GJENDIN.
_July 31._--The morning appeared rather fine, so we packed the rest of
our baggage, and climbed the track which leads over the shoulder of the
mountain between Sjödals Vand and Gjendin (pronounced 'yendin'). It is
rather steep, but nothing approaching the villany of the tracks near
Sikkildals Sæter, so the transit did not take long, and we got to
Gjendesheim about twelve o'clock.
Gjendesheim is a very good two-storied wooden building, with a large
dining-room, and about eight tiny cupboards of bedrooms; it has been
erected just where the Sjoa River runs out at the eastern extremity of
the lake, for the benefit of travellers, who can get food and lodging of
a sort there, and generally boats to take them up the lake. Ragnild--the
woman who presides over it--is very nice, kind, and attentive, and talks
English well. Her latter qualification hardly gets fair play, as not
many English people come here; and indeed the Norwegians who visit the
lake are not very numerous. From the book we can only see two English
names before us this year; and yet Gjendin is perhaps the most
beautiful, certainly the wildest and grandest lake in Norway, and is
well worth a visit from any tourist who has time at his disposal.
[Illustration: Our first View of Gjendin Lake]
It is eleven miles long; very deep; very blue, and on all sides rising
sheer out of the water for from 1,000 to 4,000 feet are vast black
mountains with snow-clad summits; for it lies in the very heart of the
highest mountains in Norway. It may not unfairly be likened to an
unfrequented and awfully desolate Lake of Lucerne.
At 3,200 feet altitude it is of course above the fir trees, and only in
a few sunny nooks along its sides can even stunted birches, juniper, and
willow earn a precarious living. It is at these places alone that there
is any exit from the lake; for along the greater part of its length
there is no level place large enough to pitch a tent; no vegetation
except berries and moss; and no possibility of scaling the frowning
cliffs by which it is surrounded. But there is a great fascination in
such a scene; and although its first appearance is almost repellent,
every moment of gazing seems to increase its beauty and awe-inspiring
grandeur.
At lunch here a great event happened; we had Salon öl (bottled beer),
and immediately bought the whole remaining stock, consisting of six
bottles. These we degraded by packing with the inferior baggage in the
canoes, and commenced the final stage of our journey, or
voyage--whichever is the right term.
About two miles from Gjendesheim, on the south shore, we came to a
waterfall which runs out of a small lake lying a short distance away up
in the valley. At the mouth of this fall was a small neat hut in which a
Christiania professor had just taken up his abode for a few days'
stalking; we stopped a few minutes to talk to him, and then paddled on,
trying a few casts now and then until we came to Memurudalen--our
intended camp.
It is about halfway up the lake on the north shore, and is a very pretty
little valley, profusely supplied with edible berries, surrounded by
thick birch covert, and with more grass than we ever expected to find at
this altitude; but it is by far the most favourably situated bit of the
Gjendin shores, as it is sheltered from the cold winds and gets the sun
all day.
We found a remarkably nice level bit of grass, screened by a rocky bank,
and with what the Skipper called 'a brattling brooklet' in front, about
two hundred yards from the lake. There we pitched the tent and made
everything comfortable, but of course we shall not decide whether to
stay here or not until we have tested its capabilities as reindeer
ground.
Beyond the purling streamlet, and about thirty yards from our front
door, the Memurua River goes tearing down, the colour of dirty soap-suds
from the mud which is ground into it by the mighty Memuru Glacier,
whence it springs. This glacier is about three miles from us up the
valley, but not in sight from our tent; in fact, the hills are so steep
that we are quite shut in, and can see very little except the
snow-fjelds and peaks just opposite to us across the lake. These peaks
spring from the highest plateau in Norway, which has an altitude of
about 6,000 feet, and both the plateau and peaks are almost inaccessible
to the hunter, as it is a day's work to climb them, and any one doing so
would probably have to pass the night on the top. This is annoying, for
it is a capital place for deer.
An ancient hunter, some years ago, spent a long time in conveying with
incredible exertions to the top of the central peak, materials out of
which he constructed a windmill; then he descended and never went near
the place again, and his windmill scared all the deer away from that
table-land, so that they frequented places where a man could get to
them; and the cunning hunter was rewarded by many 'stor bocks' (big
bucks). But now the windmill has been destroyed by time and weather, and
we fear that the deer again roam there unmolested and unscared.
_Sunday, August 1._--It is our custom to rise on this day singing,
'Come, rouse ye, then, my merry, merry men, for it is our opening day,'
but on this occasion it would not have been appropriate. We were not at
all merry, because it was Sunday, and raining; we were frozen in the
night, our men and potatoes have not come, and altogether we could see
nothing to be merry about, especially as the opening day having fallen
on a Sunday, we did not feel justified in going out to pursue.
So we devoted ourselves to the pleasures of the table. Last night we had
dotterel and sandpipers for dinner, this morning greenshanks, which are
very good birds indeed. There was also a large brew of a meritorious
composition known as Skoggaggany soup; the name is a little difficult to
pronounce, but the soup does not taste anything like it; it is merely
the Norwegian for a scaup duck. In England people have been known to
call scaups unfit for food, but here, under the perfectly awful
appetites that we have developed, the Skoggaggany soup has very little
chance.
After trying unsuccessfully to catch fish, we walked up the valley after
lunch to look for a hut which is marked on the Ordnance map, and to see
if there were any better camping-ground than the place we chose
yesterday. We saw some beautiful reindeer ground, but could not find the
hut or a camp.
[Illustration: Two of our Retainers: Ivar and his Pony]
On our return we perceived two men loafing about the tent, who we
naturally concluded were thieves and murderers, and the Skipper hurried
on to do battle with them to the death for the possession of our
greatest treasure, the Salon öl. But on his arrival the robbers did not
fly, but stood and stared with their hands in their pockets; so he
lifted his hat and said, 'Öla?' (for of course he might have been a Dook
in disguise); and one of them replied, 'Ja;' and cordiality being thus
established, produced the sack of potatoes and the cook, like a
conjuring trick, from somewhere behind him, out of his hat or coat
tails.
Then we went into all kinds of details with him about his and Ivar's
wages, which he did not understand, and he replied at great length in
Norsk, which we did not understand, and so the interview concluded to
the gratification of all concerned. Öla is a big good-looking man,
rather too much of a gentleman, we fear: but Ivar is without doubt a
perfect ass, and will never be able to do anything in the way of
cookery, except perhaps boil a potato, and even in that enterprise we
consider it would be six to four on the potato.