tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-43992061970690944702024-03-05T07:05:34.470+01:00Thunder In The NightJoe Newtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00907231785281446095noreply@blogger.comBlogger324125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4399206197069094470.post-69254480614055324752014-10-08T18:52:00.000+02:002014-10-08T18:52:08.555+02:00Riding the Tractor Road - the gear post<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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In case you missed it, Mikkel Bølstad and I took a fatbike/packraft trip across Hardangervidda National Park during the summer. We used bike-legal 'tractor roads' and joined the sections with a packraft across one of the many alpine lakes. My trip report can be found <a href="https://thunderinthenight.exposure.co/tractor-pull" target="_blank">here</a> (my new home for trip reports), and Mikkel's <a href="http://mikkelsoya.com/2014/08/31/barely-legal-bikerafting/" target="_blank">here</a>. I will continue using this site for less grandiose posts, for the moment at least.<br />
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A trip utilising a bike and a packraft requires a little extra thought and gear than one would take on a trip concentrating on only one form of transportation. Well before we embarked on this trip I had drawn up a spreadsheet to ensure I didn't forget anything and to also allow myself to spend a little time justifying each item to myself and cutting down on redundancy. After several years of gram-counting I no longer add a weight column to my gear spreadsheets, trusting my instinct and experience to keep the weight down. Also, I have learned that when packing on a bike, volume is more of a concern than weight.<br />
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I carried my gear on the bike in a range of <a href="http://www.revelatedesigns.com/index.cfm" target="_blank">Revelate Designs</a> bikepacking luggage including the Frame Bag, Harness, Pocket, 2 x Feed Bags, Jerry Can, Gas Tank and Viscacha seat pack. I've yet to reduce my gear needs for a bike/packraft trip to the point where I don't need an additional small backpack. To this end, we both carried Osprey Talon 22's.<br />
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<b>Bike Gear</b><br />
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We both rode fatbikes and were amazed at how comfortable and capable they were of even the most difficult, rock-strewn sections of the tractor road. A 29+ rig would also cope with a lot of the terrain and a regular mountain bike would be ok, although for each step down in flotation, I would envisage an increase in the amount of hike-a-bike you would be forced to do, especially in the softer sections.<br />
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We rode most of the route in our lowest few gears and a single-speed drivetrain would cope fine and offer even more simplicity. However, the sealed and more groomed gravel road miles we had to ride, to get to and from the trail, would suit a 1x9/10/11 drivetrain even more. We both ran flat pedals too, which proved to be the right choice, considering the walking and packrafting sections we encountered.<br />
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We carried basic toolkits, similar to what we would carry on any kind of ride. Some additions included a dropper bottle of chain lube, a spare Alternator drop-out for me and two inner tubes, instead of one.<br />
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<b>Camping Gear</b><br />
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Pretty run-of-the-mill stuff for me. My trusty GoLite Shangri-La 3 has several pros and cons. I like the simplicity and space it affords and I'm continually impressed how it sheds wind. I don't like that it's a little tricky to set up when it's blowing and it takes a while to dry in the morning. I chose to take the aluminium centre pole, instead of utilising three sections of the packraft paddle I was already carrying, as I find using the paddle doesn't afford you the same level of adjustment when it comes to pitching the SL-3 in 'limpet' mode on exposed plateaus. I took my Katabatic Gear bivy to act as a groundsheet/bug shelter, based on our fantastical pre-trip conversation about sleeping 'cowboy' style if the weather cooperated, but I wished I had taken my MLD Solo inner instead, as it's more spacious and reduces condensation build up in your sleep gear.<br />
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Sleeping bag was my old trusty stand-by <a href="http://www.westernmountaineering.com/index.cfm?section=products&page=sleeping%20bags&cat=ExtremeLite%20Series&ContentId=17" target="_blank">Western Mountaineering UltraLite</a>. Any time I hesitate about the warmth of my super light MLD Spirit quilt, I reach for the UltraLite. Mattress was a Thermarest Prolite, picked over my more comfortable All Season due to it's lower packed volume. Meticulous camp site choice ensured I still slept comfortably. On the first night I also discovered my old OMM Duomat in the back of my Talon backpack. Result!<br />
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Still can't see me using anything else other a Jetboil for cooking duties right now, and the new MiniMo version looks even more appealing than my current Sol Ti, although the shape will require me to find a new place to store it on my bike. I also remembered my spoon this time...<br />
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<b>Clothing</b><br />
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Quite possibly, I spend more time thinking about the clothing I'm going to take on trips like this, than anything else. You need to take the right mix of clothing for riding, packrafting and sitting around in camp, when the weather on the Hardangervidda in summer can range from hot and sunny to snow, continuous rain, and possibly all three during the course of a few days.<br />
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Some kind of padded riding short is mandatory for most of us about to spend hours a day on a bike. I find bib shorts the most comfortable of all and chose to take my <a href="http://www.giro.com/eu_en/products/men/apparel/foundations/bib-undershort.html" target="_blank">Giro New Road bib under-shorts</a>. Almost perfect, with the added genius of a working fly, meaning answering the call of nature is a snap. <a href="http://www.giro.com/eu_en/products/men/apparel/bottoms/m-ride-overshort.html" target="_blank">Giro Ride over-shorts</a> are impeccably tailored. Sitting nicely above the knee without being overly baggy off the bike, they almost melt into true cycling shorts on the bike, thanks to their clever cut and material. Possibly a bit too stylish and expensive for this kind of trip, I was still mightily impressed.<br />
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I wore a Brynje micro mesh under-shirt and <a href="http://www.endurasport.com/products/?ProductID=251" target="_blank">Endura Coolmax/merino blend polo shirt</a>. These were great 80% of the time, the addition of my <a href="http://www.montane.co.uk/range/men/windproof/litespeed-jacket" target="_blank">Montane Litespeed</a> wind-shirt took care of the colder sections. <a href="http://www.montane.co.uk/range/men/shell/atomic-pants" target="_blank">Montane Atomic rain pants</a> and an old Haglofs Ozo rain jacket were both light and compact and used several times when it rained for extended periods. A crossover from my younger years as a bike racer, Endura knee and arm warmers helped me maintain thermoregulation, without the need for major clothing changes. I wonder if these would would work for hikers too?<br />
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Salamon XA Pro 3D trail shoes were the only footwear we took. Too stiff and heavy for the current trend in minimal backpacking footwear, their lack of excessive flex makes them a good riding shoe. Unlike other flat pedal riding shoes (such as the Five Tens I use on day rides) they dry quickly thanks to their lower levels of padding and mesh construction. A pair of waterproof oversocks (or plastic bags) turns them into a camp shoe and cuts down on having to carry another pair.<br />
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Sleeping gear was comprised of my Ibex merino hoody, Smartwool merino 3/4s and Woolpower socks. I also carried my Rab Xenon puffy jacket, and I was very glad of it after I took a bit of a swim crossing a river that was a little deeper than I bargained for...<br />
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<b>Packrafting Gear</b><br />
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The outstanding item in this section has to be the <a href="http://www.packrafting-store.de/Safety/Anfibio-Buoy-Boy::499.html?language=en" target="_blank">Anfibio Bouy Boy</a> inflatable vest. With only flat water to contend with I felt no compunction to carry my bulky foam Astral PFD. The Buoy Boy rolls up to nothing and provided me with ample peace of mind. I also carried a Sea To Summit Big River dry bag to keep my backpack dry and act as my 'seat' in the raft. Six webbing straps of varying length (including the awesome Salsa Anything Cage straps) took care of lashing my bike to the bow. A repair kit and inflation bag rounded out the packrafting accessories.<br />
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On the packraft itself, an Alpacka Denali Llama, the biggest problem I had was actually carrying the bike on the boat. I had been on a few less intense bikerafting trips this summer, and always managed to get my bike lashed safely in place and have room to paddle. For some reason, on this trip, I couldn't get the bike to sit nicely and afford me the space to paddle effectively into a headwind for several hours. This resulted in me deciding to switch to pushing my bike along the overgrown shoreline instead. Neither option was faster than the other but I'd like to be able to paddle my packraft more effectively with the bike on board. There are different ways to orientate your bike on your raft (Doom takes you through a few in these <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TXpGFx05z8o" target="_blank">videos</a>) but with the <a href="https://www.alpackaraft.com/index.cfm/store.catalog/Spray-Decks/WhitewaterSprayDeck" target="_blank">whitewater deck</a> I currently have fitted, the options are limited. I wonder if anyone has 'downgraded' from a whitewater deck to the <a href="https://www.alpackaraft.com/index.cfm/store.catalog/Spray-Decks/Cruiser-Spray-Deck" target="_blank">cruiser variation</a> (or is it even possible)? I would also like to try the <a href="https://www.alpackaraft.com/index.cfm/store.catalog/Cargo-Fly/" target="_blank">Cargo Fly</a> storage option to stow some gear out of the way.<br />
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On the whole I think I got it pretty much spot on for this trip. There were only a few things I really wish I had done differently and some minor changes have taken place already. Planning and dreaming for next summer is already underway.Joe Newtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00907231785281446095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4399206197069094470.post-12552994641291674272014-04-27T12:37:00.000+02:002014-04-27T12:37:16.223+02:00Is this thing on?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Another weekend, another bicycle/bivy adventure. Another 300m higher (than last time). Slowly Norway's winter carapace of ice and snow is receding, and I'm following it's retreat.</div>
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"Cycling, also called bicycling or biking, is the use of bicycles for transport, recreation, or for sport. Persons engaged in cycling are referred to as 'cyclists', 'bikers', or less commonly, as 'bicyclists'". </div>
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No mention of 'pushing'.</div>
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Brynje mesh shirts. Not only the chosen underwear of the discerning modern viking, but they make excellent packaging to keep two bottles of East India Pale Ale safe and cool in my frame bag. To the victor, the spoils.</div>
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According to Allen & Mike's Really Cool Backcountry Ski Book the mechanisms of heat loss include: "Convection - Heat lost to moving air or water, e.g., the wind strips heat from you" and "Evaporation - Heat lost via the evaporation of water from your skin". Here I combat both with dry, wind-proof, and insulative clothing, sitting in the chilly evening breeze.</div>
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"A Sundowner, in colloquial British English, is an alcoholic drink taken after completing the day's work, usually at sundown". Here, it is taken just below the summit of Livarden.</div>
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The sunset threatened briefly to go full nuke but instead the sun caught up with the bank of cloud heading over the same horizon and the result was rather muted.</div>
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From the end of my road I can see the slopes of Livarden, on a clear day. Conversely, one of these lights is probably my neighbour's annoying security light.</div>
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My bike acted as a windbreak during the night and my bivy was secured to my handlebars to stop my 'camp' blowing away while I enjoyed the sunset on the other side of the ridge. In the morning the air was still and already warm, as the sun poked out over the nose of Hausdalshorga.</div>
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B-town! Well, the 'burbs of B-town.</div>
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Breakfast at the summit. Cold pizza, chocolate and a mountain frappuccino. According to Wikipedia: Livarden is a mountain in the city of Bergen, Norway. It is located south-east of the Ulriken mountain massif, in the boroughs of Fana and Arna. The summit is situated at 683 metres above sea level. </div>
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In this image the trail home traces the ridges, right of middle. Highlights included one detour, one crash, some delightful single-track, quite a lot of downhill pushing and the realisation that I didn't have a clue how to work my borrowed GoPro. So you'll just have to use you imagination at just how amazing these highlights were...</div>
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<br />Joe Newtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00907231785281446095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4399206197069094470.post-41020523810048000982014-04-21T15:10:00.000+02:002014-04-21T15:10:31.831+02:00Sweet Sour<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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A disproportionate amount of grinding along tarmac roads on the fatbike brought me to the car park at the end of Haudalen. The gravelled road beyond was hot and dusty but it weaved it's way up into thinning trees, increasing rock and snow-capped sentinels in almost every direction. I've camped here <a href="http://thunderinthenight.blogspot.no/2010/05/nervous-shakedown.html" target="_blank">once</a> or <a href="http://thunderinthenight.blogspot.no/2012/07/fly-in-disappointment.html" target="_blank">twice</a> before.</div>
