The Northern Playground Of Europe
By Wm. Cecil Slingsby
Once upon a time, a long, long while ago, soon after most of the world had been created, the Evil One wandered round and round, over land and sea, and when he saw that all was fair and beautiful, he became very spiteful and seized an immense mass of rock which he threw into the northern seas. It was so large that for many hundreds of miles it stood out of the waters with dark cliffs, sharp peaks, narrow ridges, and stony valleys – a terrible region, without one single blade of green grass or any sign of vegetation whatever.
Then, the good God looked down with pity upon the waste, and threw here and there a little of the good soil which, fortunately, still remained. This caused fertile valleys, dark forests, and green uplands to appear. Moreover, He commanded huge shoals of fish to come yearly to the far north, where the sea cliffs and crags were the wildest and most forbidding. Thus has man been enabled to dwell in peace, happiness, and plenty in this land which is now called Norway.
Whether this origin, which is told in an old saga in picturesque and glowing language, be the true version or not matters but little nowadays, but the fact remains that Norway is one of the most mountainous countries in the world, and is to-day recognised as being one of the most delightful of our Alpine playgrounds. True it is that, when represented in feet, the height of no peak requires the use of five figures. What of that? Does it matter? Not a halfpenny, in a country where in some cases continuous ice-falls of nearly 6,000 feet, and rock arêtes and faces of 5,000 feet, await the climbers who have the hardihood to tackle them.
Though, purely for lack of sufficiently good corroborative evidence, I will not ask you to believe in the legend that the Ark rested on Molden, a mountain near the head of the Sogne fjord, and not on Mount Ararat, it is undoubtedly true that the sport of mountaineering was established at a very early age, as in “King Olaf Tryggvesson’s Saga” in the “Heimskringla” we find the following:-
“King Olaf was more expert in all exercises than any man in Norway whose memory is preserved to us in sagas, and he was stronger and more agile than most men, and many stories are written down about it. One is that he ascended the Smalsarhorn [Hornelen, or probably a spur of that grand sea cliff]. Another is that one of his followers had climbed up the peak after him, until he came to where he could neither get up nor down; but the king came to his help, climbed up to him, took him under his arm and bore him to the flat ground.”
[1] When the Viking days were ended the spirit of active enterprise in great measure died out in Norway. Is it the case, though, that it ended elsewhere? “No,” a thousand times “No.” Is it not at least pleasing for us Northerners to believe that we derive the best of our blood and whatever hardihood and sturdiness of character we may possess from our Norsk ancestors, the Vikings of a thousand years ago? Is it to be wondered at that we, the members of the Yorkshire Ramblers’ Club, should take as naturally to the fells as our forelders took to the fjelds? Is it not quite natural, too, that we should do much of the pioneer work in the mountains of Norway? Yes, nearly the whole of the mountain exploratory work left by Professors Keilhau and Boeck, Sir A. De Capell Brooke, Mr. Price, Mr. Everest, Mr. Forester, and Capt. Biddulph, early in the century, and by Herr Emanuel Mohn, Dr. Yngvar Nielsen in the sixties and early seventies, has fallen to the lot of the Northerners of Great Britain. First, we claim Professor Forbes, and can still point to his great work on Norway as one without a rival. Next, my old friend Lieut.-Col. Campbell, whose admirable book, “How to see Norway,” should find a place in the library of every lover of Norway, is a Cumberland worthy.
The later sons of the North who have visited Norway have not yet done much in the way of Alpine literature, but they have explored, they have climbed. Ah! you greedy Yorkshiremen, have you not yourselves skimmed off most of the thick cream, assisted now and then by men from the County Palatine? Of course you have. If you doubt it, search the records, go and see. One thing, however, you must not do. You must not come to the conclusion that no good new mountaineering work is left. There is abundance for him who has the mountaineer’s eye. Is not that also the case in the Alps, too? As it is not now my business to say “Yes” or “No” to this I will be silent. As a proof that the spirit of enterprise has again entered in full measure into the breasts of the hardy Norskmen themselves, I need only write the name of the hero – Fridtjof Nansen.
