Bear hill and the Finns

Spring has been deceptive; bewitching and betraying at every chance. Even now there are patches of ice, hard, compacted snow, grey-brown with dirt. I hear that in the north of Oslo it is still possible to ski, but our impatience to be out hiking and a good dose of wishful thinking led us to try in the east. We headed out, optimistic that spring had arrived. It mocked us gently.

As soon as we stepped off the bus and away from the apartment blocks that towered above the terminus, the ice was there. On the red and summer sky blue trails. The trails wended their way up. When part of a ski trail the turns upward were gentle; when the trails diverged into their own marked linear territory the blue trail snaked around and over and up and down and into newly refilled streams. The streams gushed enthusiastically, tumbling over rocks and splashing marshes alongside where the land happened to flatten out a little. Small, hard cut forestry areas, reminiscent of a newly barbered marine, reminded me of Nordmarka sections, some of which were welcome to afford a view. Up into more dense areas of snow, tracks consolidated up to the top of bear hill. Bjønnåsen, a variation of Bjørn, is the second highest top in this area at 396 meters above sea level, or moh (meters over havet) in Norwegian.

Thomas moving on up Bjønnåsen

We emerged onto a bare rock topped hill, next to a modern day beacon-hytte with a picnic table next to a viewing point. The rolling misty vista revealed fuzzy layers of forested hills disappearing off into the cold murky fog, patchworks of snow laying on the icy lakes below. On luckier days views of Gaustatoppen can be had, 1881 m (6171 ft)  tall and 134 km away, laying just south of Rjukan of Heroes of Telemark fame. We weren't so lucky, but it was a good feeling still, to look out from this hill and see the ripples of hills in the mist.

Bjønnåsen mist

A height profile, free, courtesy of
Norway's Statens Kartverk

We headed out of the snow on a south facing hill, around the domain of elg/moose, and starting a descent down through a wonderfully piney area. We opted to take our lunch there, Thomas boiling water on his Flat Cat set up – boiling water is an essential part of any hiking trip... Leaning back against cold rocks with a view at our feet while eating polarbrød and salami was bliss. And then the descent began, 125 m within a 600 m stretch which felt steep for me, being accustomed to more ups and downs rather than longer stretches.

Emerging from the brown pine needle covered ground we found a brook leading to a lake with a red blaze across the icy water we could see a pair of mallards enjoying their solitude. We elected to save Ramstadslottet and Bårlindåsen, the two highest points, for another, less misty day, so headed around Blåtjern (blue tarn) and alongside the border of the nature reserve.


The nature reserves in Østmarka are "annerledes" or different. Old, old deciduous and coniferous woodland, with shaggy, bearded birch trees, fallen deadwood conifers and moss, lots of moss. Spring is a prime time here for walkers, although we didn't see anyone after the top of Bjønnåsen. That the snow hasn't relinquished its hold means that the marshes aren't so wet, the bugs are only just waking up, and walking, while not easier, is different. Skirting around the edges of a tarn means only a foot wetting from careless moments, rather than a hazard to be assumed. We gained a little height again and emerged at a little saddle, glowing with life in the awakening moss.

From before

Crossroads

We debated which route we wanted to take and opted to enter the other worldly reserve over a little unnamed ridge. It immediately began with a short climb through a narrow rocky gully that looked as if it could be quite wet. The snow had suddenly reappeared and was forgiving, more so than with the climb up to Bjønnåsen, and apart from just one slippery section it was without mishap. Only moose seemed to have visited this area all winter; there were no human footprints in the snow and where the moose had compacted it the snow rose steadfastly up.

The south side lead down into newly flowering dells with blåveis and hvitveis sunning themselves on carefully chosen banks. Further on the area looked newly adorned with young fir trees, only a couple of meters above our heads. The trail became magical with soft forgiving earth, scents a chemist would love to emulate and the gentle warmth of...sun!

Soft trails!

A tiny switchback lead us down into Djupdale (deep dale – Swedish rather than Norwegian) and once again we became the ice road hikers, the landscape completely transformed from that just 100 m back, and a rampant stream to our left with the forest road covered in slush, snow and ice. Lots of people, dogs, horses and possibly wolves had travelled this road, but without seeing another soul it felt remote. The sun glared off the whiteness, the stream noisily surged down the valley between rocks or more slovenly around sinewy curves. Djupdalen felt like a gift of easy travel and a couple of km were crunched out underfoot.

Djupdalen – easy travel!

We emerged to an expansive view across Fløyta, the islets and peninsulas glowing in the low, late sun.

