We arise early, rested and refreshed, raring to go. Shower, breakfast, load up; a well-practiced routine by this time. We soon leave Alta behind, looking forward to a long fjord-side ride.
Pedaling west and north from Alta, alongside Altafjorden, the moles have been busy. Six, count them, six tunnels in the first 25km. First up are Aslakheimentunnel and Tyskhaugentunnel. No need to bother with these two; the bicycle path is a fine alternative. Kåfjordtunnelen is a newer route straight through a hill, but is closed to bicycles. Why, we ask. Why build a new tunnel and not equip it for better models of transportation, such as bicycles?
The old route, circumnavigating Kåfjord, is a very pleasant ride. What is an extra 4km when you have a quiet forested road, after all? Storvikatunnelen is no longer optional. The old route is gone; cyclists must mingle with the sparse traffic through this tunnel and the next, Melsviktunnelen, a slightly downhill sloping tunnel (when heading west, as we are) which is an easy breezy ride. Last, but not least, we encounter Talviktunnelen which is also closed to us poor pedallers. Up and around we go, fjord on our right and hills inclining to mountains on our left. An apt description of our entire day, other than the relatively short overland jump from Langfjorden to Burfjord at Langfjordbotn.
The parade of tunnels attests both to the contours of the Altafjord coastline we follow, and the apparent Norwegian need to go through, rather than over or around, whenever possible. The views throughout the day are wondrous. Blue, and more blue. Blues seas, across which mountains behind mountains in front of mountains, each layer sprinkled with lingering snowfields, rise up to blue skies.
Everything has a name. Riding between Alta and Burfjord we encounter: Altafjorden, Langfjorden, Burfjorden. Aslakheimentunnel, Tyskhaugentunnel, Kåfjordtunnelen, Storvikatunnelen, Melsviktunnelen, and Talviktunnelen.
Names provide a sense of place and purpose. Nameless things are of little or no consequence, unsuited even for designation. No place. No purpose. Nameless territories. Nameless mountains. Nameless rivers, lakes, ponds, streams. Of so little significance that no one bothers to label them, other than “nameless”. If they bother going that far.
Not in Norway. In Norway each place has a name, as is fit and proper. Bridges, hills, mountains. Stream, rivers, lakes, ponds. Tunnels, short and long. Streets, roads, by-roads, pathways. Fjords, of course.
We are heading to Burfjord, a place along our road to another place; another step (metaphorically, of course) on our journey of fun and adventure. Beds are scarce in Burfjord. We intend to lay our heads on pillows a few kilometres before Burfjord, in a camp-and-cabin location where no prepared meals, no butikk or landhandel, exist. Lunch, dinner, and breakfast ride with us. Hence, no ice cream after dinner. That is truly roughing it.
We pedal along, eyes swivelling constantly between the road, the fjord, and the snow-topped mountains beyond, all the way from somewhere to there, somewhere being an arbitrary spot along the road and there being a distant landmark which steadily draws nearer. In this manner Altafjorden evolves, the angles of the views shifting, Alta itself still visible far down the fjord but shrinking to a toy town when viewed from high points far along the coast.
Up we go, north along Altafjorden, until we reach the neck of Langfjorden, a narrower arm of Altafjorden. We go north to go south because going over is not feasible, not possible. Unless, of course, you are a reindeer, which we are not. Big left turn far out of Alta at the end of the peninsula and down we go along Langfjorden, heading more west than south.
The day is again sunny, warm, blue. Once we leave the sheltering forest near Kafjord we greet our old friend Sol. Sol stays with us all day, continuing our odds-beating streak of rainless rides.
Historical averages suggest we should break out our rain gear about half the time we spend in Arctic Norway, but we have yet to do so. The same streak applies to our cycling trips in Canada, both east coast and west coast, our tours across France, our shorter tours close to home. We are very overdue for a deluge of intense proportion; we hope our Snickers bar contributions to the weather gods continue to appease them.
Langfjorden is spectacular. Fjords of Norway should not be real. Nothing of such sublime beauty should exist. Twisty, long, narrow blue bodies, ringed by steep mountains, places such as Langfjorden and its cousins in the western realms, should not be real. We say this out of jealous pique. It is not fair that we must journey so far to enjoy them, and then for only a moment. Along Langfjorden we stop often for quick photos, trying to capture a mood, a sensation, for later recall. Click click. Photographs are nice, but they can not capture the smells on the breeze, the wind on the face, the feel of the sun on our skin while it creates funny tan lines across the knuckles at the edge of the gloves. Better than nothing; inferior to the real thing.
We catch occasional glimpses of glaciers sparkling on mountains to the west, reminders that Norway is more than the blue skies and blue waters we confront day and night. Twenty-fours of sun during our time in the Arctic, twenty-four sans sun on the flip side of the year. Warm sun, versus the splendour of winter. I argue for a return trip during the flip side, the winter side; I fear I will not succeed with my argument. Ah, well. One must try. There can be no success without the possibility of failure. If you cannot fail you are only doing, and that is not succeeding. That is merely completing a task.
The philosophical musings do not occur while riding, thank goodness. The roadside, middle distance, and far-off scenery are too distracting and enchanting to warrant even a moment of neglect. Around every corner we pass, atop each ridge and hill we surmount, new feasts for the senses greet us. That, and the need to actually pay a little attention to where our skinny tires roll, keen to avoid any stray pointy ear studs, make the distances pass steadily, if not quickly.
Eventually we reach Landfjordbotn and leave the water behind for a while. Up and over to Alteidet we go, from Langfjorden to Burfjorden. Along the road the following day we look back and across to the heights and contours we spent the day skirting and occasionally cursing. Impressive.
It is an unfortunate conundrum that we often need to be distant from things before we can fully appreciate them. Up close we see the grit and roughness; from a distance we see the splendour of the whole. The same phenomena too often applies to people as well. Perspective is everything.
Burfjord Arctic Camp is tucked away down a dirt road a few km past Alteidet, right on the fjord. We are pleased to discover the camping area is closed for the year, and only the half dozen cabins are open. As a result the evening is quiet and peaceful.
The sun has turned our octagonal cabin into a large oven. We open every opening which opens, seeking cross-ventilation to cool the space to a tolerable temperature before committing to it. We prepare dinner and stroll by the fjord until the wee biteys find my partner, as they always do. We are pleasantly surprised that keeping the screenless windows open does not invite hordes of insects inside, and we have a quiet night. Another awesome day slides into history.
mry writes 