Over the Height of Land--A Wonderful Ride Down the Laera Dal to the
Sogne Fjord.
LAERDALSOEREN, NORGE, _September 3, 1902_.
We left Skogstad early and began to climb a long ascent, a dozen miles
of grade, still following the valley of the Baegna Elv foaming and
tossing by our side. The two days so far had been clear and cloudless,
but now the air was full of a fine mist, and we probably ascended a
thousand feet before the curtain lifted and a panorama of snow-capped
mountains, profound valleys, and sheer precipices burst upon us.
A thousand rills and rivulets and brawling brooks streaked the green
slopes with threads and lines of white; mosses and lichens softened
the black rock-masses; blooming heather, and a plant with fine red and
yellow leaf gave color to the heights between the sombre greenness of
the fir forests below and the whiteness of the snow-fields above. I
have never before seen such stupendous precipices, such tremendous
heights; neither Switzerland nor Mexico, Alps nor Cordilleras lift
themselves in so precipitous ascent.
After a two hours' climb, all the way listening to the roar of the
_Elv_ choking the gorge a thousand feet below our way, we met its
waters issuing quietly from yet another lake, the little Utro Vand,
surrounded by snow-crowned summits, the snow-fields creeping almost to
the water's edge, also passing on our right, the road which leads to
the Tyin Vand and the ice-crowned summits of the Jotunheim. Here was a
large and comfortable inn, Nystuen by name, and Ole Mon gave the
ponies their first morning's feed, adding an armful of mountain hay to
the oatmeal diet. Half an hour's rest is the usual limit, and the
ponies seem to know their business and eat their fare on time. In
Mexico, horses are fed grain but once in twenty-four hours, and that
at midnight, so that all hearty food will be digested before the early
morning start. Here a horse is kept full all the time to do his best;
difference of climate and latitude, I suppose.
[Illustration: THE PROTECTED ROAD.]
Just beyond the Nystuen Vand, we crossed the height of land between
the waters of east and west Norway, and now the streams were running
the other way. We were up 3,294 feet, and the summits round about
us--rising yet two and three thousand feet higher--were deeply
snow-marked--great patches and fields of snow. Then we came to another
succession of four more _vands_, like steps, each bigger than the one
above it, and a roaring river that proportionately grew in size. The
road became steeper and we fairly scampered down to a fine inn,
painted red with curiously-carven Norse ornamentation on the gables,
called Maristuen. Here we had fresh salmon, and more good coffee. For
breakfast we were given trout and eggs, now salmon and a delicious
custard for dessert. At table we met a Mr. C and wife, of Chicago,
going over our trail, and we may meet them again in Stockholm. They
are anxious to go on to Russia after seeing Stockholm, and have urged
us to go along also. Across the table from us sat a dear old
white-haired grandmother from Bergen with a blue-eyed, flaxen-haired
granddaughter--a Viking Juno. They are driving across to Odnaes in
their own carriage, a curious, old-fashioned _trille_, low and
comfortable with a mighty top. The old lady is stacked up between
pillows of eider down, and the blue-eyed granddaughter is full of
tender care. We spake not to them nor they to us, but we smiled at one
another and that made us friends. They both waved _farvel_ as they
drove away.
And then, about two o'clock, we went on again for forty miles down to
the level of Laerdalsoeren and the sea, on the Sogne Fjord, where now
we are. We were to descend some 3,000 feet, and here began one of the
most exciting experiences of my life. The mountains kept their
heights; we alone came lower, all down a single _dal_. Most of the
road was hewn out of the side of precipices--a gallery; great stones
were set endwise about two feet apart on the outer edge, and sometimes
bound together by an iron rail; a slope down which we rolled at a
flying trot, coasted down--the roaring, foaming river below, far
below. Close to us were falls and cascades and cataracts, and the
stupendous mountains, the snow-capped rock-masses lifting straight
up thousands of feet. H grew so excited, exclaiming over the mighty
vistas of rock and water and distant valley, that I had fairly to hold
her in; and ever we rolled down and down and down, spanking along with
never a pause for nearly thirty miles, the spinning wheels never once
catching the ponies' flying heels. Great driving that of Ole Mon,
great speeding that of the sturdy ponies; marvelous macadamized
roadway, smooth as New York's Fifth Avenue! Water bursts, misty
cascades, descending hundreds of feet, sprayed us, splashed us, dashed
us, as we went on and on and on, only the gigantic precipices growing
higher and higher and higher, and the ever-present snowy summits more
and more supreme above us.
