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Twenty-nine Kroners In the morning, a sublime crystal-clear reflection of the surrounding green mountains clothed the motionless water. Arran crawled out of his tent and in wonderment exclaimed, "And we're going somewhere else?" "Another beautiful day in Norway," I announced on cue. The morning ride took us past numerous "perfect" camp spots. As we passed a gorgeous spot next to another lake I asked Sharon, "Is three kilometers too soon to camp?" We rode with Arran and Rebecca to Kvelde where the road turned off at Sandefjord, where they planned to catch the four-and-a-half hour ferry to Sweden from Larvik. "Happy trails," we called to their rapidly disappearing backsides. Sharon and I headed to catch the half-hour ferry from Horton to Moss, then down the side of Skagerrak (Oslo fjord) into Sweden. The flat farmland, with fields of carrots, onions, potatoes and strawberries soon turned to a sinuous series of hills. To top it off, fresh sticky asphalt impeded our progress. Hot tarry rocks clicked through our fenders and stuck to our derailleur pulleys. The surface oozed so gooey, I imagined if I left my bike on the road it would be glued in an upright position. Sharon forgot the torture when we reached the top of the steep climb and discovered an inviting lake. "Swim!" Sharon yelled, and was off her bike in a flash making a beeline for the water. Even I jumped in and paddled about. Near Horton we found a mountain bike path. It bumped us over rocks and tree roots. After losing the trail several times I punctured my $40 Holland tire that wasn't worth snot. In a section where the tire tread had completely worn off there were three patches in a four-inch strip of tube. At seven-thirty pm we arrived at the ferry. We had twenty-nine kroners. Passage cost sixty. I asked, "Can we pay with a credit card?" She replied, "You can, but you'll have to go to the other window." I offered my Visa card. After two swipes, the cashier told me, "It doesn't work." Sharon tried hers next, with the same result. When I mentioned we had twenty-nine kroners, the cashier told us: "Twenty-nine kroners isn't enough. Do you have any Swedish or Danish money?" "No, we haven't been there yet. That's where we're trying to go." "Any other money? Pounds?" "I have a five pound note." "Anything smaller?" "They don't have a smaller note." I fished into my pouch to retrieve the sterling note and discovered one-hundred-fifty kroners. Whoops. But I didn't tell the cashier. She gave me forty-five kroners for the £5, I added fifteen kroners of our change, and we held two tickets for the eight pm, half-hour crossing. I joyously told Sharon of my amazing discovery. We would be able to eat after all. Meals on board cost more than our crossing, so we waited until Moss. The Rema had closed at eight, but a Pizza shop was still open and they sold packages of dry goods. On the way out of town we came to a park. There was a placid inlet of fresh water. We boiled elbow pasta and topped it with tomato sauce. Two German cyclists camped across the water; I could see their red Ortlieb panniers. Across the water, at the hostel, a rock band hammered out thumping renditions of wailing soloists and pounding drummers. Later, old American tunes blasted from a stereo, accompanied by the off-key notes of teenagers singing their lungs out. Mercifully, at exactly eleven pm, curfew descended and the singing immediately ceased. On a trail, above a large jagged piece of granite jutting into the inlet with only a slight incline, I found a spot broad enough to set the tent on. Despite our tiredness, we dogged to the apex to a strategically located bench. We watched the light from the immense rising moon play across the water. Pyro cyclists across the inlet flared a raging bonfire for a short time. After seeing a brief falling star we were off to bed. |
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