Nord Norge

ApproachMurmansk → Tromsø

The day before the flight it turned out that Nordavia had been delaying or canceling all its flights for 2 weeks already, and ours was no exception. Customer support answered nothing, and overnight we switched the tickets to Aeroflot, which in the end turned out to be the right decision.

We spent a day and a half in Murmansk, went out for a barbecue with relatives, bought the rest of the food. On a rainy Monday morning, August 1, we set off by minibus to Kirkenes. The drive to Kirkenes took three and a half hours. The hardest part was hauling the whole load first through the Russian and then through the Norwegian metal detectors. On the bus we met Polina. She was also heading to Kirkenes to fly from there to Tromsø and start her own trip.

The minibus driver took us to the airport, we checked all the baggage and returned to town. There's not much to do in Kirkenes — two cafés, a few shops, a museum, and a library. It was the library that became our refuge in the rainy little town.

Three hours flew by unnoticed: we looked at maps, atlases, and Norway guidebooks, drank free coffee — they couldn't take my card payment, so they poured three cups for free.

In general you don't need cash in Norway — in any shop in any village they take cards, and it's very convenient.

The bus schedule to the Kirkenes airport is strange: the last one left at 10 in the morning, and at those prices it's already cheaper to order a taxi (for three of us a taxi cost 320 kroner versus 300 for the bus).< We flew with Widerøe, a division of SAS. They mainly serve northern Norway, and their turboprop Bombardiers work there like winged minibuses. You could fly to Tromsø not in an hour and a half but in eight, with stops at every airfield.

In Tromsø a car was waiting for us, ordered from the campground. Some misunderstanding led to a 16-seat minibus being sent for us. The driver stopped the meter once he realized the mistake, so we didn't have to pay even more horrendous money for the transfer.

The campground is very cozy — a shower and toilet not far from the cabin, there's even a sauna. In the cabin across from us was a group of Russian road-trippers; they were driving to the Lofotens.

Campgrounds in Norway are a fairly budget way to stay during a trip. We rented the smallest cabin for two days, and it already cost less than any hostel and could sleep four.

PackingTromsø

The next day we found a launch spot in a marina half a kilometer from the campground, and set off for groceries.

Buying food in another country is a problem — all the products are baffling and unfamiliar. So we spent a long time grilling the shop staff on which butter is 100% animal fat, which canned food is better, and so on. Norway has a huge selection of all sorts of crispbread, and we took almost every kind to try. They all turned out good, and instead of the usual Finn Krisp (and there's nothing decent in Russia) we had a rich choice of every shape and flavor. My favorite was Flatbrød, "just like grandma's."

We went into Piramiden Sports not only for the tent floor but also for a fishing rod — on Facebook I'd seen they have a whole fishing department. At "Ekstrim" no one could explain to me what to buy for catching cod; they suggested odd things. The locals, though, know their stuff, and overpaying a mere 250% of the Amazon price, I bought a Shimano telescopic rod, a reel, plenty of line, and five small pilkers. On the whole this set would have lasted me to the end of the trip, but later I bought some heavier pilkers — they went to the bottom faster.

We bought herbed potatoes and salmon and grilled them on a disposable grill for lunch. Disposable grills are a whole topic of their own in Norway — they're really great here, grill well, last a long time. Eating this way is much cheaper than at a café. And the locals hardly eat at cafés and restaurants anyway, and the food there is strange — some kind of burgers and sandwiches. We assembled the kayak and checked all the gear. It's not immediately obvious that we're north of the 69th parallel: all day the sun blazed mercilessly, around 20 degrees, and we walked around in T-shirts. We chat with Makar over FaceTime — the mobile internet is excellent.

After lunch we went to the central part of town, didn't make it into a single museum (they closed early), barely found a café open at 6 p.m., and talked for a long while with the girl behind the counter about how Norwegians live in the north. Family and sport are the main values. After work no one goes to a café, everyone goes home. The bars are mostly for tourists, or for locals on weekends.

We rode the cable car up the mountain, admired the views and the paragliders flying over the city all day. The polar day was over, but at 10 p.m. the sun was still fairly high. It doesn't get dark at night, and remembering last year, I'd brought a sleep mask. Much more comfortable than pulling a hat down over your eyes.

Day 1Skittenelv

We mark our third wedding anniversary by putting the kayak in the water. First we hauled it to the marina, then brought all the gear, packed in dry bags, by taxi. All the taxis have huge trunks — they're Volvo or Mercedes wagons, so any number of bags fits in them with ease. Launching at a marina is the nicest thing you can treat yourself to: no rocks, no seaweed.

The weather is pleasant — the sun has hidden behind the clouds, a cool breeze blows in our faces. It will blow in our faces all day (SPOILER: and the whole trip). Boats and large ships move through the strait, so we kept closer to shore. Right away we saw brown dolphins and a jellyfish we dubbed the "Little Stool" for its size. There are surprisingly many of these little stools here.

The day passed in pleasant paddling, and after 25 kilometers we stopped at the Skittenelv campground. We could have gone farther, but the first day is always a warm-up. We had lunch, pitched the tent. The views at the campground are stunningly beautiful.

The most interesting thing about it — there's an open-air water park. And this, mind you, is north of the 69th parallel, well above the Arctic Circle. When I'd googled this campground I saw photos of the water park and immediately thought it was a mistake, that the photos were probably from somewhere else. But no, there really is one slide and two pools here. At the manager's cabin I bought two big soft-serve cones and tickets to the water park.

After lunch I went out to the pier to cast a line. I don't really know how to do it, and I'd brought all the tackle in order to jig straight down. But nothing ventured, nothing gained, and I fairly quickly caught some kind of fish — though I'd hooked it in the back. That's a win and a success, I need nothing more. I spent a long time asking the campground's inhabitants what kind of fish it was, but never could figure it out — the answers varied.

We went to the water park, and afterward fried the fish in the shared kitchen. We didn't know how to clean fish, but we acquired the skill in the process. Fried fresh saithe has a pleasant slightly sour taste.

Day 2Lyngen

The next day we set out as the tide was coming in. During a rest I caught and released a small cod. As we approached the fjord crossing (about 10 kilometers) we stopped to stretch on a cape. A reddish-brown fox was wandering along the shore, but on spotting us it ran off up the steep slope. The water is incredibly clear. If on the White Sea you could see the bottom only when you were practically on top of it, here it's easily visible some 10 meters down. Everywhere there are schools of fish, giant little stools, whole scatterings of sea urchins.

