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Hoot and Away! Sharon slaved over a hot skillet burning pancakes. In case Arran and Rebecca came by while we were tucked away on our side road, I created a sign on Sharon's front pannier cover reading: "Kiwis," with a red arrow pointing in the direction we were. I set the sign on the roadside, secured by a couple of rocks, to keep it from blowing away. They didn't come by. We took the bikes out to the road. Sharon followed the hiking path to the waterfall while I read beside the lake shore. Just as Sharon returned, Arran and Rebecca pulled up. Perfect timing. We learned the fellow who gave Arran a ride last night thought the Rema was closed and took Arran to another grocery store on the hill. Little wonder--Rema resembled a warehouse with its tiny windows covered by stacks of boxes inside. By its appearance, I wouldn't have even guessed it was a grocery store. Last night, as Arran walked down the hill to the Rema, he saw us going up the other hill out of town. He spoke about the two neat Norwegians he had met on his ride to and from town. One guy told him Norway had built so many tunnels they were the foremost technology on tunnel building in the world. Norway even exported their tunnel technology and expertise. "We export holes to Korea," he proudly apprised Arran. Arran and Rebecca had stayed at a rest area last night. There wasn't many places along that road, with the fjord on one side, and hill and orchards on the other. Sharon bet me they would be staying in an orchard. I thought maybe in the tunnel. There was a place halfway in, leading to the fjord. Noisy with traffic echo though. One guy told Arran drunk drivers sometimes went off into the fjord. The fjords were so deep--the driver wasn't usually found for a couple of years. Occasionally, a car bobbed to the surface. Arran praised the scenery, marveling each day just kept getting more dramatic. "Why did I bother to take those pictures back there?" It was fabulous with numerous waterfalls gushing off peaks. The kilometers went by briskly with all the sights to gawk at. We stopped by a river with three picnic tables. The souvenir shop, across the road, displayed animal skins. Tourists stopped just to take pictures of the hides. Arran scrambled down to the river to fill his water bottle. I took mine over to the souvenir shop. I asked the middle-aged woman, "Is the river water okay to drink?" She replied, "I wouldn't drink it. You'll be very sick." So much for Norway's sparkling clean, safe water. Last night, I had filled a jug from a pipe coming off the mountain. The river appeared cleaner than the creek water the cherry woman had given us yesterday. We saw hoses going into various streams, but maybe residents were only using it for irrigating their orchards. After lunch, since no one felt like becoming a hood ornament for a semi, we took the bypass road around the four kilometer tunnel. We climbed. And climbed. We climbed a hoard of switchbacks to the top. The road wove around the side of the mountain, ending on a windy pinnacle. Sharon wanted to know why summits were always put in the windiest places. While Sharon and I waited for Arran and Rebecca I donned rain pants and windproof coat to help fend off the icy wind gusts. Sharon pulled on all her clothes, including her fleece hat and mitts. To pass the time, I built a stone obelisk. I topped it off with a tall pointed rock. Several minutes later, when Arran arrived I proudly showed my creation to him. "That's quite phallic," he chided. Arran didn't put on long pants. He scoffed at my apparel and prattled on about how true New Zealander's wore only shorts in the summer. When Rebecca arrived we threw snowballs at her. Rebecca broke out the Scotch whiskey to toast our successful ascent. The whiskey was in a little Macintosh tartan flask with four tiny metal tumblers. The friendship pack. Arran jeered, "It can't be true Scotch design. If it were, there would only be one tumbler." Rebecca filled the cups, then raised her glass cheering, "Hoot an' away!" and threw the throat searing liquid down the hatch. This was no sipping whiskey. Rebecca took our picture. Then, to take a self-timer with all of us, she readied the camera and intricately balanced it on the rocks. The mirror flipped up and the camera died. The cold must have zapped the weak batteries or maybe it was just my ugly mug. We coasted down the other side, staring at the glaciers on snowy mountains and frozen pools of water. After descending for over a mile, we came to the top of an Alpine ski lift. Most of the houses had sod roofs with foot-long green grass swaying in the breeze. Clumps of fireweed, in splashy violet brush strokes, waved as we passed. Near the bottom, below the highway, a grassy road led into a field. We ate supper by frigid Roldal Lake, filled directly from a hidden glacier. We set up out tents in the midst of the panorama. These were going to be tough campsites to beat. Surrounded by peaks, we had a grand lake, a serpentine waterfall spilled off the distant mountain and a river dashed by on our left. The man in the moon winked, as the pale yellow orb rose in the sable heavens. |
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