“Go to Norway” is, however, the advice which your President still gives and takes, though now and then he turns southward. As he possesses a Scandinavian surname, and was born almost under the shadow of two Craven fells which still bear their original Norsk names, Kirkby Fell – Churchtown mountain, and Sharpah – the sharp-pointed hill, he could not help paying a visit to Norway at a comparatively early age. How can we, who from early childhood have delighted in Miss Martineau’s “Feats on the Fjord,” resist the call, “Come to Norway, come and see the land from whence your forelders sailed, come and see the weird grandeur of the Jotun Fjelde, the sublimity of the Justedal glaciers, the especial beauty of the peaks whose eerie forms are so clearly reflected on the placid surface of the Hjörund or Sokelv fjords, or of the Raftsund, of Lyngen or Ulfs-fjords?” No, the call is irresistible; let us get our kit together and away across the North Sea to old Norway.
I will now endeavour to point out the several districts in Norway where good climbing is to be found, and will state their general characteristics, past and present, the special charm of each, and may be tempted now and then to name various mountains and passes which were first ascended or crossed by Yorkshire or other north country men.
The district of the Jotun Fjelde or Jotunheim – the home of the Jotuns – as it is now generally called, containing, as it does, the highest mountains of Northern Europe, naturally possesses the greatest attractions which nowadays draw tourists from every country in Europe. It was, however, geographically unknown until the year 1820, when Professors Kielhau and Boeck made an adventurous Journey through the heart of it, climbed the lovely peak Falke Naebbe – Falcon’s beak – and attempted the ascents of Galdhöpiggen and Skagastölstind. Lieutenant Breton, an energetic Englishman, traversed the region in 1834, and during the same tour he would have ascended the Romsdalshorn, but could not get anyone to accompany him, not even the two adventurous natives who had made their famous ascent two years earlier. The first lady to cross this wild terrain was the sister of the present writer in the year 1875.
[2]
Jotunheim is best reached by way of Bergen and the Sognefjord through Aardal or Skjolden, and the excellent guide books of to-day give all the information which is required. It is a wild and romantic country, nearly 2,000 square miles in extent, consisting of rolling uplands, 3,500 feet and more above sea level, which in summer are covered with scant herbage and bright Alpine flowers, where large herds of wild reindeer are still to be found. It is the home of the bear, the lynx, and the glutton, and where the golden eagle still reigns supreme. Groups of fantastically-shaped mountains rise, in many cases with abrupt precipices, from the glens which intersect the country, and their rugged crests attain here and there a height of over 8,000 feet. The corries and the higher rolling uplands, too, hold glaciers, in some cases of large extent. Ice-paved “cirques,” “culs-de-sac” – or “botner,” as they are called in Norway – are common features. Glaciers often terminate in mountain tarns, into which they topple blocks of ice, large and small, which float away in the bright sunshine as flotillas of little icebergs.
The presence of three large mountain lakes adds an especial charm to Jotunheim. Gjendin is well known as being the scene of “Three in Norway, by Two of Them;” and Bygdin and Tyin have an especial charm of their own. For many generations cattle-drovers have, in the early summer, driven large herds of cattle from the lowlands to graze on the luxuriant herbage which grows in many places on the shores of these Alpine lakes, and when they become fat, in September, they are driven to the Christiania market for winter consumption. These men often became rein-deer hunters, and naturally they unravelled, bit by bit, the secrets of the wild glens, Leirungsdal, Svartdal, and other sanctuaries of the reindeer long before their very existence was known to the educated traveller.
Galdhöpiggen, now universally recognised as the highest mountain in Norway, rises out of large snowfields, with precipitous crags which are crowned, as all high mountains ought to be, by a lovely cone of snow, to a height of about 8,400 feet above sea level, and this range of the Ymes Fjeld, as it is picturesquely called, forms the northern boundary of Jotunheim. It is a noble range, and the outline of the several summits is singularly beautiful. As the ascent is easy, dozens of people make it yearly, and there is a comfortable hut with beds in it at a height of some 6,200 feet. Many persons cross it from Rödsheim to Spiterstul or
vice versa
. At the latter place there is now a little inn where at least good victuals and beds may be obtained. In 1874, when I first visited it, and in 1875, when I stopped a night there with my sister after making the ascent of Glitretind – the second highest mountain in Norway, then first ascended by a lady – if I remember rightly, the cattle at this high sæter were milked in the room where we partook of our frugal meal.
