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.