The bitey beasties are well-behaved overnight; they permit us a good rest. We are pleased we were not midnight snacks with windows wide open. After a quick breakfast we load up, planning to stop in Burfjord to resupply our portable pantry with fruit, bread, other foodstuffs for our on-the-road eating pleasure, and we hit the road. A pleasant early morning cruise quickly brings us to Burfjord.
Unfortunately, we are early birds; the market does not open for another hour and more. To wait, or to go on, making do with the granola bars we carry in reserve? We are fresh and eager; the day ahead will be a challenge: a 90km+ ride with over 1200 metres of ascent to surmount. Sitting around, bubbling with energy, is not appealing. Attempting to cover the distance ahead, knowing we face a pair of big climbs along with the usual Norway ups and downs, fueled primarily by a light breakfast, is scary. Big decision.
Maintaining adequate energy is one of the big challenges on long distance tours. We have chosen and set out on a long tour knowing we will have little choice but to press on day after day regardless of weather, energy, or other factors. Several legs of the trip are 90+km long, distances dictated by the emptiness between towns and villages. Short legs are 70km. All segments have uphill moments; some of those moments stretch to hours. Between night stops lie arctic land, with reindeer, mountains, and occasional isolated rorbu on the fjords. Cafés, butikks, even toiletts and water, are non-existent. When we set out each morning we commit to going the distance with what we carry, rain or shine, wind or calm.
We take stock of our reserves and decide to press on, knowing we will pass through a village on Oksfjord and hoping we can resupply there. Fingers crossed, optimistic and energetic, we leave the quietness of Burfjord. We have not seen a single one of the 405 souls in town since arising, and take delight in our aloneness; to be so far north seems to demand it. Peaceful solitude is a rare commodity in today’s world.
Shortly beyond Burfjord our first climb of the day begins. The steady uphill ride is easy in our fresh energetic state, and we are pleasantly surprised when we find downhill road ahead. Hurrah for coffee! Even instant works in a pinch and this morning qualifies as a pinch.
Our touring strategy kicks in. Stop for water and a look-see, forge ahead; repeat as necessary. A nice speedrun takes us down to Kvænangen, unwinding the mainsprings wound by the climb. Twenty, thirty, forty kilometres of road pass beneath our tires; we cruise along, not quite without effort, but certainly with the pleasure of a nice ride.
Around the curve of Badderfjorden we go. The village of Badderen, with its 184 residents, appears ahead, and joy! A butikk. We roll up to the door and joy turns to frowns. Not open. What day is it? Sunday. Oh. Darn. Not, darn, it is Sunday. Darn, they are not open.
We see no one out and about, other than a local man filling his water jugs. He says there is a restaurant at the top of the mountain. Only another 5 km, the elderly man says, adding apologetically that he is not so good with distances. We assume 5km may actually be 10, from his apologetic manner. No matter. We are going the distance, whether 5, 10, or something else. At least we can refill water bottles before we push on, even if we cannot refill our lunch bags.
Upward we soon go, slow and steady under a constant sun. The climb parallels the fjord coastline, gradually vectoring away from the shore. The views are grand, justifying frequent stops to absorb them and fill our eyes and souls. We count on the stop at the top, and drink liberally from our water supply. People and vehicles are specks way up ahead, taunting us with their remoteness, gradually coming nearer and nearer. Up up up we go, slowly climbing Kvænangsfjellet.
And before too long, too long of course being a relative measure, we come to the kafé at the top. Yes, we made it. We look back and down. Way down below are round salmon pens, in which we can no longer see the jumping fish. Across the fjord are mountains under whose shadows we rode mere hours before. We smile. Not too bad, eh? Nope. Not too.
We bemuse the people sitting on the patio. Who in their right mind uses a bicycle to go up that road? Well, we do. And we don’t stagger, collapse, or look overly discombobulated. Sorry to disappoint you, folks. Just out for a Sunday spin in the mountains. For fun, you understand. This is fun.
We quickly consume baguettes filled with fresh salmon from the pens far below us in the fjord. We are told Norway is a big agricultural country. Agriculture in Norway, we come to realize, means fishing. Cod and salmon are farmed in pens in the fjords; halibut they still haven’t mastered, but are working on it. The sea is good to Norway. Two riches extracted from the sea sustain and enrich the country: fish, and oil. We partake of one of the riches as often as possible, and spurn the other, preferring our human powered travel.
After a cold Coke, which is not one of our usual beverages of choice but which became an object of desire over the course of the 17km ride from Badderen (yes, the elderly man was correct in his self-judgement of his ability to judge distances), and a slice of cheesecake, we are sated. The worst climb is over, our bellies are satisfied, the view is magnificent. Life is good. Ready to roll onward.
Shortly after leaving the kafé we reach the marked height of Kvænangsfjellet and begin a beautiful long downhill, unwinding, restoring our lungs, legs, and spirits. Fast and long, twisting down, keeping a tight grip on the brakes. A marvellous ride down, which is over much too soon. Downhill rides are always over much too soon. After the all-too-short ride down to Åkšovuonjávri we cruise beside the lake to Oksfjordhamn and the Oksfjord.
For the next 45km we ride along beside Oksfjord, up and down, up and down. It is a pretty ride, although the wind becomes our nemesis as the day goes on, increasing across the afternoon, stripping the short downhills of their relief and pleasure by forcing us to assist gravity with light pedalling, albeit much easier than on the uphills. And pedalling uphill into the wind? Not a thing one wishes to do often.
The final 15km to Storslett, after yet another climb over a peninsula, begins to feel like a slog. Fighting the wind takes a toll, robbing us of our reserves, forcing us to continue by sheer grit and determination. Fortunately Storslett has a nice cycling path which is often nicely shaded. A short ride beyond Storslett brings us to Sorkjosen on the Reisafjorden, where we will rest our weary bodies for a night.
In the apartment we stay for the night we find a surprise: a washer/dryer. We soak a few layers of salt and road grime out of our clothes. A treat, to be sure. Small things matter, and one can certainly argue that clean clothes are more than a small thing. Perhaps we will see fewer peculiar looks and wrinkled noses as we pass by, as well.
Shower, dinner, and bed await. Again. Our night life is rather non-existent. Such is life on a bicycle. No complaints, though. One does not go to Arctic Norway for the exciting nightlife. Not on a bicycle.
mry writes 