From the sea came a long swell about a meter high; it slowly lifted and lowered our little craft without hindering us. On the crossing we saw puffins and black guillemots for the first time. They'd surface right next to the kayak, take fright, and instantly dive back under. To the right, rising straight out of the water, stood the Lyngen Alps — mountains up to 1,800 meters high. A stunning sight.

Before approaching the Lyngen peninsula we decided to stop and catch some fish for lunch. This turned out to be a very sound tactic, which we kept to until the end of the trip — we'd catch fish right before landing. I caught two splendid mackerel, after no small struggle, and one cod. Since we barely know fish, and the field guide was in a dry bag, we first decided it was herring. But on closer inspection it turned out to be the Atlantic mackerel, or scomber, familiar to everyone from tins.

The fish soup came out hearty, with a glistening film of fat on top. A lunch like that completely resets your fatigue and charges you up for good paddling — a shame it doesn't protect against a headwind, because of which we covered about five kilometers and stopped for the night.

The campsite, however, we chose was downright lousy. A very narrow strip of what could be called a beach, littered with all kinds of debris, and frankly nowhere to pitch a tent. With great difficulty we managed to wedge our four-meter hangar into some bushes. In the evening we enjoyed the sight of the fog that the wind chased around the whole fjord, appearing here and there as a thin band over the water, adding aerial perspective to everything.

Day 3Lighthouse on Lyngen

The morning of the third day brought us foul news — the headwind had strengthened, the fog had moved onto us. It had apparently done so during the night, because by morning all our things were already damp. But we're used to it, and with the precision of a well-tuned machine we packed up and began loading everything into the kayak.

The bottom in this part of the fjord is awful — all slippery seaweed, and worst of all there's nowhere to load the kayak where the waves won't pound it against the rocks. I had to stand waist-deep in the water holding the boat while Dasha loaded the gear. Once I slipped, and my loosely rolled trousers and jacket came apart, water poured into my trousers. A wet backside finally killed the mood completely. By the feel of it, half an hour of packing like that is worth half a day of paddling. We got into the kayak already thoroughly tired.

The weather didn't improve, the wind didn't die down, and we slowly crawled along the shore, dotted with the occasional tidy little house. Some sit right on the slopes, reached by intricate networks of paths and little stairways.

We decided to stop for lunch not far from the northernmost cape of Lyngen. We caught no fish — in waves like that it was awkward to hold position — and we put ashore. Landing took no less effort than setting out. Having eaten, we decided that maybe we could round Lyngen and push on to the island of Arnøya. But it's almost 15 kilometers away, and we're crawling no faster than 4 kilometers an hour. The wind wouldn't let up, and after lunch we only tried in vain to catch fish, then landed a kilometer from the lunch spot, this time for the night. I was wildly tired from the packing and terribly cold from the water that had gotten inside my suit; at lunch I was literally shaking with cold, even though I was well dressed. We covered 14 kilometers for the day, not a cheerful record at all.

We found a spot on the trail beside a huge flat stone that has served passing hikers as a table for hundreds of years already. There turned out to be too many hikers. People moved in a small but steady stream somewhere along the shore and disappeared over the pass. We asked one of the passing old ladies where everyone was going. It turned out that ahead was a lighthouse with a wonderful view of the sea and a cabin where you can spend the night for free.

Spending the night in the cabin didn't much interest us, but we went to look at this landmark. The lighthouse really is very beautiful. In the small four-person cabin a Lithuanian named Paulius had settled in with his family. He'd brought his children to show them Norway and spend the night in the cabin where he himself had stayed as a child with his father. Paulius turned out to be a very friendly guy; we talked with him in Russian, told him about our plans, and went to look at a fishing boat wrecked on the rocks. It had literally been torn in two and scattered along the shore, a grim sight.

Paulius set off somewhere into the mountains, and we to our tent. I managed to dry out and cheered up noticeably. After dinner we ran into Paulius, who'd made a loop through the mountains. We talked with him for another 20 minutes. During that time a French couple passed by, and the woman, hearing Russian, addressed us in Russian. Her husband was especially interested in our kayak and in how we planned to reach Nordkapp.

Just before bed we watched two Hurtigruten ferries meet. When they came close, they greeted each other with a melodic series of powerful horn blasts.

Day 4Skjervøy

In the morning we found an almost following wind and hurried to get on the water. But no matter how we rushed, the morning packing, from alarm to departure, standardly takes us 2 hours. An hour for breakfast and the morning routine, and an hour for breaking camp and loading the kayak. The wind blew on the beam — not that it helped, but thanks for at least not hindering. We rounded the cape with the lighthouse and decided not to head for Arnøya, so as not to cross the shipping channel. Ships pass fairly often here, and we didn't want to end up under one of them. Just in case, I kept channel 16 open.

We committed to an almost 22-kilometer crossing to a small strait between Arnøya and the island of Kågen. Luckily for us, the weather helped — a light following wind kicked in. At last we could relax and enjoy the views. Even an imperceptible breeze at our back already eases the paddling with our sail.

On channel 16 we heard an announcement beginning with the words "Alle botte," which I translated as "all vessels." I decided to find out what it was and at the end of the transmission asked them to repeat in English. I was told it was Vardø Radio with a weather forecast (broadcast at 0900/1200/1500/1800/2100). You have to listen on channel 66, but it's announced on 16. The kartverket website had said the weather was broadcast on channel 6, and I'd tried in vain to catch anything on it for the first three days. Now it became clear why.

They asked for our call sign, approximate coordinates, and direction of travel, and based on that data gave us a forecast that on the whole suited us. Almost the entire Norwegian coastline is equipped with a network of relay stations, and it's no surprise that the radio from Vardø reaches almost to Tromsø — it serves the whole north of the country (the Nord Norge region). A simply astounding service, though not particularly necessary — internet here is also if not everywhere, then almost everywhere, and we constantly had a fresh forecast.

We cheerfully reached Kågen and continued under sail toward Skjervøy. Right at the cape of the island of Skjervøya, on which Skjervøy itself stands (pronounced roughly "Shervi"), the wind abruptly switched from following to head-on. There was nothing left but to thank the weather for the wonderful gift and once again grit our teeth and paddle. In the Skjervøy roadstead I caught two large saithe — though at the time I still didn't know they were saithe.

