Arctic Expedition: Sparkling Snowscapes Through Norway

Nordic Adventure Completes Unfinished Business

Feeling fresh and in balance at the start of 2023, from the previous year of Jason and me venturing inwardly through India and Nepal, we had a renewed appreciation for things. Namely, we had an overarching motivation to revive our life on the road, independent of location. Thanks to White Rhino, our trusty Hilux-house-on-wheels, we continue to explore, learn, be open, and evolve. In a newfound alignment, an oceanic joy broke upon the shores of my soul as we picked up where we left off: to tend to some unfinished business in the Nordics. An Arctic expedition across Norway seemed entirely apt, having perambulated Scandinavia during a hot-as-blazes summer in 2019.

Let the Nordic Fun Unfurl

With no time to waste the pending golden winter light, a mad dash through England’s dreary drizzle saw us leave Norfolk in mid-January and set sail to the Hook of Holland. An obscene 640-mile nonstop drive to Hirtshals, Denmark, afforded us a day to come up for some Danish sea air. That is, before a brief expedition detour to Larvik, a direct four-hour Colorline ferry crossing to see friends Espen and Malin in Skien, southern Norway.

Tur: It’s a Norwegian Thing

Getting enlightened with some Norwegian culture, Espen shares with us the meaning behind the expression “tur.” By no means is “tur” simply the Norwegian word for “trip” when used among the Nordic natives. It goes beyond that. Espen reliably informed me that its meaning can vary with context. “God tur” simply means “happy travels” or “safe travels,” while the sentiment “takk for tur” is akin to “thanks for the experience of traveling together” or “thanks for the ride.”

Just “tur” can describe a trip, journey, travel, drive, hike, and so on. It could be around the world, to a mountaintop, or a lazy afternoon stroll in the woods. Typically, it’s something positive in which you engage because you want to. In fact, there could be a hint of “adventure” in tur, which set the right tone beautifully for our Norway winter expedition.

Soft Peaks and Sugar Pink Skies 

Whisking us neatly up the mountainside and depositing us at Gvepseborg, we alighted. Snowshoeing around the meringue-like peaks for the first time, we finally reached our friends’ remote log cabin 3,280 feet above sea level. Our warm and cozy snuggery for the next four days was nestled at the foot of the mountain plateau, Hardangervidda, in central southern Norway. Somehow made even more special for lapping up the nearby and familiar vistas of Gaustatoppen – a solid constant vying for our attention in endlessly changing light since camping atop it with the Norwegian couple nearly four years ago.

Believe me, when I relay that the highly unusual windless wilderness of the region at this time of year was not lost on us. Up close and in the distance, a sea of silver snow sparkled. Particularly impactful during the golden hour at sunrise and sunset, the glittering light cast a sugar pink gleam in the sky, with swathes of intense lavender and fiery amber — everything under gilded with gold. The atmosphere was serenity itself; I was enraptured. Forever emblazoned in the memory bank amid a biting 5 degrees, we stayed agog as much as glued to the sky until all the vibrant colors consolidated to black.

Believe me, when I relay that the highly unusual windless wilderness of the region at this time of year was not lost on us… Forever emblazoned in the memory bank amid a biting 5 degrees, we stayed agog as much as glued to the sky until all the vibrant colors consolidated to black.

Pulpit Will Rock Your World

A 195-mile slow burn in four-wheel drive through snowy conditions on the Rv13 skirted us southwest from Rjukan to the town of Stavanger. Indebted to the peace of mind provided by BF Goodrich’s all-terrain tires, the route connected us to Tau via a free ferry. By nightfall, we reached our destination: Preikestolen, or Pulpit Rock.

Pronounced prek-iss-stollen, it’s an angular monolith at a nerve-racking 1,981-feet tall, jutting out in lofty linearity. On top, an almost flat plateau forms squarely at 82 feet by 82 feet. It was made known only through chance when Thomas Peter Randulf, a bank manager in the late 19th century, glanced up from cruising the fjords on a steamboat and spotted it.

It formed during the Ice Age around 10,000 years ago, when the water from a glacier reaching the cliff’s edge seeped into the mountainside and froze. Sure enough, that process saw colossal chunks of granite rock breaking off from the landscape and carried away by the glacier. It formed what is today known as Pulpit Rock due to its resemblance to a priest’s sermon-giving stand. With more spiritual undertones than religious ones, there is a geometric beauty in the three near-vertical faces that teetered on the startling and surreal. It is a marvel and oddity as rare as a triple rainbow. Also worth mentioning is a disconcerting crack taking shape through the middle of the Pulpit, which will likely one day break off altogether and cause a tidal wave.

Gifted With Crazy Good Conditions, We Hike

Awaking the next morning in a shaft of bright sunlight, I greeted the day in the soft embrace of benign seclusion. It was a Thursday and remarkably mild around the edges. We’d been favored with a fine weather window in ungarnishable daylight.

