Gressamoen National Park Noord Trondelag

September 2001

Dave Hanlon

Delft is still sleeping as I step through my doorway into the Hopstraat. Just a few hours earlier I’d been hurriedly throwing my gear into my now ageing, dust-caked rucksack. It’s been several years since I last walked with a big pack and two moves, one to Holland and the second from a rental apartment on the Clarenstraat to my new house, have made finding gear more difficult than I’d anticipated. As a result I’m a couple of hours shy of a good nights sleep. It’s not a problem though. A few days in the north-country promises adequate compensation for a temporarily thick head. Besides, its just a short walk to the train station and I have time enough to grab a large coffee before catching my train.

I’m booked on the early KLM flight to Oslo and then a connecting flight to Trondheim where, if all goes to plan, Randulf should be waiting with a car. From that point on I’ll be at Randulfs mercy. I’ve left the planning entirely to him. I’m heading into a black hole.

I’ve known Randulf for just a year or so. Like me he’s a metallurgist and his work brought him to Delft for an extended period the previous Autumn. Persuading Randulf to join us for a beer after work was never difficult and he soon became a regular on the Friday night round: Belgian beer at Be-bop followed by a curry in the India garden. I can’t remember now how it happened exactly but, on one of those drunken nights, I must have confessed to Randulf my love for the north. When he left for Trondheim he promised to invite me up for a trip. He was good to his word.

He’d originally invited me to join him on a grouse shoot. Not the tweed-clad British variety. The Norwegian version is a different gun-sport altogether. Not standing around in Barber and Hunters cutting a pose with a Purdy and a flask of rusty nails while the beaters do the work. Instead the long walk in, getting up close with a single-shot, campfire cooking and a night or two in a tent. More Ray Mears than Earl of Derby. However, I haven’t shot since I was in my teens and, my blood-lust not running as high as it did in my youth, shooting doesn’t appeal. Instead the plan is to fish. Again, Norwegian style. The same long walk in but now followed up by a spot of spinning for trout. Something to do in the evening after pitching the tent and, if the heathen gods of Norway smile on us, the added bonus of fresh caught fish for breakfast.

My flights are on time and Randulf is, again, good to his word. He’s waiting as I land, dressed for the hill, engine running. We drive north out of Trondheim, stop once at a supermarket and once again to buy fishing licences. The food we buy is anything but lightweight. I see, amongst other things, potatoes and wild mushrooms go into the basket. It’s already apparent that Randulf takes a different approach to backpacking to me. At least the fishing licences don’t look too heavy.

With each turnoff the road gets narrower and houses get further apart. We’ve been driving about three hours and we make one more turn-off. This time onto a gravel road. I imagine we can’t be far from our destination but the road is slow and the minutes pass. I’m beginning to wonder if we’ll ever arrive when the road runs out and we roll into a small car park. Ours is the only car. Whatever this place is it’s not busy.

We waste no time. The better part of four hours have been spent in a car. Booted up we swing our packs up, mine being free of potatoes is clearly considerably lighter than Randulfs, and head up a small path through a wood. I feel like the school bell has just gone and I’m running out into the playground. I catch a glimpse of the map in Randulfs hand. Apparently we’re heading into Gressamoen National Park. I know

something about the Hardangevidde. I know something about Rondane. About Gressamoen I know nothing. We’re getting deeper into the black hole!

It’s a short walk up the path between more trees and across grassy clearings until we find ourselves amongst buildings. Clearly unused. Randulf tells me that this is Gressamoen farm, lived in until the 1950’s but now abandoned. My first thought is that the winters here must have been hard. Then I remember I’m in Norway. Apparently, here, there is no such thing as bad weather. Only bad clothing. We pass by the farm and find ourselves at the edge of a wood looking out over open country. After a glance at the map, Randulf picks a direction and heads out into the open. I follow expecting dry grass. Within just a few strides I find myself ankle deep in bog. The pleasant stroll through the trees was clearly not to be the order of the weekend. We’ve walked no more than a half a kilometre from the car and my feet are wet. One consolation: they can’t get any wetter and route choice is made easy, as long as I can’t see surface water I keep going straight. The marsh snakes away off into the distance but thankfully Randulf chooses not to follow it. Before long I find myself climbing a short steep onto rockier but drier ground. My feet are still wet but the going is easier.

Wild camp on a wet morning, Gressamoen National Park.

The solstice approaches and the days are already noticeably shorter. We don’t cover a great deal more ground before the light begins to fail. We find a suitable pitch and in just a few, well practiced minutes, Randulf has pitched the tent. As the sun sinks the temperature follows on its heals. It’s surprisingly cold. Randulf suggests that I wait in the tent while he prepares a meal but I want to be outside and take in the scene. Randulf busies himself setting a fire. Frowned upon or even prohibited in the wild places of Britain here a basic right of all travellers. Feeling like a spare part I offer to help but again its clear that Randulf doesn’t need any. A small cooking fire is burning hot before I can repeat my offer.