We came into the marina toward a spot marked on all the maps as a campground, but the closer we got, the less it looked like one — just a row of red fishermen's rorbu. But there was nothing to be done; we'd covered 37 kilometers, were tired, hadn't had lunch, and badly wanted to be ashore. It turned out there hadn't been a campground here for a very long time; the owner had opened a fishing camp in its place. From a business standpoint that's far more attractive: fishermen pay good money for the chance to spend a couple of weeks away from their wives. For us, though, it wasn't the most wonderful news, since there's no shared shower, no toilet, not even water outside.

So I went up to the very first cabin and asked the English pensioners to help us out: let us use the shower and toilet. They gladly responded to my request, and I happily chatted with them about fishing, and learned that I'd caught saithe. In English it's called coalfish, and the woman at the Skittenelv campground had called it "sea salmon," which had confused me and given away her German roots — only there is this cod-family fish called "sea salmon."

We pitched the tent next to an empty parking lot and took all our dirty things to the hotel for laundry. The next day was a rest day not only for us but for the Norwegians too — on Sunday almost no one works, everyone spends time with family. So much the better.

Day 5Skjervøy, rest day

A rest day is just a pretext to unload the shoulders and load up the legs. First we stopped by the hotel, where they gave us our laundered things completely free: the girl at the desk couldn't log into the hotel's CRM. In our delight we handed her a second batch of things. While we waited for the wash, we drank coffee in the hotel restaurant (which we also got almost for free, and with a life hack for pouring more cappuccino into the cup).

We didn't feel like lunch, and we set off toward Kågen. On the way we met an old man who'd come down from the mountain in rubber boots with a little bucket of cloudberries. He didn't speak English, but we understood that you have to look for the berry higher up. While we were discussing cloudberries, we heard Russian. A young couple was walking cheerfully toward us. This was their 14th time coming to Norway from Piter by car. The day before they too had tried to get into the Fiskecamp but couldn't figure out how, and spent the night in their car. Not the worst solution. After talking with them we changed our plans — at first we'd wanted to see a waterfall we'd spotted from the water, but they told us about a beautiful mountain lake, and that prospect appealed to us far more.

We passed a high bridge from which little groups of Arab refugees were fishing. What a place life had thrown them to. But there's enough fish here, and the main thing is you don't need any special skill to catch enough food for a whole family for a week in half a day.

Just past the bridge the trail went uphill and immediately introduced us to the Norwegian type of mountain trail: now you have it, now you don't. When the trail ends, you can only hope you'll find it again. It wound about and got lost among the rocks, but we went confidently by compass bearing and reached the lake.

The wonderful vitriol-blue color of the mountain lake and the little glacier descending to it instantly carried our thoughts back to the Caucasus. The Dolomite Camps and all the shades of blue and green in the three lakes… Ah, time. Not far from us a whole Norwegian family was fishing. Rods even for the smallest children — now that's an approach!

We cooked soup, had lunch, and headed back to camp. We gave ourselves a fish-free day. Not that we were tired of fish, but you can live a day without it. On the way back we gathered a whole mug of bilberries and blueberries, which Dasha managed to spill entirely after slipping on a hummock (that's the official version).

We got back to camp by five and began weighing our further options. The thing is, after Skjervøy we could either go farther out to sea, so as to pass south of the legendary Sørøya, or hide from the bad weather in the straits and fjords and doom ourselves to a portage of a small isthmus, some 7 kilometers. No decision was made.

Day 6Dunvik

The morning began wretchedly: I couldn't find my hat. The situation was very infuriating — a hat can't just vanish! Turns out it can. It was nowhere to be found at all, and the only suspects were the gulls flying everywhere. I was crushed and upset — it was my beloved "Sea Captain's Hat." I decide to go to the outdoor shop to buy a new one. Luckily the shop opened at 9 a.m., and there I found a sharp Adidas hat that I liked right away, it covered the ears so comfortably, unlike the old one, and was warmer overall.

The forecast was anything but cheering, and for once it matched the actual weather — literally half an hour after setting out we were already barely holding our paddles and counted it incredible luck to be able to reach the nearest shore. The wind sharply changed direction depending on the terrain we were passing. Now it struck the right side, now it flung itself into our faces. Open water was out of the question — we simply didn't want to be at sea in weather like that. So we slowly but surely scraped along the shore, hiding from the wind as much as possible. We stopped for lunch in a lovely green little cove and waited for the wind to die down. Going was hard with a headwind like that, and ahead of us lay a strait out of which the wind was driving a genuine raging river.

Fresh water is everywhere in Norway — even on a completely random scrap of land we found a waterfall and a little stream. By and large, over the whole trip we never had to break into our reserve 6 liters of water; the working supply was enough for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

After lunch, as often happens, the wind died down, and we continued deeper into the giant fjord. We'd originally planned to go along the shore, but the changed weather let us make a crossing. We fairly quickly reached the little island on which the village of Dunvik sits. Unfortunately, all the good campsites were fenced off, and we had to go all the way to the southernmost cape and camp near the lighthouse. Everything around was piled with huge heaps of droppings from the not-too-varied local fauna. There was so much of it that we literally had to clear a patch for the tent.

We covered 29 kilometers for the day, which surprised us considerably. I didn't think we could do that much against the wind in a day and not wreck ourselves.

We set up camp as best we could, had dinner, and were just about to sleep when a soft pink light began to glimmer on the horizon. It seemed all of nature had fallen silent, even the gulls, which never shut up for a second under normal circumstances, had gone quiet. Soon the whole sky was flooded with a lovely yellow-pink color, painting the green meadows around Dunvik in some special hues. The sea shimmered in gradients from blue through yellow to pink, the mountains in the distance took on sharper outlines and seemed even more massive against the red-pink sky.

We walked to the lighthouse and saw a stunning scene: across the sky, as far as the eye could reach in both directions, stretched a train of clouds lit by this wonderful light. It looked like the northern lights performed by clouds. They drew closer to us and grew, and a rainbow began to descend from them. Began, precisely, because we watched its short little tail first appear from behind the clouds, then reach down to the sea and start reflecting in it. Soon we saw the whole rainbow — a huge arc joining the shores of the fjord. We had never seen anything so beautiful, and we just sat enjoying the moment for nearly another hour.