Putten, with a view into Fløyta and Mønekollen 

After a short tramp up a gravel forestry road we turned off for Finnland... Norway is opening up to me now; the history of the place and how times from centuries past live now through place names. There are many place names containing "Finn", even whole counties (Finnmark), and now here, a tiny spot on a peninsula. From the late 1600s "Finnskogginger" or People from the Forest of Finns, came to Norway to settle. Initially from Finland which in the middle ages was part of Sweden (at least part of it), the Finns in Swedish Finland were encouraged to migrate to remote wildernesses, even though Sami and Karelians also may live there.  While initially the Finnskogginger were encouraged because of their slash and burn of the forests and creating farmable areas, when the iron industry gained ground the peoples became persecuted, in what today would be seem as racial discrimination. So here we were at Finnland which reflected the history of farming and forestry.

The short stretch at the end of the day seemed much longer than it really was; an anticipation and expectation, the wondering of what our target campsite would be like playing tricks with time. A soft cart track wound down into a little dale and suddenly the water opened into view revealing a cabin surrounded by organised wood chop piles. Further off a smooth looking grassy field looked inviting and a little surreal, until walking on it and hearing some amount of squelching. It would do! We wandered across to the water, or rather ice, because from this point it wasn't evident that water had emerged from its cold prison, but around the smooth flat rock we could see that we would be able to get water from the lake after all.

Using two separate shelters when you're a married couple seems a bit strange, but I was keen to try out my newly acquired, second hand MLD Cricket. Thomas had brought his Duomid so we had a little MLD party in this Finnish offshoot in Norway. Using the Cricket was fun – I gained some of the openness of the tarp with the shelter of a...shelter. But how would I like it overnight with rain forecast? The rain was already late, which we were grateful for, and the sun weakened behind light but gathering cloud. We got the shelters pitched and dinner on, drinking copious cups of hot drinks in the chilly, softening light.

It's been a while since I camped out in a tarp based shelter. I really enjoyed how much more of a tarp-like feel I gained, with clear views (of Thomas in his Duomid), and none of the tunnel like feeling I'd had from the Trailstar, but with more protection than just a tarp (well, with how I'd normally chose to pitch one). I'd pitched on a very slight slope (I'd laid down prior to pitching it and thought is was ok!) and that meant that my mat (Exped Downmat 7) slid a bit on the cuben floor towards the mesh. That's just pitching and I could have moved it if it was really bothersome. I was pleased with the amount of space under the catenary beak, enough to have my stove, pack and shoes outside and under the beak.

After dinner and down at the lake we watched the mist rise up, an amorphous cloud that threatened to clamber up the rock slab, over the grass and towards the edge of the trees where we were pitched. We opted to go to bed and retain the warmth from the hike and the food, before being sapped.

From about 11pm it started to rain, which carried on through quite a bit of the night, I think, because I slept pretty soundly - the best night I've had outdoors for as long as I can remember. I woke at 10am, undisturbed (even by Thomas) which is entirely possible in Norway because of the lack of people, and the Allemannsretten – basically the right to wild camp anywhere as long as 150 meters away from a building. Thomas had been awake in his Duomid since about 7, so was about to tackle his third breakfast, and so expected to shortly run out of food.

Is it morning? Me waking in my Cricket.

The rain in the night which shifted with the wind, didn't really affect me all. The shelter and inner were great, remained taut, and I didn't worry at all about rain coming in from the beak so in all I was pretty pleased. From waking up with rain on the fly, the breeze and low sun make quick work of giving me a dry shelter to pack away, and of course with the breeze, and having camped a little way up from the lake there wasn't any condensation to speak of. I know I can pitch the beak lower to the ground, and I rationalised that if Willem Vandoorne can take a Cricket to Greenland and other spectacular and wild places, then I can manage in the forests in Norway!

By now Thomas had started to worry about the lack of food. The extended breakfast had left supplies dangerously low (!) and we debated which way to go to reach home – whether to attempt to cross the marka in the snow or to head north and use the forestry roads to make a quick escape. We headed out and through some beautiful areas, past an old water powered saw mill and up onto a forestry road on the other side of Mønevann. Snow leading up into the hills to the west didn't look promising. Crossing the marka would take hours and without food seemed to be a bit of a miserable affair so it was an easy decision: to head north and out.

Ice remains

It was joyous to get out again, to stretch our legs and try out our kit. Seeing nature come to life again, and the snow making that life more apparent in some ways, just makes me want to spend more nights out. Until next time...