There’s nothing more for me to do other than watch Randulf run camp but it’s good to watch. The inactivity gives me a moment for reflection. I need it. Its been a strange

day. This morning I was in the Randstad. Just twelve hours later I’m in the wilderness. I’ve got that strange feeling of road-rush you get when you’ve driven too many motorway miles, the white lines still shooting through the periphery of your vision while you take a service-station break. This days journey has stopped abruptly, literally in the middle of nowhere. A high-speed journey into the wide open north. Train, plane and car bringing me to this un-named outcrop of rock skirted by gnarled, weather-bent pine. It seems to me that there’s a parallel here with altitude. Perhaps there’s a need to acclimatise, to wait a few days at the edge of wild-country before diving in? I don’t have long to ponder the thought before Randulf announces that dinner is ready. We eat with few words and climb into our bags. Sleep comes quickly.

I wake to the drumming of rain on the flysheet. Apparently not heavy rain. There’s too much space between the strikes. It’s cold. Temperature and weather don’t encourage me out of my bag but nature calls. Pulling on cold-wet boots, the worst kind, I step out of the tent and see Randulf is already busy. There’s a fire burning once more. Apparently we’re having pancakes for breakfast and I smell fresh coffee (fresh coffee!). Four star service by any standards. I offer to help but again, he has everything under control. The start to the day is a good one, good food and good company, but the weather suggests the day may provide a challenge for my old Gore-Tex. The sky is oppressive and grey and the clouds look laden enough to deliver rain for forty days and nights at the current rate of delivery. With quiet acceptance we pack up and walk off.

We’re on the edge of a high plateau and in the distance I can see some sharp tops piercing the grey morning sky. They rise abruptly and seam out of place in an otherwise rolling landscape. A short consultation reveals that we’re aiming for a chain of small pools connected by downfalls which are rumoured to hold a healthy population of brown trout. There’s about ten kilometers of rough ground between us and our goal but the climb is limited. I have enough understanding of the plan to relax once again and let Randulf lead. We soon find a rhythm that we’ll sustain for the better part of the day, picking our way through boulder strewn, soggy ground by sight and pausing every so often to snack and take a cold draft when flowing water offers itself. The meanderings take their toll and the going is surprisingly slow.

The water we drink is sweet. The water that continues to fall from the heavens less so. The rain is incessant and gradually permeates every pore of my clothing. After a while I can feel it streaming down legs. It invades my boots via the same gravity assisted route and I can feel it squelching between my toes with each roll of my foot. Insult to injury given the already sodden condition of my boots from the night before. Randulf is fit, a few kilos lighter than the last time I saw him. He’s just back from the

Pancakes in the rain.

northern territories having taken six weeks out to canoe the Thelon river. I’m as fit as I’ve been in years. Moving to Holland has brought with it a new found fanaticism for cycle touring. But bike fit isn’t hill fit and I’m secretly glad Randulf is carrying the food and shelter. Gear becomes a topic of discussion. Even without the potatoes Randulf would be carrying more kilos than me but he’s clearly going to be more comfortable in these conditions. His clothing is heavier but he’s all the dryer and warmer for it. The kit in his hefty pack is all separated into full roll-closure drybags inherited from his river trip. Things are going to have to get considerably worse before Randulf has to spend a wet night. There follows an exchange on the redness of my jacket. Brightly coloured hill-clothing is foreign to Randulf. I explain that outdoors tradition in the UK is rooted in alpinisim rather than bushcraft. He hears me but I’m not sure he gets my point. On reflection I’m not sure I do either. The lakes and highlands have after all more in common with the Trondelag than the Vanoise. Feeling conspicuous I cross my fingers hoping for a break in the weather and a chance to bury my shell in my pack. Right now that doesn’t seem likely.

We’ve wound our way eastwards for some time when I notice Randulf looking more quizzically at the map. I lean in to offer an opinion. He’s not certain of our location and thinks we should be heading further south. Realising this is my chance to be of some assistance I reach for my compass and take hold of the map. It’s grey and raining but the cloud cover is high an visibility is good and the distinctive peaks to the north provide a good opportunity to fix our position. A mistake made all too often when relocating is to concentrate on the detail close to hand. To attempt to find correspondence between the square meter under our feet and the topography represented on the map. If visibility permits, lifting ones head and taking in a wider field of view is a better policy. A sweeping scan of the skyline to the north tells me roughly where we stand but never one to miss a chance to practice I take a couple of back bearings to make certain. We’ve wandered almost due east, allowing the fall of the land to dictate the route as we picked our way through the mess of water and rock. We’ve now got to aim due north to find our evening camp and the water course we intend to fish. We’ve made finding them that much harder since we’ve now got to hit the watercourse head on. I take a quick bearing and we carry on, now paying more attention to the map.

