To the frontier

July 27, 2017

Lake Niställingen to near Svullrya, Norway

[Note Nov 2019 - the climb total data supplied by MapMyRide below is almost certainly completely wrong! There is just no way this was a 3,269m ascent. The crude elevations themselves look ok, so I think it has something to do with the low resolution/lack of smoothness in the data. There are definitely some pretty massive artefacts too. It's interesting the data is so much worse in this remote region]

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When I arrived at lake Siljan, I almost though that I had cycled myself into a corner. I'd come so far north, that I needed to travel over 200 miles in three days in order to get back to Norway in time. But on the morning of the 27th, it felt like I was back on schedule. I'd completed 70 miles the following day: if today I could do another 70, that would bring me over the frontier and well into Norway. I felt good and the more I could do, the less I distance I would have the following day to make it into Oslo. I didn't realise that I would have my most gruelling day of the tour.

I woke to a cool and overcast day - as before, I'd had enough sunshine so this suited me fine - I wouldn't have to carry as much water over the hills, becoming mountains at the Norwegian border. My slightly exposed camping spot didn't seem to have upset anyone, so I gathered up my panniers and set off.

When putting together the route I had serious misgivings about this stretch. There was just no natural route over the barrier of hills separating the valley to the west, and the privately maintained roads that were there looked intermeshed and difficult to navigate. Even from Malungsfors, which I'd travelled down to in order to find an easier crossing point, according to the map there was only one particular road that crossed the watershed into Varmland, and many false turns.

It was with some relief then that I found the route to the west well surfaced, clear to follow and even signed to Likenäs in the next valley, which suited me fine as a destination. There was not too much ascent left from the lake, and I made good progress over what I had suspected would be very remote land. There was even the odd scattered house, so compared to the lonely road of the previous day it felt positively populated.

Morning over Niställingen, my home for the night

"Do not rubbish into nature" according to Google translate. I got the drift.

House near the border of Varmland with an ... odd sense of humour

The good conditions continued all the way to the province border, where I left Dalarna and re-entered Varmland. At this point the surface reverted to loose gravel, and the occasional houses stopped. The next 20km became increasingly remote, and I was glad that the frequent branching of the dirt road was still well signed. Many of the other names of the sign posts bore no relation to place names on my map: but Likenäs remained, and I headed for that.

Looking back after crossing out of Dalarna. You can see the road immediately losing its surface.

Junction, thankfully signed, of the dirt roads. To this day, I have no idea where Månäs is...

As I went over the watershed, there were some big rolling hills, and I really felt the tiredness in my legs. The hills had peaks of around 600m in this stretch, and the road looped up and around them. I prayed I was on the right road - I didn't have the energy to start exploring in earnest.

I am an ant, crawling interminally across these big pressure waves of hills rippling away from the frontier. Each swelling to me is another 40km, three hours of empty dirt roads, and I haul myself out of and perilously pick my way down into the creases I am at home in. In these vast landscapes of forest the geological scale makes itself known. Why did I choose to transversely cross this landscape that dwarfed me? All traffic and human life was travelling to the south east; I had been going at right angles for two days. What was wrong with this mad ant?

It was with some relief that I saw the valley opening up before me. As I started the descent, the surface became very bad - big chunks of gravel that would fly away as I cycled over them and hit my spokes, and the gradient downhill sometimes scary. I descended fairly gingerly, never going above 15mph - while the brakes were performing well, the loaded shift still had a lot of momentum, and I wasn't keen to come off so far from civilization. As the valley and village below came into view, I actually met a huge truck coming up and spreading grit on the road. I rather carefully avoided it, and made the long, gravelly descent down down into Likenäs without mishap.

Gravelly road up near the watershed coming into Varmland

Some of the rollers became quite large, and started to really take it out of me

The last inviting looking open-air swimming pool coming into Likenäs

Likenäs lies in another valley running NW-SE, from near the Norwegian border in the north to Karlstad on the shores of Vänern. The 62 highway and Klarälven river run down the narrow valley, but there is not a single settlement any larger than Likenäs over 150km. Likenäs is a one-horse town, but it had a shop and I filled up on cheap dime bars and other supplies.

