Explorers and Risk-takers

I was in a good mood, having one of those English conversations, with a stranger, over a counter. I was enthusing about the mildness of the day and the gorgeousness of the autumn colours. She responded by complaining of the short days and the misery of getting up for work in the dark, and going home in the dark.
‘Yeh, it’s tough. Not sure I could live in the north.’ We were waiting for her colleague to arrive and help me with something, so, unusually, we had time for conversation. I spoke a little about our trip last winter to Tromsø, north of the Arctic Circle, where from the end of November the sun doesn’t rise at all. Our visit was in late December. S & I didn’t know what to expect. We woke bewildered at 9am to complete and absolute night-time. We breakfasted and went out to explore. How could people cope with utter blackness for weeks on end? Yet although the sun doesn’t rise at all in December, there is a suggestion of daylight. The skies lighten to a beautiful twilight from about 10am. That fades to darkest night again by 2pm. (There are graphs at showing the level of light at http://weatherspark.com/averages/28894/Troms-Norway)

That darkness wasn’t at all gloomy. Light blasted out wherever there were houses, and shops of course. Norwegians aren’t private curtain-closers like us English. They are generous with their illuminations. Light streams from big windows even of remote homes. The countryside feels friendly, fresh and alive. And social life seems to ignore conventional timetables so there are midnight concerns and plenty going on.

Note the sculpture in celebration of whaling that has made Tromsø rich 

the lit up Arctic Cathedral

Tromsø with, on the left, the fine Rica Ishvashotel where S & I stayed

The long weekend in Tromsø introduced me – at the museum of Arctic explorers there – to the astonishing Fridtjof Nansen (1861 – 1930). He was attracted to the idea (!) of using the flow of polar ice to carry a boat right across the Arctic, and thus reach the North Pole. The theory was that a boat might leave Siberia and traverse the Arctic to emerge from the ice at Greenland. So Nansen deliberately set out to wedge his especially strong boat, the Fram, in pack ice. The plan didn’t quite work, progress was slow and Nansen calculated that the boat would take five years to cross to land again. They decided to split the party and strike out on foot for the Pole. The 14-month long expedition was treacherous, involved two of the team overwintering on the ice in a tent and spending a month on an ice floe. By the time the ice started to melt some of their navigational equipment had failed but they still managed to reach safety despite their home-made kayaks being trashed by walruses. These explorers were immensely resourceful and I couldn’t help feeling it was no wonder that the Norwegian Amundsen beat Scott to the South Pole. Scott by contrast was an amateur.

What is it that makes people set off on expeditions? I think it is the minority who go in search of glory. I guess for most it is the call of adventure, to step outside of the humdrum. To challenge oneself. To see how you’ll cope. To take a risk and see what happens. To see what fate flings at you. That attitude was one that prevailed amongst the expatriates we lived amongst in Nepal. Most were risk-takers. We were an odd unconventional bunch of kindred spirits, even if we weren’t all heroic explorers.

One such risk taker returned to Cambridge last weekend, having achieved a place in the Guinness Book of Records. Anton Wright (with Mark de Rond) managed to row the entirety of the River Amazon, a terrific achievement rowing 16-hours a day in a boat that leaked. They navigated 2000 miles over 31 days. The self-effacing Anton, who returned 18kg lighter, said that the flow of the river helped a lot and sometimes they’d make 100km in a day.  http://www.cambridge-news.co.uk/Business/Business-News/Carnal-knowledge-gained-at-a-price-in-Amazon-rowing-bid-20131015115402.htm,

Then earlier this explorer-themed week A & I went along to the Arts Picturehouse to see original footage of the 1924 film featuring Mallory and his The Epic of Everest. Again this was an astonishing tale of determination and true grit. The film had been remastered and was, of course, silent, but the shots of grinning locals and the desperate aridity of that part of Tibet helped me see again the riches of my life in England. Travel – even vicariously – does that for you.

Returning, after the film, to our tiny but luxuriant and wild little garden, I felt myself moved by the wonderful autumn colours, and it was with delight I was welcomed home by the low croak of a resident frog. An aeroplane had just flown over, and I do believe he was calling to it. Maybe he was in love.

Polar Winter

It is perhaps a bit odd to head off to the Land of the Midnight Sun, in December, but that’s what we decided to do, around the time of the winter solstice. I’ve already written of the drive to Gatwick: how I was already in the mood for something marvellous. The trip didn’t disappoint, even though snow held us up. Even the delays were interesting and instructive. It was news to me that planes need de-icing. I half realised that getting the jets clogged with solid water might not be a great idea, but spraying the wings and tail with de-icer? That’s not what I thought I'd see as the snow fell in Oslo.

I’m not sure what I expected of the fishing village of Tromsø well north of the Arctic Circle, but I didn’t expect it to be so beautifully lit or that it would be such a buzzing town. Nor for breakfast to be so colourful.