As we approach the first of the pools the rain stops. We follow the outfall a little further and, under still laden skies, we search for a pitch. It doesn’t take long. A prominent knoll screams out to be camped on. It’s hill-fort like, with a flat grassy top and looks man made. It’s hard to imagine a better pitch dry or wet. Randulf again makes himself busy with the task of setting up and, after the now customarily declined offer of help, I flop down against my pack and watch. After a flowing series of well-rehearsed moves, an outdoor-ballet of sorts, the tent stands, a kitchen is organised and order established. Randulf explains that he spends around a hundred nights a year under canvas. An astonishing number made all the more astonishing by the fact that the man holds down a day job. Through Randulfs eyes there’s no conflict, for him hill-sport isn’t exclusively a weekend pastime, he wild camps mid week, gets up and goes back into work. This puts a different perspective on Randulfs reluctance to let me help out, apart from the fact that he doesn’t need my help, this is his home. When I have people to stay I don’t expect them to cook and clean either.

Wild camp and trout stream, Gressamoen National Park.

Contrary to my expectations the evening is turning into a fine one. It’s not just the prospect of a belly full of Randulf’s camp food, although that alone is enough to put a smile on my face. Just as important, the skies are clearing, the location is serenely beautiful and I’ve relaxed into a new, slower pace in better keeping with my surroundings. The road rush of the night before is nowhere in sight. To cap it all there fishing to be done. We set up two rods, one with fly and one with spinning lure, and head down to the water. We’ve walked a long way to fish this water but it occurs to me, even before I’ve wet my line, that this could well be the finest fishing trip I’ve ever been on. Whether or not fish get caught doesn’t seem likely to effect the outcome. Randulf, armed with more of that matter-of-fact Norwegian wisdom, explains that if landing fish was the only aim of the exercise that the sport would be called catching fish rather than fishing. I re-run this comment as I fish. I conclude that it sums up a key difference between our cultures. The Norwegians, seem to revel in the simple joy of being outside. As I look around me I can see why. Catching fish is infinitely more important when your sat on the banks of the Leeds-Liverpool canal.

We fish our way down a kilometre stretch of intermittent still and moving water and as the light fades we walk back to camp with a good bag of pan-sized brown trout and, so I’m told to a pan of stew. For a son of Liverpool there’s no finer way to round off a day. What follows can only be described as a gourmet meal. Admittedly, even the nastiest of dehydrated meals can be elevated to the status of haut cuisine after a long hill-day, but this needs no such help. A secret stash of reindeer meat has joined the wild mushrooms and potatoes for a long hot soak. At one stage even a tin of beer makes a fleeting appearance before being added to the pan. I can’t help but think that this is something backpackers all too often get wrong. I understand the need to limit pack weight but food lifts the spirit like nothing else. Notjing else other than food before an open fire that is. Tonight we have both. Randulf clearly places considerable emphasis on living well when outdoors. Perhaps this is why he’s equally happy under the stars as under a roof.

The second morning starts, with a slow realisation of where I’m lying but unlike the first it’s easy to get out of my bag. The drumming of rain is a distant memory and sun is warming the tent. Randulf, ever the host, is preparing breakfast and I’m left to take advantage of the light and capture the event on film. Breakfast is once again pancakes but this time with pan-fried trout as reward for our efforts of the evening before. We take our time over it. I’m a fan of breakfast. Memories of this one will stay with me for some time.

Preparing a meal over an open fire.

Packed up we head out. The plan is simple. We are to head back the way we came and find the car. Execution of the plan also turns out to be simple, The only difficulty would be in the leaving of this magical place. It’s hard to believe that we are walking through the same landscape of the day before. The sky, now a vivid blue, is laced with fluffy white clouds that hurry eastwards as if vying for a place in the queue. This race is mirrored on the ground as their dark shadows speed across land and water adding a dynamic to the permanence of the landscape. The high fells to the north appear so close that you could touch them with and outstretched finger. I’ve shot of a roll of film before we’ve crossed the first grid square.

High fells, Gressamoen National Park.

Although the conditions favour it our progress is no faster than on the walk in. This time out of choice. We stop at every opportunity to drink and take in the view. Randulf leaves me to navigate today but I can’t bring myself to look down at the map. The real world makes for better viewing. On the last leg towards the woodland we need simply to contour across a shallow north facing slope but, perhaps more deliberately than by accident, I let the pull of gravity bring us off-course. We hit the edge of the high plateau a kilometre or so further north than intended. I’m glad. The view from the edge is incredible. Moving through wild places brings moments which remind you of your insignificance. This is one of those moments. As we pause, I look out over an endless sea of tree and fell. More of the same with no evidence of mans hand as far as the eye can see. A glimpse of the planet as she was intended to be. It’s humbling.

Looking out over more of the same as far as the eye can see.

We follow the escarpment for a while and as we drop down we see the first person we’ve encountered in two days. A man, is collecting berries. He seems as surprised to see us as we are to see him. There follows a good humoured exchange between the two Norwegians and we move on. Randulf explains that he’d asked if we’d sighted a bear. Apparently there had been several recent sightings in the area and sheep had been mauled. We were lucky there was any trout left to go with our pancakes.

The tree line comes only to soon and as we pass through the abandoned farm, I feel a sharp sense of regret that I didn’t plan to stay longer. Too soon, far too soon, the engine is running and we’re rolling out of the car park. The only consolation is that my wet boots are now in the boot and, apparently, I have an appointment with a sea kayak in Trondheim.

Abandoned Farm. Gressamoen National Park.