THE JOURNEY
It began with a seven hour train ride north to Trondheim. Leaving again on a midnight train I traveled five more hours north toward Bodø, getting off at Mo i Rana. A two hour bus ride along the Ranafjord brought me to the coastal town of Nesna, where I waited for a northbound boat. Here I discovered landforms unlike any I had seen near Oslo. This ragged coastline, these mountains jutting straight out of the sea were a new experience for me. This was another Norway. The first boat traveled slowly, winding its way through narrow inlets and calling at small towns huddled near the water's edge while mountains towered behind them. Utterly dwarfed by the landscape surrounding them, it was clear that boats like this one were a lifeline to these small island and coastal communities. Accordingly, each time the boat stopped, a small, red, metal postbox appeared in order to receive a few pieces of outgoing mail. By mid day we had already passed through intermittent rain, sleet, and snow, while the sea rose up and crested against an ever darkening winter sky. After proceeding slowly northward for several more hours, it appeared that we were leaving the protection of the fjord, and the sight of a stark naked horizon sent a clear signal that things were about to change. How close, I wondered, would this vessel take me to the island of Myken? As the boat turned northwest, the mainland was swallowed whole by the fog and low lying clouds behind us. In its place were countless holmer - barren rock islands.Most were long, low shapes while others were huge, sharply pointed peaks thrusting themselves up out of the sea, as if trying somehow to escape. One of these was magnificent. Its immense, snow capped summit was crowned with a very curious curved shape, like a shark's fin. Marking the Arctic Circle and taking its name from early sagas, this island was called Hestmannen - the Horseman.

a sketch of Hestmannen

THE WEATHER
Before long my attention was recaptured by the unyielding weather. Everything and everyone onboard was being rearranged as we rolled over huge swells. Staying in my seat became a challenge, and as darkness fell, I wondered if things could get much worse. Then the captain announced that travel conditions had become perilous, and that hewas now afraid to continue. We would return to the mainland, preventing anyone from connecting to the outer islands. I hoped to ask the captain three simple questions: Where am I? Where can I stay tonight? How can I find my way to Myken tomorrow? But before I could reach him, a stranger approached me. His eyes were dark, his face as weathered as the coastline. What could he possibly want with me? The stranger spoke first. His dialect was like nothing I had ever heard before. Was this also Norwegian? Grasping for everything I had learned from Hårek and guessing at the meanings of key words, I managed to piece together what he was saying. His name was Tomas and he knew that I was on my way to visit his nephew Hårek. Also a resident of Myken, he had gone to the mainland for some Christmas gifts. Tomas had a plan. "Take the next boat," he advised, "I will get my car and meet you on the other end." He seemed an unlikely angel, but I had to trust him. The half hour long boat ride was horrible, and back on solid ground I saw nothing of Tomas. Had I misunderstood him? When he finally arrived, it was clear that Tomas had no room for me in his small car. He did have a new plan. "Take the next boat," he said, "it's not far. Catch the bus near the pier and tell the driver you are going to the seaman's refuge." Then, he and his car vanished into the night, leaving me alone on the pier in the driving rain.


a fisherman's Skuta

By now the sea had become so rough that the next boat was unable to dock properly. Secured by only a pair of loose lines, it was thrashing violently back and forth with the pounding surf. I threw my backpack into the arms of a deckhand and he motioned for me to jump. I paused to study the tug-of-war rhythm between boat and pier, and calculated the void to be no more than five or six feet. Then, at precisely the right moment, I leaped from the pier and grabbed the guardrail around the boat. The deckhand took hold of the seat of my pants, pulled me aboard and calmly offered, "You must come back sometime when there is a storm at sea." The small boat ricocheted across the fjord, and there as Tomas had promised, stood an idling bus. A mile or two inland I was deposited onto a dark, deserted, residential street and pointed toward the house on the corner. A dog growled from the shadows near the house, so I waited in the street until someone came to the door. Inside this private home I was given a hot shower and a warm meal, followed by coffee and conversation. I learned first from my hosts that I had come to the coastal town of Vågaholmen, a full day's travel from my destination. At eleven o'clock Tomas called to make sure that I was safe. He had also phoned Myken to explain our delay. Soon after, Hårek also called. He had just two questions; "Did you understand my uncle?" he asked. I told him I had. "And did you get sick on the boat?" he asked. I assured him I had not. Hårek laughed and said, "I don't believe either answer. See you tomorrow." Tomorrow. I wondered how it could be any more exciting than the nearly thirty hours of travel I had now completed.

