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Across
the Arctic Circle Sixty-six,
thirty three, thirty eight. My
mind was drifting, as it often does on a long paddle, and now it was contemplating
these numbers, trying to picture what someone would look like if their vital
statistics matched those measurements.
Suddenly a shadow passed across my kayak, something which shouldnÕt
happen on the open sea off Norway.
I looked up to see the sudden eclipse had been created by a pair of
gigantic wings, the size of a couple of ragged surf boards. The inquisitive raptor circled a
couple of times, then glided off ahead, itÕs white tail beckoning us to
follow. I glanced down at the
GPS and saw the numbers click into place; sixty six degrees, thirty three
minutes and thirty eight seconds of latitude. A sea eagle had welcomed us across the Arctic Circle.
One
glance at the chart for this area and you can predict almost perfect sea
kayaking. The myriad of islands,
thousands of streaks of yellow ink on the chart, look like someone hit a
crunchie bar with a mallet.
There are fifteen thousand, some separated by only a few metres of
sea, creating a series of aquatic mazes which would take weeks to fully
explore. The question is where
to start, and for that, you need local knowledge. Two
friends in Norway independently recommended the Helgeland area and it fit our
criteria perfectly. Liz and I
are experienced backpackers, having spent five months hiking a 2,600 mile
wilderness trail through the United States. But weÕd never lived from a kayak for an extended
period. Before we organised our
own expedition to somewhere really remote, like Alaska, Greenland or
Patagonia, we wanted a practice paddle, what Americans call a Òshake-downÓ
trip. But where? We wanted to be fully self supported
and organise all the logistics ourselves rather than buying into a package,
but it had to be a holiday, not an expedition. We hoped to use our own boats but didnÕt want to mess
around with air-freight. We
planned to camp well away from habitation, but couldnÕt face the hassle of
grizzly or polar bears. And it
all had to fit within the constraints of a two week holiday. Strict criteria, but Helgeland fitted
perfectly.
In fact,
IÕd go so far to say itÕs the ideal choice for intermediate paddlers wanting
to organise their first, overseas multi-day mini-expedition. The scattered islands and mountain
panorama are similar to what we might find in British waters, but bigger,
bolder, and more dramatic. ItÕs
like Scotland on steroids. I sense Helgeland could become a very popular
destination for British kayakers.
This article is not meant to describe the perfect route through these
islands, itÕs just the one we picked, but it does set out all the information
I wished IÕd known at the start. GETTING
THERE The glory days of air travel are long gone. An evil combination of budget airlines and barmy terrorists has turned flying into an environmentally crippling version of purgatory. By contrast, the Queen of Scandinavia is delightful, even if she looks a little elderly now. We drove into her cavernous belly (youÕve worked out sheÕs a ship, havenÕt you?) near Newcastle and, twenty six hours later, emerged onto the quayside at Bergen. ThatÕs a long time on a ship but we approached this much as we would a climb over ten thousand feet; it was acclimatisation. ItÕs not lack of oxygen but cash which will leave you gasping in Norway. The country has the highest GDP per capita in Europe and by comparison weÕre the poor relations. The DFDS vessel runs on Norwegian currency and prices, and while forty six pounds for dinner for two initially sounds expensive, itÕs relatively cheap compared to what would lie ahead. Hence the need to acclimatise. As we
drove north, two coffees and a kit-kat in a small road-side cafŽ cost
£6. Supermarkets were generally
fifty percent more expensive than at home. This is another reason to favour the DFDS car ferry over
flying. Not only could we use
our own boats and equipment, we took almost all our food for the two
weeks. And if youÕre considering
this way of travel, believe me, itÕs worth the extra few quid to book a cabin
with a window because, in rough weather, it helps to be able to see the
horizon, even if itÕs moving up and down. The
downside is the drive. Almost
one thousand two hundred kilometres on windy Norwegian roads, where strictly
enforced speed limits rarely exceed 55mph, takes about eighteen hours to
complete. Sharing the driving we
did it in one long evening and one long day, catching just five hours sleep
in the back of the car when we pulled into one of the many picnic places
along the route. The scenery in
the southern fjord area and through the mountains of the Jotunheimen is
breathtaking, but elsewhere it was just trees and rock, apart from the twenty
minutes we spend inside a mountain, driving the worldÕs longest car
tunnel. The trolls have clearly
been active. There are a lot of
tunnels in Norway. OUR
ROUTE We
planned the route using Google Earth, although ÒplannedÓ suggests a sense of
organisation we didnÕt really have.