Little does the modern mountaineer know of the wild free life on the fjeld which we enjoyed to the full in the seventies. Little does he know of the difficulties and even dangers of wading across a glacier stream, perhaps only knee deep. Little, too, of the fun of crossing a river like the Utla, on a horse, bareback, and holding on like grim death to the man in front of him; when at one time the horse’s knees, nay, probably his fetlocks, may be clear of the water, whilst his tail is floating behind, and at the next moment his nose has to be held up high to prevent the water getting into his nostrils, while his hocks are clear behind. Ah! that is real fun, especially when you know all the time that your Norsk leader-who cannot swim a yard-has taken you purposely to the worst of the two fords in order to try your mettle.
I could write for hours about life at the sæters, where I have spent very many happy hours hearing hunters’ yarns over the glowing birch logs, both in summer and winter. A sæter is a hut, or usually a collection of huts, each of which belongs to a farm in the lowlands, and, like the Swiss chalet, is built where some bright verdant patch appears when the winter’s snow has been stolen away by the rays of the summer’s sun. It is occupied, according to position, for two or three months, or in some cases for a shorter period, during the summer. The girls, who milk the cattle and goats and make cheese for winter consumption, have a hard time of it, and must pursue their calling however wet, wild, or cold the weather may be. In some cases they are ten or twelve hours distant from their farms below. If a bear should come and snatch up a favourite goat or a calf, as is often the case, the girls will run pluckily after the intruder if they see him, and will blow a horn, when bruin will drop his prize and bolt across the river, where he knows he will be safe. However, in most cases the bear will come during the short night hours, and probably get off before the fearless girls can get near him. Bears are very common in some parts of Jotunheim, and I have seen traces of them hundreds of times; indeed, I know several paths, very difficult to follow, which have been made by bruin, or “Herr Bamsen” as he is called in Norway. Enough about bears.
It is as well to know that in asking for food and a night’s lodging at a sæter it is soliciting a favour. The girls will, without hesitation, almost always give up their bed, and sleep uncomfortably crowded together in another hut. They will give you the best fare they can. It may not suit everyone, but, for a time, it suits me. Indeed, in 1877 I spent a whole month reindeer stalking in this region without ever seeing a farmhouse, and many a good “römmekolle” – a bowl of thick curds, and plate of “römmegröd” – cream porridge – have I partaken of in Jotunheim. On arrival at a sæter one should take off one’s hat and bow to the “sæter jente” as to a princess. She may keep you waiting for an hour until she has finished milking before she can attend to your wants, but that is as it should be, and lessons on patience are very wholesome. A sæter bed, four feet wide, even if it be occupied by three reindeer hunters as well as yourself, does not pull very hard in the morning, and early rising resolves itself into simplicity itself; but at the same time, all the diplomatic powers of which the traveller is possessed must be brought into play if he wishes to get a cup of coffee or a little hot soup before his hostess has milked her kine. Until a night be passed at a sæter (for this one purpose alone a stone-built sæter with a mud floor is preferable) the English traveller in Norway can, I think, hardly appreciate at their full value the great powers of evil possessed by the creature whose saltatory attainments are proverbial. Never mind, it does a man a world of good to pass a few days and nights at a sæter and away from the lap of luxury.
However, nowadays it is much changed. Within a stone’s-throw of some of the most uninviting sæters where, years ago, we were glad enough to crave the boon of a night’s hospitality, luxurious log-built and boarded-floored Tourist Club huts, to all intents and purposes small inns, have been erected, and the climber of to-day who – this is between ourselves – does not show any startling originality in making his very numerous ascents, can climb every peak and cross every fine glacier-pass in Jotunheim without either sleeping in a sæter, a tent, or at a bivouac, and what to some of us seems more astonishing still, can, during the whole time he is amongst the mountains, indulge in such unwonted luxuries as
pandekager med sylte töie
. Ah! now is the time for prose and plenty; formerly we had the poetry and the hunger. Fortunately, each condition represents much thorough enjoyment, and probably the balance is well adjusted.
Where was I? At Spiterstul. Strange it is though, as I have not been in Visdal since 1875.