Boy was I happy to see this sign. This is pretty much all there is to Likenäs

A shop! And, less usefully to me, a metalworks. The corresponding sign back to Malungsfors is also in evidence.

The next stage was - you guessed it - to cross the river and head West up and out of the valley to cross the next range of hills. Or mountains, in this case, as this was the last valley before the Norwegian frontier. I had almost made it! But as I pulled out of Likenäs, a fine rain started, and I knew I had a challenge ahead of me.

I had to climb up and out of the valley, but again there was no natural route to the west, only a tangle of privately maintained dirt tracks. I knew if I headed towards the ski resort of Branäsberget and then cut directly up the slope it would set me in the right direction, but beyond that I would be relying on my bearing and signage. I just hoped that the signs would be as good coming into Likenäs - I would have been quite lost without them.

I soon found the bridge over the river, and as I started crossing, I had a rather strange encounter. I looked out over the water as I crossed, and was astonished to see a man standing on the outside of the safety barrier, leaning out over the water 30m or so below. He gave me a slightly sheepish smile and wave, and I continued. As I looked over the river, what he was up to became more obvious - his mates were launching a raft on the far bank, and he was waving to them. Why he was on the outside of the bridge I just don't know, though.

The bridge in Likenäs over the Klarälven. In the distance is the odd chap who was standing on the outside of the barrier when I passed

Some sprites guarding the sign into the mountains

I found the sign to Branäsberget without too much trouble, and started up the slope I had previously scoped out. It was loose gravel, and very wide. And it was steep; really steep. In fact, I am fairly sure - though I didn't take a photograph to record this - that in the winter it was designated a ski slope.

I managed to get the bike up it, but I'm still not sure how I did without pushing. Up and up I went, and I felt a long-standing fatigue start to take control of me.

After a few kilometers of this, the main channel of the road bent around to the South, and I had the opportunity to take an - unsigned - track. I stood and recovered me breath, and watched a woman incongruously load branches into a Volvo, wondering whether to take the turn. It looked right on the map - I took it.

The ski slope I cycled up - again, see the car at the bottom for scale

Up and up the track went, as my energy drained away

The turn I took was rough, untrafficked, and I had no indication it was the right way, other than it continued to the West. I pressed on, getting swallowed by the dense forest. As long as I continued upwards and to the West, I reasoned I should cross the watershed and eventually meet the minor road which ran Southerly through the saddle in the mountains, the last in Sweden. Exactly where I might emerge I did not know: Nerby, Bjurberget, Högfallet were all names appearing on this last road map, but I knew better than to associate them with settlements by now - and certainly not to expect them to correspond to any signs I might see.

The relentless gradient eased off, but the track narrowed and became increasingly rough and littered with scree. Once I stopped climbing, the way proceeded over an increasingly large set of rollers, threading over the dark and dense forest that marched over the hills in all directions.

Not one car passed me as I laboured with my bike onwards, and the silence was almost oppressive. Feeling very isolated now, I refilled my bottles from a stream, ate a dime bar and moved on.

After almost an hour I started a more consistent descent. The surface really was perilous now: large chunks of gravel, with grass encroaching into the middle of the track - and I had to take serious care when breaking the heavy shift. Certainly it didn't seem that many vehicles came this way.

If I was where I thought I was, I could see from the map that the way forward would not be straightforward. To avoid proceeding 10km out of my way to the north or south, I needed to make two very particular turns. And that was assuming I'd accurately determined my location - given that I hadn't seen a sign since Likenäs, this was not at all certain.

So I was dreading the moment when I descended rather quickly to junction, of what were now grassy forest tracks. There was a kind of empty gazebo structure - which at least suggested that this remote place was a destination for someone - but just no indication of which was the right way.

