23rd day, Røysvatn–Áhkájávrre västände

By morning, the chunk of ice that had floated in the puddle before the hut has melted away. The lake seems freer of ice too. Or perhaps that is just wishful thinking. The wind is fierce. Fierce enough that the boatman we’d arranged for today would almost certainly not be coming. Pitching a tent in this gale wouldn’t be much fun either. Still, it seems wiser to be at the meeting point on time tomorrow, so: onwards.

A bit of scrambling downhill first—thankfully, no treacherous snow walls. Here the trail is well-marked, cairns stacked in neat geometric layers. We leave Norway, its huts, and for now the Nordkalottleden, and cross into Sweden. The path intersects with the Gränsleden, once a trading route, later used by wartime refugees and long before that, the Sámi. Following it would bring us to Ritsem, but on the way is a broken bridge and a river too dangerous to ford. Near that bridge stands a shelter where the boat is meant to meet us.

Though we’re back in Sweden, one of the river crossings boasts a distinctly Norwegian-style bridge: airy, spindly, precarious. The wind is so strong it drives tears from our eyes. On other days it only plays with the low plants to the ground, but now it throws itself gleefully at us too. What should be an easy stretch of terrain turns into a long wrestle with the gale. The views, though, are magnificent. Clouds of every shade scud across the sky, rivers and forests gleam far below, and the wind draws shifting designs the lake’s surface. At times the sun breaks through, sometimes even a rainbow arcs across the landscape.

Up ahead, a dark, low figure moves. At first I think: a fox. Through the binoculars, though, I see something stockier, furrier. A wolverine! Then another. And another. One glances in our direction, but since we’re downwind and frozen in awe, they pay us no attention, jogging carelessly across the slope, over a snowfield and vanishing behind a hill. Three wolverines, just like that. Tor once told me it was almost impossible to encounter them by chance, they’re too wary. Yet here they are. A true gift. Wolverines on the Gränsleden any day over the risk of drowning on the Nordkalottleden.

Lunch is in a battered shelter with an overflowing outhouse beside it. Rain spits briefly, but then the sky brightens and the wind eases a little.

I climb on alone, the trail rising steeply right behind the shelter. I miss the turn at first; later Nikodemus reports that he didn’t rejoin the trail until three kilometers before our destination. Half the way is uphill, half downhill. Up top, the wind howls again. Spread beneath is vast Áhkájávrre, its surface streaked with white foam.

Descending below the treeline—the first time since Abisko—the world softens. Here, “treeline” doesn’t just mean a stray tree or two, but a crowd of them, proper trees at least two meters tall. Some cloudberries are ripe, and a few blueberries. A sweet bonus.

Down by the lake, another shelter, leaning toilet, piles of rubbish. I collect the cleaner-looking trash, steer clear of the toilet paper drifts. The trees soften the wind. Sitting still, it gets chilly and tug my down jacket from its pouch for the first time. As the wind calms, mosquitoes reappear after days of absence. A little rain patters the tent, but I sleep soundly, indifferent to the weather.

Today: 22.8 km.