Though Spiterstul is by no means a first-rate centre for making new expeditions – I will not say new mountains, as I fear that Yorkshiremen have long ago climbed the best of them – I will at haphazard indicate a few which I believe are not yet made. Heilstuguhö, by its north arête; each of the Uladalstinder, from the north; the regal Galdhöpig, from the south; Tvorbotnhorn, from the south; Kirken, from the east; the traverse of the Memurutinder, from end to end. These would give the modern climbing centrist lots of sport.
From Leirdal, further west, Herr Hall, wisely making use of a modern hut, has met with much success. I have, on the contrary, met with defeat. With Store Björn almost within our grasp, and then unclimbed, Herr Mohn and I were driven away by a merciless snowstorm accompanied by a high wind, to wander as best we could over that grand glacier, the Smörstabbræ. The only peak in that range which I have climbed – and alone, too – was the northern one, on which I found the cairn of the Ordnance surveyors. I met with an awful gale on that occasion, and was forced to lie down until the gusts passed away. The views of Galdhöpiggen seen on that day through rifts in the clouds linger still, and always will linger, in my memory though now it is 23 years ago.
Let us hark away to Gjendin through Simle hullet. Ah! well do I remember that interesting but most difficult and futile stalk after a herd of reindeer which, with the exception of their sentinel, were sleeping on the snow under that grand black rock; how I had to cut steps in the ice of a little frozen waterfall with my
tolle kniv
, how I crawled along the steep mountain side, inch by inch, hour after hour, up hill, down hill, over dry rocks or along wet, shallow gullies, with my rifle sometimes in front of me sometimes behind; how, when I had all but arrived within shot, I knocked down a tiny flat stone which only rolled ten or a dozen yards, and the alarm was given at once. It was a beautiful sight, well worth the hours of toil, and well worth the final disappointment too.
As we walk down to Gjendin, if early in September, let us not tread on those lovely blue Gentians or on the Soldanellas, with their delicately-fringed petals; let us rather, as Vigdal and I once did on returning from the ascent of Heilstuguhö, sit down for three-quarters of an hour and thoroughly enjoy the beauty of these Alpine gems, all wide open to catch the sunbeams.
When at Gjendin, row across those pale green waters and explore the fastnesses of those ice-paved cirques between Knutshultind and Leirungsdal, but do not scare away that lordly and solitary reindeer buck, whose own domain it is.
Let us pass on to lake Bygdin and look at the Torfinstinder. Veritable aiguilles they are. See them from the lake. See them again from Kalvaahögda. Note that little glacier calmly reposing in the lap of the mountain and the couloir which leads from it directly up to a dip in the ridge above. If you are a Yorkshireman you will surely be tempted to do something else next day. Having done that something, and having climbed the highest of the three Torfinstinder, you will, I hope, use your eyes well – I mean your mountaineer’s eyes – for there is plenty for them to take in. Just opposite is Knutshultind, whose forbidding precipices I saw nimbly scaled by the rosy-cheeked Marie in 1881. See those two remarkable horns pointing to the sky beyond the lake, and a whole bevy of grand peaks, then descend direct to Nybod and a rattling good climb I can promise you it will be, but do not attempt to disturb the eyrie on the way down, as if you do, those two noble eagles may do more than soar in grand circles round and round you as they did in our case in 1876.
Away to Eidsbod, the coldest-situated hut in all Norway. Take an evening stroll up Skineggen and happy will you be if you can see the spires of the distant Horungtinder, with the peerless Skagastölstind, gilded by the rays of the setting sun. You will see many of my old friends, you will almost see beyond lake Tyin with its little icebergs the place where I shot my first reindeer.
Away again to Skogadalsböen – the Watch Tower of Utladal – where now there is an excellent tourist hut, with three or four persons in charge of it. On the way you may traverse Uranaastind, and when on the summit can note the erratic behaviour of your compass, as within a radius of half a dozen yards it will point in three different directions; or you may climb Melkedalstind, which has a habit of drawing a gauze veil over her lovely features when you most wish to admire them, and then, like a coy maiden, of peeping laughingly at you when you least expect it. You can descend from this peak by its western ridge, and thus score a new route.