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The alignment of Easter weekend and stunning sunshine made for busy progress. Families, runners, hikers and bikers laid claim to the many pretty resting spots along the river's margins. Laughter, grill smoke and a communal relief that we'd made it through another winter.</div>
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I pushed on further, to the top where the trail tips downward to the fjord. I cut right and pushed/pulled/swore-at my bike along the narrow, rocky trail at the base of Svenningen. The only sign of man here is a brief glimpse of some power lines to the north. The rest of my quarters was made up of rocky cliffs, ridges and the quiet, dark waters of the lake below, pocked occasionally but waking trout. The carefully wrapped, final, holiday weekend beer was retrieved from the frame-bag and lovingly supped while sweat dried on my skin in the heat.</div>
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I waited for the sun to set behind the ridge on the other side of the lake, then I would light my fire. Instead the sun played with me and tripped along the curve of the ridge in a downward arc, prolonging the bright light and delaying the waiting cold.</div>
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Once the sun had finished her games I threw sparks at the tinder and rubbed my hands with glee. Party time. I warmed my foil-wrapped pesto chicken and cheese sandwiches and delighted in the simple pleasure of toasting marshmallows. Where's the best toasting spot? Up over the flame? Down near the embers. The white fluffiness bloomed and crusted amongst the heat.</div>
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Behind me, the shadow of the ridge I was on crept up over the mountains to the south east of the fjord below. The snow blushed pink then became washed-out grey as the heat of the day was replaced with cold, far more in keeping with the time of year. I snuggled into my sleeping bag and bivy and stared up at the arriving stars. The Big Dipper, tipped up on it's handle, stared down at me, like some giant cosmic question mark.</div>
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Sleep was dark and solid. My eyes fluttered open only a couple of times. Once, to witness a mass of stars in a navy blue sky, and then later, to see the purple of dawn. The alarm on my phone had forgotten it was a bank holiday and rudely shook me from my contented rest. I rolled over and smiled as the rusty flanks of Svenningen stared back, still and silent.</div>
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Coffee was a priority once out of my cocoon. I pulled my stove, water, food bag and sleeping mat over to the sunny side of the ridge. The breeze was cool but in the moments of stillness the new day's warmth washed over me. I brewed a couple of disappointing coffee bags (and cursed my lack of preparedness on the coffee supply front) and dug into a Justin's chocolate peanut butter fajita and a brownie.</div>
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Descending from the ridge to the valley below was cold in places, the sun, as yet, unable to penetrate Hausdalen. The gravel track was empty and fast and passed in the blink of a cold wind-induced teary eye. The banks of the river offered lots of options to stop a while and play, marvelling at the fat tires floating over the rock and sand, splashing through the cold, shallow water. Two other campers, one in a bright red Hilleberg and another, in a more traditional lavvu, waved at my passing. I hoped they too had had a good night and beautiful morning. From their returned smiles, I was sure they had.</div>
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<br />Joe Newtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00907231785281446095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4399206197069094470.post-75281682728301016732014-03-31T22:56:00.000+02:002014-03-31T23:13:22.794+02:00Slow Ride<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Well, it's back. The blog, the sunshine, the shunning of a perfectly good bed to go sleep outdoors. There's been precious little to write about recently. A tweaked back, shit snow. No skiing this winter, in fact, at all. I've still been riding, wind, rain or shine. Or not shine. More like wind, rain, hail or snow. And I finally bought a fatbike, after several years of admiration, deliberation and eventually, hard saving. </div>
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It was almost as an homage that I picked this hut to spend my first overnighter with the Mukluk. <a href="http://www.yetirides.com/" target="_blank">Peter </a>and <a href="http://www.tonilund.fi/" target="_blank">Toni's</a> blogs have been a constant source of fatbike inspiration for the past couple of years and I've always enjoyed their tales of nights in simple Finnish forest shelters and roaring camp fires.</div>
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On arrival I found plenty of dry firewood, which was good because the couple of pieces I had bought from home were not going to last long. We may have worn t-shirts at work during this week of sublime weather, but it was still March, and when the sun dipped, so the the mercury. Sharpish.</div>
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With the fire lit it was time for cheese sandwiches, Dutch waffles and hot chocolate, liberally laced with the last of the Christmas Bulleit bourbon. Owls hooted as I pulled on my insulated jacket and curled up on my sleeping mat in front of the fire.</div>
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I'd forgotten how utterly captivating the naked flame is. Watching that campfire, fascinated as each log crackled, blackened, glowed then crumbled, the hours of the evening simply melted into darkness.</div>
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Frost covered my bivy bag the following morning. Glad of my mid-weight sleeping bag and fleece hat I relished the contrast of the cold air on my face and the smothering warmth inside. Pink tinged the white snow on the distant hills. We had lost an hour during the night but gained another season.</div>
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I rode a loop of the lake once I was packed, to ride the 'beaches' and marsh on my strange new bike and to visit a stream I knew to always be fresh and flowing, filling my bottles for the upness ahead. The bike crawled and floated over terrain I had always previously had to dismount and walk around. Sure, it was slower on the road sections than my other bikes but that forces you to immerse yourself in the bright, new day you're travelling through.</div>
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Then I continued up the valley, trying to find a way up to the cairns I could see on a fun-looking ridge in the distance. First one track, then another. Comparing map, GPS and the faint recollection of someone's Strava route I'd seen a week ago. </div>
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I never quite made the summit of Livarden, unable to find a suitable trail through the boggy upper slopes, still gushing with snow melt. Still, with around 500m gained on forest trails that morning there was plenty of downhill to play on. 62.3kph down a gravel road, on a fully loaded fatbike, is fun. I think I'm gonna enjoy this ride.</div>
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<br />Joe Newtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00907231785281446095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4399206197069094470.post-37838022743669079552013-10-20T18:37:00.001+02:002014-03-23T20:06:57.050+01:00Coasting<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Instead of heading to the hills last weekend, I headed to the coast. Coasting down the back roads on my bike, along a route I had scouted a few days earlier while out training on my road bike.<br />
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Past faded memories...<br />
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...and bright concentration...<br />
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...across narrow bridges...<br />
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...to wide marine views drenched and sparkling in Autumn sunshine.<br />
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It was actually hot. Not just warm in the sun, but really hot. I stripped out of my riding clothes, chosen to fend off convective heat loss, and sat with sleeves and legs rolled up. Sunglasses perched on my nose, my hair a sweaty mess, I mindlessly skimmed smooth pebbles across the water's languid surface.<br />
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Recuperated, and blinded by the reflected light, I walked around my little haven. Lazy sea trout squirmed in the the glassy shallows. Garfish darted between stands of seaweed. In the absence of insects, a near-by motor launch provided the soundtrack, buzzing out in the fjord.<br />
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Kid's voices bounced across the cove and the warm rock I lazed on tried to fuse me to itself. Only the scratch of thirst and need for a bed stirred me from my stupor.<br />
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After dinner, and a half-hearted attempt at a fire, I chased the sun around headlands and coves, hoping for a fiery end that never came in the cloudless sky and fearing the creep of cold that failed to materialise.<br />
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Too warm in my sleeping bag and on edge at the almost perfect silence I struggled to sleep, so I watched the moon's progress through the tree tops. A heron flapped to it's roost and paced around awkwardly on it's fir tree branch. And then nothing...<br />
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I was hoping for a colourful sunrise so when I fumbled in my bag to check the time I got a shock at how late it was and scrambled into the dawn. Still not a cloud in the sky so a curious pinky-blue was the only colour, accented by swirling mists on the water and small sets of ripples that funneled into the shore from unseen passing boats.<br />
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The small rockpools cornered my attention as the tide receded slightly. Sea anemones, crabs, shellfish and blennys.<br />
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With the sun creeping over the forest the first visitors arrived. With voices approaching I packed up and started pedaling along the serpentine gravel path to the car park.<br />
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No coasting home. The ride back required plenty of hard pedaling, interjected with a couple more stops to revel in the utter laziness of the conditions.<br />
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Back home the coast was still with me. Sand clung to parts of my bike and clothes and a couple of shells made their way from my pocket to my bookshelf.<br />
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Winter may be approaching but for now the coast clings to memories of summer.<br />
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<br />Joe Newtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00907231785281446095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4399206197069094470.post-73582135067705555612013-08-04T13:36:00.000+02:002013-08-04T13:36:35.759+02:00Constantly Moving: Four days along Norway's National Bicycle Route 4<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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It never changes. As a child and an adult, the beginning of academic summer holidays gape like a chasm of time in front of you and the last weeks race past, like a speeding train. Which was handy, because I needed a train to get me and my bike over to the other side of Norway, the plan being to ride back towards Bergen following Norway's <a href="http://www.openstreetmap.org/?relation=1213626" target="_blank">National Bicycle Route 4</a>.</div>
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My journey was delayed by a day due to unforeseen explosion in the number of tourists wanting to travel to Oslo, or any one of the magnificent stops in between that draw people from all over the world, to marvel at the mountains, glaciers, fjords and waterfalls. Being a day late and unable to secure a reliable GPS course through the city and suburbs of Oslo I decided to start my journey in Hønefoss. Despite dry but cloudy scenes of Norwegian life blurring past the windows for five hours, I stepped onto the platform at Hønefoss in a light drizzle. As I orientated myself in the small town, and faffed around with the sudden need to change my clothes, I promptly rode off without filling my water bottles.</div>
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There was no signage for this supposed 'national' bicycle route in the town, and none on the back roads either. Back in Bergen, and in Oslo too, the National Bicycle Routes are marked with red signs, indicating the direction and route number (some of the routes share trails in places). Instead I followed a blurry map, hastily printed off the internet, and used a couple of GPS apps on my iPhone to get the lay of the land in front of me. I seemed to be going in the right direction, but then how many times have we bent to lines of reality to fit our map?</div>
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I was getting thirsty too, ironic considering the amount of water falling from the sky, streaming across the road and spraying up from my tires. I cursed my lack of composure at the start, I cursed the rain, I cursed the lack of signage that had me checking and rechecking my progress at each deathly quiet road junction. To counteract the blackness three things happened in fairly quick succession that brought some balance back. I found a huge patch of delicious wild raspberries, a picture-perfect stave church yielded a water pump to fill my bottles and it stopped raining.</div>
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The last few hours of the first day continued with it's contrasts. I hit the gravel roads at last, which slowed my tempo but increased the grin factor. I got a little lost on the xeroxes of forest tracks but then stumbled across my first bike trail sign, even if it wasn't <a href="https://plus.google.com/u/0/photos/112307819916350072414/albums/5798789647764393313/5798791177053015202?authkey=CM3Jz4HYvfCsJg&pid=5798791177053015202&oid=112307819916350072414" target="_blank">the kind I was expecting</a>. My first attempt at camp, perched on a sandy bench on the banks of a boulder strewn river was optimistic, I'll agree. My 'interestingly' configured SL-3, one side opened up completely and entirely staked down with rocks, was a bit Robinson Crusoe and was no match for the next rain storm that came sweeping down the valley. In the pouring rain I moved camp to a far less picturesque but benign spot, next to a quiet road.</div>
