Skiing in Jotunheimen

I have just returned from yet another ski trip, this time without Liam: I went with a friend (Rogardt Heldal) to Jotunheimen in Norway, a national park containing Scandinavias highest peaks. There are no `ski resorts´ in Jotunheimen, with ski lifts etc; the area is almost totally unspoiled, unpopulated, and without roads. Skiing in this kind of area is very different from the popular downhill skiing: before you can ski down a hill, you have to ski up it; the whole thing is more like mountain walking, except that when you've finally made it to the top of the mountain, you can come down again in a very short time.

Rogardt and I set off last Tuesday morning, early, without any very definite plans. Jotunheimen is eight or nine hours drive away, and we stopped halfway in Oslo to get information from the Norwegian Tourist Association. There we were recommended a `mountain station´ to start our trip from (Gjendesheim), quite convenient to reach from Oslo, but we also discovered that since it was so late in the season, the mountain station was closed on the Tuesday, and would only open the next day for the `Norwegian National Day´ holiday weekend!

Well, we drove to Gjendesheim anyway, and sure enough it was closed. It's a very famous beauty spot actually, close to Besseggen, a narrow ridge that one can walk along in summer, with lakes on both sides. We were a bit shocked to discover that although Gjendesheim is at an altitude of over 3300', much of the snow had already melted. Luckily there was a bit left, and we put up Rogardt's tent in the snow for somewhere to sleep. Putting the tent on exposed, but still frozen ground would have been impossible, so we needed the snow that we found.

Pitching a tent on snow is quite different from pitching it on grass, and neither of us had done it before, so it was an interesting experiment. First we dug a pit about 1' deep to pitch the tent in, to protect it from the wind. We had shovels with us for the digging, an essential safety precaution in any winter touring. Then we put the tent up, but ordinary tent pegs just don't stick in snow. Instead, we had snow tent pegs which we had bought in Oslo, almost a foot long and over an inch broad, with holes down the middle. The idea is that after insertion, the snow refreezes around them and through the holes, and they become very firmly anchored. Finally, we dug out snow blocks and built a wall of them around the entrance to the tent. Inside the wall we could sit in shelter from the wind for cooking, etc., and it's really surprisingly comfortable. When the temperature is below zero, any breeze is really chilling, but if you shelter yourself from it and are warmly dressed, then you really don't feel the cold at all.

Once we had the tent up we made our dinner. Of course we had taken food with us, but we still had to cook it. Normally I use a little Primus gas stove outdoors, which runs on a propane/butane mix something like Camping Gaz. But that kind of gas is, well, liquid, more than a few degrees below zero. As a result, you risk finding that your stove won't burn, or at best burns with a minimal flame. To avoid those problems I bought a petrol stove a year or two ago, and that's what we used to make our meal. It works rather like a blowlamp: the fuel is held in a pressurised bottle (with a hand pump to pressurise it), and is fed through a pipe that passes through the flame to vapourise the fuel before it reaches the burner. The flame you get in the end is something like an ordinary gas stove, and the only fuss is preheating the thing to heat the vapouriser in the first place, which you do by letting a little petrol flow through, turning off the fuel supply (very important!), and then lighting the petrol. Sounds explosive, but it's fairly undramatic if you do it right, and the stove works well.

So, we got the stove working, but before we could make dinner, we needed water. Of course, we were camped by a lake, but that didn't help: it was covered by a thick layer of ice. No, the only way to get water was to melt snow on the stove! It takes ages, and before you can drink such water you should boil it for at least three minutes, which takes longer still, so it was pretty late before we could actually cook and eat our dinner. Afterwards, we needed to wash up. Ah, you need water for that. More snow on the stove, wait for it to melt, wait for it to warm up, detergent in the saucepan, and then at last you can start washing. Want to rinse the dishes? You need more water... the whole business takes a long long time!

Anyway, at long last we were ready to turn in. What's it like, sleeping in a tent pitched on snow, you might wonder? Freezing cold? Actually, no. For a start, we had not one, but two bed-rolls each to lie on. I'm not quite sure what these are called in English, but I'm sure you know what I mean: they're often rolls of yellow foam plastic material that one puts under a sleeping bag to insulate it from the ground. We each had one of them, plus another bed-roll on top, in my case an inflatable foam mattress about an inch thick. With two, you're well insulated from the snow beneath you, and the cold doesn't get you that way. We also both had good sleeping bags. Mine was one that Mary and I bought for our honeymoon over fifteen years ago, filled with down and supposedly good down to -20 degrees C. For our honeymoon in France in summer it was overkill, but for this trip it was perfect. The bag has a down-filled hood like a down jacket, and a draw-string to tighten the hood around your face, leaving only your eyes, nose and mouth peeping out. Moreover, if any cold air should come in past your cheeks, there is another draw-string you can tighten around your neck, so that the cold air goes no further. And inside all that, you sleep in woollen long underwear and thick woolly socks. Let me tell you, I was perfectly comfortable all night; the cold was no problem at all. In fact, when we finally woke up in the morning at 10:30a.m., the temperature in the tent was +8C, even though it was below freezing outside! Probably the sunshine on the tent had warmed it up. All in all, the lesson is that camping in winter can be very comfortable, at least if you are properly prepared.