Fish eggs in traffic lights colours



A statue celebrating whaling

 

We arrived after dark in the evening, and woke in the dark next morning, wondering whether we'd notice any change in the natural light. There turned out to be just about three hours of rather beautiful twilight between about 10am and 1pm. Then it was back to fairy lights and a suggestion of a lightness reflecting off snowy hills in the distance. Even so we saw otters in the harbour and watched wonderful long-tailed diving ducks zipping around deep in the clear harbour waters, flying underwater like penguins.

 

Tromsø with, on the left, the fine Rica Ishvashotel where we stayed

Good local beer

And fine cheescake
 

We plumped for Norway in December because there were good chances of seeing the Northern Lights and on our first evening we headed off to the beach to await the show - expected somewhere on the western horizon at 8pm. Standing around in the cold, sand frozen and unforgiving, a chilling breeze coming off the waters of the fjord, we strained our eyes and wondered if we were imagining a glow on the north-west when our guide shouted, 'It is starting!'

Lights are mostly an eerie green but we saw reds too

 

The display was amazing but to the unaided eye there was surprisingly little colour. Long-exposure photos are needed to show the Northern Lights in their full glory. They move though, and at one point a swirl of lights, looking like some vast net curtain shifted as if caught in a breeze.

 



 

Self-portrait on a 30 second exposure

 

Then there were rumours of whales to be seen. Generally the winter isn't a good time for whale watching but humpbacks had been sighted and we signed up for a trip in Polar Girl.

 

Polar Girl is the red and white boat

 

It was of course dark when we set out and I didn't believe we had any chance seeing anything. But the half-light arrived and we started spotting dark objects in the water.
And blows.
Closer and closer.
And lots of them.
An Australian marine biologist was almost orgasmic with excitement; he'd never seen so many humpbacks together before and with orcas too he couldn't believe his luck. He even gave the captain a bearhug when we disembarked, much to the bewilderment of the Norwegian.

 



Dark objects up ahead

 

Then the humpbacks seem to want to play

 

We were close enough to see the double blowhole, and later to watch orcas hassling a calf

 

And then a stately dive. Until finally they led us home

 

We had just three full days in Tromsø with the enormously good fortune to be treated to two of nature's big shows. Norway is an amazing country, though it's a destination where you haemorrhage money. The locals are friendly, helpful, tolerant, great linguists and have the most charming sing-song way of speaking English. I reckon we'll be back there again....

 

And if you'd like more, take a look at my post of August 2012, to see what Norway looks like in the summer.

 

The twilight fading at 1pm

 

Fjord swimming

It had started by mistake, almost. I’d rowed the three of us across from Aga and when S mentioned he’d packed our swimming togs, I was tempted to cool off in the clear inviting Sørfjorden. Getting in wasn’t easy. A muddle of landslide boulders were covered in bladder wrack and coralline seaweed so it was hard to see where to put my feet: I’m a bit of a dweeb about walking on stony beaches too. And it was cold. Really cold. I splashed water on my arms so the plunge in wouldn’t feel so bad – but it was: cold enough to take my breath away. I kicked frantically to fight the spasms. S & Ʃ were sitting under the trees on the bank laughing.

S said, ‘Keep swimming – I’ve got to get a photo with the snow in the distance!’

I was soon breathing normally again, and even almost started to enjoy it. The fjord was so still I could see the Folgefonna glacier reflected in the glinting green water: this was real wild swimming. Then from Ʃ, ‘Why don’t you swim out into the really deep water. We’ll follow in the boat and you can get in when you tire.’

‘You... must... be.. joking!’ I spluttered. But then I thought about it. Our intended lunch-spot wasn’t anything special. Kicking out in my relaxed breaststroke felt good. Easy. The ripples I made with each stroke scrumpled reflections of snowy patches on the mountaintops.

‘OK – I will then!’ I struck out back across the fjord. The houses on the other side were tiny. Trucks driving along the main road between Utne and Odda were minuscule, but it would be fun swimming out and completely clear of the shore.

I was a couple of hundred metres out by the time S & Ʃ had launched the boat and rowed out to me. I enjoyed my breaststroke – kick glide pull... kick gli––ide pull, and the water didn’t feel that cold any more. I’d swim into pockets that felt almost like a warm bath, but then it would be out again into iciness. Kick gli–––ide pull... kick...

I was going strongly, though I didn’t want to put my face in the water. I was still wearing my glasses and it felt too cold to put my head in at all, so I didn’t rise to Ʃ’s challenge to swim right under the boat. I headed towards a red two-storey weatherboard house. I swam. It came no closer. Even so I began to think I might swim right across. That started a debate amongst the three of us. S thought it was a kilometre across. Ʃ said, ‘No – look how small the cars are. It’s much more.’

I was swimming steadily. I felt strong. I could keep this pace up for hours. I turned and looked back. It was good to change position, but I still didn’t want to put my head back in the water.

