Bergen has seven mountains, and as of yesterday, I have
hiked six of them. Of course, I scramble up Ulriken nearly every third day, and
Løvstakken at least once a week, so I don’t think that I’ve been lacking in my
attentions to them. But Damsgårdfjell has evaded me time and time again, and
with only three days left in Bergen, one of which is Shabbat, and my suitcases
lying untouched in my closet (actually, they’re completely ungettable—I have to
take my shelves out in order to get the suitcases), I doubt I’ll have time.
Thursday morning Sarah and I tackled Lyderhorn, Bergen’s
most westward mountain. It was also the least lovely of those I’ve hiked so
far. The hike began behind an industrial dock, and we spent at least half an
hour on cement before the path turned to proper rock and dirt and mountains
scrambling. The view showed us the sea and the airport that I’ll be heading out
of so very soon. On the peak we found a mad clutch of Norwegian schoolchildren,
jumping chaotically in every direction. We decided to leave quickly. But we
never found the trail down.
That was a good dangler, right? You’re sitting there reading
and wondering if I’m actually still on top of the mountain, dictating my blog
posts by phone to a compliant sister-secretary. Nope. We bush-wacked our way through
prickles and branches, slid down a few sheer rock faces, stepped deep into oozy
mud disguised as land by moss, and after lots of hard work, came out on the
wrong side of the mountain, across from a beautiful cemetery. We lingered there
a bit, reading the names (I would love to give one of my children a Norwegian
name, maybe Lars or Halvor or Astrid), and then headed back to the city.
That evening I went over to Yael’s and Birgitte’s to say
bye, and we ended up going to the Løvstakken farm to buy eggs. Have you ever
seen fresh eggs? Did you know that they come in different shapes and colors,
and even, in the case of calcium deficiency, shapes? My friends showed me the Løvstakken
owl in his crook of the tree. Or maybe they showed me to him. He regarded us
every bit as solemnly as we did him, and turned his head to watch us as we
moved.
The weather forecast says this is to be my last sunny day in Bergen.
I woke up early to take full advantage, and, with heavy heart, climbed Landåsfjell
up to Ulriken and around to the stony path down one last time. I heard bells and saw sheep grazing by one of the lakes at the top. How do they get them up there, I wonder? The sheer
breathtaking beauty of every crag and pristine coldness of each lake gives me a
small sharp pain when I realize I must leave it. How joyous, to simply move
through beauty and accept it as the norm instead of having to hoard and hoard
against return to ugliness.
While hiking down, my conscious mind busy with
pre-nostalgia, another part of my brain got away from me and made up this
hiking ditty. Normally I wouldn’t share, but since most of you won’t understand
it, and the Norwegians are too nice to say anything other than “flink!” here
goes:
Nå skal, nå skal, nå skal vi gå på tur,
Nå skal, nå skal, nå skal vi gå på tur.
Gå oss opp eller gå oss ned,
Og så, nå skal, nå skal vi gå på tur.
Eller gå vi ved fjord, eller gå vi ved fjell,
Å spise brødskive er viktigst del,
Og så, nå skal, nå skal vi gå på tur.
Å gå på tur kan er lit vanskelig,
Men utsikten er altid veldig nydelig,
Og å sovne i hytta er meste koselige,
Og så, nå skal, nå skal vi gå på tur.
I should be completely forlegen about putting this online,
but one needs a rhythm when hiking, and most people aren’t bashful about the
weird things their minds get up to while they’re absent, so why should I
be?
In the afternoon I ran a slew of errands in town and then
came to Katten for the teacher’s goodbye fest. I sat with the youngest
teachers, a sweet and hesitant crew that I’ve made friends with over the course
of the year. We talked in between speeches and flower-offerings and songs (they
all chimed in on an old folk song about strawberries that turn into boys that
turn into memories), and then headed back to our teacher’s cabin to chill with
the beer Anita had brought, and finally I said goodbye to everyone in a hearty
farewell and came home to prepare for my last Shabbat in Bergen.
I gave Anita thank-you flowers, though her I'll see again before I leave |
Great verses, great walking rhythm.
ReplyDeleteHaven't they taught you the dessert song??
Rød grøt med fløte på /det er godt å få.
Dette var første vers, så kommer andre vers,/det lyder så:
Rød grøt med fløte på, rød grøt med fløte på, rød grøøøøt med fløte på, det er godt å få.
Twenty verses and you are ready.
"You’re sitting there reading and wondering if I’m actually still on top of the mountain, dictating my blog posts by phone to a compliant sister-secretary. Nope. We bush-wacked our way through prickles and branches, slid down a few sheer rock faces, stepped deep into oozy mud disguised as land by moss, and after lots of hard work, came out on the wrong side of the mountain, across from a beautiful cemetery."
ReplyDeleteA passage from a poem I always think of whenever I veer from the path up or down mountains:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
I know there's a deeper meaning to Frost's poem, but I can't help but love how literal it becomes when hiking and going off the path so many have already trod, especially when ending up in a beautiful, scenic place the regular path would not have taken you to. It literally makes all the difference.