I said then that we could leave Norway with an easy heart, for we'd see nothing more beautiful here. And that was the honest truth. Another person could live a whole life and never once be in such a place at such a time to see all the majesty and splendor of nature. I count myself a fortunate man, for in my life I've found myself in such situations more than once, and my feelings in them are akin to the religious.

Soon the cloud front passed, and with it the light that had flooded everything. It was time to sleep, but for a long while I couldn't drop off, struck by what I'd seen.

Day 7Alteidet

The morning brought mixed news. The wind, which was supposed to be on our beam but at the mouth of the bay was head-on, grew stronger by the minute. We were already packing under its fierce gusts.

We barely got out of the bay and tried, rounding the island, to go along the shore to hide from the crosswind as long as possible. The tactic worked only partly — soon we entered a strait out of which powerful short waves came at our left side. They tossed our bow up and dropped it and washed over the deck. At that moment I realized I'd rolled my trousers badly and put the spray skirt on loosely — the overwashing water began pouring into my underwear, and within some 20 minutes I was already sitting in a small puddle. As best I could, I re-rolled everything and pulled up the spray skirt. The wind didn't let up, but on the approach to Alteidet it shifted to a following one, and we even rode it a little.

We came as close to the campground in Alteidet as possible. I went to find out whether they had a car with a kayak rack. We only wanted to lighten the kayak a bit and fasten it to the roof or trailer of some vehicle. I was met by a Sami woman, the campground manager. We called literally everyone around — no one had a kayak rack, or even a roof rack, and the owner of the nearest kayak rental had gone away for several days along with his trailer. Taxi services here were provided only by private individuals, and none of them was equipped to carry kayaks.

We found ourselves in a rather unpleasant situation and decided to play it by ear. First of all I needed to dry my backside, because nothing throws you off your mental balance like a wet rear. They let us into the campground kitchen, which had an electric heater, and we managed to dry out after a fashion. The manager kept trying to help us, but it became clear that there really was no one in Alteidet, and bringing a taxi from Alta would be too expensive. One word led to another, and she offered to give us a lift in her Prius if we disassembled the kayak. We really didn't want to do that, but there was no choice. We had to quickly toss our things into bags and break down the kayak. Half an hour later we were being driven by the manager's fiancé, a young Sami man. He boasted that all these hills belonged to him and that his reindeer grazed here. He told us that at the end of summer they close the campground and follow the reindeer, returning only in spring. The life of the Norwegian Sami is no longer as primitive as it might seem. They no longer live in chums — the conical nomads' tents — preferring small houses in spots strategically important for reindeer herding. Summers they spend in villages and towns.

The seven kilometers flew by very fast, and we pulled into Altafjord Camping. It was clear that with all our energy spent on disassembling the kayak, we weren't going anywhere else. The campground had free cabins, and we immediately rented the one nearest us.

How good it was! We instantly dried all our things, washed up, and calmly cooked food on the stove inside the cabin. The cabin was much roomier than the one we'd rented in Tromsø. Besides 4 sleeping places, we had a sofa, a little table, and an armchair. Toward evening campers began flocking into the campground in little groups in their huge homes on wheels. What we didn't see! Every type and size, from the simplest to state-of-the-art monsters loaded with an awning, a grill, and a full set of garden furniture to boot. Notably, more than half were Norwegians.

I unhurriedly began reassembling the kayak, taking the chance to inspect the stringers after five days of travel. During assembly, as last year, I applied a thin layer of oil to all the joints. Toward the middle it was noticeable that the stringers flex often, and a black layer of ground-up aluminum mixed with oil had spread far around the joints. Otherwise the Vektor's frame had come through the first part of the trip well; it was re-oiled, assembled, and prepared for the route. I got a better understanding of how to reinforce the thigh braces, and on the whole didn't regret having had to take the kayak apart and put it back together.

While I was busy with the assembly, I came across a strange man with disheveled hair and burning eyes. The guy was running from one camper to another, offering them freshly caught saithe. It turned out he'd picked up a rod for the first time and immediately caught far more than he needed. I advised him to give up the idea — there's so much fish here that demand for it is low. We had a fish-free dinner, which on the whole we were glad of. A little later I met Fabian in the common room, where he sat bored. I realized I absolutely had to find out what kind of person this was, and didn't regret it.

Fabian is a 39-year-old electrician from Switzerland who at one point decided he'd ride a bicycle to Nordkapp. He made a saddle in the shape of his own backside, called his employer, and presented him with the fact that he'd be gone for 3 months. The employer had no choice but to let Fabian off on this venture. Fabian talked a lot about how boring it is to live in Switzerland, where no one wants to have fun, travel, or generally live the way he does. Probably that's why he's not married. He told us amazing stories about Norwegian roads that go straight uphill without switchbacks, about houses open to any traveler, and even about how he mistook a hotel for some Norwegian's house. The Norwegian wasn't fazed, invited Fabian to dinner, which grew into a ferocious drinking bout, as a result of which the gracious host split his own head open. The next day they both had to spend battling a hangover; no one went anywhere.

We said goodbye to Fabian, giving him a handful of Russian candies as a parting gift, which Dasha had brought along as souvenirs.

Day 8Langfjord

The morning was wonderful. First, we'd dried everything and slept beautifully. Second, confirming the forecast, a following breeze was blowing. The forecast, true, said this breeze would soon grow to nearly 20 meters per second, which was worrying. But before us lay Langfjord, a narrow fjord 30 kilometers long that we intended to cover in one day. At its widest the fjord reaches about a kilometer, and it also winds a little, so I wasn't worried about big waves.

As it later turned out, for nothing. Literally 200 meters from shore a brisk wind caught us and carried us forward, and we could even, at last, like last year, rest our paddles. We were dragged along at 8 to 10 kilometers an hour, the water boiling under the kayak's bow. In gusts we were carried up to 13 kilometers an hour. The waves began to grow and to lift our stern out of the water more and more. Fortunately the lengthened rudder worked in waves like that, and if we lost control at all, it wasn't by much. After about 2 hours we realized the sail was becoming an objectively dangerous helper — we were being dragged up to 15 kilometers an hour, and in gusts it heeled us hard and tried to turn us broadside. Lowering the sail turned out to be no easy matter. It simply refused to obey, and like a wild beast began thrashing the moment Dasha pulled the halyards. The kayak rocked from side to side, and holding the sail was tricky. In the end we managed and realized that in wind like that our backs are themselves decent sails. We kept being carried forward, but now at 7–9 kilometers an hour. After a while we got thoroughly tired of paddling like that and decided to put into a quiet bay for lunch. To do so we had to paddle almost a kilometer into it against the wind that had carried us forward all day. That's when we felt its full force — had a wind like that blown into our faces, we wouldn't have covered more than 3–5 kilometers a day. We caught a couple of saithe for fish soup.

