19th day, Gautelishytta–Skoaddejávre

His name, by the way, is Nikodemus. The boy’s, not the plan’s. He remembers a story of a hiker who, at the broken bridge, encountered fishermen being ferried to the site, and the boatman took the hiker along to Ritsem. If we phone the boatman and arrange him to pick us up, we could still walk most of the route. The idea sounds good. We both plan to walk the same route and have the same timetable.

We linger over breakfast, giving the boatman time to wake up. Then Nikodemus disappears up the hill where there is reception. I sit outside, letting the sun warm my toes, watching the mirror-still lake, trying to predict the outcome of the negotiations from the passing time.

Nikodemus returns with good news. The boatman will come. Now we must pack quickly to get going before the forecast thunderstorm arrives. 

We set off together, chatting about everything and nothing. Countless streams run across the trail at every pace and speed. Behind us, a great dark cloud swells, the wind rises. When the first drops fall, we put on our rain gear and push on. One more slope to climb, then the descent begins toward the dam. Lightning is about three kilometers away. And then, suddenly, it strikes the hillside just ahead, smoke rising, thunder cracking immediately after. Both of us drop flat to the ground, startled out of our wits. We crouch among the rocks, waiting for the storm to move on. The very spot we were meant to climb lies just there, but neither of us wants to test whether lightning truly never strikes twice. At last we dare to continue, slipping through a gap in the reindeer fence. Nikodemus shifts a “door” aside, and as I put it back, thinking how foolish it is to touch metal during a storm, a crooked flash darts across the wire. Perhaps the accompanying crack was only my imagination, yet my left palm and the sole of my left foot sting. Nothing worse than a fright, luckily. The fence runs down into the lake, the air heavy with charge, no wonder. We crouch a little longer in the shelter of a rock before skirting far to the left of the actual path.

At the dam, no surprises. A sturdy bridge crosses the torrent. The rain eases, and we stop for lunch. I eat a few snacks while Nikodemus cooks, then I go on alone. The route climbs over rocks and snowfields. There is much snow. I dislike the patches with gaping holes, or those under which water can be heard running. I could do without further adventure today. But the snow holds, the stones look on in silence, and the sun returns.

On a patch of ground freshly released from its snow blanket, small yellow flowers bloom. There’s a hint of despair in them, realizing its spring on the first of August. How can they possibly finish blooming in time?

From the pass the lake below appears, still mostly under snow. Spring has not come here yet.

I fetch two buckets of water, set a large pot to boil, and by the time Nikodemus arrives I’ve washed my hair and done laundry. Through the big windows the view stretches over the snowbound lake, the streaked mountains, the ever-changing sky.

Today: 17.9 km.