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The next day started brighter, although most everything I had was damp by now. Today would be a morning of up, followed by an afternoon of down, over Vassfaret, home of <a href="http://thunderinthenight.blogspot.no/2012/07/always-have-plan-b-and-c.html" target="_blank">our very wet and bug infected packrafting trip last summer</a>. The quietness of bike travel worked to my advantage along the quiet, shaded forest roads. I got to see a pair of cranes, wading in a road-side marsh, and I shared a moment with a young moose, my first wild one of the species. We stared at each other for a few moments, probably with polar feelings of fear and wonderment, before he crashed off through the trees as I struggled futilely with my camera.</div>
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First shop of the trip was one of those little magic moments when the ordinary feels extra-ordinary. I cruised up and the aisles for some time, especially the bakery and chilled drinks sections where I bolstered my rations. I sat down on the kerb outside and watched village life unfold for a few minutes. Old people chatting through car windows and what looked like the local mechanic, pulling into the parking spaces in a red Firebird. Refueled on ice coffee and bananas it was time for the climb over Vassfaret. The local bom (toll) road services many of the local hyttes and climbed ruthlessly for miles on rough Tarmac roads. Eventually the ice coffee wore off and I was forced to walk up some sections. </div>
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Sweat poured down my face. I alternated between walking and riding to give the different muscle groups a break. I kept thinking I recognized certain roads from our trip last year, but then they all look very similar. Eventually I got to the 'top'. It wasn't really a peak, just a flatter section with a cooler wind and some showers. Once I started rolling down the other side I had to suit-up a bit. Arm and knee warmers, windshirt, gloves even. The ever-so-slightly-always-descending rollers were a blast. The road surface was really well compacted dirt and gravel and the tires hummed. Then I hit the edge of the valley and the road just dropped away. Down on the drops, brakes squealing into the countless bends. It was all worth it, all the sweat and screaming legs. I've had a lot of fun, on a lot of different bikes, over the years but those minutes, with the bike slewing through gravel corners under a full touring load, were right up there with the best.</div>
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When I hit the Tarmac again things just went warp speed. Insects bounced off my helmet and glasses, all sounds reduced to a constant roar of wind. The road that had taken hours to walk down on softened feet last summer blitzed by in a few minutes. I rolled effortlessly into Nesbyen and found a campsite with a dreamy flat, dry lawn, warm breeze that dried everything in minutes, and a shower. </div>
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It was almost like starting afresh the next morning. Everything was clean and dry and I was well rested. The only fly in the ointment was that the maps I had made it quite clear that I now had to travel along highway 7, a main vehicular artery, north and south. Trucks and coaches rumbled close by and I had to remain focussed on keeping myself tight to the barrier as I headed up the valley. I was also blighted by a creaking, grinding left pedal/crank, which took two pit stops to finally diagnose properly and fix. Just before I reached Gol a bike lane suddenly appeared. Sweet relief. The tension in my shoulders released and I could pedal along in the sunshine, while the heavier traffic continued to rumble past, on the other side of the barrier. On the western side of Gol I finally picked up the National Bicycle Route 4 signs, their bright red facade cheered me up even more. This was an intersection with National Bicycle Route 5 too, so both trails would share this section, climbing up through the valley.</div>
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The route flitted between both sides of the main road and river, the surface alternating between bike lanes, quiet 'B' roads and gravel access roads. I passed swimming spots, fishing streams, local shops, small industrial units and holiday hyytes. Wild flowers of every colour spilled out of the hedgerows and the stops to plunder raspberries increased. I lost my way a little where the trail collides with a busy, but what looks to be fairly temporary, quarrying operation and had to back-track a couple of km's to find a slightly hidden and still ambiguous route sign. This turn would now take me away from the valley and the river and up into more alpine surroundings. The forest became drier as the gravel road ground higher and higher, through switchback corners onto the valley wall. I had been climbing most of the the day and it was about to get even steeper. Geilo, a local hot spot for mountain biking in the summer and skiing in the winter, lay up and around the corner, in the next valley. I still had a few hundred metres of climbing to do. The gravel road turned into jeep track and became hot and chalky white as the afternoon sun beat down. I took a break next to a river and watched a pair of mink play along the margins.</div>
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It was late in the day now. My fuel tank was low, I had had a little too much sun on my left side and the road still went up. Subsequent sign posts to Geilo disagreed with each another. One minute I was told I was within 8km, then I was still 15km out. I pushed my bike up the steepest part of the trip, gasped at the top and made a calculated decision to empty my snack and water reserves. The map showed a descent of a few hundred metres into Geilo but I wasn't quite there yet. Those few km's along those flat trails were hard work. Then suddenly the road pitched down and I was bouncing down a rough jeep track towards Geilo. Past a gate and a recycling plant and I swished straight into some suburbs with people lounging on the porches and lawns, kids playing in the long Scandinavian evening. It should be pretty easy to find a campsite in Geilo, I thought, and no sooner did I think it than I passed a large house with camping and hyttes offered. I rolled into a rapidly filling campsite and staked my claim to the spot with a tree to assist with washing line and bike security details.</div>
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Nothing was dry in the morning. Still, damp air hung over the campsite and everything was covered in dew. My washed liner shorts and riding shirt were hanging wet and lethargically on my washing line inside the tent. <a href="https://pbs.twimg.com/media/BQmqUzJCAAApwuE.jpg:large" target="_blank">The weather forecast for the next day</a> was the most worrying aspect. Wild and tempestuous. Weather warnings for the whole of western Norway covered the homepage of Yr.no. I had today to get over the mountains.</div>
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I stocked up with some supplies at a garage in Geilo and hit the road to Haugastøl, the beginning of the <a href="http://www.rallarvegen.com/index.php?m=aboutrallarvegen&lang=en" target="_blank">Rallarvegen bike trail </a>over the mountains. I passed some more bike tourers on the low angled grind up past Ustaoset. They looked like real world travelers, with four panniers each, beards and tans to match a summer of exploration (well, the girl didn't have a beard...). I reckoned I had to do about 50km in the morning to give myself plenty of time to descend the other side to shelter. They sky darkened the further I climbed.</div>
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I couldn't resist another pit-stop at Haugastøl. Plenty of people were about, despite the weather and groups and families, on hire bike and their own, were being shuttled about in trucks and big shiny cars. Other groups of riders readied themselves at the rear of their cars, sheltering from some light drizzle beneath the boot door as they checked tire pressures and filled pockets and packs with bananas and chocolate. The Rallarvegen is wonderful in this respect. Due to it's location along the Bergen-Oslo train line it offers a totally customizable itinerary depending on your group's abilities, available time and prevailing weather conditions. Downhill only? Finse to Flåm, train back. The whole shebang in a day? Haugastøl to Mydal, train back. With bike hire and drop-off available all along the route you can train in from Oslo or Bergen, wearing nothing but 'active' clothing and enjoy some magnificent mountain scenery and be back at your city hotel by dinner time. </div>
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Time to get moving. Caramel cookie down, it was time to churn out some miles. The 30km to Finse is pretty much all up but it's at a very easy gradient. With a tail wind it was even easier and I made hay while the sun refused to shine. At the almost legendary <a href="https://plus.google.com/u/0/photos/112307819916350072414/albums/5772474046122406033/5772474462526332050?pid=5772474462526332050&oid=112307819916350072414" target="_blank">snack stop at Halvfarhella</a> I came across a large group of, let's say, more mature Norwegians who were having a grand old time. Eating cake and supping on water bottles, they cheered and saluted me as I ground my way over the rise like a pro bike racer, past the snack stop without stopping. I passed a few more smaller knots of riders as the sky blackened.</div>
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Claps of thunder and a sudden downpour had me scurrying behind some rocks to don full wet weather gear and evaluate the situation. The forecast was for broken weather today, with the possibility of some thunderstorms. The really bad stuff was due tomorrow. What if they had got it wrong? I decided to keep heading to the train station, hotel and cafe at Finse and decide from there. I could always bug out on the train if things looked bad.</div>
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As it turned out it wasn't so bad. While I was racing to get over the mountains before the bigger storm tomorrow it turned out I was chasing today's smaller thunderstorms west over the Rallarvegen today. Finse had obviously seen a lot more rain just before my arrival, judging by the puddles everywhere and the train station platform was oddly bereft of people at high season. There were some hiding in the cafe and others sheltering in the waiting room. Hikers, bikers and holiday makers. </div>
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After a short break I decided to press on. I still had some more 'up' to bag before the 30km descent from the Rallarvegen's high point. This is the most popular stretch of the route and I passed more and more people, many of them stopping to enjoy the spectacular views of the mountains, glaciers and waterfalls. I felt a pang of conscience that I wasn't doing the same. I was racing over the route with my own agenda this time. <a href="https://vimeo.com/47606533" target="_blank">I had taken my time last summer and enjoyed the sights in the the company of friends</a>, relishing in the wildness, taking photos and sliding across the snow. We had stopped for waffles and coffee and camped on the shores of a mountain lake. I wrestled with those thoughts for a while and made peace that I was still enjoying the trail, just in a different way. I met another cyclist at the high point. He was the only person to ride past me. We were drawn together by our mutual outdork gear nerdiness. He saw my Revelate Designs bikepacking packs and I his Rohloff Speedhub. Turns out he's ridden the Tour Divide and was on a family holiday but had been given permission to yo-yo the Rallarvegen today. We set off down the descent together but his far lighter load, coupled with bouncy forks, meant he was able to cream the rocky sections and water bars while I crashed through them with a little less deftness. </div>
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I started to catch up with what must have been the morning train's passengers. Vast family groups, spread out over several km's of trail, kids fearlessly bouncing down the trail with smiles on their faces, while the rest of the family pitched down each steep section one at a time. I passed carefully on the left whenever I could, my wee bell proving valuable even here, away from the city bike paths. Some bottlenecks occur, especially at those points where chain railings are in place to stop errant cyclists from plunging over cliffs, and the non-regular cyclists sensibly get off their bikes. I caught up with my Rohloff-geared friend at these points and we enjoyed wrestling our bikes through the rough sections. This is where the trail is really picturesque, with waterfalls and aquamarine river glides on both sides.</div>
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Too soon the trail flattens and there is the short, sharp climb up to the train station at Myrdal. With the famous Flåm railway intersecting here with the main Oslo-Bergen line this is a very busy station in short, intense moments when one trains empties and everyone rushes to the next. The surrounding scenery is spectacular with steep glacial valleys, waterfalls and clouds below your feet. When the station temporarily quietened I sat down with some carrot cake and a soda and passed on some advice to a huge American family group who were readying themselves to take the plunge down to Flåm on hire bikes. They wouldn't need the gears and correct seat height they were worrying about. All they needed were both brakes working and their camera at the ready.</div>
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It was here I decided to cut my trip short by a day or so. The forecast for the next day was still shockingly bad and I had to start work on Monday morning. Instead of taking the short trip on the train through the tunnel to Upsete, and continuing by bike to Voss and the <a href="http://theoddadventure.blogspot.no/2013/06/the-emerald-ribbon.html" target="_blank">Emerald Ribbon trail</a>, I decided to save that nugget for another weekend and ride the local train back to Bergen.</div>
