I wake at the usual hour, first, because I
need to catch the helicopter, and second, because I no longer have to wait for anyone.
With last night’s code I slip into the
building, visit the outhouse, brush my teeth, boil water, and have breakfast.
The hut warden appears briefly, then vanishes. So I can’t pay him for anything,
nor ask whether he’d open the shop for me. At the airfield my pack weighs 11.5
kilos.
The boat across the lake wouldn’t leave until
later, but I’ve planned a long day. Today, then, I’ll be the one making helicopter
noise. It departs early, and instead of dropping me at the lakeside hut, it
lands up on a ridge. A small cheat, I skip the climb and trim four kilometers
off the walk. Besides, I’ve never flown in a helicopter before.
I get the seat beside the pilot, complete with
a window in the floor. I don’t dare ask if I can take photos, best not to
distract the man. The thing seems so tiny. The lake with its islands slides
away beneath my toes, and despite the
vehicle’s size, the whole ride feels
nowhere near as terrifying as yesterday’s boat.
On the other side of the lake it’s raining,
but I’m already zipped into rain gear. For the first time, I’ve also got on a
thicker sweatshirt. Cold, wind, rain, though at first the rain is only drizzle.
A Slovenian hiker attaches himself to my heels but soon enough drops behind.
From under a boardwalk I scare away a hare, and later a flock of grouse who’ve
discovered that planks make excellent rain cover.
Halfway lies the hut at Kårsåjaure. By the
time I reach it, the rain has become proper rain. I make a nut stop. All the
other snacks were eaten while waiting for the boat. What’s left is a handful of
salty peanuts I don’t even like. The Slovenian arrives just as I’m preparing
myself to walk out into the downpour.
The seven kilometers to Kutjaure pass quickly.
Clouds down to the ground, nothing much to see, but the trail is neither rocky
nor rough, and mostly laid with planks that run across the landscape like a
stitch or zipper. Every streamlet has a bridge. The German trail guide insists
there should be two fords, but there are none. Though my toes are wet anyway,
courtesy of rain and dripping plants leaning in for a rub. From time to time I
meet other hikers, half of them tiny, optimistic-looking Swedish grandmothers.
The hut is warm, the stove burning, full of
old men and one friendly warden. I boil instant noodles; the warden brings me
cranberry juice. Later, putting on my boots beside the price list, I notice
he’s only charged me the STF member rate — half price. Outside, the weather
brightens. As I leave, the Slovenian arrives.
My feet and fingers soon start to chill again.
The rain turns heavy, and there’s no motivation to take breaks. I simply grind
down the remaining 18 kilometers in one stretch. Five or six kilometers before
the end the wind suddenly tears the clouds apart, scattering bursts of sunlight
across the landscape. Behind me a rainbow rises; below, the vast lake begins to
glitter. Still cold, though.
The hut waits by a bend in the river, the
hostess standing ready at the gate. I’m given a room with two Norwegian ladies,
one of whom immediately starts questioning me whether I’m eating enough. So
after my standard dinner I order a waffle with whipped cream and jam
(astonishingly, they sell them here), then raid the shop for a heap of
chocolate and other indulgences. Now the temperatures have dropped low enough
that carrying chocolate doesn’t mean eating it later with a spoon. Sami-run
huts really do have a different atmosphere.
Today: 32.3 km.
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