Hiking in Bergen, Norway: A lesson of perseverance in paradise

 

"Happy Birthday!" my husband says in my ear. "Wakey Wakey!"

I groan and roll over on the stiff futon mattress, feeling my back pop as I stretch to grope the floor for my phone. "It can't be time yet. Did it even get dark outside?"

"Nope!" He beams and scooches his way to the edge of the bed. "Let's get dressed and go find a place to eat before finding the shuttle."

It's spring in Norway, and my husband and I are in Bergen, a small town settled along the water, surrounded by mountains. Today's hike from Mt. Ulriken to Mt. Floyen is our most anticipated adventure of the trip. We arm ourselves with determination to keep the jet lag and sleep deprivation from dampening our spirits. 

Our day begins with a shuttle to the base of the mountain. There, we shuffle inside a little red gondola with families and athletic types in running gear, pressed against the window like sardines. As we slowly ascend the mountain, more of Bergen comes into view. Little red and grey shingled roofs cluster together, peppering the hillside.

From the top, we see ant-sized ships and ferries tow cargo and tourists out of the wharf and into the surrounding fjords. Behind us, the mountain fog swirls and shifts delicately like rhythmic breathing, obscuring and revealing our fate.

 There is no path, only seven foot mossy stone cairns placed every quarter mile to mark the right direction. I wonder how long it took to make each one and how many people helped in the process. We stomp and squish through grass and mud, over rocks, and streams, climbing up and down steep mountainsides. Each cairn we pass becomes another personal achievement. The further we explore, the more my feet and knees begin to protest. A thought pushes its way from the back of my mind and stops me dead in my tracks: 

You are not prepared for what is to come.

Up and down and up again; The hike feels endless. As more hikers pass me, I feel their silent judgment and begin to lose my composure. I watch in awe as runners, the elderly, and even small children bound down steep mountainsides, skipping on boulders like goats. I am no match for these goat people.

"Babe, the website said this hike was 'family friendly,' right?" I look at my husband a few yards ahead with worry. He turns around smiling, no trace of exhaustion on his face. 

"Yeah, it did…" He scratches his head. "but I guess they meant Norwegian family-friendly. Did you see their calves? These people probably hike these mountains all the time."

I was right. Goat people.

Though this hike demands endurance, it gives back tenfold in wild, untamed beauty. Nowhere else have I seen glassy silver lakes perfectly reflect the heavens above, or wandered so high nearly touching the clouds. I strengthen my resolve, leaning into the pain, and focusing on veins of white quartz in every boulder and the countless hues of green in every patch of grass. 

I take many breaks, but the throbbing is relentless. My husband nudges me on, giving me pep talks, which only fuel my anger and resentment. I feel tricked and lied to. There is no calling a car to save me, and there is no going back. It's just me, my pain, and the wilderness. These realizations of our isolation leave me feeling vulnerable and raw. In our last few miles, I've lost my ability to make coherent sentences. I'm a jumble of raw emotions, and tears are visibly streaming down my face. My husband tries to console me, but I want it to be over.

At the end of our seven-hour ordeal, I hobble to the tram, where crowds of people eat late lunches, shop for souvenirs, and bask in the afternoon sun. No one knows what I've just endured. I crumple to the ground, unable to stand and take in the golden sun sinking over the sparkling fjords, a view I worked so hard for. All I feel, aside from constant throbbing, is disappointment. I hate that I let my pain get the best of me and that I didn't work harder to savor every moment. 

We limp back into town, dirty and smelly, and stagger into the best restaurant along the docks. As soon as we sit, I unapologetically kick off my mud-encrusted boots under the table, hoping no one notices. That night we reward ourselves with thick cuts of steak, savory scallops, and sweet champagne, knowing we earned it. I sit humbled, unable to process my gratitude toward my husband for pushing me through it, despite my near-melt down. The pain is now just a fuzzy memory, and what I'm left with is a sense of pride for what we accomplished. I now know myself better, and I know I can test my limits farther and come out the other side stronger.