Next day we drove up higher into the mountains where there was more snow, and skied up quite a dramatic mountaintop, but unfortunately saw almost nothing because of low cloud. Skiing down again was quite fun, but I'm not going to go into more detail because there are more interesting things to come. Afterwards we returned to Gjendesheim, where the mountain station was now open of course, but since we had been so comfortable in the tent the night before, we decided to camp again and save the expense of a room.

The following day we left Gjendesheim on foot (or rather ski) to travel to Glitterheim, another mountain station without winter road access, leaving the tent pitched where it was for our return. To begin with we had to mount our skis on our rucksacks and walk, and unusually for a ski trip, we saw spring flowers peeping out, but before long we reached a greater altitude with unbroken snow cover and we could ski the rest of the way to Glitterheim. This was a long trip, involving among other things four or five kilometers over a lake, and we didn't arrive until about 10p.m. But it was still quite light, and we quite easily found a self-service cottage to stay in, lit the wood stove, and cooked our dinner, before gratefully tumbling into our sleeping bags for a good night's sleep.

The next morning we planned to climb Glittertind (glitter tooth?), Norway and Scandinavia's second highest mountain at 7784' if you only count rock, and Scandinavia's sometimes highest mountain at a somewhat variable 7822' if you include the top glacier and snow which collects on it. We were starting from an altitude of 4397', so we had almost 3500' to climb. To reduce the weight of our rucksacks we left most of our stuff in the cottage, and just took emergency equipment, extra clothing, and food with us.

We set off for Glittertind about 11a.m., and immediately began climbing fairly steeply. You might think that would be difficult on skis, since after all, the underside is deliberately smooth and slippery! But for this kind of `ski mountaineering´ you fasten climbing skins, something like a long Velcro band, under your skis, which makes them grip the snow firmly so you can just walk uphill. What's more, unlike traditional downhill skis, your boot is fastened to the ski only at the toe, so you can lift your heel in a natural walking motion as you climb uphill. Downhill ski bindings fasten both your toe and your heel to the ski, which more or less limits you to going uphill in a ski lift, hence the off-piste skiing adage `free your heel, and your mind will follow´!

Even so, 3500' is a long hard climb, and moreover the weather when we set off was not encouraging, with low cloud hiding the mountain tops. But as we climbed higher up, the clouds began to lift, and the views began to open up around us. Among other things, we saw avalanche debris on the steeper slopes of a mountain opposite; one must be very conscious of avalanche risk on this kind of ski tour, since being caught in one can easily mean death. However, avalanches only happen on steeper slopes, and our route up Glittertind (as long as we navigated correctly) was completely safe. After a couple of tiring hours we stopped on a little plateau for a long lunch, during which the clouds lifted further and the views grew better and better.

As we finished our lunch another couple of skiers appeared, a man and a woman, and we exchanged some pleasantries with them before pressing onwards and upwards. As we climbed higher the slope grew steeper, we penetrated into the clouds, and the weather around us worsened. At last we reached the highest solid ground and could continue only by skiing on the top glacier. And at that moment, the fog descended upon us, and we saw nothing ahead except whiteness.

We were reluctant to continue, because we might be skiing onto steep, icy slopes above precipices, where a single fall could be fatal, so we waited for the conditions to improve. After a while the couple caught up with us and pressed on (they had been to the top before), but we didn't care to follow their example because we still could not see what the ground was like. At last another two skiers appeared, and at the same time the clouds lifted, and we saw that we were actually quite near the top. The top itself was a ridge with a precipice on one side, and a less steep slope on the other, and we could safely follow the ridge up to the peak. The one serious danger was the cornices (`hanging snowdrifts´ in Swedish, a very good name), huge overhangs of snow projecting from the ridge over the precipice. A skier who approaches too close to the edge of such a thing (which looks like the edge of the mountain) can find that he falls through the cornice to plummet to his death thousands of feet below. Naturally, we gave the edge a wide berth!

We pressed on, and before long all six of us stood on the top of the mountain. At the same time, the clouds lifted, the sky turned blue, and we saw most of Jotunheimen's peaks around us, an absolutely stunning sight. Everyone broke out hot drinks and snacks, and relaxed to enjoy the fabulous scenery around us.