If the weather be not good enough for high peaks you may take your journey from Bygdin through the Arctic solitudes of Morka Koldedal and thread your way over the ice floes of two of the tarns in this weird glen, and on emerging from it you will have what is probably the wildest view in all Norway, where, beyond a forest foreground, and across the deep gorge of the Utla, you will have the whole range of the Horungtinder and their steep glaciers face to face, a View once seen never to be forgotten.
At Skogadalsböen you are near the thrones of the gods, and, though you can barely see them, you are almost overshadowed by the Horungtinder, whose crowning glory is Skagastölstind. Until quite recent years this mountain was considered to be, not only the highest mountain in Norway, but also the highest in Europe north of the Alps.
So far as is known, no peak in this range had been climbed and no glacier pass had been traversed until the year 1874, when the first passage of the Riiens Skar from Vetti to Optun was made by a party of four Englishmen, two of whom were Craven men. When we were seen emerging on the north side from the dark portals of the Riiensbræ by the good folk at Riiens sæter, we were supposed to be ” Huldre folk,” or elves, who live in the heart of the mountains, are enormously rich, and, amongst other possessions, are blessed with – tails. These, as a rule, are carefully hidden under their clothes, which usually are blue. Unfortunately, we did not know of this at the time, but I was told of it some years later. Ah! These delightful days of superstition are now no more, the people have become prosaic and prosperous. You may now do the wildest things you like in Jotunheim without exciting any other remark than “They are Englishmen, you know, and they are rather mad when they take a holiday.” You may bathe in the tarn below Skagastölstind when there is a freezing wind and swim about amongst the tiny icebergs. You may encamp on the top of a peak, or sleep out on the crags of Ravn Skar in a snowstorm. You may be snowed up for a week in the winter in a sæter. Nothing now surprises them.
So far, fortunately, the credit of Englishmen stands high in Jotunheim. May this always be the case here! I am sorry to say, however, that on the western coast I have often had cause to feel ashamed of my countrymen, and have seen cases where men, who at home are probably decent, law-abiding citizens, behave rudely towards gentle and refined Norsk ladies. This has often annoyed me, and I have frequently spoken very strongly about it. The fair name of England should never be sullied by any act of meanness or discourtesy on the part of any of her sons. It is perhaps only fair to say that I have seen still greater acts of rudeness shown by other foreigners travelling in Norway.
What a wealth of pleasant recollections linger in my memory of adventures met with in the Horungtinder region!
How, on one bright cold winter’s day, Sulheim and I crossed the frozen Utla, rifles in hand and revenge in our breasts, how we determined to slay that wicked bear which had so recently killed his fatted calf, and had carried it up to the cave on that rock-ledge so far up the mountain side; how kicked out our way in the hard snow, step by step, hour after hour; how excited we were when going side by side, we peered, rifles in front of us and knives unsheathed, cautiously and noiselessly over the snow wreath at the top ! What a strange mixture of feelings we had when we found that, though the bones of the calf were there, bruin himself was away! Disappointment? Yes. Relief? Yes, undoubtedly. The top of a snow slope of 45° is a gruesome place in which to meet a bear.
Shall I tell you of other bear hunts in Utladal ; how we found the carcass of a reindeer buried by bruin in a moorland bog, as a dog buries a bone in a garden, how we tracked the king of this valley to its most contracted portion, and ascertained without a doubt that he had swum across those awful rapids? Shall I describe to you the weird beauty of the Vetti’s fos frozen from top to bottom, a gigantic icicle of 1,100 feet in height? No, I think not.
The Horungtinder owe much of their especial grandeur to the fact that the Utla river has carved out of the rocks just below them, during countless ages, the deep ravine of Utladal, probably the wildest gorge in Norway. The three Maradaler and Afdal, which valleys drain the range on the south, all tumble their rivers into the Utla with high waterfalls. Each of these valleys possesses the grandest Alpine scenery, and is headed by really glorious mountains of the aiguille character.
The portion of the Utladal from Vormelid upwards is so completely cut off from the Aardal into which the river Utla flows, that all the sæters in it belong to the valley of Fortun on the north side of the range, and the cattle have in consequence to be driven over the high Keiser pass. Years ago the frozen corpse of a person who died at Vormelid was tied on horseback and led over this pass to its last resting-place in the kirkyard at Fortun.