boat schedule for Rødøy

THE SEA
Morning brought more rough seas and yet another boat. This large, lumbering, vehicle laden ferry offered little excitement while retracing much of the same route I had traveled the previous night. But all of that would soon change, as I transferred now to a small, run down boat, possibly the oldest in the entire Norwegian fleet. Its three-man crew did not project an image readiness either. Was this the vessel that would deliver me safely to Myken? Large black, weathered letters revealed the name; Rødøyløven. The thought of making a four hour trek into the open mouth of the Norwegian sea with this boat made me a little uneasy, but I had come too far to turn back now. Besides, I was their only paying passenger, so I climbed aboard and prepared myself for still more adventure. This authentic lokalbåt - local boat,was transportation in its purest form, explaining in part, why tourists would not be found here. Below deck I found a crude passenger cabin doubling as cargo hold. It had four small, well worn tables with stiff, straight benches that were simply bolted to the belly of the boat. Hårek had never mentioned this. I was about to learn how the last leg of my journey would be my greatest trial. As the small boat rode up over huge swells, it pitched outrageously from bow to stern, then rolled from side to side before slamming down against the bottom of the swell. Bracing myself between table and bench, I threaded one leg through the frame of my backpack to keep it from sliding away. It was like spending the day on a roller coaster, and if ever I were going to be sick, it would surely happen now. Hoping to avoid this, I tried to focus on the horizon, but depending upon which way the boat rolled, my porthole was either under water, or I was left gazing into the air as the horizon bobbed erratically up and down. Curtains alternately clung to the wall or stood straight out from it. Ironically, the only reading material I had was a paperback novel from the immensely popular Norwegian western series about a fictional Texas ranger; Morgan Kane. The episode I was reading was titled Uten Nåde - Without Mercy.Just then, two idle crew members sat down opposite me, presumably to play cards and munch peanuts. But I knew that they had come for another reason. The expression å matte krabban - to feed the crabs,describes how sea sickness, is relieved by vomiting overboard. Now, these two seasoned seamen wanted to watch me do exactly that. Determined not to become their entertainment, I somehow managed to endure the nausea, without ever having to feed those crabs. But would Hårek, or anyone, ever believe me? After nearly four hours the suffering was over, and in the distance I could see it at last. Like a beacon in the night, the only light in this vast dark Norwegian sea, I saw the island of Myken. As we moved closer I could hardly believe my eyes. The island was nothing more than a very large rock with a couple dozen houses haphazardly clinging to it, their gabled roof lines offering little relief in this horizontal world of sea and sky. The pier was cluttered with pallets of fish and a small group of people. Hårek was there with them, and as I stepped from the boat he reached out his hand to greet me saying, "Velkommen til Myken, alle vet du er her." - "Welcome to Myken, everyone knows you are here."

THE ISLAND
Austere in every sense of the word, Myken was organized around one hundred beings living in just twenty homes. Other than the school and a general store that had opened its doors six months earlier, there were no public buildings or any streets. The lone vehicle was an old truck used to move fish around at the pier. Until nineteen sixty-five electricity had been provided by a generator, then replaced by underwater cable from the mainland, primarily to serve the lighthouse. Not a single tree grew here, only patches of coarse grass among the rocks. A narrow gravel lane linked residences, sometimes turning abruptly to avoid a large outcropping of rocks, at other times reduced to a footpath between them. Homes were well kept places of refuge from this harsh environment. Each had its own cistern to collect and store rain, their only source of fresh water. Hårek's parents lived in a modest house, perched on a hill, overlooking the harbor. His father had been a fisherman and this location afforded him a clear view of any boats coming or going. Like a retired railroad man who continues to monitor the movement of passing trains, he set his biological clock to the tide, heralding its ebb and flow. Hårek's mother was both skillful and amusing in the kitchen, creating a varied menu with little more than fish. Throughout my twelve day visit, fish was served at nearly every meal, yet no two meals were the same. My very favorite was grateng - a casserole of grated fish and vegetables.Strangely, lutefisk was not served or ever mentioned. I wanted to ask them why not, but decided against that. Though small in number, the inhabitants of Myken represented all ages from children to retirees. There was even a young school teacher who had come all the way from Stavanger on the southwest coast. Among the people I met, none offered any hint of discontent with life in this far away place. Some had gone off to seek employment on the mainland, but most preferred the simplicity of life on the island, where fishing was everything. Inside their homes I found them to be warm and gracious, but also critical of the larger world with all of its excess. Liberation from that world had required great sacrifice, to be sure, but the reward was far greater. Not surprisingly, my impressions of life out there on the island were of great interest to them, and as someone who knew that larger world, I assured them that whatever Myken did not have they could probably do without.