[Illustration: THREE THOUSAND FEET OF WATERFALL.]
Then we swept out into a green valley, hemmed in on either hand by
sombre precipices rising straight up for three and four and five
thousand feet, and hove to at the farmstead of Kvamme for the ponies
to be fed once more before their last descent. A mile or two further
on the precipices choke together forming a deep gorge, called the
Vindhelle, where it looks as though the mountains had been cracked
apart.
The Norwegian farmer, like the Swiss, not only makes his living from
the warm bottom-lands, which he cultivates, but also from the colder
uplands to which his goats and cattle are driven in the early summer,
and where the surplus grasses are painstakingly gathered with the
sickle. We were driving quietly along when my attention was attracted
to a couple of women standing with pitchforks in their hands near a
cock of hay. The hay was fresh mown, but I could see no hay-fields
round about. They were looking intently at the distant summit of the
precipice towering above them. My eye followed theirs. I could barely
make out a group of men shoving a mass of something over the edge, and
then I beheld the curious sight of a haymow flying through the air.
Nearer it came, and nearer until it landed at the women's feet. I then
made out a wire line connecting a windlass set in the ground near
where the women stood and reaching up to the precipice's verge, whence
came the hay. The hay was wound about this line. In this manner is the
hay crop of these distant uplands safely delivered at the little
_gaard_ or farmstead in the valley's lap. From these mountain
altitudes the milk and cheese and butter which the goats and cows
afford are also sometimes lowered by this telegraph. In Switzerland, I
have seen communications of this sort for shorter distances, but never
before beheld a stack of hay flying through the air for half a mile.
This Laera River with its _dal_ (dale, valley), is famous for its
trout and salmon. We passed several men and boys trying their luck,
one, an Englishman, up to his waist in the ice-cold tide. We have now
put up at a snug hotel, quite modern; English is spoken here. And--but
I forgot; when we stopped to feed the ponies, right between the two
descents, we made solemn friendship with the old Norseman who here
keeps the roadhouse; his daughter "had been in Chicago," she spoke
perfect United States, and took us to see, hard by, the most ancient
church in Norway, the church of Borgund, eight hundred to one thousand
years old. It is very quaint, with strange Norse carving and Runic
inscriptions. I gave our pretty guide a _kroner_ for her pains. On
returning to the house, she handed it to the old man, who took out a
big leathern wallet and put the coin away. We had meant it all for
her, and by reason of her knowing Chicago had made the fee quite
double size.
To-morrow we sail for six hours out upon the Sogne Fjord to Gutvangen,
then drive by carriage to Eida, on the Hardanger Fjord, all yet among
these stupendous mountains.
I was sitting in the little front room of the inn waiting for supper,
when our driver, Ole Mon, came in to settle our account, for his trip
was at an end. After I had paid him and added a few _oeres_ and a
_kroner_ for _trinkgeld_, at the liberality of which he seemed to be
much gratified, he produced from the inner pocket of his coat a
goodly-sized blank book, which he handed to me, and begged that I
would set down therein a recommendation of his qualities as a driver
and a guide. In the book were already a number of brief statements in
French and German and Norwegian, by different travelers, declaring him
to be a "safe and reliable man," who had "brought them to their
journey's end without mishap." I took the book and wrote down some
hurried lines. When I had finished, he gazed upon the foreign writing
and then disappeared with the book into the kitchen to consult the
cook, who had lived in Minneapolis. He presently reappeared, his eyes
big with wonder and a manner of profound deference. He now advised me
that he would deem it a great honor to be permitted to drive us free
of charge, next morning, from the hotel to the steamer, a couple of
miles distant. He further said, that he had decided to take the sea
trip to Gutvangen on our ship and would there secure for us the best
carriage and driver of the place. He evidently regarded me as some
famous bard, to whom it would be difficult to do sufficient honor. The
lines were these:
Aye! Ole Mon, you are a dandy whip,
You are a corker and a daisy guide.
You talk our tongue and rarely make a slip,
You've taken us a stunner of a ride.
And when from Norge's _fjelds_ and _fjords_ we sail,
And in America tell of what we've seen,
Our friends will stand astonished at the tale,
And next year bid you take them where we've been.
[Ilustration: OUR LITTLE SHIP, LAERDALSOEREN.]