Day 81 – at Mysuseter, Rondane National Park

Unenthusiastic about leaving that book, the warmth and the coffee.. that’s how the morning started. It’s understandable I guess on an overcast morning of 3C with the cloud and mist merging together to make visibility extremely limited.

In one ear I could hear the ghosts of the teenagers I had spent so many years on mountains with saying ‘What’s the point?’, in the other my mother saying ‘Take it easy, isn’t it time you slowed down, don’t forget how old you are.’

The solution to all this though is to get a dog.

This lethargy has happened to me innumerable times, and the dog effect always works.

In my mind I had already reduced my proposed route of the night before. But of course, once you’re out and moving, the visibility improves, the magnificent surroundings begin to work their magic, and you end up actually out for double the time and distance originally planned.

This actually happens quite often, and today was such a day.

Though Rondane National Park is not as untouched as the Parks further north, it does have wild reindeer, golden eagles, wolverines, bears, lynx, moose, but much further in than these outskirts where most mountaineers frequent. Rondane was Norway’s first National Park in 1962, and is about half the size of the Lake District. Most of the Park is above the treeline. Rondslottet is the highest peak in the park, at 2178 metres, and I was walking directly towards it, not that I could see it for most of the morning.

In the summer a bus runs to the conglomeration of huts that make up Rondvassbu, at 1200 metres, from which many valleys and mountains are accessible. Otherwise, along the road it is a 6.5 kilometre walk. On the opposite side of the Store Ula river which it follows, are a couple of tracks that can be hiked. Apparently at the moment though these are not accessible because the small bridge to them is closed. However, I cannot read Norwegian, and just ducked under the wooden bars.

Neither of these tracks are easy walking, as the are pretty flat, and often traverse bogs. This is labrador country. Certainly not Weston with a bad leg country, though that eased after half an hour today. So it was slow going, with a lot of looking down. But, as if ordered by some celestial power, the mist lifted, and even the cloud got higher as I got close to Lonin lake and the huts.

I had seen no one, but did run into a couple of hikers on the return; three young women having a long weekend at a cabin belonging to the family of one of them, and a young couple away for a wild camp, something they do regularly, but the first time for their lively 9 month old flat-coated retriever. In all we were out for just over 4 hours.

Something I didn’t realise, is that the route I took would not be possible after the weekend. The bridge across the river to the huts is a temporary one, and taken out every winter, otherwise it would be destroyed by the many storms that will shortly howl through.

To camp at the parking would have been appealing, but signs request you not to, so I retreated to the same place as I had been last night. Interestingly, the high parking, at Spranget, has mountain bikes for hire on an honesty system. Tremendous to see.

Back at Mysuseter I attended to some admin. When I left the van to prepare Roja’s dinner I noticed an English campervan had pulled in directly behind me; actually the first British number plate I have seen for months. Later in the afternoon we chatted, our dogs became friends. Ian and Sal are from Shropshire, escaped from London after retirement. They have been on the road for just over a month. We discussed the sort of thing that non-van people would find tedious; size of LPG tanks, gas fill up stations, recharging batteries, composting toilets… and a few other matters that would be of only marginally more interest such as the routes we had taken, and past and future trips with our vans. No doubt we will reconvene in the morning..