_Translated, with His Majesty’s permission, by Carl Siewers._
If you will accompany us on our journey towards the snow-covered peaks
of the Sogne Mountains yonder, you are welcome! But quick, not a moment
is to be lost; day is dawning, and we have a long journey before us.
It is still five stiff Norwegian miles to the coast in Bergen’s Stift,
although we did two yesterday from the last dwelling in the valley
of Lom. We ought to be under shelter before dusk; the night might be
“rough” up yonder among the white-capped old peaks, so therefore to
horse, and forward!
We are compelled to say good-bye to the last _Sæter_ there on the
silent shores of the deep gloomy mountain lake, a duty which we perform
with no light heart. How strange the _Sæter_ life and dwellings appear
to the stranger! How poor this long and dark structure seems at first
sight, and yet how hearty and unexpectedly lavish is the hospitality
which the simple children of the mountain extend to the weary traveller!
Milk, warm from the cow, fresh-churned butter, reindeer meat, and a
couple of delicious trout which we have just seen taken from the lake
below, form a regal feast indeed; and, spiced with the keen appetite
which the air up here creates, the meal can only be equalled by the
luxury of reposing on a soft couch of fresh, fragrant hay.
On the threshold as we depart, stand the pretty _Budejer_ (dairy
maids), in the neat costume of the people in the Guldbrandsdal valley,
nodding a tender farewell to us, and wishing us a hearty “_Lykke paa
Reisen_.” Yes, there they stand, following us with their gaze as we
proceed along the steep mountain path, till we disappear from view in
the rocky glen. I said “path.” Well, that is the name assigned to it,
but never did I imagine the existence of such a riding “ladder,” and
it may well be necessary to have the peculiar race of mountain horses
found here, for a rider to get safely to his journey’s end.
Now the road lies through rapid mountain streams, where the roaring
waterfall may in an instant sweep man and beast into a yawning
abyss below, and now across a precipice, where the lake divides the
mountains, and death lurks a yard to your left. Again across the
steepest slopes, where Nature appears to have amused herself by tossing
masses of jagged, tottering rocks in heaps, and where no ordinary
horse’s hoof would find a safe hold. But if you only watch these brave
and sagacious little animals, how carefully they consider the slightest
movement and measure the smallest step, they will inspire you with the
greatest confidence, and you will continue your journey on their back
without the slightest fear, along the wildest path, on the edge of
the most awe-inspiring abyss. And should one of these excellent cobs
stumble, which happened once or twice during our ride, it is only on
comparatively safe ground, where probably the horse does not consider
much attention is required.
We now climb still higher; gradually the sound of cow bells and the
soft melodies from the _Lur_, (the Norse alpenhorn,) are wafted into
space, and in return, a sharp chilly gust of wind, called _Fjeldsno_,
sweeps along the valley slopes, carrying with it the last souvenir of
society and civilization. We have long ago left the populated districts
behind, the mountain Nature stands before us, and surrounds us in
all its imposing grandeur. The roar of the mighty Bæver river is the
only sound which breaks the impressive silence, and even this becomes
fainter and fainter as we mount higher and higher, and the mass of
water decreases and the fall becomes steeper and steeper, till at last
the big river is reduced to a little noisy, foaming brook, skipping
from rock to rock, and plunging from one ledge to another, twisting its
silvery thread into the most fantastic shapes.
The morning had dawned rather dull, which in these altitudes means that
we had been enveloped in a thick damp mist; but the gusts from the
snow-fields soon chase the heavy clouds away, and seem to sweep them
into a heap round the crests of the lofty mountains. At last a streak
of blue appears overhead, and through the rent clouds a faint sunbeam
shoots across the high plateau, one stronger and more intense follows,
a second and third. It’s clearing!
Oh, what a magnificent spectacle! Never will it fade from my
recollection; indelibly it stands stamped on my mind. Before us lies
a grand glacier, the Smörstabsbræen, from whose icy lap our old
acquaintance the Bæver river starts on his laborious journey to the
Western Ocean. The bright rays of the noonday sun are playing on the
burnished surface of the glacier, which now flashes like a _rivière_
of the choicest diamonds, now glitters clear and transparent as
crystal, and now gleams in green and blue like a mass of emeralds and
sapphires, the rapid transformation of tint being ten times multiplied
by the play of the shadow of the clouds fleeting across the azure
heavens. And above the glacier there towers a gigantic mountain with
the weird name of “_Fanarauken_” (The Devil’s Smoke), which may be
considered as the solitary vedette of the body of peaks which under
the name of Horungtinderne forms the loftiest part of the Jotun or
Sogne Mountains. Some of the slopes of the peaks seem covered with
white snow, while others stand out in bold relief, jet black in color:
somewhat awe-inspiring, with the cold, pale-green background which
the sky assumes in the regions of eternal snow. The crests of the
Horungtinderne, some six to eight thousand feet above the sea, are
steep and jagged, and around them the snow-clouds have settled, and
when the wind attempts to tear them away they twirl upwards, resembling
smoking volcanoes, which further enhances the strangeness of the scene.