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I really enjoyed this trip. I set off with minimal planning and sketchy navigation but found my way along just fine. Despite the odd bit of rain the weather was great, and fairly typical for Norway in summer. My bike and gear performed handsomely, with only a little room for improvement, and I gained plenty of inspiration for future adventures, along similar, and also different, parameters. Relaxing at home on Saturday I was glad I made the decision to cut the trip short when I <a href="http://www.nrk.no/rogaland/har-du-bilder-av-uvaeret_-1.11163719" target="_blank">saw the photos</a> and read the reports of people out battling the weather. I'd ridden further and harder than I had in a long, long time, since my racing days in the early Nineties. I enjoyed how riding a bike fills the gap between fleeting, impersonal, motorized transportation and the slow, total immersion of walking. I didn't stop as much on this trip as I have on others, evident by the meagre amount of photos I took and no video. This was possibly due to having been through some of the places before but also by the urge to keep moving. Starting and stopping on a bike takes more effort, especially when filming or photographing yourself. There is a fine balance between the effort of pedaling and convective and evaporative heat loss and I find this requires more frequent tuning than when walking, so I just kept riding to keep the equilibrium in balance. </div>
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Officially, that is my summer over with. I return to work a week earlier than most of my colleagues, to help get the school ready for another academic year, but I'm sure we'll have some more fine, warm weather weekends to enjoy before my favourite time of year comes around. </div>
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<br />Joe Newtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00907231785281446095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4399206197069094470.post-1505084444734814062013-07-13T11:29:00.000+02:002013-07-20T09:42:34.862+02:00Access denied. Please enter.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Access denied. A very new and shiny plastic fence blocked the faint path to the stream-side fishing hole where I planned to while away the evening in the pursuit of trout and then cowboy camp in my bivy bag. Quite the anomaly in Norway, it has to be said. No fear, a quick one-eighty and an alternative secured. Fun through the forest trails. Slow and deliberate around the protruding rocks, straight through the mud bars.</div>
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Fortuitously, someone had left several sawn and chopped logs at a neighbouring campsite. I flip-flopped through the riparian brush and across the stream. The water was silky and warmed with summer rain rather than the previous snow-melt. Firewood secured, I gathered twigs for cooking and tried to lure a trout from the lake to add to the couscous instead of the sachet of lemon and black pepper tuna. While fingerlings took flies from the surface in the shallows I couldn't tempt their parents with the clumsier lure from the depths. Tuna it was.</div>
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After ensuring the fire's embers were fading safely, the short Nordic night was slept away under some nearby trees where the ground was less packed by generations of feet. Dusk slips almost unnoticeably into dawn. It seems like ages since I've seen the stars, another reason why this slow descent into the colder season holds no fear, just more opportunity. </div>
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Waking up to fog and a fug of no-see-um's it was no hardship to get out of bed, spark up the stove and put the coffee on. Leaning back against a log I ate breakfast, briefly contemplated more fishing but decided to strike camp. Bikepacking with such little gear (BUL?) meant I was able to ride almost uninterrupted back to the road, just a couple of rocky stream crossings to negotiate on foot.</div>
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Oh, and I forgot my spoon. Again.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bluebells and sundews added beauty and a touch of danger (for small insects) to the shoreline. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">While no-where as well engineered as the Bushbuddy Ultra I used to own, this freebie Bushcooker proved some fun to use under ideal conditions.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dtWwAZ8UTi4/Ud_KXX_uheI/AAAAAAAAJTE/jA-yFln5rZg/s1600/P1020610.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="360" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dtWwAZ8UTi4/Ud_KXX_uheI/AAAAAAAAJTE/jA-yFln5rZg/s640/P1020610.JPG" title="Not quite the eagle I could hear up on the cliffs but this moth captured my attention and proved far easier to photograph" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not as impressive as the eagles that were nesting up on the cliffs above but this moth was far easier to photograph.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fortuitous wood deposit cashed in.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cowboy camping amongst the softer forest floor duff and grasses.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Of all the flowers that captured my attention on this trip the buttercup still rules with it's vitreous yellow glaze.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Unless we experience a late summer deluge I fear this stream has long past it's flow zenith for the year.<br />
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Joe Newtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00907231785281446095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4399206197069094470.post-8571918189633782282013-07-08T17:56:00.000+02:002013-07-20T09:41:11.641+02:00The trail always wins<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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So my journey from my home to Alvdal Vestfjell went a little something like this: walk, tram, train, light-railway, bus, camp bed, bus, light-railway, train, train, wallet-raping taxi. It was a 24-hour whirlwind of stations, e-tickets and constant movement but the first lungful of mountain air was worth it. My annual summer backpacking trip with Thomas was underway.<br />
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We chose Alvdal Vestfjell as it was something a little different. It's not one of the 'theme park' mountain destinations like the mighty Jotunheimen or even Alvdal's big neighbour, the Rondane. It was described in one of the English-language guide books as 'wonderful alternative' to the Rondane with less peaks and far fewer tourist huts. It's lack of photo-opportunity vistas is replaced with a wildness and remoteness that really appealed to me. The few huts that remain are more 'weathered' and the trails are rockier and far less distinct than the Rondane. It's appearance typified by rolling hills, that are covered in Reindeer Moss, the beguiling ground covering that appears dry and soft but hides a saturated and slimy underbelly that yearns to break free and slip from underneath every footfall.<br />
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The weather for our visit was 'comfortable' in the most part. 'Comfortable' for me means not hot and sunny. The constant wind varied from gentle, bug-downing breeze to full-on screaming banshee. We saw sunshine and glowering clouds everyday. We wore windshirts nearly all the time and alternated the sunglasses, hats, hoods and rain gear on a constant basis. We got a bad weather forecast on the antique radio in the hut at Korsberghytta that had us wondering about bugging out but we rode out the short rain storm and adjusted our route accordingly.<br />
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Hytteliv. Hut life is often a wonderful addition to the wild camping. The need for warmth and shelter is pre-programmed within us and I appreciate the chance to rest and recoup within this wonderful system of shelters when I feel like it. This was our holiday after all so we didn't sweat the decision to blow off a wild camp if the conditions weren't optimal and a hut was conveniently close-by. I prefer the self-service versions, raiding the ample provisions room for a hearty dinner and finding entertainment in the old outdoor books, maps and visitor books. Keeping the stove lit is a job I enjoy and our sodden socks roasted slowly on the hanging ironwork rack.<br />
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We spent another night indoors, this time at a private tourist hytte where we enjoyed a feast at dinner and beer in the lounge, pouring over fjell guides and more maps. We visited some unique springs and walked a sublime trail along the shore of a lake. I played my daily game with the trail, trying to keep my feet dry as long as possible before the inevitable expanse of bog or phantom stepping stone across a stream plants my feet firmly under water. The trail always wins.<br />
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Then we swung almost 180 degrees up into the wind swept highlands, each rise and saddle revealing more open terrain. The wind increased in proportion to the gathering clouds. We had made 'good calls' every day, when to rest, where to sleep, etc, and we made another at this point. We had planned to cross another saddle into another valley but the increasing headwind had us changing our minds. We searched amongst the glacial drumlins and moraines for a sheltered pitch and found one where the wind seemed to whip over the top.<br />
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Our night on the open hill was comfortable for me. I had confidence in the SL3 to remain where I left it, pinned and tethered with everything we had, and some additional rocks besides. I had endured stormier nights <a href="http://thunderinthenight.blogspot.no/2011/04/thunder-on-tundra-day-1-2.html" target="_blank">with Jörgen in the far northern winter</a> so felt a little more at ease. The wind was a bit rambunctious but the ambient temperature was warm enough in my tent. I'm not sure Thomas was as comfortable and he told of experiencing the 'awe of the mountain' at 03.00. Unfortunately I missed it as I was fast asleep. The next morning we awoke to slightly calmer conditions and even some periods of sunshine which we we soon shunned as we packed up and headed even higher, straight into the cloud.<br />
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We experienced several swings in emotion over the next 24 hours. The dizzying spectacle of the cloud parting fleetingly above Bukletten (1532m) to reveal a column of cumulus shaped like a Himalayan peak, complete with wispy summit clouds and sun drenched ice cliffs, knocked us sideways. Alas the cloud was quicker to cover this freak of nature faster than either of us were with our cameras, perched as we were on a snowfield in the murk.<br />
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A low was experienced at the high point where minimal visibility, insidious wind and rocky trail conditions over a high mountain pass made comfortable travel impossible. Thomas especially wasn't enjoying the experience but for me building a little Type 2 fun into these trips is necessary. We checked and rechecked our position, cross-referencing with the GPS. Thomas marched in his synthetic parka and we were both ensconced in our hoods and gloves. We were never in danger, just aware that the situation could have deteriorated quickly had we gotten lost or injured. Luckily we had two heads, two maps and a GPS that got us down the other side, into the next valley, below the cloud and in short order, to a cafe where we consumed hot dogs and sodas.<br />
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Across the valley and up into the hills once more we searched in vain for a passable camp. We were in that zone between cosseted pine forest and pristine alpine fjells. We tried. We even started. We had our shelters out but the boggy ground and profusion of bugs had us packing up and heading for the next hytte where we pitched up on the lawn, drum tight. We ate well and even showered. We dried our gear in the drying room that was so efficient I discovered a couple of Spanish girls in there, drying their hair. Hola!<br />
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So we visited Disneyland, the actual Rondane mountains, for one brief day. The trails were well worn and the scenery was indeed dramatic and worthy of photography. We saw more people, hawks, fledglings, a lemming and even sunshine. The wind didn't abate though, a constant headwind down the Illmanndalen. We swaddled ourselves in windshells, hoods and sunglasses. Then, just as we felt we could charge onwards forever and the giants of the Rondane revealed themselves, our journey ended at the Rondvassbu hytte and gravel road.<br />
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So we left the Rondane National Park wanting more. Plans and schemes for the short and long term, solo and together, were formulating in our heads already. The trail had won. It survives in it's often harsh environment, drawing people back again and again. It excites, it scares, it creates wonderment and memories. It had drawn us together once more, nourished our bodies and hearts, despite the wind and rain, and sent us on our separate ways in the search for more.<br />
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<br />Joe Newtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00907231785281446095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4399206197069094470.post-79321728214814660162013-06-23T13:42:00.000+02:002013-06-23T14:17:07.815+02:00A day late, a dollar short<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The intention was join in with <a href="http://www.alastairhumphreys.com/summer-solstice-microadventure-challenge/" target="_blank">Alistair's summer solstice microadventure shenanigans</a> but after a tough week, with the end of school and the start of the Summer Camp program I run, I was pooped. Coupled with the fact that my new bivy bag didn't arrive in time, and as that was one of Alistair's rules, I decided to fob the whole thing off, stay in and drink free <a href="http://instagram.com/p/aqrF8Xi93W/" target="_blank">beer</a> and <a href="http://instagram.com/p/as_wcHC95J/" target="_blank">wine</a>.<br />
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The yearning to get out wasn't dead though. Saturday the weather forecast was meh at best but I wanted to check over my planned shelter set-up for next weeks foray into the mountains with Thomas. Taking some cues from <a href="http://www.backpackinglight.com/cgi-bin/backpackinglight/sul_mindset_part_2.html#.Ucbdwj6SC7o" target="_blank">Ryan Jordan's new-paradigm SUL post</a> I opted just to leave as much stuff at home as I could. With wet but warm weather forecast, a proposed camp in familiar surroundings and just a few hours to play with I was packed in a few minutes. No map, no FAK, no wash kit, no stove, minimal clothing. Not even a real camera. Luxury items were a can of Guinness, fresh fruit, sandwiches for dinner and a pecan and chocolate pastry for breakfast. I stuffed the SL-3, bug inner and rain gear into the seat pack and everything else went into my Talon 22.<br />
