sky-høje Bo-lig ej
naar.]
Ole sang “Saga’s Hall.” Luther, with his sweet high tenor, was very
good, and eventually a bouquet was thrown to him. The delicate
attention seemed to be appreciated, although it was composed of straw
and red labels from the tin cans of our preserved meats, &c. Then we
had a bar or two of “God save the Queen,” and so into our tents. The
next day we made a long journey, with much snow and heavy winds. In
the afternoon we had to swim the ponies through a river—a very pretty
sight indeed—the only drawback being clouds of mosquitoes. They were
perfectly awful, and no avoiding them. We were even thankful to think
we should not have them at home for a continuance, for the remark that
we should soon get used to them afforded no comfort.
At this altitude we found the ptarmigan sitting about. The shooting
of these birds does not commence until August 15th, and they seemed
to know that we, as Englishmen, would not shoot before that day. So
we actually threw stones at them, and one old bird, when knocked off
the top of a large stone, positively came back to see what it was all
about. Soon after this we discovered _freske spör_ (new deer slots).
The dogs livened up for a time. All soon settled, however, into steady
travel again. Danjel was telescoping continually, but frequently a
supposed reindeer turned out to be only a stone in the snow, till at
last the Patriarch ventured to remark that there were “mange stor steen
in Gamle Norge, og maget god telescope jagt,” which Danjel understood
to suggest real deer instead of stones, and we should all have
preferred, as it was one of the objects of our expedition, shooting
reindeer to telescoping them. They are very wild, and quite justify the
old saying, “Mange dyr, mange øine” (many deer, many eyes). Our course
now lay from Buvalden due north, and we started in good time from
Thorbvu for the snow ranges, leaving the horses and baggage below, we
going as light as possible, with our own food for the day, and plenty
of goat cheese. At lunch Danjel explained to the Patriarch that he
should eat much goat cheese, for if he eat sufficient he should partake
of the nature of that saltatory animal, and in time jump cleverly and
boldly from rock to rock—an accomplishment in much requisition during
our wanderings.
[Illustration: _Snow Pass: Thorbvu._]
An incident of piscatorial interest occurred here. We sent a hunter,
who had never had a rod in his hand before, down to a lake, or _vand_,
to try for some trout. In an hour he came back with about twenty,
averaging nearly one pound each. Of course he was not casting, or
“flick” would have been the fate of the fly; he only trailed. Still his
success was perfect, and he was delighted with his new sport.
The male reindeer are called _bucks_, the female _ko_ and _semle ko_,
and the young _kalve_. In the daytime they roll in the snow, and if
they sleep at all, it is certainly with one eye open. Having seen
and telescoped many large stones, and taken them for deer, there was
a strong inclination to inquire more closely as to the probability
of sport, and a suppressed anxiety to hear a definite opinion as to
our chance of a shot, if nothing more. The hunter must be patient,
persevering, careful not to appear even as a moving speck on the
interminable expanse of virgin snow, and take his sport quietly, for
better or worse. Our Tentmaster had made many expeditions, had seen
many deer, and even when his chance came an impetuous—shall we say
friend?—rushed out in front of him, fired, and missed. So tradition
said. We are glad to state that this did not occur during our present
trip. His successes arrived, however, after a time, and never will he
forget the day when he killed his first reindeer. Long may he live to
kill more!
Let us here give his first experience; so pray silence for the
Tentmaster.
THE TENTMASTER’S FIRST TRIP, AND HOW HE TRIED TO GET
A REINDEER.
“In the year 1863 I ascended the glorious Norwegian fjelds for the
first time to hunt reindeer. What a charm is conveyed in these
words, ‘first time!’ The first salmon or trout caught; the first
grouse or partridge shot; the first meet at cover and burst with
the hounds; the first climb up the snow peaks of Switzerland; the
young beauty’s first London season, or first night at the opera
or ball; and last, not least, first love, all have a peculiar zest
never afterwards equalled.”
(N.B.—The Tentmaster is rather sentimental.)
