Hiking to the Heights of Bergen

BERGEN & ULRIKEN, NORWAY
June 17, 2006

Despite a very scary bed-next-door albino with a penchant for log-sawing snores, I managed to squeeze in a good four hours of sleep before waking to greet the day. Over breakfast, I met up with Mark again, my Canadian night-clubbing buddy, and we agreed to join forces for a day of hiking in the mountains above and beyond Bergen. My plans were a little more ambitious than his, as I was intent on bridging the gap between Mount Fløyen (which most people visited via a funicular that zipped them up the mountainside) and Mount Ulriken, highest of the seven mountains surrounding Bergen and no less than a five-hour hike away, on foot.
We started from the front door of our hostel and sidestitched our way up the rather steep mountainside, along snaking switchbacks, until we arrived at Mount Fløyen, were dozens of camera-clicking tourists had just emerged from the funicular, no more worse for wear. I, on the other hand, was dabbing the sweat from my face, and taking deep breaths to avoid, as much as possible, my side from splitting in half from the upward climb. Oh boy, if this was just the first hour, what was I in for?

It would have been easy to shrink down the day's adventure, by making a simple loop around Fløyen, and returning the same way we had come. In all honesty, Mark had no intention of doing the full hike. So I have to give credit to Gyorge and Alan, a Bulgarian and Brit that we encountered along the way, for giving us the guts to go on with the show.

Mark and I were studying a posted map of the interweaving trails we had found ourselves lost in, when Gyorge and Andy walked by. Flailing, and in need of a little orientation, we summoned them for some trail advice. Gyorge, it turned out, had hiked the Fløyen-to-Ulriken trail before and was planning to do the same again today, with colleague Andy in tow.Minutes later, we were climbing rocky rills together, hoisting our bodies up steep and pebbly inclines and gazing over moss-covered mountain ledges at the mirror-clear lakes pooled in pockets of the valley below. The surface of the water, at least from my perch several stories above, almost appeared to be liquid obsidian, the waters so deep blue that, with the combination of cloudy skies above, they nearly appeared black. And from the vivid images reflected so perfectly in the thin skin of the water's surface, they could easily have passed for cut glass.

We broke for lunch on one of the lake beds, and watered our parched throats as tinny bells of nearby grazing sheep tinkled in the rocks nearby. For hours we crested peaks and descended into valleys, following the continuous line of pyramid trail markers that kept us from veering too far off course. After six hours of breathtaking -- and strenuous -- hiking, we arrived at Mount Ulriken where, at nearly 2000 feet (642 meters), we stretched out legs out on carved wooden benches and sipped steamy drinks from a cafe table overlooking the city, fjords, and mountains around Bergen. It was one of those hard-earned moments of contentment that comes from knowing you accomplished something incredibly worth doing. The cool breeze and warm sun -- especially at altitude -- were welcoming as I washed warm hot chocolate down my tired throat. Somehow, I just don't think the rush would be nearly the same had we followed the tourist trail and taken the bus and cable car to the exact same spot where we now stood, sweaty, sundrenched, and sore.

We descended to the lower reaches of Bergen by cable car, a nearly vertical journey in a small iron basket, which took all of five minutes. After a gentle walk back to town, we sipped expensive beers in the garden terrace of Jacob's Cafe, four individuals from four separate nations, enjoying the easy-flowing conversation and common ground forged from our afternoon spent hiking together.

Against my better judgment, I joined Lucca later that evening for another night of dancing at Scottman's, only to meet up with the same curly-haired Norwegian. It's a small world, after all. At 3 AM, when the pub closed, he insisted on buying me a greasy cheeseburger from the McDonald's across the street, which as I figured bought him a little time to make sure we exchanged email addresses. I thought back to last night and felt a tinge of guilt at the thought that he believed me to be six years younger, but I rationalized that I was leaving Bergen in the morning, and what were the odds we would ever cross paths again?

Walking back to my hostel, alone, in the quasi-dark at 4 AM, it occurred to me just how safe the streets of Bergen were. And not just Bergen for that matter, but Scandinavia in general, from all reports. I wish I felt so comfortable traversing the streets of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania at such an hour. Even the Norwegian girl, so drunk she could barely walk without stumbling, would have been safe on her own, according to the locals I'd met who had offered their two cents. So I guess we weren't saving her from some horrible end after all. My body sore, and dead tired from a day of climbing and a night of rollicking good dancing, I was out in minutes flat. Even with the albino log-cutter next door.

~Melanie