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The way in was T-shirt-and-shorts weather, but clouds were sweeping in from the south. When I got off the road I found the rocky trails were dry and I cleaned the trickier sections with a smile on my face. I decided on a new camping spot, greener but hidden-rockier, pitching the SL-3 took longer than normal. The river bed next to me was dry, save the gentlest trickle. Then the rain fell.</div>
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It was good timing really. I was all set, fly pitched, noting some improvements I needed to make to the bug inner before next week, I settled down to enjoy my sandwiches, a beer, staring out and listening to the rain. I've also finally discovered the joy of digital/audio books, enjoying Jack London's 'The Call of the Wild' on my iPhone. When the knott hordes became too interested in my blood I retreated to my bug inner and promptly fell asleep, some time during Chapter 3...</div>
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Morning brought more rain. Landing on the fly with a thump, it waited for other rain to hold hands, then excitedly slide down the nylon together in a mazy descent before leaping off the edge to the ground. The stream next to my camp was now burbling and lolling it's way over the smooth pebbles to the lake. Carrying so little gear meant I was breakfasted, caffeinated and packed really fast, all under the SL-3's generous protection. Lastly the fly was un-pitched and stuffed away in the seat packe again. The trail was now slick with mud and slippery rocks so, with pussy being the better part of valour, I pushed my bike through the rain to the road. As I rolled my wheels onto the tarmac the rain stopped but the road was flush with greasy water. I cursed my vanity through flying spray, for removing my fenders yesterday, but I was pleased I had enjoyed a midsummer microadventure, albeit a day late.</div>
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And now, onwards to winter! ;)</div>
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<br />Joe Newtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00907231785281446095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4399206197069094470.post-631627413554063062013-06-16T18:00:00.000+02:002013-06-16T18:00:09.949+02:00Two W/Heel Drive<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Bicycle-accessed backpacking. Not bikepacking, but accessing quality backpacking terrain by bike. I had some car-lift credits to spend (part payment for some house painting that includes beer and grilled meat products) but I decided not to cash those chips in this weekend as my friend was already busy helping another friend move.<br />
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I chose Frankenbike, my single-speed commute/shopping/bodged-together bicycle for this venture. Perished tires, BMX pedals and grips, bargain-bin tandem stoker bars. She wouldn't be as efficient as my Fargo but her tired demeanor and unflashy simpleness would make her easy to ride the 20-or-so kms into the hills and leave overnight, unattended, chained to a tree. <br />
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Hiking up Hausdalen in the muggy evening air and insect life was rife. Dozens of beetles, from jet black, through creamy Ribeana, to iridescent blue, toiled uphill. All of them going uphill, like me. Criss-crossing the river, then above the trees. Pretty much as soon as I needed to stop for water I spotted the first signs of sheep. I was thankful for bringing some Aqua Mira but couldn't remember the correct dosage so I gambled. Time will tell if I got it right...<br />
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Out of Hausdalen, swing left passed Redningshytta and up the side of Austefjellet. The incline slackened and the trail dried. The sun was shimmering off the fjords and sea across the hills. It didn't stay summery for long. No sooner did I have the tent up than a cold northerly wind sprang up and buffeted the back of the rain fly and surrounding cotton grass. Clouds roiled and the wind increased. Pretty soon I was enjoying my summit beer dressed in nearly every stitch of clothing I was carrying.<br />
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The wind increased as the day slipped unnoticeably into night. The sun doesn't really set here. 23.00 and I was still watching an epic sunset, now wrapped in everything I had, including my rain gear to fend off the wind. The fire across the northern sky couldn't warm me up. Spots of rain fell. I slipped into my tent, stuffed the earplugs in and tried my best to sleep.<br />
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It was a long night. Unlike last time I didn't sleep so good. The increasing wind had the tent flapping, twisting and deforming like a bucking bronco. I couldn't believe the structure was being held onto the top of this hill by slips of metal, dug into the soil, and string. At times the sides of the tent deformed enough to touch me and, despite the ear buds, the noise was disturbing. I tossed and turned until the early hours when the rain started and the wind quietened.<br />
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Finally able to sleep I missed any light show dawn had planned. My alarm call in the morning was the pewing of some plovers and the grumbling growl of grouse who were undecided between their winter and summer wardrobes. By the time I was up and drinking coffee the morning was fully developed but thankfully the chilled northern wind of last night was replaced with a warmer breeze from the west.<br />
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Packing up is a breeze when you travel lightly and simply and I was heading down soon enough. A couple of people resting at Redningshytta were the only people I saw. Dropping into Hausdalen the temperature cranked back up again and the sun returned. I stopped and rested on one of the giant erratics, either a relic of the ice age or the final resting place after a fall from the valley walls. Warblers darted up and down the stream and my back started to dry in the sun as I treated the lovely clear spring water with chemicals. My camp spot from a few weeks ago peered down from the top of Sveningen opposite.<br />
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Thankfully my bike was still nestled in the spruce forest. Either no-one noticed her or no-one wanted her. I decided not to discuss it with her and keep her mind on the task in hand, namely expediting my tired legs home. We rolled the valley road home together, passing buttercups and dandelions, shining gold in the sun. This was the way to travel, especially after the brutal 8km walk down this road back to civilisation last time. Next time I might cash-in my car lift chips but it was good to discover my bike can still take me places, even if that place is somewhere where my feet can take me further.<br />
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<br />Joe Newtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00907231785281446095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4399206197069094470.post-76333818539910037762013-05-26T18:53:00.000+02:002013-05-26T18:53:59.382+02:00Summit Else<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Time to get some hiker miles in the legs with imminent trips stacking up just over the horizon. A full weekend away was cancelled when my best friend needed help repainting the outside of his house. The housing co-op only had the scaffolding up for two weeks so the weekend was busy with each house-hold calling in favours or bribing friends and family to pitch in with scrapers, wire brushes, paint brushes and rollers. I was happy to help and enjoy a job when you can stand back at the end of the day and go "I helped do that". As remittence my buddy offered me a lift out of the city so I could get in some 'up-and-down' and a night under the stars to boot.<br />
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Smeared in paint and already a little beat but eager to get going. Despite the day's late hour the walk up the Hisbotnelva ridge was sweltering. Sweat poured. Trees cracked. Nothing moved. Except me. Slowly. And with ever decreasing increments between rests. The sun shimmered off the lakes and rivers as I left them far behind. All I saw was the footholds in the steep trail or the grey of the solid granite slabs that form several sections.<br />
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After a couple of false summits I was onto a small plateau, somewhere around 700m. Finding ground that wasn't rock was tricky. Finding ground that wasn't rocky or saturated with recent snow melt was trickier. Eventually I found a sweet spot with just enough flat-ish real estate to pitch my fly and inflate my mattress.<br />
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The views were fantastic. Giants, snow and glaciers to the south, mean monsters right next to mine, the fjord and finally the folded hills towards the city. Even the mackerel sky that stretched above me offered choice viewing pleasure.<br />
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Cold pizza slices in greaseproof paper and cups of fruit tea proved restorative after my evening's exertion.<br />
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No 'hiker TV Channel 1' tonight but I was spoiled for good viewing. The falling sun cast shadows and changing hues on every surface. To the east, the stepped approach to Sveningen's true summit came into shadowed relief. That could wait until tomorrow.<br />
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The evening light show was exemplary. Blue, golds, reds and finally into purple. The temperature fell but it remained comfortable to stroll around my slice of heaven, my scratchy eyes pulling me towards bed while my sense of wonder kept me up past my bed time.<br />
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Solid nights sleep. Absolutely solid. Yesterday's toils and comfortable surroundings meant I crashed hard as soon as my head hit the pillow and didn't surface until I was fully recharged. No dreams, no moving. Lights out.<br />
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First view out of the open zip was of a full cloud inversion. I was up and out of bed in seconds, grabbing my camera and running around my little plateau marveling at the different views. The bigger lumps to the south were just islands in the sky. Cloud poured down a couloir opposite.<br />
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Breakfast was taken on my new balcony looking south towards the interior. With no running water I trusted water from the still frozen ponds to rehydrate my muesli and milk powder and pour through my coffee filter. Water Boatmen bobbed through the warmer margins.<br />
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The flattest part of the trail so far was the ridge running from my camp to the steep approach to Sveningen. Punctured with snow fields I actually got to use the crampons I had lugged all the way up here.<br />
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Sveningen's steps required finger tip scrambling, as in, I could walk most of it with just the occasional finger tip on nearby rocks to steady myself. Just in a couple of spots were all four points of contact required. Bizarrely, the route to the summit travelling this direction isn't marked but the route down is clearly signalled buy white squares painted periodically on the rock. I guess if you wanna get to the top you just keep going up until there is no more up to be had.<br />
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The summit was quiet, still and sublime. More snow than rock, the safety hut was snowed under. I mixed water, snow, hot chocolate mix and a coffee sachet for a mountain frappuccino that was sunk fast. I scribbled my name into the notebook, locked away from the elements in a Pelican case and stored inside a post box that looked like winter storms had been tearing at it for six months, lid missing, paint rapidly following.<br />
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Heading down I 'ski-ed' on my forty six and a halves down the gentler snow fields and picked my way on hands, feet and occasionally my butt down the truly steep stuff. The forest jeep track down the valley was hot and dusty. The 8km tarmac road back to civilisation was tender footed, sun-burned hell. With 'No service' blinking on my phone all the way along Hausdalen I wondered if I would have to walk the entire way home. Thankfully by the time I hit the main road I had 3G and within minutes an air-conditioned, leather upholstered, eight seater Mercedes taxi picked me up. The taxi driver was deep in conversation with someone via his Bluetooth earpiece so I started the process of reliving the journey early, clicking through the images on my camera and smiling.<br />
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<br />Joe Newtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00907231785281446095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4399206197069094470.post-6986569950055131312013-05-20T18:54:00.001+02:002013-05-20T18:54:43.205+02:00New places, old places<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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We'll it's taken a while but finally I'm settled in my new apartment and have (nearly) all my belongings around me. Living a car-free lifestyle is great, until you actually need a car. Huge thanks to my friends who came through to move/store/move my shit, and to <a href="http://liquidbeta.blogspot.no/" target="_blank">Mark</a> who gave me a roof over my head for a month. The last stuff to show up was all my camping gear so it was with great delight that I loaded up my bike on the same weekend that summer descended on the west coast of Norway.<br />
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I headed south, along the fjords, but not before stopping less than a kilometre from my home with some <a href="http://instagram.com/p/ZimTFYi95n/" target="_blank">major crank/pedal issues that I needed to 'unfuck'</a>. I discovered a not-insignificant hill with a ribbon of tarmac draped across it. <a href="http://theoddadventure.blogspot.no/" target="_blank">Odd Arild</a> knew about this, as did all the local lycra-clad road weenies. They also seemed to know something about which direction to ride it because they were all going one way while I went the other. I didn't see the difference, on 2.2inch rubber and a full touring road it looked a bitch in both directions. I may have walked a bit of it...<br />
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Over the hill, and not so far away, are the ruins of an abbey, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lyse_Abbey" target="_blank">Lyse Kloster</a>. In a grassy courtyard I laid on my back for a while, recovering and soaking up the rays. Lunch break. Summer's advance was everywhere. Flowers and shoots abound. Children let ice cream melt down their fingers and the tarmac was littered with the desiccated carcasses of worms.<br />