We stopped beside a hydroelectric station that uses the power of a mountain river confined in a pipe. That, in fact, is why we couldn't draw water from it — the river that was on the map simply wasn't there anymore. On the other hand, I gathered mussels at low tide, looking forward to frying them up for dinner.

We left the bay and were again at the mercy of a powerful following wind. In principle we could have gone on past the fjord, but I started to fear the ever-growing following sea. The crossing to Cape Turiy in 2015 had shown how dangerous open water can be. So we headed for a cozy bay that kept beckoning to me on Navionics. In general, more than once we found ourselves in situations where it was hard to tell where to land. Because of the changeable weather we looked mostly for sheltered bays, and after a week of the trip we'd learned to assess the situation from Navionics, though not always accurately. This time I decided not to take risks and not to try landing on the not-very-attractive, wave-exposed shores. So we had to shorten the route a little.

On the way we came upon a field of gulls. Apparently because of the strong wind they weren't flying or crying out. Birds in general behave unusually during a storm. As we floated past this strange field, which reminded me of the Hattifatteners, the silent sea wanderers from Tove Jansson's books, all the gulls, as if on command, soared into the sky and hung there, riding the powerful gusts of wind. It's utterly astonishing that I managed to film it.

In the bay we almost immediately saw a powerful standing wave. I couldn't understand where it had come from. The following sea simply had nowhere to reflect off the shore. The riddle was solved when we drew closer to the anomaly. A powerful headwind blew down from the pass, and at the spot where the standing wave formed the following and head winds met. Fortunately it was quite close to shore, and we quickly landed on a field carpeted with bilberries, blueberries, and stone bramble. We covered 30 kilometers for the day.

Not far from where we'd camped stood a small but very interesting cabin. It simply beckoned. I couldn't resist its call and went to scout it out. On the cabin door hung a note with phone numbers. I called the first of them and reached Andreas, the owner of the hut

—Hello. Do you speak English? —Depends what for. —Great, I'm calling about the hut. —What hut? —At the mouth of Langfjord, about 20 kilometers from Alta. —Ah, all right. And how did you get there? —By kayak. —From where? —From Tromsø. —From Tromsø! Wow! Well, how's your trip going? —Not bad, despite the weather. I still wanted to ask whether we could stay in your cabin? —Well, it's actually a private house, but for an occasion like this I'll tell you where the keys are.

Andreas pointed me to the key stash, we exchanged contacts, and within 10 minutes I'd sent him a selfie on Facebook.

We quickly re-parked the kayak and hauled our things into the house. It turned out to be simply wonderful: a very unusual design we'd never seen anywhere else — the cabin was round outside and in.

Along the far wall with the windows ran a row of four beds; on the other side were a fireplace, a gas stove, a tap with spring water, kitchen furniture. From the ceiling hung a fishing net and a 19th-century kerosene lamp. I went out to the pier and instantly caught saithe — it goes for absolutely anything here, and a whole school was standing under the pier. We fried the fish, boiled rice, boiled and fried the mussels, brewed plenty of tea.

Suddenly it turned out there were real pearls inside the mussels. The tiny pearls were nothing like the grains of sand that White Sea mussels are full of. Whereas the latter merely crunch on your teeth, the little pearls were ominously crunching our teeth instead. We had to urgently pick the mussels out of the rice to salvage the meal at all.

A cabin in a place like this is considered by Norwegians a special kind of chic. It's a dacha they come to on summer weekends, and a house like that absolutely must not have electricity or amenities like a heated toilet. Andreas and his family live on the border with Finland and keep a boat in Alta, on which they come here for the weekend. It's also remarkable that he makes and edits documentary films, and three years ago traveled with a film crew by train from Murmansk to Vladivostok, shooting a documentary about the fate of a Norwegian actress who got the role of Anna Karenina in Vladivostok.

We savored the moment in this cozy dwelling and marveled inwardly at Andreas, who'd let complete strangers into his house. We decided it was Fabian's aura that had let us find this place.

Day 9Store Bekkafjorden

The morning was especially cold, since we couldn't warm the whole interior of the house with our breath overnight the way we do a tent. We'd gladly have spent a rest day here, but our plans included visiting Seiland, a national park 25 kilometers away. Online I'd found an excellent account by some folks who'd come there by kayak. The park seemed the most logical option for a rest day, and we had to part with such a lovely cabin. As a farewell we left a spoon painted in the Khokhloma style, some candies, and a note for the owner.

The weather was pleasant, only a light breeze blew in our faces, and we committed to a 20-kilometer crossing. I practiced holding course by compass, covering up the GPS. At a certain point it became clear that the current had carried us well to the right. I had to correct course and bear harder to the left.

At sea you can sometimes see utterly unusual phenomena, and in the fjords the chance of such encounters is far higher. From afar we heard a powerful roar and saw whitecaps on the horizon. A powerful wind was blowing out of the strait we had to enter. The inevitability of the approaching nightmare stripped away the last hopes of a calm travel day. But you have to be ready for anything, and we boldly accepted the sea's challenge. It didn't spare us, and we had to work hard before we reached the first bay, where we could stop for lunch.

The catch was especially good: redfish, saithe, and cod. The fish soup came out magnificent, though a little bony because of the redfish. After lunch we still had strength left, but we had only one option — to go to Store Bekkafjorden, because it was the most beautiful (and the closest). For that we had to add a two-kilometer detour. Approaching the shore, we noticed a shepherds' cabin on a hill. Everywhere on the slopes you could see the little white dots of sheep.

The campsite turned out to be ideal: spots for tents, a fire ring with a few charred damp logs, full protection from the sea wind, a powerful mountain river separating the camp from the sheep, so we didn't have to worry about the safety of our food and tent.

In the evening we walked up a high hill, admired the view from it, and tried to figure out where we'd go the next day. The rest day promised to be interesting.

