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.