Exploring the surroundings, to my delight and relief I saw something in a corner that must have been a sign. But getting closer, it was bent out of shape and rusted beyond all identification. And it had been vandalised - how un-Swedish! With some measure of disgust, I sat myself down and ate another Dime bar while I considered my options. It was only then that I realised that there was something odd about the painted scrawl on the rusted signpost.

Squinting at them, I could make out "Bjurb...". Could that be a mangled "Bjurberget"? Was the spray paint actually an amateur repair job? And what else did I have to go on? I took the sign, and proceeded to the south.

The amateur sign repair that saved my bacon. The "Bjurb" you can just make out, and which took me a worryingly long time to correspond with "Bjurburget". I was very tired at this point.

Back up I went, and the track became even more like the narrow forest paths I'd experienced in Tiveden. I was pinning my hopes on that sign. It wasn't so much the distance to civilization - it was more the state of exhaustion that I was quickly reaching. My strong performance the previous day, and the dragging climb out of the Klarälven was taking its toll, and it was only frequent dime bar consumption that was keeping me going. On a fresh day and with a light bike, I would probably enjoy exploring and getting lost in the forests of the border all day; in my then state I knew that a wrong turn and an unintentional extra 10km on the steep and rough forest paths would probably finish me for the day. And if I didn't make the Norwegian border at least I would have a serious task on my hands the next, and final day of the tour.

My heart fell a bit as I came to another meeting of tracks. Whatever kind soul had repaired that sign, surely they wouldn't have gone to the trouble to put markers on every fork? I without that, surely someone as unfamiliar with the area as me was lost? It was with some astonishment, then, that I saw this:

I could have kissed whoever made this. A more elaborate home-made sign, made by scratching iron ore on the rock. I could clearly see the way to Bjurburget - I couldn't (and still can't) identify the other two names

There is no way I would have taken these turnings without these charming and helpful home-made signs. With my map and compass I would have made it to the West eventually - but I don't want to know what kind of exhausted and dispirited state I would have been in. At any rate, the small track I was directed down indeed began to bear to the west, and to descend. After 7km of so of controlling my speed as I crossed over the rollers, the trees thinned and I saw another junction ahead - but this one was with a surfaces road. I'd like to say I greeted the sign - official this time - for Bjurberget with a cheer, but I was too relieved.

Bjurberget is a toponym and not much else: there were one or two empty holiday-homes in this last road in Sweden, and that was it. But I was literally out of the woods, for now. I knew from here that metalled roads and signage would take me over one last ridge and across the Norwegian border. I could follow signs to Flisa in Norway, and this would take me across the border in the tiny village of Falltorp.

Bjurburget, somewhere I was extremely glad to see. The house you can see is pretty much all there is to it.

A sign! Some consulting of my pan-Scandinavia map let me know that Flisa was indeed in Norway, and in the direction I needed to go. The borderland is indeed very sparsely populated: Torsby is the only town of any size near here, and that's 57km away.

As I turned onto the road uphill out of Sweden, I passed a couple of camoflaged hunters - well, I hope they were hunters, they were fairly heavily armed. This proved to be an omen - a couple of minutes later, there was an almighty kerfuffle in the trees to my right and something huge and brown leapt across the road in front of me. My first though was: bloody hell, it's a camel! Closer inspection and a moment of rational thought and of course - my first moose come to see me off. It was a pretty big and impressive beast, and obligingly stood nice and visibly in the trees bordering the road for a few minutes as I took photos.

Some more climbing was ahead of me now, out of the saddle and . The road was better, and I even briefly had some company, in the form of a rather underpowered moped that was also struggling up the grade. As I reached the top, I had a really beautiful view over the lake which is divided by the two countries. A second wind took me into the village of Falltorp/Fall.

There is, of course, no kind of barrier at the border. I hoped for at least a sign, though - and was not disappointed. In a state of some exhaustion I draped the bike over a nearby bank, and took a commemorative picture.