Day 10Seiland, rest day

Somewhere around three or four in the morning we were woken by rain. A trifle like that, of course, can't keep true adventure-seekers from enjoying their sleep. The rain lasted only a couple of hours, but managed to soak all the grass around. Our fjord in Seiland is considered the most beautiful. Unlike the rest of the mountains in this part of Norway, here all the slopes are covered with a dense carpet of grass. And this whole carpet, reaching nearly to the knee, was now wet. We gathered everything for lunch and set off up toward the cascades of mountain lakes with brown trout that the route description had promised.

We decided to go in rubber boots: hiking boots would have soaked through instantly and wouldn't have dried before the end of the trip. The rubber boots were a great idea: we always walked with dry feet, even across the mountain bogs that turned up here and there.

We remembered Fabian again as we scrambled up the slopes. Yes, Norwegians really don't like switchbacks. At one point it seemed to me it was already time to rope up and set intermediate belay points on that wet, steep slope. After about 400 meters of climbing we came out onto a small boggy plateau.

Big bilberries and blueberries grew everywhere, and we gorged on the berries, which came to hand by the fistful. A bit farther there were cloudberries too. At first just a few berries, and then a whole clearing. We gathered them into every free container to make jam later.

The trail up top got lost just as it had near Skjervøy, and we felt like real explorers. These days you can rarely find yourself in a place without well-trodden paths. Seiland is one of them. The wildness of the place was clear even from the fact that on one descent a whole flock of ptarmigan burst out from under our feet, and I'd have stepped on one had I taken another step.

The lakes are truly beautiful, and they join into one system through powerful waterfalls. We tried to go as far and as high as possible, but the cloud cover at 400 meters sharply limited visibility, and it wasn't quite clear how to get to the glacier. Going higher would have meant going into the fog, and we really didn't want that. So we decided to turn back. We'd gorged on berries so much that we simply didn't feel like lunch, and we came down to camp, getting a little lost on the descent. As we negotiated the last descent, we noticed a boat approaching the camp. Four Norwegians had arrived on it. One of them came out to greet us while we cooked soup in the Jetboil.

He told us about his plans to camp at the lakes all weekend and fish for trout. I had no trout tackle and could only envy them. I told him I hadn't even tried to catch trout because I hadn't bought a license, to which he replied, "and who's going to check it out here?" In any case, we didn't much want fish, but the Norwegian told us that at high tide you could catch salmon in a stream a kilometer from our campsite, and after lunch, without waiting for the tide, I decided to go there. Reaching it along the shore didn't work out, the slope dropped too steeply into the water, so after casting for half an hour and catching only a small saithe, I started getting dressed to go there by kayak. On the way a huge gray seal surfaced in front of me, looked around, and continued on its way. Closer to shore sea otters frolicked, cute fluffy creatures (not).

The tide wasn't due to start until very late, and I hoped the water would at least come a little way up to that stream, but in vain. So I just cast in different parts of the fjord to test my hunches about where it's better to catch this or that fish. Not far off, saithe were churning the water. Toward evening they sometimes get so worked up that they actually leap out of the water, and here it wasn't just one fish but a whole school.

I cast closer to shore, practically onto the bottom, and immediately felt that I'd hooked something far bigger than anything I'd caught before. Remembering Makar's instructions, I let off the drag and let the fish run, to bring it in closer afterward. It turned out to be a cod so large that I didn't dare take the lure out of its mouth with my bare hands; I unclipped it from the swivel and tossed it at my feet, because it wouldn't fit in the fish bag. I tried fishing a bit more, to no avail.

I should say I really wanted to bake the fish, and to that end I mounted a whole campaign on the shore to gather everything that would burn. In Northern Norway relying on campfires is a losing game. Not only are fires banned from April to October, but it's also unclear what to burn. The firewood lying in the fire rings had clearly been brought in by someone. Now it made a rather pitiful sight: a heap of charred, half-damp logs and some scorched branches. Someone had clearly been trying to start a fire. I spent an hour and a half stripping bark from branches, splitting wood with my knife to get at the driest wood possible. I chopped and dried a lot of kindling.

The effort was not in vain. I spent another hour getting exactly as many coals as we needed to bake the cod in foil. Dasha cleaned the fish and cut it into two pieces without filleting it. In the fire ring I found a grate and set the fish to bake on it. About half an hour later the most delicious fish was ready. It was actually already our second dinner, but turning down a second helping would have been unwise. The tenth day of the trip was drawing to a close, and fatigue was beginning to tell; despite a very varied diet, we wanted to eat anything and everything.

Day 11Kvalsund

There was no signal in Seiland, and for two days we'd been left without a weather forecast, so the next day we set out still going by what we'd noted down in the cabin in the fjord. It was, of course, not very accurate. Leaving the fjord, a following wind caught us, the sun came out. We passed a salmon farm, of which there are very many in the fjords, and watched small vessels come up to the huge round pens to collect the fish raised to the surface by the nets. We should, of course, have paddled over and asked for one, but we liked the following wind more than even the prospect of having salmon for lunch.

After a while the following wind ended, and we ran into a most powerful contrary current, amplified by the narrow strait. I'd completely forgotten to account for the timing of the tides and their direction, and paid for it. But at least the internet came back. It told us a cyclone was heading our way, arriving in three days, with winds up to 20 meters and blowing for nearly 3 days. That is, we faced a real danger of not finishing the trip in time. It was the eleventh day, and we already had to decide what to do next. We decided that from then on we'd push as hard as we possibly could each day. We had to reach at least Havøysund within those three days; the alternative was sitting out the storm in some bay.

That day we covered 36 kilometers, stopping for a lunch of two haddock. We camped across from the little place of Kvalsund.

While we tried to catch fish under the bridge, we heard Russian. These were Estonian long-haul truckers, fishing from the shore, though not very successfully. We chatted with them a bit, listened to their tall tales about 18 kilos of cod in a day. Luck smiled on us a little more broadly than on the truckers, and we landed one small haddock, but decided to release it. As I was retrieving the lure, I accidentally caught the side of the kayak and tore the air sponson. It became clear we urgently had to land and patch up. The day was drawing to a close, and we'd have camped somewhere around here anyway.

We landed, began setting up, and gradually started shivering with cold. Heavy dew had settled on everything, even though the sky was clear and the opposite shore was lit by bright sunlight. The thermometer read 3.5 degrees, and I even decided it had started glitching. After all, even at night it hadn't dropped below 7–9 the whole trip. The thermometer on the Suunto confirmed it was +4 outside, but we'd figured that out without any readings. Hastily patching the hull, I ran into the tent, where dinner was already cooking. We ate right in our sleeping bags. The cold and heavy damp made us do everything quickly and go to bed holding each other tight. We slept well, though.

