Olderfjord marks a turning point on our journey. Continue traveling south, following E6, and you will bump into the top of Finland. Head west, as we do, and you cross to the jagged western side of Norway. Our route is uphill all morning; up, up, steadily up. The climb finally ends in Skaidi, a blink and you will miss it village where the population is measured in the dozens. In Skaidi a choice is available. South is Alta, Tromsø, a number of citified places, with many km before and between. West is Hammerfest; a dead end. Out and back. A road less traveled. Or so we thought.
Winter is sort of a big deal in Norway, and Skaidi Alpin provides a reason to stop and play. Otherwise, Skaidi would appear to be little more than a fuel stop, both vehicular and human.
We require fuel, but not the type you pump. A too-sweet sticky candy bar satisfies a craving and pushes a bolus of sugar into the system. Energized, we pedal onward. Destination: Hammerfest. Out and back. Skaidi, we are not done with you. We will be back. First, though, we go to Hammerfest. We go to Hammerfest because it is there. We go to Hammerfest to extend our time on the road. We go to Hammerfest because we don’t know any better.
We wave to a lone cyclist as we roll out of Skaidi. There is a fraternity of cycle tourers; you are not alone, intrepid brother, sister. We acknowledge you, you acknowledge us. If you, or we, have a need along a lonely road the fraternity will assist. Humanity is built of such seemingly small encounters, each of which, though insignificant on its own, form the base of civilization. Imagine a civilization of cycle tourists: curious, motivated, hard-working, simultaneously independent and eagerly awaiting opportunities to share. If only such a thing could, would, exist more than a week, two weeks, or a season. One can only imagine.
Past Skaidi we cruise beside Repparfjordelva and soon come to Repparfjorden. We are in salmon fishing country; many anglers stand hip-deep in the river, trying to fool the fish. We stop at one of Norway’s marvellous little roadside rest areas, situated where the river meets the fjord. A sense of Nordic style inhabits even such basics as rest areas. Calming, well-placed, well-kept. Stylish even. It is the first such area we encounter on this trip; we experienced others on a previous trip farther south. All are well-built and welcoming. The temptation is to linger. After all, we do not fight declining daylight. We have no set boundaries for our days; no sunset to beat. Soon, though, the itch to pedal, to see what lies ahead, takes over.
An easy ride along the fjord takes us through Kvalsund and across the Kvalsundbrua, crossing the fjord to Kvaloya, the island on which Hammerfest exists.
We encounter two tunnels on the route, one closed to the likes of us on bicycles. The first, Stallogargotunnelen, is an easy ride near the bridge. The second, closer to Hammerfest, bars our entry. No problem. The old road along the coast, winding up and over rather than through, bypasses Skjåholmen and is much more scenic. Bonus: no traffic. The additional 1.5 km ride is worth it, both for the beautiful views and for the peace and quiet.
On the map the route to Hammerfest looks reasonable. Hugging the coast, with the usual ups and downs, but nothing exceptional. On the ground, however, the experience is different. The road is narrow, as are most roads in the arctic, but traffic is much busier than we expected. With no shoulders or margins, and too-frequent trucks from the LNG facility in Hammerfest, the ride is less than pleasant. Okay, we are not having so much fun, but it is not far. We can do this.
Norway, however, has plans for us. The closer we get to Hammerfest, the more steep climbs we encounter. This has to be the last one. Okay, maybe this is the last. Well, we can see buildings ahead. We are almost there. Uh, looks like another long steep climb ahead. Ugh. And consider that out and back means we will face all these $%&\# climbs the next day, when we head back to Skaidi. We begin to understand why Hammerfest is not mentioned in any cycling logs posted online.
Well, the annual Arctic Race of Norway is running out of Hammerfest in two weeks. Perhaps we should bide our time in the town, and take advantage of the road closure for the race. That would eliminate the traffic situation, but those five steep climbs just out of Hammerfest will still be there. And we do need to move along.
We almost run out of steam before we finally straggle into town. We dare not think ahead to the return. Focus on a shower, a dinner, a bed. Day at a time.
We are not done yet, though. Modern marvels of navigation, science fiction-like satellite navigators in the pocket, are great at pinpointing the very spot upon which we stand wherever we roam on this vast Earth. They provide precise details to guide us to any spot we desire to be.
Unfortunately, they are far less sophisticated at asking if we really meant Strandgata 2, rather than Storgata 2, when we stand and blankly stare at the location where Storgata 2 would be if it actually existed. Our input error is compounded when queries to three passers-by point us in three different directions. We eventually find reliable assistance, and go around the corner to where our bed awaits.
Shower, dinner, feet up in Hammerfest recharge us quickly. Okay, so what do we want to do? Look here. There is a ferry to Kvalsund. Nope. It does not run until Friday. A bus, then. There are buses. Yes, but we have bicycles. The city buses we see in town have no place for bicycles. Oh, but the regional bus, the one which runs to Alta, is an intercity bus. That means large luggage compartments underneath. The regional bus runs at 11:30. We can wait for it, see if it has bicycle space. If not, we still have plenty of time to pedal to Skaidi, uninspiring as the prospect may be.
Yes, we are talking about “cheating.” So what. We are riding for fun. This is our holiday, our playtime. Nothing to prove. If a short bus ride means we have more fun, let’s do it. To avoid battling the trucks for the narrow road space is appealing.
The following day we do it. And when we disembark from the bus at Nord Kvalsundbrua, the north side of the bridge, we still get to cycle across the Kvalsund bridge from Kvaloya. Small victories. First, though we wait for reindeer to vacate the bridge and let a truck pass.
It is another beautiful day. Blue everywhere. Blue sky, blue water. Northern Norway is so blue. We look back at our photos and marvel at all the blue. But amidst the blue, karma strikes.
We tried to cheat, but Norway tut-tutted. Outside of Kvalsund, along the Repparfjord, a little bejeweled ear stud patiently waited on the road, pointy end up. Thump thump thump; a front tire expels its air. The shiny jewel embedded in the tire glitter in the sun, and we know immediately where the fault lies. We walk down the road a short distance, to a widening in front of a pair of houses, and set about being roadside mechanics. Our first ever flat tire, after thousands of km cycled, so how can we complain?
We wonder if we should wave to the face peering at us from behind the curtains. Probably not. Norwegians are not cold or unfriendly, but they are reticent with strangers. We are interlopers; no need to stir things, even in a friendly Canadian way. We keep our hands quiet.
Twenty minutes later we pocket the miscreant stud and resume our travel. Once again we rest at the quiet well-built area, before completing our day’s journey to Skaidi, where a meal and a bed await.
mry writes 