We sleep late. Outside, the some sun appears and the tent is almost dry.
The wind, however, is unchanged. Our boatman sends us a vague promise for
the evening.
Which means: a rest day here. I fill it by collecting every scrap of
rubbish, airing out my clothes, looking around under the trees. At last I can
linger in the forest without being devoured by mosquitoes. We spend some time
untangling the mess of world geopolitics, then wander through other topics,
from trekking to environmental problems.
There’s time to read. I make my way slowly, savoring every page of
Kallifatides’ book. Watching the patches of sunlight drift across the lake, one
can predict when warmth will arrive, and for how long.
For a dose of disaster tourism, we go to see the broken bridge. We nearly
run, it feels absurdly light to move without the packs. The bridge dangles
pitifully, not upright but hanging sideways. If a polar bear was chasing me, I
might risk scrambling across. On the way back, I thoroughly inspect the
cloudberries, less thoroughly the sphagnum moss (odd, how I haven’t seen it
before here despite so many swamps).
Now and then the wind seems to die, but it always regathers itself. We
pester the boatman again, receive only a thumbs-up. Satellite messages arrive
in fragments, scrambled and out of order. When I switch on my GPS, I
unwittingly interrupt a police operation—Kalle had reported me missing. Oops.
Still, there’s comfort in knowing so many people have been watching my progress
and worrying.
At ten o’clock the boat finally comes, dropping off two hikers and taking
us on board. A tiny open vessel, skippered by an elderly Sámi man. I sit at the
bow, watching the sun sink behind the mountain where we spent the last
twenty-four hours. The boat thumps against the waves, larger out in the middle
of the lake. We bounce in our seats until we start zig-zagging; then I slide
down to the floorboards, where it feels marginally less terrifying. Only
marginally. Water splashes on my hood. Nikodemus, up front, takes it full in
the face. I study his expression, trying to guess whether he already sees
Ritsem. Áhkká, the “Queen of Lapland,” moves slowly closer. Ritsem is opposite
to it, across the lake.
We arrive alive, damp, a little shaken, in the twilight. We walk to the
tourist base, find the reception closed, brush our teeth in the outhouse, get the
door code from a kind fellow hiker, swap a little money, pitch our tents, and
part ways with good wishes. Though Scandinavians are devoted to their tunnel
tents, I notice
two Durstons
in this campground.
Boat: 22.7 km. Plus a couple of kilometers walking to the broken bridge
and back, and from the harbor to our lodging.
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