WeÕd decided where to start and finish, and picked three or four key
places to visit. Solv¾r was top of our list.
If youÕve
paddled the scattering of skerries off Arisaig on ScotlandÕs west coast, try
to imagine something like that, only much bigger, as if someone had cut and
pasted the islands from OS sheet 40 over and over again. The vast majority appear far too
small to be inhabited, yet wooden cabins crop up in the most unlikely places,
usually with a small boat bobbing about on the water in front. Paddling these narrow channels felt
like following natureÕs corridors, and we never knew what was around the next
turn. Sometimes it was a
community, once or twice it was a fishing boat travelling at a fair
pace. One particularly narrow
corridor had been bridged by a few hefty planks of wood, leaving a gap only a
few feet above the water. With
perfect timing, a Norwegian family laden with picnic hamper, strolled across
the bridge just as we were attempting to kayak-limbo underneath. They stared at our contortions but
remained silent. What were these
foreigners doing? It was
precisely because we wanted to visit these islands that we chose to start our
paddle in the mainland town of Nesna.
WhatÕs more, Nesna is a daily stop for the famous Hurtigruten coastal
ships, eleven of which continually travel NorwayÕs coast and which, in years
gone by, were the main link between thirty four remote communities all the
way from Bergen to Kirkenes.
Nowardays, the Hurtigruten is a triumph of marketing. The old working steamers, crammed
with Norwegian fishermen heading home, have been replaced by cruise ships and
dollar toting tourists, drawn by the promise of experiencing the ÔworldÕs
most beautiful voyageÕ. Our
route would take us between two Hurtigruten ports, Nesna and Ornes, so we
could use this famous boat to return to our start. It was only later I discovered many, many more options
were open to us, as this entire coast is criss-crossed with big ÒferriesÓ and
Òfast boatsÓ both of which take sea kayaks. Lovund
was another island we were keen to visit partly because it sits on the
outside edge of the Solv¾r chain of islands, but mainly because itÕs
home to a huge puffin colony.
Giant cliffs towered over our campsite and, high in the sky, squadrons
of the small missile-like birds flew sorties out to sea and back to their
ledges. Puffin burrows
surrounded our tent, but they were empty. August was too late in the season to catch most of the
birds at home, as theyÕd already headed out to sea where they spend the
winter. The ones we saw heading
to and from the cliffs were only the stragglers. Surprisingly, the wildlife was scarce. We saw a few fins, later identified
as small dolphins found regularly in these waters, and one or two mink. But the biggest puzzle was the almost
total lack of seals. With such
physical similarity to Arisaig, weÕd expected the water to be buzzing with
their curious faces, yet in two weeks we didnÕt see any. I was later told local authorities
encourage people to shoot seals by offering a £50 bounty for every jaw bone
returned as evidence. Fishing
has long been the dominant industry in these parts and, as in the UK,
fishermen believe the seals eat too many fish. ItÕs quite normal to own high power rifles (people are
encouraged to sign up for NorwayÕs own Ôhome guardÕ and keep a rifle at home,
even in cities) so shooting seals is considered both a sport and a
potentially lucrative side-line.
Over the next few days we hopped north from island to
island. To our east, the
coastline presented a ragged panorama of soaring peaks. Lurking behind them, the vast ice-cap
of NorwayÕs second largest glacier, Svartisen, continued to sculpt the
landscape, its various snouts hanging between the folds of the mountain range
like cooled candle wax. When the
wind blew from the east, across this permanent snow, the temperature dropped
five degrees. To our west,
distant islands beckoned, tempting us into big crossings. We resisted and pressed
northward. The water was astonishingly clear and, another
surprise, incredibly shallow.
Part way across a five kilometer crossing I could clearly see the sea
bed. It felt like I could get
out and walk. ÒThis is our own
Great Barrier ReefÓ, I was later told by a local with whom we stayed. ÒIt starts far out at sea, and it
protects the islands through which youÕve been paddling. ItÕs what makes this area
specialÓ. For early fishermen
the reef was a blessing and a curse.