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I took a road across the hills and into the more familiar Hausdalen valley. Some off-roading and pushing across the bog took me to a regular camp site. The sun was relentless. It took a few hours of drinking fresh stream water, fruit teas and sitting in the shade to get me cooled down and rehydrated.<br />
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As well as forgetting to bring a spoon (again) I also didn't bring my fishing gear, which was a shame because the lake was looking sublime and I had a few hours to kill before the sun went down. 20.00 and the temperature in the shade was still 26C. I passed some of the time fashioning an eating 'scoop' from a twig with my knife. I won't offend spoons by calling it such, as my shaped twig was nothing so technically brilliant.<br />
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When the sun finally dipped below the forest ridge I got to play with the firewood I'd spent time collecting. Not a lot comes close to the sense of achievement of lighting a fire with a spark and the sense of communion with nature and our ancestors. Hot chocolate supper then I turned in for a night under the fully opened tent fly. Darkness never really visited before dawn was back. Head-torches are redundant in the northern summer.<br />
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It was warm already when my alarm reverberated deep inside a dry bag somewhere. I don't have my alarm set for weekends but it was a national holiday and my phone wasn't smart enough to understand this fact. Ah well, better get the coffee going.<br />
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Packing is always easy on dry mornings with minimal gear. I found myself back on two wheels by 07.00 and pedaling around the lake on the 'beaches', bogs and finally jeep track. I was home soon enough, had a second breakfast and hit the local trails with a weighted rucksack. Backpacking trips on the horizon!<br />
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<u>Gear notes</u><br />
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Finally got try try out my first 'real' tent since my Laser Comp. I bought the <a href="http://www.hilleberg.com/home/products/unna/unna.php" target="_blank">Unna</a> second-hand (practically unused) from someone on the Norwegian trekking forum. I didn't try it in it's traditional double-skin configuration. Fly only, wide open to the breeze and views due to the unbelievably hot weather and paired with an <a href="http://oookworks.com/index.php" target="_blank">Oookworks</a> tub groundsheet. I like the Unna for bikepacking. No trekking poles, low profile for near-road camp sites, masses of usable space and a reasonable weight for a pitch-anywhere shelter. Lighter bug inner required but I'll have to wait until Sean is less busy.<br />
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The newer version of <a href="https://www.revelatedesigns.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=store.catalog&CategoryID=3&ProductID=4" target="_blank">Revelate Design's Harness</a> is a winner already. Simpler set-up, doesn't interfere with the cables on drop bars as much, more room for your digits and rock solid, both in mounting on the bike and in holding the dry bag.<br />
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Lastly I got to play with my <a href="http://www.lightmyfire.com/products/sparking-fire-collection/swedish-fireknife.aspx" target="_blank">Light My Fire Swedish FireKnife</a>. Total impulse buy from a local supermarket. Plenty of bushcrafty smiles. May not make it on gram-weenie trips but playing with it in the woods was ace. I doubt I would have carved my eating 'scoop' with my teeny Victorinox Classic so easily. And it got <a href="http://instagram.com/p/ZhnpKfC91l/" target="_blank">this fire</a> started :)<br />
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<br />Joe Newtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00907231785281446095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4399206197069094470.post-16424394737734666772013-03-30T07:58:00.000+01:002013-03-31T06:28:32.699+02:00Bye Bye Black Dam<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The time to move has arrived and with it I must say farewell to Svartediket, the Black Dam. For four years it's dam, reservoirs and trails have been the ever-present escape from the city that lay just a few minutes walk from my front door. A notch in the wall of the Seven Mountains that led to a quieter world of shadows and towering rock, mystery and history... and a nicely graded trail with lights so I could even go there in the evening... </div>
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Ulriken's bulk has been the view from my kitchen window and the wall at the end of my street for a long time now, my house laying just over the ridge to the right of the photo above. Taking a break from final packing it was time to grab some fresh air and say goodbye.</div>
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Even on this brief farewell tour it revealed surprises. Who would of thought that the wee frozen waterfall on the far side of the cirque could be viewed through a hidden culvert. The seamless trail I'd walked hundreds of times before was lain on the backs of giant slabs of rock, the storm drain nestled within to direct Spring's run-off. I'd never even noticed.</div>
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The lengthy cold spell has left the reservoir frozen for an age but the falling water levels mean the margins are covered in a patchwork of carefully arranged slabs of ice, each tile six inches thick. A Robison Crusoe-esque lean-to shelter perched on the edge will no doubt be washed away when the thaw arrives and the waters return.</div>
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I have spent many hours here and I know I will visit again but I feel a part of me being removed. I have walked, run, skied and ridden around these paths. I have shared them and had them all to myself. I have been happy, sad, tired, refreshed, cold and sweaty. I will not be far away but it is time to see another side of the city. And there are seven mountains that surround Bergen. Time to find a new one to call 'home'.</div>
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<br />Joe Newtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00907231785281446095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4399206197069094470.post-41285769898852022952013-03-27T19:58:00.000+01:002013-03-28T10:14:06.477+01:00The dream goes on...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Down below the feet were marching on</div>
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There was glory calling, flowers were thrown</div>
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Although the sun was shining</div>
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The cold blue light of morning</div>
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Can't melt the layers of dreams</div>
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Left from the night before</div>
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The dream goes on...</div>
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Snuff - Vikings on the Tundra</div>
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So things have been quiet here. The usual suspects. Apathy, time, real life, illness. But the dream goes on. Restructured, new priorities, fresh inspiration. Sometimes there just doesn't seem to be enough time, especially for me as I pack up my worldly possessions and prepare to move house. Hence this wee jaunt, tagged under <a href="http://www.alastairhumphreys.com/" target="_blank">Alastair Humphrys</a>' 'micro adventure' initiative.</div>
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Two hours. That's all it took me to leave the packing cases, bin bags, stress and reality behind and be somewhere timeless and pure. I left home in the middle of the afternoon with a hurriedly packed bag and headed up with only the vaguest of ideas of where I was going to spend the night.</div>
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The trails away from the city were clear but as I fell into the shadow of Våkendalen and climbed into the cool air, the patches of ice slowly joined together to form a solid sheet clear across the path. Tarlebøvatnet was the limit of my grip and I donned mini-crampons to ease the perilousness. Across valleys and ridges I climbed higher, and breathed deeper.</div>
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The Viking hut is one of several dotting the Byfjellet hills above Bergen, sitting at about 590m. It is wired by thick cables to the ground, a testament to the winds that can run up here and it has a wooden bench running the length of the building, facing the afternoon sun. I didn't stop this time, preferring instead to continue along the ridge towards Grønetua, in search of a spot that would give me views of both the evening and morning skies.</div>
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A suitable site picked I gathered snow to melt for water and sat down to a tasty feast of pasta bolognese, solbærtoddy and chocolate. The evening sun, bloated and fiery, dipped behind a distant band of cloud before it's light, and any associated heat, was extinguished in a matter of minutes. It seems you only truly know the fleetingness of days when you watch a sun set or rise in real time.</div>
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The night passed peacefully, the stationary high pressure weather system appearing to suck every sound into the heavens. Just the usual it's-cold-outside-so-I'm-gonna-make-you-wanna-pee trick from my bladder. I thought there might be an inversion or aurora so I skipped the pee-bottle routine for a dalliance under the stars. No romantic meteorological events though, save a big, fat, full moon so bright it hurt to look at it.</div>
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My alarm reverberated in a chest pocket and required enough fumbling to fully wake me despite sleep clinging to my eyelids. Still no inversion but a purple sky welcomed the day with a blushed horizon in the pre-dawn. I melted some more snow for breakfast and sat on a rock with a coffee, watching the sequel to last night's solar performance. A pin-prick of yolky yellow lasered across the mountains from the East. Within minutes light flooded the plateau and it was time to pack up.</div>
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Still wearing a layer of fleece under my windshell I soon warmed up as I first climbed then descended the ridge. I stopped at the Viking hut this time, to shed some layers and pull on my sunglasses. My tracks from yesterday glinted across the valleys in the morning light and shards of ice from my crampon points, like discard diamonds, shimmered and swayed across icy traverses. After an hour and a half the day was really warming up. De-robing as I walked I then had to pull it all back on again as I descended into the still-shadowed valley to the reservoirs. I saw only one person on that walk home.</div>
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The winter hasn't gone according to plan. Real life takes over sometimes. But the dream goes on...<br />
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Gear Musings:</div>
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I don't do gear reviews anymore but I still spend an unhealthy amount of time musing about the kit I use so in future I'll blab about it in shorthand after any trip reports (idea totally ripped off from <a href="http://www.nielsenbrownoutdoors.com/" target="_blank">Roger Brown</a>...)</div>
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My poor <a href="http://thunderinthenight.blogspot.no/2011/04/thunder-on-tundra-gear-gimme-shelter.html" target="_blank">Firstlight</a> has not had much love recently so I gave her a run-out with the cold and dry forecast. Still a cinch to put up and comfortable to live in. Still don't like that door.</div>
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Normally I anchor the Firstlight on snow with skis and poles but I managed to find a pitch on bare tundra. Unfortunately the ground just below the surface was either rock or frozen solid. With only a gentle breeze to contend with she stayed put with the MSR Blizzard pegs dead-manned under some rocks.</div>
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There was no need to lug this -15C rated beast up there in only -10C weather but I wanted to. I haven't had a chance to use my <a href="http://www.westernmountaineering.com/index.cfm?section=products&page=Sleeping%20Bags&cat=Microfiber%20Series&ContentId=37" target="_blank">Western Mountaineering Antelope MF</a> yet so I wanted to take my new toy out and play with it. So. Much. Down. Too warm on this trip, which bodes well for trips when I've shivered in my Ultralite. The shell coped with brushing up against the Firstlight's frosty walls but there was some frosting around the mouth area, as there always seems to be in winter. Will someone design a sleeping snorkel for winter camping please?! On longer trips I would still take a <a href="http://thunderinthenight.blogspot.no/2011/04/thunder-on-tundra-gear-sleep-system.html" target="_blank">synthetic over-quilt</a>.</div>
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First real outing for the <a href="http://www.hyperlitemountaingear.com/3400-porter-pack.html" target="_blank">HMG Porter</a> and I'm instantly in love. Very comfortable, it feels like it's been custom made for my torso. I guess it's been a while since something off-the-shelf has fitted me so well. Enough volume for a winter weekender and the outboard daisy-chains made for easy stashing of my Ridgerest, crampon bag, un-used BD poles and Sno-Claw. The colour is adorable, it's just a pity it's on my back so I can't see it more often. It's a good job it's versatile and I like it so much because I've sold every other pack, save an Epic for packrafting/long trips, a Talon 22 for riding/running and a Goruck GR1 for everyday use... Four packs! I'm down to four, that's GOOD!</div>
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The <a href="http://hillsound.com/hillsound-product/trail-crampon/" target="_blank">Hillsound Trail Crampons</a> were stellar. They were crucial on this trip with so much ice and compacted snow. They gripped really well, didn't interfere too much with my gait and fended off mix-trail sections with rock and gravel. I don't think there is much difference between these, the Kahtoola Microspikes and the other generic versions I've seen in the local sport shops, save for the small velcro strap that loops over the forefoot. </div>