To our right there are some immense snow-fields, still we are told that
there is very little snow in the mountains this year!
Long ago we left the last dwarf birch (_Betula nana_), six feet in
height, behind us, and are now approaching the border of eternal snow.
We reach it, spring from our horses, and are soon engaged in throwing
snowballs at each other.
It is the 15th of August, but the air is icy cold; it is more like one
of those clear, cool spring mornings, so familiar to the Northerner,
when rude Boreas is abroad, but far more invigorating and entirely
free from that unpleasant, raw touch which fosters colds and worse
illnesses. Here disease is unknown, one feels as if drinking the elixir
of life in every breath, and, whilst the eye can roam freely over the
immense plateau, the lungs are free to inhale the pure mountain air
untainted.
One is at once gay and solemn. Thought and vision soar over the immense
fields and expand with the extended view, and this consciousness is
doubly emphasised by the sense of depression we have just experienced
under the overhanging mountains in the narrow Sæter’s valley. One
feels as if away from the world one is wont to move in, as if parted
from life on earth and brought suddenly face to face with the Almighty
Creator of Nature. One is compelled to acknowledge one’s own lowliness
and impotence. A snow-cloud, and one is buried for ever; a fog, and the
only slender thread which guides the wanderer to the distant abode of
man is lost.
Never before had I experienced such a sensation, not even during a
terrific storm in the Atlantic Ocean, or on beholding the desert of
Sahara from the pyramid of Cheops. In the latter case, I am in the
vicinity of a populated district and an extensive town, and need only
turn round to see Cairo’s minarets and citadel in the distance; and
again at sea, the ship is a support to the eye, and I am surrounded
by many people, who all participate in the very work which engages
myself; I seem to a certain extent to carry my home with me. Whilst
here, on the other hand, I am, as it were, torn away from everything
dear to me—a speck of dust on the enormous snowdrift—and I feel my own
impotence more keenly as the Nature facing me becomes grander and more
gigantic, and whose forces may from inaction in an instant be called
into play, bringing destruction on the fatigued wanderer. But we did
not encounter them, and it is indeed an exception that any danger is
incurred. With provisions for a couple of days, sure and resolute
guides, enduring horses, and particularly bold courage and good temper,
all will go well. As regards good temper, this is a gift of welcome and
gratitude: presents from the mountains to the rare traveller who finds
his way up here.
Our little caravan, a most appropriate designation, has certainly
something very picturesque about it, whether looking at the travellers
in their rough cloaks, slouched hats and top boots, or our little
long-haired cobs with their strong sinewy limbs and close-cropped
manes, or the ponies carrying our traps in a _Klöf_ saddle.
These sagacious and enduring _Klöf_ horses are certainly worth
attention.
I cannot understand how they support the heavy and bulky packages they
carry, covering nearly the entire body, and still less how they are
able to spring, thus encumbered, so nimbly from one ledge to another
and so adroitly to descend the steep, slippery mountain slopes, or so
fearlessly wade through the small but deep pools—_Tjærn_—which we so
often encounter on our road. The most surprising thing is that our
_Klöf_ horses always prefer to be in the van, yes, even forcing their
way to the front, where the path is narrowest, and the abyss at its
side most appalling, and when they gain the desired position they seem
to lead the entire party. What guides them in their turn? Simply the
instinct with which Nature has endowed them.
Life in the mountains, and the daily intimate acquaintance with the
giant forces of Nature, seem to create something corresponding in the
character of the simple dwellers among the high valleys of Norway.
As a type I may mention an old reindeer-hunter, whom we met in the
mountains. Seventy winters had snown on his venerable locks, serving
only however to ornament his proudly-borne head. Leaning on his rough
but unerring rifle, motionless as a statue, he appears before us on a
hill at some distance. Silent and solemn is his greeting as we pass,
and we see him still yonder, motionless as the rocks, which soon hide
him from our view. Thus he has to spend many a weary hour, even days,
in order to earn his scanty living. To me it seemed a hard lot, but
he is content—he knows no better, the world has not tempted _him_ to
discontent.
Not far from the highest point on our road lies a small stone hut,
tumbledown, solitary, uninviting, but nevertheless a blessed refuge
to the traveller who has been caught in rough weather, and I should
say that the finest hotel in Europe is scarcely entered with such
feelings of grateful contentment as this wretched _Fjeldstue_ is taken
possession of by the fatigued, frozen, or strayed traveller.
We were, however, lucky enough not to be in want of the refuge, as the
weather became more and more lovely and the air more transparent as we
ascended.
About half-way across the mountains we discovered, after some search,
the horses which had been ordered to meet us here from the other side
in Bergen’s Stift; and to order fresh animals to meet one half-way
when crossing is certainly a wise plan, which I should recommend to
every one, though I must honestly add that our horses did not appear
the least exhausted in spite of their four hours’ trot yesterday and
six to-day, continually ascending. In the open air we prepared and did
ample justice to a simple fare, and no meal ever tasted better. And
meanwhile we let our horses roam about and gather what moss they could
in the mountain clefts.