Crampons were an absolute necessity for the 4.7-mile stomp in the snow and unforgiving ice during this time of year. Made treacherous by the freezing rainfall the previous day, we were also thankful for Nepalese Sherpas who hacked out part of the trail in 2013, making it more accessible and civilized. As we carefully picked our way over slippery rock, the odd string of worn, colorful prayer flags rippled in the breeze, taking us straight back to when we hoofed the Himalayas three months prior.

The two-hour outbound hike undulated through a gnarly birch and thick pine forest before ascending over huge granite slabs and exposed bluffs to the tabletop. Burdened by the gear we carried, a sheen of sweat bloomed on our skins as we plodded, lumbered, and trudged up the trail.

The two-hour outbound hike undulated through a gnarly birch and thick pine forest before ascending over huge granite slabs and exposed bluffs to the tabletop.

Fjord of Lights 

A glorious payout of low-lying winter sun ensued. It cast long, splendid shadows on the rockscape blanketed in snow over dicey sections of ice. Directly below lay Lysefjorden, meaning ‘Fjord of Lights,’ and for good reason. Optimal winter conditions that day, courtesy of the off-season (November through April), meant breathing in cool, crisp air upon a united altar lording above opalescent waters – a gospel truth in opal, azure, and sapphire.

Winning the Jackpot 

After 2.35 miles of hiking in the snow and ice, we arrived at the top of Pulpit Rock. I approached the edge more times than I should have with a shrill prickle of plummeting sharpness – cautiously peering into the abyss as the unthinkable percolated. Eventually, I struck up the gall to sit down. My legs dangled with half-hearted hubris over the unfathomably sheer sides. I was so electrified by my proximity to the bottom that my nerve endings felt raw. Feeling propulsive, my body was primed for something. With the excitement mounted within, I was raptly mute.

I approached the edge more times than I should have with a shrill prickle of plummeting sharpness – cautiously peering into the abyss as the unthinkable percolated.

By dusk, it dawned on me that the sky had lost all its blue hues, replaced by a flame-colored sunset of burnt oranges, ochres, and gold. All conspiring together for one’s soul happiness to feast upon during the return jaunt. My legs were like bags of sand by the end, but the day had been unruffled, strifeless, and pure. After a quick detour to a park4night spot, I was gone the moment my head hit the pillow, sinking into a slumber like a stone in deep water.

Atlantic Ocean Road 

After spending a few weeks enlivened by the white stuff, the Atlantic Ocean Road awaited. Just over a five-mile stretch in the middle of the day’s expedition, we skirted around a spectacular section of Route 64, which runs through an archipelago of Norway. It connects Averøy with the mainland through islands, islets, and reefs via eight bridges. It is quite possibly one of the world’s most beautiful experiences by road – no wonder so many car commercials have featured the iconic location. The road’s bridges are works of engineering art in themselves. It’s an undeniable must-see in the northernmost part of the fjord Norway region.

The Polarsirkel

A bout of daylong drives chomping through almost 1,000 miles, mainly on the E6, saw our Norway expedition venturing north. Marking the Arctic Circle at 66 degrees 33 minutes North enlivened the senses in a silly 15 degrees. While no midnight sun presided there mid-winter, the brilliant white light smothered my thoughts as the slow bleed of cold suffused my veins. The sky at this latitude was vast and unscathed. Under the blue of dreams, we stood at the gateway to the stunning Saltfjellet-Svartisen National Park in the Polar region.

Lofoten

As archipelagos go, Lofoten boasts a dramatic curve of mountainous rock stretching over the Norwegian Sea. Its stellar vistas are lined with snow-blanketed mountains, icy peaks, rough open seas and tucked-away bays, wind-blasted beaches, and untouched lands. It’s not for the faint-hearted, and the residents are hardy and stoic.

Come the start of a new year, cod migrate from the Barents Sea to spawn in the Lofoten region. There, the chilly water temperatures are tempered somewhat by the Gulf Stream. The season is short-lived, from February to April, although fishing impacts most islanders. At virtually every harbor stands the wooden racks employed for drying the cod. While they amass in numbers and grow more pungent by the day in winter, they sit empty in summer like disused climbing frames.

We’d wended our way northwesterly for 154 miles via the E6 and Riksveg 80. Now, spending time below the fish racks was splendid. That is, until we realized that tens of hundreds of rotting fish were raining rather pungent water droplets on us. Have we learned nothing?

One Wild and Precious Life

During the two months of plugging into the energy of this corner of the world, I felt Norway’s foreignness. Or really, my own foreignness with it from the get-go. It’s a sensation I’ve come to cherish the more I’ve overlanded: the way a new place signals itself without an ounce of pretense. Years after my initial Norway expedition, it was just as heady, stimulating, and wholly new to me again. In my story that’s this spinning Rolodex of limitless universes, this is where I journeyed, and I am grateful beyond compare. I felt the door to the world reopen, and I stepped outside.

Skol! God tur!

To adventure further with Lisa and Jason, be sure to check them out on Instagram  @fourwheelednomad.

Want more Norweigan Expediton?

Check out the first half of Lisa’s story:

Exploring the Nordics in a 2015 Toyota Hilux

Editor’s Note: A version of this story preiously appeared in YOTA 2023.