View to a Thrill

It was a blue sky day, our jaws dropped and we all said “fcuk”.

Vertiginous fjordland punctuated by emerald waters lay below me. There were no danger signs nor disclaimers, no fences or manicured pathways. Just drop-dead scenery framed by a distant blue glacier. It was a setting that took my breath away and sucked at my stomach like a vacuum-flush toilet does in an aircraft.

 There were no apologies for dropping the F bombs. We had climbed our Everest and the gobsmacking view necessitated the voicing of multiple obscenities.

 With two of my closest friends we had reached Trolltunga, a mythical place where a horizontal slab of granite pokes out of a snow-capped mountain in Hordaland county, Norway.

Hiking 23 kilometres in snow, climbing 1300 vertical metres and standing on a precipice capped a moment in life that was impossible to emulate.

Guided by an effervescent German girl and a Norwegian mountaineer, our climbing party comprised three Aussies, a pair of poms and a scattering of Italians. We were in safe and enthusiastic hands. There were no Yaks. We were the pack horses treated to a panorama that rips Norwegian postcard views to shreds.

Armed with walking poles and wearing snow shoes we trekked to the top of the world where a feeling of euphoria become our special form of altitude sickness. Thoughts of Hillary, Norgay and other adventurers were front of mind as we trudged upward and into Thor's domain.

You’d swear I was lying. And that I was. Lying latched like a limpid to the troll’s rocky tongue, I edged my body to its tip and peered into thin air above the north side of lake Ringedalsvatnet. At any other time, climbers would queue up at Trolltunga to have their Instagram moment set on stone. Not on this day. We had the monster all to ourselves.

Whilst traversing the epic climb, pitfalls lay below our feet. The summer melt formed rivulets of water that trickled under shaky sheets of snow and ice which often gave way. The shoes cushioned the sound of slush and feet falling into blind holes of menace beneath the virgin white canvas.

Coming off a high, we descended head first into gale force wind which blew our cheeks inwards and snot sideways. It was strong enough to blow a pack of huskies to Haugesund. Screaming knees and aching ankles necessitated regular stops on rocky outcrops. With webbed feet spread at 45 degrees to guard against being blown over, we refuelled, hydrated our bodies and continued to chase the setting sun.

At twilight we reached the bland grey landscape of a carpark where our journey had begun some 12 hours earlier. It was there that bosom buddies for a day, brother and sister mountaineers, hugged each other and said goodbye.

Was it a dream? 
No way. It's Norway.