The top party.	The way up Glittertind.

20-30 minutes later, we decided it was time to begin our descent back the way we had come, and removed the climbing skins from our skis. The couple we met earlier set off just before us, and we followed them down the top ridge while the other two skiers pressed on a little in the other direction. After a minute or two, we realised we had a choice of routes down: as well as the way we came up, we could ski down the top glacier, which swept all the way down to the valley we started from. Glaciers are dangerous places in general, since a fall into a crevasse or an ice-well can easily mean death, but at this time of year they are covered by snow, which forms bridges over the crevasses and can bear a skier's weight. We and the couple studied the map and the glacier anxiously for a few minutes from above, and then finally decided it was safe, provided we avoided a deep crack between the ice and the rock on one side close to the bottom. So we set off down the glacier, for the valley.

.

The trip down that glacier was the best skiing of my entire life! To start with, the glacier forms a wide, flat strip leading all the way down the mountain, like a perfect piste but much, much bigger. The slope was ideal: more or less like a red slope at a resort, so steep enough to get up some speed, but not so steep as to be difficult or dangerous. The snow was perfect: three or four inches of loose powdery snow on top of a firm layer, making steering easy. The sky was blue and the sun shone, and the mountainscape ahead of us was stupendous. There were only four of us on the entire mountainside. And best of all, my efforts to learn telemark skiing have finally paid off: instead of falling at every turn, I was able to sweep down the mountainside in one smooth and exhilarating motion! And the glacier took us down over 3000', much more than the height difference between top and bottom at the ski resorts I frequent! It was totally fabulous!

I should explain that downhill skiing on free-heel skis requires a somewhat different technique to conventional alpine skis. Since one's heels are not attached to the ski, one can't exert as much lateral force on the skis to turn them. The so-called `telemark´ turn is a way to turn the skis even so; see Winter Holiday in Jämtland and Härjedalen for pictures of Lars doing it. It's not so difficult, just different, and I have at last got the hang of it.

The glacier trip was over all too soon, and we made our way back to the self-service cottage to relax and dine.

The next day was to be our last day of skiing, and we had to spend it returning to Gjendesheim, where we had left the tent pitched. But rather than return by the same route we had come, we decided to make a diversion over the top of Nautgardstinden (7168') and hopefully find some nice skiing down its far side.

This was a tough day! Since we weren't returning to our starting point we had to carry all our gear with us: sleeping bags, stove, fuel, saucepans, all our food, you name it. Our rucksacks were heavy! Climbing 2700' with a full rucksack is quite a different matter from climbing 3500' with a half-empty one. On top of the weight, the sun came out and beat down on us, and I had to strip down to my underwear to avoid melting away.

As we climbed, we heard the snow `booming´ under our feet, a sure sign of high avalanche risk -- which we had suspected anyway, because of the rise in temperature. The booming sound is made by snow layers with a gap in between, perhaps created by melting; a skier's weight causes the top layer to collapse onto the lower one, making the boom. And snow layers with gaps between them slide easily... Venturing onto a steep slope on this day could be suicidal, and we studied the slope we were on nervously. But it was safe: apart from the fact that it wasn't steep enough to be dangerous, there was relatively little snow on it, with rocks showing through the surface in many places. So on we went.

The closer we got to Nautgardstinden's top, the more we began to wonder if the climb was really worth it. Quite apart from the weight in our rucksacks, the snow cover had become so thin that finding good snow to step on between the rocks was becoming quite difficult, and moreover we couldn't see the top, which never seemed to get any nearer, just the next hundred yards of awkward rocky slope. At long last we saw the slope seem to narrow ahead, and suddenly, we were there! And the climb was worth it, after all! Unlike on the snowy top of Glittertind, we were surrounded by rocks on which fantastic frost-shapes had built up. And the view that suddenly opened up ahead of us was wonderful! Nautgardstinden is the highest point on a ridge which slopes fairly gently on the side we had climbed, but drops vertically several hundred feet to glaciers below on the other side. So we had a fabulous view over the glaciers to the mountains beyond, and also along the ridge, where huge cornices hung over the void.

We had some refreshments and relaxed a little in the sunshine on the top, and then began to prepare for the trip down again. We could see that the slope we planned to ski down did have enough snow to ski on carefully, even if rocks poked through at regular intervals. But skiing downhill with a fully packed rucksack is not at all like skiing without one. The extra weight of the rucksack affects one's balance severely, and can make one very wobbly at best. I had had great problems two days earlier, so I was determined to minimise the rucksack problem as best I could. I virtually repacked the whole rucksack on that mountain top, moving all the heavy items as close the small of my back as I could, so they would be near my centre of gravity. I tightened every strap I could find, turning it from a floppy sack to a rigid bundle. And I strapped it so tightly to my back that it could not wobble at all! The goal is that the skier and the rucksack should move as one unit: if you twitch a shoulder to keep your balance, the rucksack should twitch too! There's nothing worse than a heavy rucksack which suddenly shifts as one is trying to keep one's balance in a turn let me tell you -- that knocks me over every time.