[Illustration: _After Sport._]
“I experienced this feeling in August, 1863, when, journeying up the
magnificent Romsdal valley, on arriving at a station I noticed a
splendid head of reindeer horns lying outside the station-house. On
inquiry I found that a Norwegian hunter had brought them down from the
fjelds. I lost no time in searching him out, and soon arranged for
an expedition together. I had no provisions, tents, spare clothing,
or other appliances which my subsequent experience has shown to be
requisite, but began the ascent with the meagre store of some raw
coffee berries, _flatbrod_, cheese, and biscuits. The hunter (Dan I
call him) could not speak English, nor I Norske; but we got on pretty
well by pantomime. After a pleasant but toilsome three hours’ walk
through the grand scenery peculiar to the Norwegian fjelds, Dan’s
hound Passop (the reindeer hounds are held in a leash two or three
yards long) suddenly squatted down in great excitement, with his nose
steadily pointed to a huge rock about three hundred yards distant,
and gave a peculiar low whine. Dan was down immediately, and signalled
me to do the same. He was certain that reindeer were close at hand, but
a full half-hour’s telescoping failed to disclose their whereabouts.
Nothing could induce Passop to move; his sniffing nose kept steadily
in the direction of the rock; while he occasionally gave us a most
intelligent, imploring look, as much as to say, ‘Do something.’ Unable
to see any trace of deer, we dare not move. Dan thought that wherever
they were, there they would remain some time; so, with faithful Passop
on the watch, we determined to have lunch. Not a bite, however, would
Passop touch—not even _flatbrod_ thick with butter. There he squatted,
with his nose still to the rock, the model of a watchful sentinel.
Lunch finished, Dan began telescoping, and soon discovered the cause of
Passop’s agitation. The tips of antlers were visible above the rock,
and in distinct relief against the sky. They were perfectly motionless;
but we were quite sure, after many exciting inspections with the
telescope, that a large buck was resting behind the rock. As the wind
was not very favourable Dan said we must be quite still, and remain
till we saw a movement. In my innocence I wished to smoke a pipe, but
Dan forbade it. The excitement was increased by Dan saying it was a
large buck, probably an outlying sentinel, and that a herd of deer was
not far off, which proved correct. Our patience being exhausted, Dan,
much to the delight of Passop, ordered a forward crawling movement;
and, with time and patience, we got within eighty yards of the rock,
where we determined to halt and wait. The tops of the antlers were
still motionless. Poor Passop was trembling with excitement, and his
companions much the same. In this position another half-hour passed,
when suddenly Dan exclaimed, ‘Look!’ Passop became very uneasy, when
we had the pleasure of seeing a splendid _stor buck_ rise up and stand
before us broadside, with his head turned to where we were crouching.
Passop behaved splendidly, remaining perfectly still, while I shall
never forget the expression of his eyes, and his occasional side glance
at us, as much as to say, ‘Now then.’ Resting my rifle on a convenient
rock, I took aim steadily behind the shoulder, pulled the trigger, and,
to my horror, it missed fire. The buck heard the snap, and started off
at a rattling pace; Passop struggled wildly to get out of the leash;
and Dan exclaimed, ‘Gud bevar mig! Give me my riffel.’ I handed it to
him, he recapped it, and fired at about two hundred yards’ distance
without effect. Passop collapsed, and the translation of his thoughts
into English was indicated by the expression of his face, ‘I have
done my best!’ No doubt he had a clear conscience; and work being
finished, he commenced eating _flatbrod_ and butter with great zest.
The inevitable pipes were now brought out for consolation. Wonderful
weed—exquisite after a success, soothing after a defeat!
[Illustration: _Near Ovendal: after Reindeer._]
[Illustration: _An Anxious Moment._]
[Illustration: _Thorbvu: Encamping._]
“We now made our way to a stone cave to pass the night, where we
had coffee and _flatbrod_. The cave was just large enough for me to
creep in, and I passed the night on dried moss, sleeping soundly till
daybreak. The night being very fine, Dan took up his quarters outside
the cave, had coffee, and slept soundly on dried moss too. After
breakfast we started, Dan being sure we should find the herd. At one
o’clock we discerned them, fourteen in number, taking their noonday
siesta on the snow; but in vain we tried to get within shot. Next day
we saw herds of deer, but without being able to get within range on
account of the quantity of snow. On the third day I returned to the
station, much delighted with my first reindeer-hunting experiences.
Often as I have been on the fjelds since, the three days of 1863 have
not been surpassed, although