Wild Country Found

12 miles

My legs protest as I turn from our little camp along the lake and head north on the last day of our Kungsleden section hike. Three days of waking ten or more miles a day around Stockholm followed by five days on the Kungsleden has turned my normal gait into an abridged shuffle. One which takes an hour plodding under the moody low-slung clouds to work itself out and set my legs to churning across the marsh and miles. Glacial valleys pass into rain-soaked valleys which dip and roll into sparse forest. More than sixty miles and in some ways we are exactly where we started, in an arctic forest crossing river after river, some bridged others requiring dancing steps across moss-laden rocks.

If I am being honest, our campsite for the night cannot come soon enough. However, since crossing into Abisko National Park we are relegated to one of two campgrounds along the trail. And so, despite passing a number of viable options I trudge on through tired muscles and a grumbling stomach. Yet, this is not to say I am not fully enraptured by the experience. But rather that joy, unlike fun, comes at the junction of effort and passion. In this moment I am exhausted and my feet hurt and I smell in a way that is both unpleasant and unflattering. And yet, I spent today, tired moments and all, pointing to glaciers peaking through the clouds, watching mama birds wrangle her chicks, and sharing it all with one of the people I love most in this ridiculous world of ours. The discomfort, the pain, they are tied together with the wonder. Without the effort I would not have these moments and it is that which breeds joy.

9 miles

Below me an aquamarine Scandinavian lake twinkles merrily back up at me while in the distance a cascading waterfall provides a soothing auditory backdrop. In the eternal golden hour that marks both evening and night at this northern latitude I am even spared the flying nuisance of mosquitos. At least for now. A fine dinner scene indeed. And in my bowl a grey-brown paste. A feast of rehydrated beef stew mashed potatoes and something unidentifiably crunchy, evidence that in our haste to eat Keith and I didn’t add enough water to our food. And you know what, my dear reader? It’s absolutely delicious. The play of gluey texture atop random crunchy bits melds with the flavor of brown meat and brown sauce and the occasional bit of onion. Wrapped in the pillowy soft tortilla that has been riding shotgun in my backpack for several days now leads to a culinary masterpiece the likes of which cannot be found on the streets of even the most elevated metropolis. They say that food in the backcountry taste better than the stuff you make at home. And on days like today I can’t figure out who would think such a thing.

8 miles

Through the misting drizzle that is becoming a theme on this trip I see a collection of moving rocks strolling gently along the far side of the river. In thinking better than sentient rocks I realize that what I’m seeing are grazing reindeer. Their gently snuffling noses picking through moss and rocks in search of the choicest grass. Keith and I stand for long minutes watching the beauties in their silver-grey coats as jingles from my childhood dance through my head. Unfortunately, finally, the rain and wind get to be too much and we continue our push up to the pass. For the last three days we have climbed methodically up this massive drainage and today we will tip gently into the next one where the rain, ever the rain follows us towards camp.

By the time we hit our mileage for the day we are wet and have been for most of the day. What is worse is that the wind has picked up and has no sign of clearing until well into tomorrow. However, there’s an out. The Kungsleden, like other trails I’ve hiked in Europe, supply a series of backcountry huts offering hikers the opportunity to either wild camp or else pay a moderate fee to sleep in a bunk-style cabin. And tonight I push Keith into abandoning setting up our wet camp and paying for a buck. It’s a decision that which bares some internal dilemma. As an avid outdoors person and someone who posts about this aspect of their life online, I feel the need to put my brave face on, to tough out hard situations so that some invisible audience might think me worthy of their attention. While my more accepting self reminds me that sometimes being out in nature is kinda crap and really sometimes sleeping inside is awesome. And besides, nature is what we make of it, and being challenged is amazing and I love it, but not always and not tonight.

10 miles

Grapefruit. Microwave. Textbook. Golf ball. All made of rock and strewn across the ground, rubbed free of grass under thousands of walking feet and called the trail. Rocks of all sizes pass beneath my feet, taking ten steps to navigate what would normally be three. I have come to recognize this braided, minimally maintained type of trail as iconic of hiking in Europe. And, used to my more groomed American trails I struggle along across the Kungsleden, marveling at how long it can take to walk a kilometer.

