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Cherry We hadn't seen Arran and Rebecca. Sharon thought we must have passed them. We did ninety kilometers; maybe they did a hundred. That would be quite far for their first day; they had been off the bikes nine months now. And it was hilly, even though it felt I would climb a little, and then coast more than I had climbed. The roads were marvelously smooth. Downhills were fun again, now that I didn't have to watch for cars, tractors or darting sheep on a one-lane road with two-way traffic and a simulated Swiss cheese surface. A Saturday morning ferry took us across a fjord to Torvikby. The morning light hit the water and sparkled clear to the mountain Everywhere was picturesque; it was like Banff or Lake Louise every direction I looked. The towns boasted a lake and majestic snow-peaked mountain. Ferries were like mini-sightseeing cruises. We looked for a breakfast spot by the lake and found bushes of wild raspberries. Sharon ate hers hand to mouth; I saved mine to eat with my cereal, covered in milk and sugar. We climbed to an overlook of town. Sharon saw two cyclists disembark. Soon, the neon orange and fluorescent green paint of Arran and Rebecca's bike frames came into view. "Hey, Kiwis!" I yelled. They told us they chose the awfulest colors for their bikes in the hope thieves would be dissuaded from stealing them. With them, we climbed a long steep pass over a mountain, stopping at a tumbling lacy cascade to take a breather from the climb. As we continued to climb, Sharon disclosed to Arran, "My worst nightmare is: I climb a steep pass and discover I've gone the wrong way." Arran sighed, "My worst nightmare is: I have to climb a steep pass." We rounded a hairpin corner and saw the road jolt skyward, up and around a series of bends. Arran let out a groan. Sharon jabbed, "We have to go over that ridge, you know." Arran whispered, "Did you hear about the cyclist that died?" "No, where was this?" Arran grunted, "Another cyclist threw her over the railing." Sharon nodded, "I bet this was in Norway." A fast descent brought us to a homey cherry stand. The four of us shared a small twenty kroner basket of heavenly cherries. Arran plunked the money into one of the tobacco tins on the stand. I asked the woman at the house for water. She pointed to the stream and indicated, "You can get it right out of the stream. That's where our water comes from." She came over, bringing more cherries to the depleted stand. She picked up one money container. It was empty. She glared accusingly at us. Arran picked up the other container and rattled it. "We put it in here," his red stained lips assured her.We tackled another steep climb from the cherry stop. It was sunny and hot. My cotton long sleeve shirt sprang a leak. We stopped on one pass to pick pin cherries growing wild alongside the vertical bank. Finally, we descended to Utna, our planned lunch spot. We arrived at two-twenty; the store closed at two on Saturdays. According to Arran and Rebecca's travel book, stores in Norway closed all day Sunday. A larger center, Odda, was forty-five kilometers away. Arran's tour book noted a Rema food store there. Sharon and I decided if we rode fast we should be able to reach there before it closed. Arran and Rebecca were pooped from the passes. Arran thought maybe he could hitchhike into town to buy groceries. Sharon and I sprinted off. On the way we came so close to a breathtaking waterfall spilling off the top of a mountain, we became wet from the spray. We passed through a dripping one-and-a-half kilometer chilly tunnel. Car engines echoed so loudly it was truly frightening. By the time we emerged at the opposite end I was nearly deaf, frozen and scared to death. We were over halfway to Odda when a white car slowed down beside us. I looked over as Arran rolled down the passenger window. "You guys are doing great," he shouted; obvious surprise registered on his face that we had made it so far already. "You're not doing bad yourself," I casually observed. At the store I told Sharon, "If you see Arran in there, ask him if he wants a ride back." He wasn't in the Rema. He must have already finished shopping and left. I was perplexed we hadn't seen him pass us. We rode out of town along Lake*. In a few miles, Sharon found a hiking trail along a river. Above, a huge waterfall shot over the mountain's edge. Hot days were great for melting snow in the high country and creating a showcase of rushing waterfalls. Everywhere I looked there were cascades and waterfalls tumbling. The vistas were captivating. |
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