Day 12Toward the open sea

The next morning the sky was as leaden as it had been every morning the past week. The wind blew naggingly into our faces, but we had to go on. Of course we could have gone to Hammerfest and gotten off, but that was a detour with no particular need for it. The weather was clearly changing.

The sea teemed with life: dolphins and seals swam all around. Everywhere black guillemots and puffins dove and surfaced. After 25 kilometers of mindless paddling we stopped on a sandy beach from which the boundless open sea was already visible. On the hills around the bay we saw a reindeer. As we approached the shore we heard a noise — it was a long, heavy sea swell meeting the shoreline. Only at the last moment did I remember that one really ought to be more careful, and we were nearly carried onto the rocks jutting out of the sea.

For lunch we decided to open the mackerel in tomato sauce and regretted not having opened it earlier and not having stocked up on more. A most delicious tinned food, and tomato sauce goes down especially well in the second week of a trip.

All along the shore was scattered debris brought in by the winter storms. Mostly spherical net floats of every color, size, and year of make. A bit farther inland stood a small cabin for the workers who service the cable running through this bay. In it one tiny room with a bunk bed and a small kitchen. That's the whole of it.

Day 13Before Havøysund

In a two-seat kayak it's actually not easy to launch into surf, but we did it with a running start and pushed on to the next crossing. The wind blew a little into our faces, and the sea swell rocked the boat pleasantly. Paddling wasn't hard thanks to the changed current, and we went slowly but surely toward the cape turning blue in the distance. On this trip we saw, it seems, every shade of blue and blue-green distance, and even built our own scale relating distance to color.

Halfway through the crossing the signal finally came back, and I wrote to Makar, who was tracking us, as he had last year.

Back at lunch we'd marked three possible campsites on Navionics. But when we came around the cape, the view rather disheartened us. Instead of even slightly gentle shores, sheer cliffs appeared on the horizon, and the cape itself looked more like a giant saw — all along the shore long tongues of jagged rock stretched into the sea. Between two such tongues we found the first spot. Its undoubted drawback was that it was exposed to the sea swell, and there was barely room for a tent. The second campsite we didn't find — the map simply showed a shoal by a sheer cliff.

After 11 hours with a paddle in hand, the prospect of paddling any farther held no appeal whatsoever.

In about 30 minutes we reached the third possible campsite, and it promised at least some protection from the waves and wind. There was just one drawback — it was nearly impossible to come ashore. We found a small passage in the chaos of rock and moored there. With difficulty, waist-deep in water, we unloaded the kayak and dragged it over the seaweed-slick stones onto the far boulders.

We covered 41 kilometers for the day, constantly against the wind — for us that's a record that won't be easy to beat.

Despite the awful shore, the campsite is ideal. There's plenty of room, a waterfall and a stream, and all along the shore a huge amount of debris is scattered, mostly wooden parts of ships and the same old floats. The sun came out, and we couldn't have dreamed of a better end to the day. We dried off, caught a barely alive internet signal, and booked a rorbu in Havøysund. It cost quite a bit for two days, but there are no alternatives there, and we needed a good place to end the trip. A fishing base suits this purpose better than anything.

Day 14Havøysund

We woke to the noise of motorboats — these were the fishermen from Havøysund. We packed up unhurriedly, savoring the last moments of camp life.

By the second week of the trip, launching and packing the kayak were done on autopilot, and even the need to haul both boat and gear a long way over seaweed-slick stones couldn't hold us up. We caught a following current and cheerfully passed through the strait, beyond which Havøysund's giant wind turbines were already appearing. We'd originally planned to keep closer to shore and avoid big crossings, but the weather favored us, and we boldly pointed our bow farther left, cutting off a good 10 kilometers.

Beside the island I found a 50-meter shoal on Navionics and decided to cast a line. From the great depth a large cod was hauled up with difficulty. We paddle on to the entrance of the bay before Havøysund. Our main task is to make it before the tide turns. In a bottleneck that narrow we simply wouldn't have been able to fight the current. Despite the rush (we had about an hour until the current changed), we decided to cast at the entrance to the bay by the big sheer cliffs. I dropped the pilker to the bottom and fairly quickly felt something on the hook. A couple of times that something was rocks, but on the third try I did hook someone. This someone fought furiously and was very heavy to haul. We kept expecting a halibut, but guessed slightly wrong. A plaice had taken the hook.

It's a very strange fish: it's unclear how to grip it properly. Dasha struggled for a long time getting it off the hook. A flatfish is one big muscle, and it kept fighting even after we put it in the bag. Besides, it stank terribly, and the persistent fishy smell pursued us all the way to Havøysund.

The fishing base turned out to be much bigger than I'd assumed. There's no landing on shore, but there's a pontoon onto which we hauled the kayak under the bewildered looks of the fishermen.

I got the keys to our new home and happily set off to unload and hang up our numerous things to dry. Right after all the formalities like a hot shower, we headed into the village. No more than 1,500 people live here, and most are fishermen. There's even a library, but it's open 3 days a week for 2 hours.

At the supermarket we bought just about everything: steaks, corn, fresh vegetables, and lettuce. We bought charcoal for the grill that stood right next to our cabin. At home I cleaned the flounder and cut four fatty fillet pieces from it. Baked flounder is the best of all the fish we tried in Norway. I made the steaks rare and was incredibly glad of the chance to taste mammal meat after two weeks almost exclusively on fish.

Almost all our neighbors were Estonians from one group. By evening almost all of them had returned with their catch, which they began cleaning right on the pontoon over the water, to the great delight of all the local gulls, which in size resembled large stray cats. All the Estonians spoke excellent Russian. It was very strange to hear our native tongue in a place like this. We discuss both fishing and the fact that they consider our pursuit deranged, and I consider theirs the same.

Fishing bases in Norway are perfectly equipped, and according to our Estonian neighbors, this one is among the best. It has everything: boats with powerful motors and chartplotters for rent, huge freezers in the rooms, and one big shared freezer chamber. On the pier — pressure washers for cleaning boats and fish, convenient cleaning tables. Everything so you can come, fish to your heart's content, and not sweat the small stuff.

PortHavøysund, wind turbines

The next day, the first thing we did was find out where the Hurtigruten stops and bought cabinless tickets to Honningsvåg. We set off on foot to the wind turbines.