‘How far... d’you reckon... I’ve done?’ I asked. ‘A third?’

S was humouring me when he said, ‘Mmm. Maybe. Yes, a third.’

The rowan trees at my starting point on the east side of the fjord still looked large. I hadn’t made much progress. But I wasn’t at all tired and I still felt I could swim across. Then I hit a muscle-seizing cold patch. Maybe this was what the rest of the swim was going to be like. I was gasping again. It must be icy water welling up from the deep. I wouldn’t go on if it stayed like this. I spluttered as much to S & Ʃ. They didn’t hear.

It wasn’t long though before I entered another bath-warm patch, and even the next cold bit wasn’t that cold.

I turned on my back. The eastern side was still close. The red house seemed no closer, no bigger. The water had turned the colour of gun metal. I’d swim a bit further. To the middle at least. I looked up to the glacier and the snow and the mountaintops. I scanned down to the tree line and the pretty houses along the shore. Earlier that same day S & I had climbed high above the fjord, 500m or so up the steep valley wall amongst pine and then birch forest. We looked down not on a single expanse of water but on a varied and varying surface – a map as intricate as any landscape. In places there were tiny waves whipped up by undercurrents, rips and eddies. There were places where the water looked deep dark and menacing, others where the water surface was rippled from a slight breeze. Sometimes the water looked leaf green, sometimes it was almost black.

From the boat Ʃ shouted, ‘What if a whale came alongside!’ His imagination had been captured by discovering that many fjords are 1000m deep; he was sure there were big creatures living down there. He talked of humpbacked whales and monsters.

‘A big whale... wouldn’t come... into a fjord.’

‘What if a giant squid came up from the deep?’

‘You’d... photograph it!’

‘But it might eat you!’

‘Still got both my legs – so far...’ He wasn’t going to spook me, although thinking of that huge body of water below me was awe-inspiring. Being run down by a boat was a more realistic worry.

Something disturbed the surface. I took a mouthful. It was – surprisingly – hardly salty at all. Maybe that explained the lack of seabirds. There weren’t many wildfowl either though: just an occasional mallard or gull. Norwegians seem to like shooting their wildlife.

Time moved on, and so did I, slowly; Ʃ – who’d come up with the idea of this expedition – was starting to get a little bored. He taunted me. ‘Hurry up or we’ll leave you behind.’ S was no lying in the boat pretending – I think – to take a nap.

‘Don’t... make me... laugh... That’ll... slow me down... even more.’ I rolled over to swim backstroke for a while but got a rain-freeze when I immersed my scalp, and I couldn’t see where I was going. Back on my front, I realised my hands were numb. I wanted to make fists but how can you swim breaststroke with fists? I recalled one of my Dad’s stories. He must have been pretty hard. He enjoyed all sports but swimming was his greatest love – a family passion in fact. Above all he loved water polo. He played in Belfast Lough – that wide estuary which opens into the Irish Sea. He described how sometimes he would catch the ball then have to look to see if it was still in his hand. It was so cold he couldn’t feel whether he was still holding it or not. My blue wrinkled hands were that cold now.

I’d set out thinking I’d swim diagonally across the fjord – retracing the path I’d rowed. I realised now though that, although the water felt still and although we were a long way from the sea, there was a significant current. The boat owner later mentioned a tide of 1.5 metres. I changed my plan and told S & Ʃ I was aiming for a rocky spur that jutted out from the western shore of the fjord. I swam towards a warning sign for boats. I wasn’t sure whether this was okay for our little boat but I just wanted to finish this now. I just needed to keep the rhythm going.

There was more flotsam: bladder wrack, leaves and a few larger pieces of tree. The channel was getting shallow. S & Ʃ were suddenly animated, looking out for rocks now. The current increased a lot. I needed to swim much more strongly to make headway against the tide but I didn’t want to kick out against jagged granite. It’s hard to see anything from the water surface. S & Ʃ in the boat said they could see the bottom now. They were worried about running aground. They suggested I climb into the boat but I wanted to touch the western shore – so I could say I’d swum right across, the entire two-plus kilometres.

Just a few more strokes. I checked before I put my feet down. I saw clean rippled sand but that’s not what it felt like. It was sticky, like mud. But my feet were down and I could stop swimming. How good it felt to have my feet on the bottom at last. S & Ʃ again suggested I scramble into the boat then they’d row me back to the jetty we’d launched from. I was standing in chest deep water. I didn’t have the strength to get myself into the boat. I waded in to where it was shallower but had the oddest sensation. Standing now waist-deep I felt as if I was being pushed forward – back into my horizontal swimming position. After an hour and a half of swimming (S reckoned it was an hour and a quarter) my body had decided I shouldn’t be upright ever again.

The sensation soon passed, though my rubber-legs took a while to return to normal function. The pay-off was the long luxurious shower when we got back to the cottage. It was delicious.