One last climb out of the Swedish valleys

A really lovely view over the Fallstörp lake. The Norwegian border runs somewhere down the middle.

Though crossing the border gave me a lift, physically I was almost done. I had done less than 50 miles; and I knew I needed to get as far into Norway as I could today if I wanted less than an (imperial) century tomorrow.

Fortunately the waves of geology had come to an end: I was over the top now, and now the landscape was dotted with high lakes draining westward into Norway. Almost immediately after leaving the village, I started to descend on greatly improved road surface. Psychologically, I was now considering every extra mile I made into Norway a bonus.

My route now was simple - indeed, there was only really one road available to me. I would follow the 202 and 201 "B" roads, which I knew to be minor and cycleable, weaving around the shores of lakes Rotbergsjøen and , and ultimately reaching the Kongsvinger and the river Glomma. I knew I wouldn't be able to reach Kongsvinger today (and indeed it had poor camping prospects), but figured I would find somewhere amenable before then.

I started down the 201, but after flagging over half an hour had to stop. I heated up some river water for a coffee and ate more chocolate, and read about the Norwegian resistance who were paradropped into this remote area during the war.

Information board on the Norwegian resistance fighters who were paradropped into the region by the British during the war. This made me feel much less adventurous.

Somewhat restored (and chastened), I continued along the deserted roads. Despite my exhaustion, it really was an idyllic setting - not a car, and the high lakes were some of the prettiest I'd seen on my journey (a crowded field).

Lovely lakes which I didn't really appreciate as well as I should. This is Røgden, I think

Some distance still to go to Kongsvinger

I arrived into the small village of Svullrya, and seeing a shop knew it was time to pick up supplies - I would need to camp soon. Stepping into the minimarket, it really was clear I was in a different country: they were selling 5% beer over the counter. I availed myself of some of this and some further dime bars, before remembering that I didn't have any Norwegian kroner. Fortunately the friendly girl on the checkout didn't mind being payed by card. I asked whether there was an ATM anywhere nearby I could use - unfortunately there wasn't, but wait - and she put another charge through on my card, opened the till and gave me the equivalent cash!

I wearily packed up my panniers and slowly moved out of Svullrya. The evening was coming down, and a couple of kids were playing on BMXs outside the shop with an older relative. It was very serene.

Serenity was not what I needed though: kilometres were. But the weather had other plans. I wasn't long out of Svullrya when the ominous clouds, which had been floating around most of the day, finally broke and the heavens really opened. For the first time I put on my waterproof (and could really subject the waterproof panniers to a testing).

At the end of the couple of days I'd had, I couldn't keep this up for long. At the next lake, I saw a sign to a bathing place. I was done - there was no way I was going further that day.

Pushing through the ring of pine trees, I did indeed find a very nice bathing place - and also a no camping sign. Cursing somewhat, but with a single-minded idea that I was camping up here, I pushed the loaded and dripping shift onto the beach and made for the other end of the beach. It was a lovely location, and I was at least making an effort to camp where it wasn't forbidden.

Putting the tent up was a bit of a challenge, in the wind and sometimes stair-rod rain. The moment it was up, I got inside the porch to dry off and peep out at the rain sweeping across the lake.

My final campsite, looking out over a rain-lashed lake

Thinking back, I wasn't thinking clearly at all. There were wooden changing rooms, just as by the lake in Varmland, and I almost certainly could have slept in them without any objections from anyone. But I was just fixated on getting the tent up and getting out of the rain.

In the event, I had no trouble even in my questionable camping site. I cooked a simple meal and ate it as the rain slackened and the dusk drew down, accompanied by burning mosquito coils. I refrained from showing any light, but I was hardly going to stay up reading in my state of exhaustion. As I went to sleep, down came the rain again.

Today's ride: 62 miles (100 km)
Total: 732 miles (1,178 km)

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