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Also on my feet were the Inov8 295s, some Bridgedale trekking socks and some <a href="http://www.outdoorresearch.com/en/or-gear/gaiters/ultra-trail-gaiter.html" target="_blank">OR Ultra Trail gaiters</a> that I've only used a few times but I like the cut of their jib. Still light, stretchy and non-waterproof but infinitely more robust than other 'UL' gaiters I've used in the past.</div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;"><br /></span>Joe Newtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00907231785281446095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4399206197069094470.post-21328455512164660532013-02-03T20:06:00.000+01:002013-02-03T20:06:08.267+01:00Repeat custom<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Not sure why I thought Saturday would be quieter on the ski bus. It was heaving. Full capacity. Yes, I was back for more. Repeat customer. Last week's first foray of the season had whetted my appetite. This time, thanks to sunnier weather, the visibility was far better and I decided to head onto the plateau for a full lap. </div>
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There was a lot of wind, and had been for some time, looking at the windblown crust. There had been plenty of fresh snow but the trails had been prepped and the surface was fast. Nailing the Corner of Death first try I found myself giggling at my crouched silhouette as I bombed the rollers. The descent off the plateau was fun and I only scared the shit out of myself twice... More miles than last week and far more up and down had my hips cramping by the time I slid into the car park for the ride home. The soporific ski bus with it's heating on too high and metronomic thrum. The pizza and beer at home didn't even touch the sides.</div>
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Introducing people to world beyond the city limits is amazing. For both of you. They get to see where you've been 'wasting' your weekends and you get to see your trails with fresh eyes and the innocent glee of your first visit. So on Sunday I took my friend Laura, who has wanted to see what all the fuss was about for some time, on one of my usual jaunts, the straight-up-and-down-the-other-side of Rundemanen.</div>
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The weather forecast wasn't too pretty. A fresh breeze, rain mixed with snow and plenty of ice from the cyclic thaws. After a million questions on what to wear Laura showed up at my place and we proceeded around the reservoir and up through the forests.</div>
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Above the treeline the wind tried it's best to cut us in two but we were ready for it. The path zigzagged in and out of the wind and the path blipped from ice to snow to gravel and back again. Laura donned her 'grippers' and with only a little help around the steepest switchbacks she made it over the top. Obligatory summit shots, a change of gloves and we gingerly made our way across the small icy valley towards the path home.</div>
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Once down into the trees again we were sheltered from the wind and enjoyed the far calmer stroll down towards the city. We passed more people and there was less ice under foot, well, until we got to the path down to the reservoir. Holy shit. The path is asphalt and steep as hell. In the dry it kills your quads at the end of a walk. On damp days it can be pretty slick and slimy. On this day it was treacherous! Apart from a few locals blessed with Legolas-like powers of sure-footedness everyone else was sporting spiky traction apparatus on their shoes and taking it slowly. Laura found it far safer to quadruped her way down Bergen's Cresta Run of a footpath. Shoulda taken the bum sleds.</div>
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All smiles at the end of the day. That was the goal and Laura was beaming. Despite the ice, the cold, the wind, the snow and even my jokes. On her way home she text that it was 'soooooo much fun'. Another satisfied customer.</div>
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<br />Joe Newtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00907231785281446095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4399206197069094470.post-20543154830200634612013-01-27T21:19:00.000+01:002013-01-27T21:19:40.345+01:00All the fun of the fair<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It's taken some time but I've finally had a proper XC session on my skis this winter. I'd been hoping to get out over the past few weeks but snow has been scarce and reports coming back from the trails and resorts were of puddles of ice, wind-blown crust and manufactured snow on the slopes. I kept an eye on the snow info app on my phone and waited for fresh snowfall.</div>
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My hopes were fulfilled this weekend as fresh snow fell in the mountains, adding a few inches of skiable to the nasty old base. A short ride on the ski bus and I was finally out in the white stuff. Not so much kick-and-glide straight away however as the freshly falling snow was sticky and prone to clumping in the morning. The temperature hovered around freezing and the resort experienced every kind of precipitation from lazy white candy-floss flakes, through graupel, hail and even some rain. Later in the afternoon the snow relented and the trails remained quiet but the earlier traffic has slicked up the løype a treat. Kick-and-glide, double pole and even some skating, it felt great to be running through my rusty repertoire. The roller-coaster downhills were a blast in the flat light, bumps and dips appearing out of nowhere. By the time the ski bus rolled into the car park in the late afternoon I was feeling a little beat up but grateful I hadn't lost too much of my meagre skill. The drone of the bus's snow-chains lulled me to sleep as we left the snow behind and headed for the city.</div>
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No doubt I'll pay for it in the next few days with some aches and pains but the cost of entry was well worth it.</div>
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<br />Joe Newtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00907231785281446095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4399206197069094470.post-61846555528941896042013-01-13T20:06:00.000+01:002013-01-13T20:06:32.242+01:00Magic carpet ride<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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In a week chock full of Jack Frosts best handiwork today took the biscuit. The gossamer, crystalline scales of frost that covered all the vegetation on the far side of my Sunday ride were works of art. Everything was dusted white. The fields I rode past glinted like crushed diamonds. Every branch or frond I brushed past exploded with perfect pixie dust. The water froze in my water bottle. Two toes were numb by the time I got home and I discovered a couple of other chinks in my winter riding armour, but it was pretty, so eye-wateringly pretty out there today. It even sounded exotic, as I fizzed along on a blanket of thick frost. While containing the basic ingredients of the ice-fest a couple of weeks ago this magic carpet of frost offered plenty of grip and even dulled the popping of my studded tyres. It was quiet enough to hear the squeaky chain that I'd forgotten to lube...Joe Newtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00907231785281446095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4399206197069094470.post-26459953324529633332013-01-13T09:50:00.000+01:002013-01-13T09:50:37.417+01:00Band of brothers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I met Anders the old fashioned way. Through a friend, unlike recent times, when most of my outdoor adventure brethren have been met or introduced through the Internet. You see, Anders is the little brother of <a href="http://goinglighter.blogspot.no/" target="_blank">Thomas</a>.</div>
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Anders and I had met a couple of times when Thomas and <a href="http://helenswonderings.blogspot.no/" target="_blank">Helen</a> visit our little city of Bergen from their life in the capital. We had made a promise to go hiking or backpacking at some point but never got round to it. Then a few days ago Anders called and the stars aligned. We had the time, transport and a weather window.</div>
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Anders had selected a route planned to the summit of Liatårnet, the highest point on the island of Sotra, a rugged archipelago that helps to coddle Bergen from the ravages of the North Sea. Last time I visited Sotra was almost exactly a year ago, <a href="http://thunderinthenight.blogspot.no/2012/01/for-those-in-peril-on-sea.html" target="_blank">the day of my infamous sea kayak capsize</a>...</div>
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We climbed from the road onto the cold hills. In the northern shadow of the hill all plant life was crystalised white. We side-stepped plenty of ice on the rocky trails and crossed frozen marshes with dry feet. We talked politics, cultural differences and movies. Except the occasional dog walker or runner the hills were quiet. The only sounds, our crunching footsteps and a solitary crow. The sun was directly in our eyes for much of the afternoon. We stopped on a suitable slab of granite for coffee, jerky and <a href="http://www.brodogkorn.no/oppskrifter/bergenske-skillingsboller/" target="_blank">skillingsboller</a> pastries. Lazing and indulging we picked out the peaks that surround Bergen from our new vantage point and marveled at the port city's ice-free status in a country blanketed in snow for much of the winter. In the distance the Folgefonna glacier. Time to move. Some minor scrambling over some bands of rock warmed us up again nicely.</div>
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The last stretch to the twin-domed radar station on the summit was on asphalt. We cinched hoods and zippers in the cold air and shot photos to our hearts content. The snow capped mountains of the interior blushed pink in the late afternoon light, alas beyond the range of my wee camera lens. Jets from the airport down the straights banked sharply above Sotra and glinted in the sun. Time to go. Initially we eschewed the marked trail of our inward journey for our own path and hustled quickly across the moors, in the shadows of the hill, to keep warm. Joining the trail near the reservoir everything was painted red but there was no warmth in this light. Inky blue skies on the horizon and the first stars hinted at a cold night ahead. We slipped and slithered the last descent to the road and scraped ice off the car. Driving back towards the city the night seemed to be chasing us.</div>
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Thanks to Anders. And to Thomas for introducing us. Brothers.</div>
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<br />Joe Newtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00907231785281446095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4399206197069094470.post-21021198270608000872013-01-06T20:38:00.000+01:002013-01-06T20:38:18.973+01:00Out of marzipan and into the fire<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>Timing. At the end of a cold, wet ride just the nubbin of a chocolate covered marzipan log remains. </i></div>
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It seems everyone is making promises. Goals, dreams, fantasies. This year will be better than the last. More adventure. Less procrastination. As much as I tell myself I'm not getting caught up in this culture of New Year resolutions I am making some definite-maybes. Once you come to terms with the fact that we seem destined to proclaim greater things as soon as last year's calendar turns it's last leaf and dies, the next question is: do you call them out or keep your resolutions private?</div>
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<i>Butch road bike? Effeminate mountain bike? I think we can all agree she's 'fugly'. And I love her.</i></div>
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Setting our stalls for the year ahead and putting it down on paper or pixels can be a means to motivate ourselves. On the other hand in a year hence it can serve as an epitaph for another year of disappointment, wether rendered by illness, injury, cash flow, self-doubt or any number of life's minutiae that can get in the way. Could there be a middle ground? Can I set loose targets, and if so, what would they be? Does publicising them curse or inspire you? </div>
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To combat my own procrastination and tendency towards self-doubt I'm planning several adventures this year with other people. This locks me into the compelling mind-set of not wanting to look like a complete pussy... Therefore, I have ski tours of mountain plateaus, <a href="http://www.facebook.com/groups/104440426379085/?fref=ts" target="_blank">the coast-to-coast hike of Sweden</a>, winter bikepacking and something involving skis and packrafts all firmly pencilled in, in erasable lead. I'm also finding the thought of a century ride and some kind of enduro 'race' alluring. I'll continue to keep an eye out for something to test myself against without biting off more than I can chew. Perhaps once the tickets are booked or entry forms posted I can go public with my plans and failure beyond that would be down to some other fallibility. I definitely need to work on my own head-games.</div>
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<i>Old shoes, old snow, new resolutions?</i></div>
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This weekend I pondered these points during hours of yet another clichéd resolution, to NOT let my 'age', or rather my physical conditioning, be one of the factors limiting my plans. Ski season, for me, retreated another week into the future (the local ski bus waiting for better snow conditions at the resorts) so I made do with more bike riding and a fairly intense hike up and down Rundemannen. Both sessions were carried out in swirling, perpetual drizzle. I fueled my bike ride better this week and avoided the wall. I improved my time scaling Rundemannen but came down feeling dehydrated. I guess even if I can't guarantee the success of my bigger dreams this year I can continue to learn how to control the smaller details, whether that's deciding to publicise the challenges I set myself or even simply making sure I have enough marzipan.</div>