I'm pleased to say the precautions worked! I won't say we skied down that mountainside elegantly -- we didn't, and I fell over a number of times. But that was caused in part by difficult snow, which was heavy and uneven and buffeted our skis from side to side even when we tried to ski in a straight line. Where the snow was easier, though, I found that I was able to ski with a heavy rucksack making reasonably decent turns. That was a first for me. So even if the exhilaration factor was far below the day before, I still have a sense of achievement from that day!

On the lower slopes of Nautgardstinden we had a choice of routes: a longer route over a flattish area where we would need to walk, or a more direct route along the foot of a low, steep-sided ridge where we could glide almost all the way. Of course, the direct route was very tempting, but the steep slopes on the side of the ridge looked from the map as though they could avalanche. As we drew closer, we examined the ridge anxiously, but eventually decided that there was little snow left on it, and so passing beneath it should be safe after all. We chose the direct route and went on cautiously, arriving at the ridge about half way up its side.

Once we were at the ridge, we felt that it was not actually as steep as the map had suggested -- it's not easy to judge a slope accurately from just a few contour lines -- and so we continued onwards slowly. Suddenly the slope seemed to steepen ahead, and after some debate we decided to turn back. You should know that in many avalanche accidents, it is the extra weight of a skier on the slope which actually triggers the slide, so you don't want to ski onto a slope that might be unstable. We skied down the side of the ridge where it was less steep, and continued along its foot instead.

Suddenly we found ourselves skiing off the smooth snow and onto a patch of huge uneven snow chunks! As I struggled to keep my balance with my skis popping up and down over the chunks, I realised I was skiing over avalanche debris! And it was exactly at the foot of the slope that we had turned away from higher up! So we had confirmed in the most dramatic way possible that our decision not to ski onto the slope higher up was the right one, but perhaps also that our decision to ski close to the ridge in the first place was the wrong one. On the other hand, we could see from the melted state of the debris that the avalanche must have occurred some time before, perhaps a week or so. So perhaps our judgement was right after all: there was not enough snow on the ridge slopes to be threatening, because it had already avalanched down! Maybe I should add that this was a very small avalanche, and the layer of debris was less than 2' thick. Even if that's doubtless enough to cause injury, the main risk of being buried and asphyxiated must be much less when the avalanche is so small.

I've written a lot about avalanches here, because they're something that the ski tourer always has to be aware of. They're one of the major causes of deaths in the mountains, a much more serious risk than more obvious things like bad weather. And they're tricky: it's by no means obvious whether a slope is dangerous or not. You can learn about them by reading books, but ultimately, when you try to put your knowledge into practice to choose a safe route, you need experience. And that's why I'm paradoxically rather glad to have seen avalanche debris here and there (even if I would prefer not to ski over it!). I learned a lot on this trip, about what avalanche slopes look like, and that will help me be safer in the future.

Anyway, after that little drama we continued without further excitement to Gjendesheim, arriving at 9p.m. after ten hours on skis, quite exhausted. I was able to purchase a much appreciated COLD BEER before we retired to the tent to cook our dinner.

Sunday dawned, the day on which we would return to Gothenburg, and although we had originally thought of making a short ski tour on Sunday also, neither of us felt at all like it after the previous day's exertions. Instead, we decided to kick off with a relaxing breakfast in the mountain station restaurant and a hot shower. The latter was much needed, after four days of sweaty touring, and Rogardt in particular would have preferred to take breakfast and the shower in the other order had time permitted. As it was, he was so embarrassed that he felt obliged to tell everybody in the restaurant that we were sitting far away from them to spare their nostrils, and that we would be showering directly after breakfast, honest! Breakfast was great, and a snip at 65 NOK: rarely have I eaten so much first thing in the morning. It was a Scandinavian buffet with everything you can imagine: eggs, cheese, tasty bread rolls, salmon, pickled herring, meats, cereals... And the shower afterwards was soo good too!

As we packed up the tent in the warm sunshine, we heard a `whump´, followed by the sound of falling debris in the distance. Finally, by midafternoon we had the tent down, our gear packed, and we set off on the long drive home. I had had a very exciting trip, in magnificent scenery, with the most exhilarating skiing of my life. Roll on next winter!