There is much I could tell about Utladal, and still more about its adjacent mountains, north, south, and east, much too about its people. Sad it is to think that old Jens Klingenberg of Aardal has now passed away. With the solitary exception of Thorgeir Sulheim, who has inherited his great pluck from his ancestor, King Harald Fair-Hair, Jens was the only man among the natives who believed that Skagastölstind would some day be ascended.
I must, however, say no more about this, the most fascinating district in all Norway. I will merely advise my readers to take the first opportunity which may present itself to pay a visit to Turtegrö-the Riffelhaus of Norway–from which place or from Skogadalsböen every fine peak in the Horungtinder can now be climbed in great comfort.
It is surely now high time that I should say something about the other delightful mountain playgrounds in Norway. It must, however, be very little.
As is now well known, the Justedalsbræ is by far the largest snowfield in continental Europe, and several of the glacier arms which descend from it so precipitously, especially towards the west, show wilder ice scenery than can be met with anywhere in the Alps, even upon Mont Blanc. In early days various passes were frequently traversed by the peasantry, but by degrees most of them were abandoned and the routes themselves were forgotten. The shrinkage of the glaciers early in this century, and the diversion of the traffic from the bagmen’s backs to the fjord steamers principally contributed to this change. During the last twenty years, north country Englishmen have by degrees re-opened every one of these routes, some of which are still remembered by old dalesmen, and have also added a large number of new passes to the list, some are useful, others perhaps ornamental, but many, including several made by myself, can neither be called useful nor ornamental. At any rate, let us call them “sporting routes.” The first old re-opened route was made by Mr. Trotter and Ole Rödsheim from Krondal on the east to Loen, by way of the Kvandalsbræ. The last, a very beautiful, as well as a new pass, was made by Mr. Cyril Todd, Mikkel Mundal, and myself; this was from the Austerdalsbræ over to the Melkevoldsbræ in Oldendal. Both of these passes are very useful, and have since been frequently crossed. As I have so often written about the grandeur of the snowy solitudes of the Justedal, I will only say that, nowadays, good accommodation and decent food can be had in numerous places on all sides of the snowfield–the reverse of what was the case even a dozen years ago, and that fairly reliable guides–though not quite masters in snow craft–can be obtained. When writing about the Justedalsbræ, which probably I know now better than any other living man, I feel that unless I draw attention to the dangers which may be incurred on the snowfield, which, though not always apparent, are nevertheless very real, I should be courting a very grave responsibility. At the risk, therefore, of being considered an unnecessary alarmist, I insert in this Journal by the courtesy of the Editor some words of warning which I wrote a couple of years ago for ” Beyer’s Weekly News” under the heading of “The Justedalsbræ : A Warning.”
Another interesting glacier region, The Aalfotenbræ, at the mouth of the Nord Fjord, was quite unknown until it was visited a few years ago by Mr. Chas Hopkinson and myself.
[3] Since then, Herr Bing has spent a few days, and nights too, on this high range, when he made the ascent of a strangely-shaped little aiguille, which we left severely alone. Messrs. Bill and Congreve have also traversed this snowfield, but it is by no means exhausted, and any climber who goes there prepared to put up with rough fare and bad maps will be well repaid. Bears are very common above and below the snow-line, and red deer in the sub-alpine regions. Several tarns, quite arctic in character, will be found, and the colour of their waters is superb. The rocks are conglomerate, consisting of large and small smoothly-polished red and white boulders, stratified and terraced like a huge staircase of some fourteen steps, whose back support has given way: a comical formation when seen on a large scale.
The Söndmöre mountains which overshadow the Hjörund and Sökkelv fjords are indeed delightful, and until they were explored by Herr Mohn and myself in the year 1876 when the first ascent of Kjölaastind or the Gluggentind was made, they were practically unknown. Published records show two additional first ascents of Gluggentind, both since our visit; a fourth is awaited with interest. It is a lovely mountain and much the finest west of the Hjörund fjord. The graceful Slogen undoubtedly is the most beautiful peak on the east of the same fjord.
There are many other mountains very much like glorified Coolins in Skye which have narrow arêtes leading to sharp peak