Today the Kungsleden rolls like a dragon’s back. Straight up and over hills, down the back side and repeat, repeat, repeat. Occasionally I am treated to fifty or a hundred feet of rock-free hiking and each time I savor the buttery smooth trail like I am falling into a perfectly made bed. All this rock hopping, all this concerted effort not to break an ankle means that there is precious little energy to greet my fellow hikers. With each one I share a monotone ‘hej’ (pronounced ‘hey’) and receive one in return before eyes are drawn back to the walking puzzle of a so-called trail. Though almost certainly nobody’s first language here is Swedish, we’re all just trying to get by and get along and one cordial greeting is as good as the next.

Below the sun but above the rocks I notice the knuckles on my hand are growing into their summer coats, building out their summer tan. Tan knuckles with a pale band where the straps of my trekking poles always sit. I’m proud of these little tan lines, a memento of my travels which fades each year only to be replaced the following summer.

That night we set our camp next to a rolling river and beneath a river of mosquitos.

9 miles

I wake from a night that never was again and again, each time certain as the daylight outside my tent that it is time to start the day. When finally my watch reads 6:30am I abandon the effort to sleep and rise. Outside the tent a hoard of mosquitos have also taken note of the memo that it is finally daytime, their incessant whining accompanies me as I slowly much my way through my morning cereal. As eager as I am to start hiking I am less than enthused by the airborne nuisance that will greet me as soon as I unzip my tent door. And yet, nobody has ever made miles by sitting in their tent, so bug spray in hand I thrust myself through the door and frantically coat myself in picaridin before I can accumulate any further bites. I am only partially successful.

The day starts with a short but brutal climb, the creators of the Kungsleden having never heard of the magic that is switchbacks. A series of short falls cascade past, dropping from the basin of a long valley down a thousand feet to Lake Teusajaure waiting deep and silent below. It is this same valley that we will work our way through for the next two days. And what a valley it it, dear reader. Carved by eons of glaciers and kept verdant via a broad winding river. And on all sides are gargantuan sloping peaks. The scale of this region is enough not to just make one feel insignificant but invisible. The wildness, the remoteness. To put it into words is to do it a disservice, to capture it in images is to show but the slimmest glimpse of the scale. I am walking towards the top of the world, drawn north by nothing more than my own desires and tired legs.

Day 1 – 10 miles

The night train rumbles north from Stockholm under the lingering twilight of the Swedish summer sky. In my tiny railcar bunk I rock from side to side as the train winds from the city center, through dwindling suburbs and finally away from civilization entirely as telephone poles give way to endless rows of ramrod straight birch trees, their silver skin glowing in the pale light. Where we are headed the sun will never fully set, instead spinning in a lazy arc above us as it does every year during the highest days of summer.

We depart the train in early morning and climb aboard a bus heading north, always north, always towards the mountains. Keith and I are tackling the northernmost 60 something miles of the Kungsleden, Sweden’s oldest hiking trail which runs 290 miles through the Lapland from Hemavan to Abisko. The Lapland is the name given to the nearly-uninhabited land in the northernmost region of Finland, Denmark and Sweden. The Kungsleden could be likened to America’s John Muir Trail in that it is a highlight reel of some of the best nature in the country. After some hours of increasingly narrow roads the bus deposits us in a dirt pull-off and finally, finally it is time to hike. The trail is immediately unrelenting and my pack feels heavy and unwieldy beneath seven days worth of food. Whoever designed the Kungsleden was clearly unfamiliar with the concept of switchbacks. We climb straight up until all of a sudden the trees drop away, the horizon expands, and we are walking like water droplets rolling from the shoulders of giants.

The terrain here wears no mask but its own as I try to liken it to places I’ve been before. And I suppose in that unwillingness to be codified this land has begun to nestle its way into my heart. Throughout the afternoon we play leapfrog with stream crossings and fellow hikers until the evening where we find ourselves mercifully alone in a little campground near the rushing waters cascading down what we will climb up tomorrow. Turning to my familiar backcountry bed I am grateful to find myself held by the nature I know I can always return to.