Lofoten Islands, Norway – September 1, 2023

We’d about had it with Norway.

This wasn’t hiking, it was sliding, falling, and see how many bogs you can wade through until your feet dissolve.

It had been like this for most of the last hundred miles.

It wore down Jake until he was a husk of the sunny dispositioned person I knew him to be. “Today was not a good day,” he had told me, as if we’d stormed the beaches of Normandy. The next day he split out on the first ferry, leaving us and the trail behind.

As if that wasn’t enough for one day, Brendan and I took what we thought would be an easy trail around a sleepy fjord only to get blocked by bus sized boulders with gaps between them big enough you could bury an army. I saw Brendan wince twice when he put pressure on his left hand. He’d take mud and steep any day over climbing things. One of the toughest guys I know but soon as he has to rely on his hands for stability or leverage, his eyes dilate, and he’ll get quiet until his weight is once again securely balanced over his feet.

“Yeah, let’s go back,” Brendan said.

On the trail, Brendan doesn’t say things like: I can’t, or I don’t want to do this. So this caught me by surprise.

I nodded. We turned around.

That was yesterday. Our friend had left us, and we had hiked miles just to turn around and go back to we started. Truthfully, it wasn’t a bad place to retrace your steps. Edge of a small fjord banked by toothy gray mountains, the sound of lambs baying across the water, the soft rush of the tide as it swept its opal water to shore, a striking contrast with the mustard colored seaweed that colonized the rocky bank. Gulls glided here and there. No boats or planes. Just the two of us and the sound of mud as it squished beneath our feet.

This morning, we took the ferry to Reine, a touristy seaside village—every building painted red with white siding. We took our time charging batteries, stocking up on snacks at the Circle K, and drinking lousy coffee. By this point, Brendan and I had been together for ten days and basically mumbled at each other like cavemen. After a few hours, we left town along the main road then took a trail adjacent to a parking lot that was overflowing with camper vans. That’s when we started seeing the piles of shit. Some out in the open, half covered with yellowing toilet paper, and others with a rock atop squeezing fudge out the sides.

We’d hoped that, since we were entering the national park, that the trails would improve. No dice. They were worthy of every last curse we threw at them. Brendan and I both agreed that Jake had made the right call to catch a flight to Amsterdam. All told, I think we were a little jealous.

When Brendan nearly snapped his ankle by tumbling down a mud-covered boulder, I got an idea.

“I think I know how to sell Norway,” I said.

“Sell Norway?” Brendan asked, a little confused.

“Yeah, like a tourism campaign,” I said.

“Let’s hear it.”

I cleared my throat and summoned an androgynous voice, pleasant yet emotionless, like something out of a dystopian film.

“Are you out of shape? Are your days filled with boring, repetitive tasks? Do you find yourself wanting to exercise but can’t find something that sticks? Are you numb? Do you long to feel something, anything at all?

“Then try hiking in Norway. We promise a full body experience. Where every step will be a crucial decision. You’ll get the opportunity to use your hands and feet to hop, climb, and crawl your way up some of the steepest and slipperiest mountains in the world. We don’t really have trails because we don’t believe in them and, besides, that would be too easy. What you need is a challenge to wake you up inside.

“We promise, hiking in Norway will do just that. Once you try it, you might never leave, and if you do, you’ll never be the same. So, come, visit Norway, a country you might never find your way out of.”

Brendan’s bright peals of laughter lit up the gray afternoon. Not long after, the trail grew firm under our feet for the first time in a week.