After a rest of about two hours we again mount and resume our journey
with renewed strength. It is still five hours’ journey to our
destination on the coast.
We did not think that, after what we had already seen, a fresh grand
view, even surpassing the former, would be revealed to our gaze; but we
were mistaken.
Anything more grand, more impressive than the view from the last
eminence, the Ocsar’s Houg, before we begin to descend, it is
impossible to imagine! Before us loom the three Skagastölstinder,
almost the loftiest peaks in the Scandinavian peninsula. More than
seven thousand feet they raise their crests above the level of the
sea, and they stand yonder as clearly defined as if within rifle-shot,
whilst they are at least half a day’s journey distant. To their base
no human being has ever penetrated, their top has never been trodden by
man.
And they certainly appear terribly steep; snow cannot gather on their
slopes, but only festoons the rocks here and there, or hides in the
crevices, where the all-dispersing wind has lost its force. The
mountain has a cold steel-gray color, and around the pointed cones
snow-clouds move erratically, sometimes gathering in a most fantastic
manner in a mass and again suddenly disappearing, as though chased by
some invisible power.
And around us the dark jagged peaks of the Horungtinder, alternating
with dazzling snow-fields, which increase in extent to the north, thus
bespeaking their close proximity to the famous glacier of Justedalen.
Does this complete my picture? No; our glance has only swept the
sun-bathed heights above, but now it is lowered, sinking with terror
into yawning abysses, and lost in a gloomy depth, without outlines,
without limit! A waterfall rushes wildly forward, downwards—whither? We
see it not; we do not know; we can only imagine that it plunges into
some appalling chasm below. In very favorable weather it is said to be
possible to see the Ocean—the bottom of the abyss—quite plainly from
this eminence; we could, however, only distinguish its faint outlines,
as the sun shone right in our eyes. We saw, half “by faith” however,
the innermost creek of the Lysterfjord. But remember this creek was
rather below than before us!
“Surely it is not intended to descend into this abyss on horseback?” I
ask with some apprehension. “Yes, it is,” responds my venerable guide
with that inimitable, confidence-creating calmness which distinguishes
the Norwegian. I involuntarily think compassionately of my neck.
Perhaps the mountaineer observed my momentary surprise, as this race is
gifted with remarkable keenness; perhaps not. However, I felt a slight
flush on my face, and that decided me, _coûte que coûte_, never to
dismount, however tempted. And of course I did not.
We had, in fact, no choice. We were bound to proceed by this road and
no other, unless we desired to return all the way to Guldbrandsdalen,
miss all our nicely-arranged trips around the Sogne and Nœrö fjords,
and disappoint the steamer waiting for us with our carriage and traps.
And above all, what an ignominious retreat! No; such a thought did not
for a moment enter our head. Therefore come what may, forward!
On a balmy evening, as the rays of the setting sun tint the landscape,
we find ourselves on the seashore, safe and sound.
But to attempt a description of the adventurous break-neck, giddy
descent, I must decline. I can scarcely review it in my mind at this
moment, when I attempt to gather the scattered fragments of this
remarkable ride, the most extraordinary I ever performed. But one word
I will add: one must not be afraid or subject to giddiness, else the
Sogne Mountains had better be left out of the programme. Only have
confidence in the mountain horse, and all will go well.
Well, had I even arrived as far as this in my journey, I would unfold
to you a very different canvas, with warmer colors and a softer touch.
I would, in the fertile valley of Fortun, at 62° latitude N., conjure
up to your astonished gaze entire groves of wild cherry-trees laden
with ripe fruit; I would show you corn, weighty and yellow three months
after being sown, in close rich rows, or undulating oats ready for the
sickle, covering extensive fields. I would lead you to the shore of the
majestic fjord, and let you behold the towering mountains reflected
sharp and clear in its depth, as though another landscape lay beneath
the waves; and I would guide your glance upwards, towards the little
farms nestling up there on the slope, a couple of thousand feet above
your head, and which are only accessible from the valley by a rocky
ladder. Yes, this and more too I would show you, but remember we stand
at this moment on the crest of the mountain, and a yawning gap still
divides us from the Canaan which is our journey’s end.
I have therefore no choice but to lay down my pen, and I do so with
a call on you, my reader, to undertake this journey and experience
for yourself its indescribable impressions; and if you do, I feel
confident you will not find my description exaggerated.
Ride only once down the precipice between Optun and Lysterfjord, and
you will find, I think, that the descent cannot be accurately described
in words; but believe me, the memory thereof will never fade from your
mind, neither will you repent the toil.
A summer’s day in the Sogne Mountains of old Norway will, as well for
you as for me, create rich and charming recollections—recollections
retained through one’s whole life.—_Temple Bar._