22nd day, Paurohytta–Røysvatn

The air is crisp, the lake and snowfields breathing out cold. Just past the hut, a solid bridge spans Båvrojávrre where once there had been only a boat. Its end dips into the water, but one can step onto it with dry feet. The next crossing should be “the Norwegian kind”—airy, wobbly, not exactly confidence-inspiring. But to our surprise, instead of a swaying contraption, there stands a proper structure. Perhaps the Norwegians have been taking lessons from their Swedish neighbors.

We hop from tussock to tussock in search of trail markers around an enormous mountain. The markers remain elusive, the path is more a suggestion than a presence. Then we stumble across an entire bundle of poles with red-tipped tops tied together, as if trail-marking enthusiasts are expected to plant them themselves.

Next comes the Márggojåhkå crossing, rumored to be a massive, multi-branched river. It looks daunting, but turns out manageable. At one pint the current is uncomfortably strong and the water rises above the knee, but otherwise it’s just cold walking. The worst of it is how icy the water feels, numbing the feet almost instantly. The heatwave is long gone, replaced by a relentless, exhausting wind.

We ford a few more streams, nearly step into a wasps’ nest, then stop for lunch. The lakeside path that follows is simple, flower-fringed, and gusty. The beach promised by the German trail guide does exist, though it’s not beach weather. After lunch I resume my usual solitary pace and alone encounter Svartijåhkå’s “budget bridge,” which covers only half the river. Thankfully the wilder half. The rest is left to the hiker’s own ingenuity. Somehow, it works. The current looks fiercer than it really is.

A stone labyrinth follows, with yet another bundle of unplanted trail poles abandoned in its midst. Navigation comes down to spotting a lone footprint in mud or an upright rock faintly smeared with orange paint.

Once out of the maze, the snowfields begin. At first they lie flat, then increasingly tilt upwards. The rock here has been smoothed into sleek curves by nature’s forces. Funny how old stones wear down smooth while old faces wrinkle up. Either way, it’s another landscape where a building would be unexpected. Only snow, rock, and meltwater pools.

The hut finally appears when it’s only a hundred meters away, hidden until the last moment in this improbable terrain. Roaring rapids rumble in the distance. No wonder this is said to be one of the least-visited huts in Norway. But the effort to reach it is richly rewarded.

I fetch water, light the stove, set the kettle to boil. Nikodemus arrives, having spent an entire hour wandering lost among the rocks. I wash my clothes and my hair. It’s our last night in a cozy Norwegian hut, sprawled on a sofa, gazing out the window, maybe charging a gadget off the solar panel. Surely the smaller Swedish huts off the Kungsleden will be charming too.

Today: 29.1 km.