Steps, fog, and unlikely visitors

At Lirio, I organized two monthly step competitions. The first was in May of 2021. As part of the competition everyone were invited to a Not-a-meeting Walking Meeting, where five of us told our true stories involving walking and steps. Below is mine.

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My story involves thousands of steps, fog, night, a cold mountain, and an unlikely visitor.

It all took place in 2005, on the windswept western shores of Norway. It was the first day of the school year, and five teachers and a hundred students from one hundred countries around the world were taking a day hike up Jyttafjellet, or – translated – troll mountain. 

Mathilde from Scotland, Sunniva from Sweden, Holly from Turkey, Mukasa from Uganda, and yours truly took off at a brisk pace. All of us except Mukasa were experienced hikers, but Mukasa had something the rest of us didn’t – a crush on Sunniva. He would keep pace with us. We carried provisions for half a day, expecting to descend troll mountain and be back in the school dining hall for dinner at 5.

We stepped off at 8am. I led the way. Some of you might know that I am competitive, a quality that if anything has actually become attenuated as I’ve aged. Blaze upon blaze took us up switch-backs and wooden rock ladders. Unbeknownst to us, a German tourist had died on this very trail just the year before, and it had since been closed to the public.

By around noon our group of five summited. A brisk wind – typical of Norwegian summers – cooled us while the weak summer sun dried us. We ate our packed lunches, took a photo with an analog camera, and then realized we were all alone. Where were everyone else? And actually… where were the blazes?

A thick fog had rolled in from the south and our visibility was reduced to feet. 

No worries. We were rested, topped off, not to mention sixteen and invincible – we decided to go blaze to blaze and take our time. The first time we tried the blazes stopped. We returned to the summit. The second time we tried, the blazes stopped at the edge of a steep ravine. Should we scramble down? A wind gust caught hold of us, and we started shivering. No. We returned to the summit. 

The third time we decided to fan out and play Marco Polo, and follow whatever trail, blaze, flora or fauna would take us down from the rapidly cooling mountain.

Slowly we descended. The fog thickened. The late Norwegian sun started setting, beginning the drawn out twilight hour that dominates late northern summers. We got cold. We got hungry. We were tired.

Just as the last of the light lingered before we were plunged into darkness, we saw on the near horizon a shape that was just a bit blacker than its surroundings. A cabin. 

We broke our way in before taking the time to look for the key, which was hidden underneath the wooden steps to the front door. In the pitch black we felt around for a fireplace, for candles, and for matches. We lit the fireplace and huddled together on the couch. Despite the fog, we wished for curtains. With the fire we could see nothing outside, but anything outside could look in.

Then we heard it. Whoomp whoomp whoomp. A helicopter! We ran outside into the pitch-black fog and listened helplessly as the chopper flew over us and passed on. Its search light was a faint column of light. I ran inside and found a bright yellow sweater that I hoisted up the flagpole. The chopper came closer again, and then left again. For good.

We slinked back inside. It was getting late. We wondered where we were. We raided the kitchen cabinets and ate stale almonds and raisins. We were settling for the night when Mukasa asked if anyone had seen his yellow fleece.

Just as I was about to answer we heard a knock on the door. Who might that be? We crept toward the door. Slowly. It knocked again. The door handle started down… we hadn’t looked the door! We rushed toward it just as it opened but then jumped back at the large figure in front of us who also jumped back in alarm. 

…

The large figure extended a hand and introduced himself as the Head of Red Cross Search and Rescue. He had hiked ahead of his 40-person team to establish a search base at our cabin, to begin what was expected to be an arduous search for five lost teenagers.

Into the early morning as we finally descended the mountain we thanked in person the owner of the cabin, who never mentioned the crooked lock we had jerry rigged back together or the splintered wood that we had painted with old varnish we found in the pantry. In return, Mukasa never got his yellow fleece back. For all I know, it’s still hanging from the flagpole.