The road climbed uphill the whole way, but we didn't abandon our principle — go up on a rest day. After an hour and a half we found ourselves beneath the giant turbines. The first time, the sight is very thrilling: the many-meter blades swept overhead with a heavy noise. We walked to the northernmost tip of the island. There, above a cliff, was a Sami restaurant. Unfortunately it opened only in the afternoon. We didn't know that and were left without reindeer meat. Not far from the cape we met a Dutch traveler named Job.

He'd ridden almost 5 thousand kilometers, been to the foot of Mont Blanc, and ridden through all the Scandinavian countries. The guy clearly wasn't suffering from a lack of free time.

We returned to the rorbu and got down to packing and the deliberate destruction of food by means of eating it. I chatted with the Estonian fishermen, who shared various secrets. The finer points of fishing didn't much interest me — after all, it was impossible not to catch fish in this sea. More interesting was how they take their catch back home. Norway allows you to take out up to 15 kilograms of seafood and one trophy fish, which can be any weight and size. This is what all sensible fishermen exploit: through the mouth of the biggest cod they've caught they pull out all the innards and stuff it with fillet from less fortunate cod. The result is a very heavy trophy fish and 15 kilos of fillet. Perfect.

FerryHonningsvåg → Nordkapp

The next morning we boarded the ferry MS Nord Norge and in two hours reached Havøysund.

By kayak this route would have taken a day and a half in good weather, but we no longer had that day and a half, nor the strength to paddle — the three-day marathon was making itself felt. The annoying thing was that the storm promised by every forecast never came, and we traveled over pleasant smooth water. On the other hand, we enjoyed the views from the liner's luxurious interiors, packed to the gills with pensioners. Apart from the grandchildren, clearly palmed off for a couple of weeks on this exciting journey with grandpa, we were the youngest passengers.

On the way off the liner, in the luggage room, we met a German couple. Kristin and Max were cycling from Germany to Nordkapp, and from there planned to ride through Moscow to Baikal and on into China. We talked about the difficulties of cycling across Russia, and stepped ashore, where a taxi to the campground was already waiting for us. The campground turned out to be a very pleasant place: big, bright, cozy cabins with water, a fridge, and a stove, beautiful views, and a little cove nearby. We took a stroll, I caught two saithe, which we cleaned and set aside in the fridge.

Then we took a bus to Nordkapp itself. The road climbed uphill the whole way, and we sympathized with the cyclists, among whom were our German acquaintances. We didn't need any sympathy: the bus had WiFi and was generally nice. Nordkapp itself, like most heavily advertised places, turned out to be just another place. There was a whole caravan of campers and a crowd of bikers. Cheerful pensioners came out of the buses in groups, and here we saw Chinese tourists for the first time. The local tourist center is enormous: it has several cafés with a cafeteria, a huge souvenir shop, a cinema, a lecture hall, a chapel, and even a museum of Norwegian-Thai friendship. The museum was built with funds from the King of Thailand, who once came here for some reason, and now in the basements of "the northernmost tip of Europe" there are Thai inscriptions, souvenirs, and a temple.

Nordkapp isn't as interesting as the people who gather on it: we met a Dutch schoolteacher who in 4 weeks of summer vacation had ridden along the whole coast of Norway to here, a guy from Italy who'd come by motorcycle from Rome, and the same German couple again.

They spent the night on the cape, and we headed back. At the campground we met no less interesting company. Two Spaniards were finishing their charity ride from Madrid here on the three-wheeled Vespas that pizza delivery drivers use.

The 5,000-kilometer journey had taken them almost 60 days, during which they'd come to hate their vehicles, which broke down at every opportune and inopportune moment. We put on a shared dinner: we baked saithe, and the guys brought wine. We hadn't drunk any wine the whole trip, and they hadn't eaten fish, so the exchange was an even one. We talked about life and went our separate ways to our cabins.

LinerMS Trollfjord

In the morning we went to the pier, left our things there, and went for a walk around the little town. We had coffee with pastries, lunched on Kamchatka crab, which here they call "king crab." We bought up souvenirs and began boarding the MS Trollfjord, the largest and newest Hurtigruten liner. Of course we couldn't carry all our things in one go, but when we got onto the vessel, we were told a lifeboat test had begun and the ship had pulled away from shore. Our kayak was still on the shore, and as soon as the guy at reception found out, he immediately made a small fuss and called someone on shore who could keep an eye on it. It looked funny, especially considering that crime in Norway is low, and you'd have to want very badly to steal a forty-kilogram backpack.

We settled into a cozy cabin with a window and set off to explore the liner.

Compared to Atlantic liners it might seem a tiny thing, but it had everything you need for a voyage along the coast of Norway: cafés and restaurants, lounge areas, panoramic windows, a library, and even two hot tubs on the upper deck.

From the upper deck there was a great view of the fjords, bird colonies, fancifully shaped rocks, and the sea. We even thought we saw a whale, but that's not certain.

The best experience was, of course, dinner. A buffet with every possible kind of local fish, shellfish, seafood, and even reindeer meat. All the food was so delicious that we regretted having only one stomach each; I couldn't even finish the crab, which says something. Instead of two glasses of wine, we accidentally ordered a bottle, and after a long period of healthy living, it went to our heads quite a bit. A little later we went up to the upper deck to watch the sunset from the hot tub.

Pulling into some town, we ran into the MS Nord Norge, on which we'd sailed the day before, listened to the symphony of horns with which the Hurtigruten ships greet one another, and went to bed.

HomeKirkenes → Moscow

The next morning we were already in Kirkenes. From there we took the same minibus to Murmansk, which as always met us with its dreary gray apartment blocks, and flew home.

Conclusions

And what conclusions can there be here? You absolutely must visit Norway again. The trip turned out very "cushy" — we showered often, ate a lot and ate well, and it seems for the first time we didn't lose weight on a trip. Maybe because we constantly ate fish (or maybe it's just the amount of food). The trip turned out fairly expensive, and traveling as a pair like this is more expensive than flying to the Dominican Republic, say, and taking up surfing. You could go on a group trip (organized, I think, by the "Vpohod" team), you could go by car, and maybe even save money. We, though, came away with a wealth of impressions, and we'll definitely return to Norway — by kayak, or without.

If you read this far — well done. The video about the trip awaits at the start of the post.