Chapter 23ree: Snapshot of Norway

We arrived in Paris on May 1, and I will get there with this blog, but Norway has always been on the itinerary of this great adventure—a short 9-day getaway from Paris to visit some Karlsen relatives. 

We flew into Stavanger a couple of days ago, and the excitement of being here makes me want to share a some of the experience.

Why Norway? 

Well, my father was at sea when Germany invaded and occupied Norway in 1940. Some months later he was training at a Norwegian Air Force base in Toronto. 

To make a long story short, he married a Canadian girl. They had a few children, I was one of them, and I have been drawn back to the ancestral roots several times.

I recommend a visit to this very special country.

One of my many cousins picked us up at the airport and took us to his home where we quickly settled in. I had forgotten that in the summer here, darkness comes at about fifteen minutes before midnight, and daylight, at 4 am!


Day One: Grocery Shopping

I have sprinkled my blog chapters with lots of French words. I do speak some French, but I also speak some Norwegian, so it is only fair to my readers that I throw some Norwegian words into this chapter.

MEAT pronounced, tshutt
heard with an inattentive English ear, the word sounds like shit, but it isn't

 POTATOES pronounced, potetterrrr

SMOKED SALMON pronounced, roooket lax

also 

Kjøttboller  = Meatballs pronounced tshutt-ballerrrr

Brød = Bread pronounced, brood

Brun ost = Brown goat cheese pronounced, brooon oast

All of these are staples of the Norwegian diet.
The vast majority of non-Norwegian speaking people, which may be 99% of the human race, will have no interest in, or need for these words ... But, I do love the language.


Day Two: A Hike up to Preikestolen (Pulpit Rock)

waiting for the ferry, Port of Stavanger

About a 40-minute ride on the car ferry, Hardanger, to the town of Tau, a drive through the town of Jorpeland, and then up to the Preikestolen car park.

the old base camp where my aunt worked during the occupation in the 1940s

Above, is the route map at base camp. Including distance and vertical feet, I make the hike to be about 6.5 km one way.

The route is well-maintained with some flat or gradual terrain, river rocks and rough stones. Some of these are very large. Sherpas have been hired to make the path very accessible with the construction of stone steps. The steps make the hike accessible to the non-hiker with good shoes, but the run-rise ratio is inconsistent—suitable for both short-legged trolls and for giant trolls.

Joanne and my cousin, Arne Geir, stopped for the camera, still fresh and full of energy after only about 500 metres into the hike.

boardwalk over the marshlands

 "Only 4.5 km to go. We start climbing now," said Arne Geir in near-perfect English.

Elevation change on this hike was significant for Joanne and I who are really not wilderness hikers. 

(See details on the graphic above)

I had done this walk about eight years ago. It seemed so much shorter and easier then. 

As we neared the summit, I told Joanne that just around the bend ... that would be the last one, and then she would see the majestic plateau of Pulpit Rock.

 

The years had blurred my memory somewhat so there was some fatigue and some angst, but slow walking and lots of stops to rest helped. 

Small high-elevation ponds and lakes were eye candy.

Small lakes and ponds filled large cavities in the upper landscape. Off in the distance, brush and small (by Western Canada standards) coniferous trees carpeted the rocky surfaces.

Finally, the fjord revealed itself—the stunning Lysefjord, a 44-kilometre inlet of blue water.

The sight was breathtaking!

But we had still not reached Preikestolen. There were more laborious steps up and over more rocks, and then across some hanging cliffside timber walkways.

A lone yellow wildflower beckoned us onward.

No worries. One does not have to get close to the edge.

And there it was: PREIKESTOLEN

 The Pulpit. 

Like one giant jagged tooth hanging over the fjord.

Some brave, or maybe slightly crazy people, walk up to the edge and sit there with their feet hanging over a sheer drop, 604 metres, almost 2,000 feet, to the fjord below. Not us. Far too scary. When I was 19 years old I lay flat on the surface to peer down. There is enough updraft of wind flying up the cliff to make your eyes water.

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