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<br />Joe Newtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00907231785281446095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4399206197069094470.post-20079593257083883732013-01-02T15:09:00.000+01:002013-01-02T19:03:52.894+01:00Crème brûlée<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Bang! Straight into 2013 with another hike, this time in pummeling rain, over Rundemannen yesterday and a slithering, icy, three hour bike ride today. Plenty to look forward to in the coming year so best keep active when I can. December seemed to be dominated by high pressure weather, keeping things nice and frosty with some snow for good measure but January has started with much of Scandinavia suffering a low pressure Christmas hangover.</div>
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Riding through Bergen this morning I enjoyed clear bike paths and trails but as soon as I hit the small pass over to Kalandsvatnet I was in a world of ice. Patches of grey slush to start with, but they soon grew in size, the colour purifying to white against the black tarmac. Then they joined together to produce a full width covering with a crème brûlée consistency. A thin veneer of smooth verglas sitting atop a layer of bubbly slush. My studded tyres cracked through and found comparatively easy purchase below. Then, out of the blue, I hit expanses of solid ice, the bike slewing this way and that, as I struggled to keep things on an even keel. At the worst stretch, a downhill, off-camber corner, I simply unclipped one foot and unceremoniously tripod-ed my way round the bend, the front tyre the only point of contact able to maintain constant grip. </div>
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So, I didn't ride as far as usual today but it took just as long and I ended up feeling just as drained after tensing and un-tensing all kinds of muscles that helped to keep me upright. My toes scrunched tight in my boots, my hips having sashayed around for hours and my hands cramping with repeated intervals of light-but-deliberate and full-blown-death-grip. Closing the loop into the maritime climes of Bergen the ice receded, replaced instead with icy rain and puddles. Ahh, bliss...</div>
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So here we go, 2013. Happy new year everyone. </div>
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<br />Joe Newtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00907231785281446095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4399206197069094470.post-34938846102182871102012-12-27T13:09:00.000+01:002012-12-27T18:32:54.815+01:00Anatomy of a snowstorm <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The justification for running this short photo essay is simply that I had a good time and snapped some fun images along the way. It was nothing more than 'training', a quick 13km blast from my front door to the summit of Rundemannen (568m) and back, hence I wasn't carrying a 'real' camera. I did have my phone with me to log the activity so I started snapping as the fun started. The images here are all unaltered so I apologise for their technical quality.</div>
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A smattering of overnight snow over weeks of compacted, partially thawed, then refrozen ice made for a slippery scramble around Svartediket and up Tarlebøveien to the second reservoir. I wore my Icebugs and the only other footprints in the snow both sported the tell-tale tracks of Microspikes. When I left my house it was still kinda dark but as I hit the second reservoir I looked over my shoulder and saw the early morning sunshine painting the few clouds pink.</div>
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Walking up through the last stands of trees an eerie light cast a sickly, tungsten bulb hue across the snow. I know that light, I thought. Snow's coming. I looked up and sure enough thick clouds with a hint of orange welled up from the fjord below and over the flanks of the hills. The morning sun cast the hillside's own shadow across the impending maelstrom. </div>
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On the final portion of the path to the summit now I spun around and looked back down the route of my ascent. The cloud rolled over my head and started to squeeze the blue sky against the mountains.</div>
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Even the Sun couldn't hold back the descending curtain. The wind picked up and the odd snowflake started to spin and skate through the air in front of me.</div>
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At the summit I gazed across to the other side of Vidden's crescent and watched as the snow and cloud continued to crush the Sun as if it were merely a faltering match head. Soon even the dying orange of the Sun's final resistance was snuffed out. I pulled out another jacket and microspikes from my pack for the descent, drained the solbærtoddy from my water bottle and turned back into the racing cloud. </div>
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WHUMP! Wind stripped my outer layers of heat and stinging snow violated even the cinched-up portal of my hood. Head down I peered for the path with half closed eyes and struck out towards home. The footprints from my ascent were already rubbed out and I could no longer see the hills around me, just the swirling snow and the icy path beneath my feet. The world was white. A real sense of excitement and of being alive welled up inside me. Is it childish to still feel this way when it snows?!</div>
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Back down in the trees and I was more able to enjoy the merry dance of the flurries. In between the trees big, fat snow flakes spiralled slowly from the sky, carpeting and muffling everything. In the open areas between, the snow was manically racing horizontally on the wind.</div>
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Not many others witnessed this tiny event. Two elderly Norwegian runners, inspirationally puffing past me up the hillside, witnessed the tail-end of it. A heron, stalking tiddlers in the dark, open pools of the small stream, appeared indifferent to the changing conditions and a tiny wren danced along the rocks lining the way, leaving stick-like footprints in the fresh snow. </div>
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Sitting here now in the warmth of my apartment, with the return of the sun, blue sky and a world painted white, I think back to my own private snowstorm this morning with fondness and yearn to witness more.</div>
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<br />Joe Newtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00907231785281446095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4399206197069094470.post-1225290310898713432012-12-25T12:44:00.000+01:002012-12-25T23:49:58.010+01:00Dirty Dozen - 2012 in 12 images<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>Not the usual way most people based in Scandinavia start their year but January 2012 had me sea kayaking in the North Sea off the west coast of Norway with my good friend Mark. Thanks to his skills and experience I didn't start 2012 by dying. I capsized in relatively calm conditions and contemplated life upside down, submerged, clinging to my paddle and wondering, 'Do they have killer whales in Norway?'.</i> </div>
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<i>2012's ski season was a total bust. Lack of decent snow and inspiration had me off my skis for the most time since arriving in Norway. Ski sessions were reduced to day trips on crusty, wind-blown, icy trails and no multi-day trips. Not a situation I am keen to repeat in 2013.</i></div>
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<i>I took advantage of Alpacka's annual Christmas sale and took the plunge into packrafting this year. March had me keeping a keen eye on the weather forecast and at the first sign of a thaw I rolled the wee boat into my backpack, jumped on a bus and a couple of hours later I was paddling recently unfrozen lakes and grinning from ear to ear.</i> </div>
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<i>My first overnight trip with the packraft was a rewarding experience of learning to cope with being continually damp and having to carry all the chattels that go along with using the little rubber wonder-craft. It was so much fun to explore the blue areas of maps that had always previously been a barrier.</i></div>
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<i>April produced probably my favourite trip of the year, a long weekend packrafting and backpacking the local hills that are studded with lakes. I started off in brilliant but icy sunshine but awoke the last morning to Winter's last hurrah of wet snow. Challenging, beautiful and intimate.</i></div>
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<i>Highlight of my working year was our long weekend field trip to the wildlife centre and hill farm at Lonedrag. Chaperoning 50+ goats and 24 kids across the moors to the summer hill farm was far less stressful than expected thanks to goats who knew where they were going, wonderful kids and unseasonably warm conditions as we followed the retreating snow up the hillsides. </i></div>
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<i>Peak summer backpacking season might have been remembered for the epic bog and bug-fest that was our trip to explore Vassfaret by packraft with Beni and Marco but I also fondly remember my trip to Kokskogen with Thomas. Still plenty of bugs but I also remember sunlight and summer breezes. The trips were polar opposites in scope, simplicity and pack weights but sharing both experiences with new and old friends was the memorable factor. Going solo is rewarding but sharing laughter and tears with friends is something I want to concentrate more on in 2013.</i></div>
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<i>Bikes re-entered my life in the summer. After a lifetime of cycling I had gone over a year without riding a bike and the arrival of my Salsa Fargo rekindled my love affair with two-wheeled propulsion. Gone are the days of racing, training and stunts and in place I combined bike travel with camping. My adventure along the Rallervegen with Donn, Jen and Anne was amazing. Snow, sunshine, Snickers and comradeship.</i></div>
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<i>Late August and back to work. A new contract with an old class was a welcome reason to endure the return to daily rituals and commuting. Summer's glut of freedom receded to happy memories and an air of change swept in.</i></div>
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<i>It wasn't too long to wait for the first holiday of the academic year which brought a mixed bag of illness, seasonal change, the first frosts and a wonderful bikepacking tour of the rugged islands of Lindås and Radøy. Frozen toes, quiet roads and the most colourful and immersive Autumn I have ever enjoyed.</i></div>
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<i>November rain. November seems to be a month many Scandinavians deplore. Cold and wet, the dreams of summer dashed while the hopes for snow-fueled adventures are still lingering just out of reach. Odd and I decided on a super quick bikepacking trip that turned out to be super wet. Despite the conditions it was the communion with my 'gear twin' and fellow Bergen resident that I remember. I'm sure our matching Fargos enjoyed meeting one another too...</i> </div>
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<i>December arrived and with it some periodic snow between the cyclic thaws. Regular weekend training rides, one quick evening ski and a hike into the mountains over thin snow, carrying, not wearing, my snowshoes. School finished for the holidays, the rain returned and ideas and dreams for 2013 churn in my head...</i></div>
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<br />Joe Newtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00907231785281446095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4399206197069094470.post-25558813989085517032012-12-02T12:37:00.001+01:002012-12-02T12:37:53.656+01:00Close, but no cigar<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Snow, thaw, three weeks of rain, a week of sub-zero and then two days of snow. It's been a typically mixed bag for Bergen as winter marches on.</div>
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I left my house in the dark this morning, fully intending to be up top to capture the sun rising over the snowy peaks to the east. I got up in time but the sun didn't, lazing as it was behind a thick duvet of cloud and a dull, flat dawn. My head torch swung from side-to-side flashing across pristine, glowing perfection.</div>
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Ground conditions were trickier off the graded trails and above the trees. The unconsolidated snow was not established or thick enough to warrant the snow-shoes I lugged up the hillside. Every footfall broke through the cover to hidden rocks and unfrozen bogs. Back down at the reservoir the Sunday foot traffic and seasons first skiers had pounded the snowy trails into something eminently skiable.</div>
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Time to clean those ski bases.</div>
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<br />Joe Newtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00907231785281446095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4399206197069094470.post-32009719044820369872012-11-04T16:14:00.000+01:002012-11-04T16:14:30.816+01:00Trick and Treat<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Trick:</div>
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Bitter cold, ice, roller skiers on the bike path, cold, cramp. Cold.</div>
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Treat:</div>
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No wind, no rain, few cars, fresh air, pocket full of Halloween candy, no crashes on the ice, two skids.</div>
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<br />Joe Newtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00907231785281446095noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4399206197069094470.post-25415007145233056202012-10-28T18:06:00.003+01:002012-10-28T18:06:57.313+01:00B&W<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Old Man Winter swooped into much of northern Europe this week. His cold, fierce scream bringing plummeting temperatures and snow. Like obedient children we scramble for the B&W effect.</div>
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He's not sticking around for most of us, except in the far north of course. This was just a test. He'll be away again for another month or so before returning with a vengeance.</div>
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Across the social media it seemed people were getting out and getting getting cold in this brief taste of winter. Familiar trails and views smeared in magical white, suddenly new and interesting again.</div>
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Cue a crap load of monochromatic masterpieces across the blogosphere. Bring. It. On.</div>
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<br />Joe Newtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00907231785281446095noreply@blogger.com0