mid day sun over Lovunden

THE DARK
Those travel bureau people had been right. This certainly was a dark place in winter. Tourists experience the wonder of the midnight sun in summer, but in winter the rule is darkness. Morning twilight was followed by evening dusk only four hours later, with daylight occurring between the hours of ten in the morning and two in the afternoon. Even on the clearest day the sun itself was not visible. With so many hours of darkness, people often slept during dark daytime hours in an effort to shorten the unbearably long winter nights. Hårek and I would routinely eat breakfast around nine, stay up during the daylight hours and then nap in the late afternoon until dinner. In the evening we would talk or watch television until nine or ten o'clock before visiting other islanders who kept similar late night hours. Then it was home again and back to bed by five or six o'clock in the morning. This darkness was responsible for an entire nighttime culture on the island and during those hours we met many an interesting character. One of these was uncle Kåre , a bachelor and former teacher. Together we spent hours playing Scrabble while snacking on smoked salmon, hard boiled egg, and flat bread. A retiree on Myken, he welcomed the darkness because it gave him time to read, and to reflect on life's purpose. Was this an unhealthy introspection? On the contrary, in surroundings as stark as these, there was really little else to contemplate. One night we visited a young woman named Ragnhild, as her husband had just returned from a trip to the Lofoten fishing grounds. We feasted on fresh king crab and tales of the hunt. Later, we played a game called din venn - your friend.Using only the clues provided, a single person had to identify a common, ordinary object clearly visible somewhere in the room. When it was Hårek's turn we defied the prescribed rules, characterizing instead, the island itself. Fooled for only a moment, he soon recognized that Myken was his friend. I was intrigued at how intimately the others described their home and tried to imagine what it might have been like for them to have grown up in this odd place. Several days later I was made an honorary member of their youth group. Its unusual name was Dragsug - Undertow,and it offered ample evidence of how closely their lives here were joined with the sea. Its character, it seemed, determined also theirs.

Tradition dictated that every young adult of Myken both single and married, meet at the school building for a Christmas Eve meal and program. The menu was a closely guarded secret, and I could not conceive that there was any kind of fish I had not already eaten. Would it be lutefisk? Imagine my surprise when I found it not to be fish at all, but reindeer steak with new potatoes and brussels sprouts. Later, we played an amusing game of charades using obscure Norwegian idioms. Teamed together with Hårek and the school teacher, our first task was to convey an expression that had never appeared in my text book. It was "nød loerer naken kvinne å spinne" - necessity is the mother of invention.Dessert was followed by a short program of amateur talent, and just when it seemed that the party was over, a surprise guest arrived from Trømso. It was Oluf, one of northern Norway's best known comedians who personifies the collective wit and wisdom of the region. Using stories and word play with great skill, he parodies day to day life in the far north. It was, of course, an impersonator and none other than Hårek himself who offered a routine of jokes for his fellow islanders. The face was not entirely convincing, but the costume certainly was. There he stood in true Oluf uniform; full length woolen underwear, shabby vest, oversized boots, and tattered, sheepskin cap with flaps pulled down over the ears. Hårek was hilarious, even if much of the humor escaped me. When the evening was over, we set out across the island, hoping to find someone else to visit. Instead, we discovered an ethereal winter night sky brightly painted with nordlys - northern lights.Whole tapestries of color danced across the sky, filling much of the three hundred and sixty degree horizon around us. The night air was mild, so I laid down on my back in the snow to enjoy this once in a lifetime sight. Hårek turned homeward, having seen it all before.

Christmas day was spent at home with Hårek and his parents. After dinner we sat quietly and compared holiday customs, but exchanged no gifts. I had already received mine the day that I had arrived on the island. This had been a Christmas like no other. Never before had I celebrated the holiday so far from home, yet enjoyed myself more. Sadly, just four days remained before I must leave Myken. And although I did not want to believe it, I understood that after leaving this place, I would likely never return. Hårek and I would, of course, meet again in Oslo after the holidays, but my trip to the island had been a singular experience.

symbol for the community of Rødøy

THE FAREWELL
I left Myken on the last day of December at five o'clock in the morning. Hårek and his father said good-by at the door. Then I walked down the hill to the harbor where Rødøyløven had been moored overnight. Bound for the port of Ørnes, I would meet the south bound Hurtigruta - a large coastal steamer.From there I would continue on to Brønnøysund for New Years with friends. I wondered if they would believe any of my stories about the island. Alone on that long trip back to the mainland, I now had time to think about all that I had been witness to on the island, about the people I had met and how they had embraced me. My experience there clearly contradicted the stereotype of cold Scandinavian indifference. I recalled too, the first time that I had met Hårek, and how I had imagined his home based on the bleak picture he had painted. How fortunate I was to have seen it first hand, to have experienced this side of Norway, one that most on the mainland would never know. Others could not begin to appreciate the raw determination required of those early islanders to first settle there, and then to stay on under such unforgiving circumstances, living out there on that desolate rock, severed from the world. I understood more fully now, what Ragnhild had meant when she asked, "Er det rart at nordmenn er så sta? Bare se på landet der vi bor!" - "Is it surprising that we Norwegians are so stubborn? Just look at the land where we live."