It sheltered the inner islands, but before the days of powered
vessels, it meant a long row out to sea to reach deep water. Some built homes on the outer islands
but during a big storm in 1901, more than thirty people were killed. Huge waves rolled in from the North
Sea, hit the shallow reef and reared up into what today we might call a
tsunami. It crashed onto the
offshore community and people were drowned in their own homes. When fishing boats gained engines and
could travel further and faster, many families sought shelter, quite
literally moving home by loading it onto a boat, and erecting it on a new
island. Today, many of the cabins on the islands are holiday
homes. This isnÕt the preserve
of a wealthy few, itÕs quite common for Norwegians to have a Òsummer homeÓ,
either in the mountains or on the coast, to which theyÕll retreat at weekends
and for the long summer holiday many take from June to August. As in Scotland, there is a tension
between the people who live and work permanently in the island communities
and those who visit only occasionally yet have pushed prices beyond local
reach. Autumn was in the air, even in August. We had three hot days when we paddled
flat calm water wearing just a thermal top. After that, cloud hung over the mountains and a steady
cooling breeze created the perfect temperature to switch into our Palm dry
suits. Although beaches were
relatively scarce, we never struggled to find a good campsite. WeÕd taken a huge tent, a three
person Vango geodesic dome in case weÕd had to sit out bad weather or pitch
on rock or sand where we couldnÕt rely on pegs to hold the tent upright. No matter that it needed two Lomo
tapered dry bags and filled the noses of both kayaks, it was an excellent
luxury well worth the space. Liz
had home dehydrated all our dinners so we ate well. Our only contact with locals along the route was when
we called into a harbor for water.
I found a hose lying on a pontoon and managed to fill our five, 10ltr
water bags without getting out of the boat. It was belting down with rain, the sort of deluge in which
the rain drops actually bounce back off the surface for a second go. We were well protected in our dry
suits and large rain hats, and Liz fancied some bread and milk, so we decided
to check out the shop. Clearly
the sixteen year old lad behind the counter wasnÕt expecting any customers to
brave this downpour, let alone two English folk in bright orange jump-suits. ÒSnakker du
EngelskÓ, I asked, using my only Norwegian. ÒErr, a littleÓ came the bemused reply. Two minutes later we walked out with
a frozen loaf and a carton of milk, my wallet £2.80 lighter for the
privilege, leaving the young man still in a state of disbelief at who, or
what, heÕd just served. Because this is an area full of myths and legends. All are associated with the dramatic
landforms amongst which we were paddling. One tale tells of a beautiful female Ogre who lived with
her six sisters. A giant Troll
called Hestemannen fancied her, but the affection was not reciprocated and
the seven girls ran south to avoid him.
He galloped after her on his horse, but the sun was rising, so he
fired an arrow at her, but instead hit a Troll called Torghatten. The sun rose and they were all turned
to stone, but you can still see their shapes; the Seven Sisters mountain
range, the island of Hestemona which looks creepily like a hooded man on a
horse and, most amazing of all, the island of Torghatten whose mountain has a
big hole right through it. We only
had one tricky moment, when wind and tide combined to raise some clapotis at
the north end of Rodoy island.
We couldnÕt be certain this was localised, and since we were about to
tackle a seven kilometre crossing, decided to pitch camp and wait a few hours
for the sea to calm down. Later
that night we crossed back to the mainland and slipped into our first fjord. WeÕd planned to spend three days
exploring the inter-connecting fjords, but low cloud limited the views and
frankly, after such superb, varied paddling amongst fascinating islands, the
fjord was boring by comparison. Industry
and so-called civilisation was beginning to intrude. Steam rose from a factory at the head
of the fjord, and I could smell it made food for fish farms. We cut short our exploration, headed
for the nearest port on the Òfast-boatÓ schedule, and by that evening we were
back in Nesna. It wasnÕt the end
of our journey by any means.
Instead, we headed out to yet another cluster of islands, this one a
UNESCO world heritage site, where we spent another four days. A unique set of features makes Helgeland a special
place to sea kayak. Sheltered
waters, protected from the worst of what the prevailing westerlyÕs can
produce; a series of archipelagos stretching up the coast in which kayakers
can find peace, quiet and isolated campsites; larger, mountainous islands
with dramatic plunging cliffs and weird tortured rock shapes; all set against
a rugged backdrop of grey mountains fringed with permanent Arctic snow. This is the place Norwegian and
Swedish sea kayakers have been coming to for years, leaving us Brits to drive
further north to Lofoten and Nordkapp.
Perhaps it wasnÕt a deliberate attempt to keep it to themselves. Perhaps they just saw no reason to
shout about it. Whatever the
reason, the secret is out and IÕm convinced Helgeland could be the next big
sea kayak destination. HOW TO DO IT
YouÕll find all this information and more at SeaKayakRoutes.com |
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