A mountain guide at Grand Angle since 1992, Raymond Chabanier has not forgotten this six-day expedition between Finse and Filefjell in April 1997. A storm, isolated huts, and a handful of hikers make up this personal account of a demanding winter Norway.
First steps at Finse
In early April 1997, I’m ready to lead a snowshoe trip in Norway. A first for me. I know the country, since I work there regularly in summer, but this winter adventure is something new.
I recently returned from a year-long journey through Southern Africa, Australia, and Southeast Asia, and to be honest, those countries didn’t all prepare me for a cold expedition.
However, I’m quite excited about this new adventure. It’s a great comeback with Grand Angle. The itinerary is not complicated and the landscapes are magnificent.
I meet up with my small group at Roissy – only three people – and it’s a smooth flight to Oslo, then the famous train that connects the Norwegian capital to Bergen. Between the two cities, at Finse, at approximately 1 220 m altitude, in the middle of nowhere on the heights of the Hardanger plateau, we set down our backpacks.
Base camp at Finse - Hardanger plateau © Raymond Chabanier
Apart from the train station, a few buildings, a hotel lodge where we’ll stay for two nights, a few reindeer… It’s a white, vast, and wild landscape surrounding us. Perfect for an escape far from the hustle and bustle!
The heavens are with us: at its closest approach to Earth, Hale-Bopp comet can be easily observed with the naked eye, gracing the pure and crystalline sky of these high latitudes. A guaranteed spectacle, while our feet remind us it’s -30°C.
The second day at Finse is fairly quiet: a pleasant warm-up and hike to the foot of Hardangerjøkulen, a vast ice cap where we catch glimpses of blue ice at its base. The landscape is sublime.
The weather, still favourable this morning despite the cold, begins to deteriorate in early afternoon. High clouds give way to a thick grey layer, harbinger of a change in weather. The heavens are finally not in our favour. Confirmed by the weather forecast, which announces from the next day, and for several days, the arrival of a storm driven by violent winds.
The sky begins to deteriorate © Raymond Chabanier
Six days from hut to hut
The next morning, we set off with our loaded backpacks for six days away from everything. We will only encounter isolated huts in places inaccessible by road. Some are unstaffed, which will add even more spice to our trek.
Yes, the weather has really changed. Low dark sky, light snowfall, and still moderate wind. On the plus side, the cold is less biting. The morning passes without incident. We climb following birch branches (the local trail marking system), in a mountainous landscape where we don’t meet a living soul. Arriving at Klemsu pass comes as a surprise: the trail marking ends at the small hut. We are at 1600m altitude (the equivalent of conditions at 3000m in the French Alps). A quick snack, prepared from the breakfast buffet: it’s the local method.
Snow is falling more and more, and visibility has deteriorated significantly.
Then I take a deep breath, and I venture into the white without any landmarks. I’ve taken out the compass, altimeter and map. We are in 1997 and I have no mobile phone, no GPS. So I’m working with the basics. Map in one hand and compass in the other, altimeter hanging around my neck, I move forward without deviating from my bearing, regularly checking my altitude. I need to descend into a steep-sided valley and first I need to skirt and avoid a rock wall. Vigilance required. The advantage on this type of snow-covered terrain is that you can move straight ahead using the compass. Apart from major relief breaks, there are no obstacles. No trees either: the tree line ends much lower in altitude at these latitudes.
During the three hours that follow, concentration and vigilance required, I become less talkative and focused on my task. Behind me, the group follows in silence.
I move forward in a white, cottony halo (the famous “white out”), watching for the slightest abrupt change in slope as the weather continues to worsen. The wind becomes vigorous, intensifying the cold effect. The snowstorm intensifies.
The time feels long, but to my great relief (and certainly to that of my small group), the refuge appears at the end of the valley. Yes!!! We come across some reindeer, like a welcome sign.
Reindeer in Norway on our path © Raymond Chabanier
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Well-deserved rest and beer! Even in the middle of winter, staffed refuges are very welcoming, warm and comfortable. We spend the night cozily in a room with 4 beds, each warmly bundled under the quilt.
A detail that is not insignificant: the toilets are in another building… You think twice before going there.
The three days that follow will be harsh! The sun is back and the clouds are driven away by a powerful wind. Regularly, we are enveloped by a cloud of icy snow that lashes our face. It is sometimes so opaque that the birch branches disappear. Because yes, here’s the good news: we’ve found the trail markers. They will accompany us to the end, the refuge keepers confirm to us.
On the way to the refuge after finding the trail markers © Raymond Chabanier
From what I remember, the wind often exceeds 100 km/h, with stronger gusts. The stages are long, with no possible shelter for a break. The often very open terrain is a highway for the wind. We are constantly between 1200 and 1600m in altitude and the topography favors wind passage. We traverse a succession of wide valleys separated by open passes, themselves surrounded by rather rounded peaks. Numerous frozen lakes dot the route and, on the largest ones, the crossing sometimes seems very long.
Yet we savor our luck in crossing these mountains at this time of year! The landscapes are unreal in their whiteness and immensity. the sensations are heightened tenfold because we are always alone and far from modern conveniences. An immaculate desert: that’s it!
Immaculate whiteness and immensity of Norwegian landscapes © Raymond Chabanier
Our rare moments of rest are quite amusing. I repeat, nowhere to take shelter and avoid the wind attacks. To counter it, we gather, crouching in a circle, practically head to head, having previously placed our backpacks under our stomachs. This way we create a small space protected from the wind. And there, we take out our supplies (cereal bars and mini sandwiches) from our pockets. With such weather, there’s absolutely no question of opening the backpacks for fear of seeing the wind-blown snow fill them in an instant, or worse, seeing our belongings fly away. I take out my thermos with hot and comforting drink. We pass the cup around.
Since the weather has been raging, I ask each person every morning to dress warmly and protect themselves well from the wind because we won’t change anything until we arrive. There’s no question of removing a jacket in the middle of a storm and rummaging through a backpack—it’s far too risky. And everyone must carry supplies in their pockets from the start, and be prepared for 7 to 8 hours of walking practically non-stop.
The few Norwegians we meet in the shelters are very intrigued by our equipment and handle it with a doubtful air. They are skiers! They don’t understand how we can cover these distances on foot when, it’s true, skiing moves faster! But skis don’t hold up against the wind as well! With our snowshoes, we have better stability.
Nevertheless, we arouse curiosity and are seen as eccentric! In 1997, the snowshoe is not yet in fashion, even in France.
Arrival at the guarded shelter © Raymond Chabanier
Life in Norwegian mountain shelters
In the guarded shelters, we notice scales in the entrance hall. What is this? These sturdy Norwegians weigh their backpacks before starting the hike and write down the weight in the shelter’s book. And there, astonishment! We think we are loaded, pfft! The Norwegian carries double!
A backpack of 20 to 25kg is common. Their principle? To be able to be in total autonomy (sleeping bag, supplies, clothing, survival equipment, shovel, etc.) “just in case”. We have enough to face the most urgent needs—snow shovel, sleeping bag, some clothing and some supplies—but we are far from Norwegian loads.
Still in the howling wind and with a breathtaking beautiful panorama, we continue our journey. We walk mechanically, totally immersed in our activity.
On the road facing the wind © Raymond Chabanier
But I can feel that the fatigue and weariness from the bad weather are beginning to take their toll on my group.
This morning, for our second-to-last stage, my three companions struggle to leave the comfortable warmth of the guarded shelter.
The wind is still raging, the stage will be long—a good 8 hours of walking, a few lakes to cross, no shelter, and an unguarded shelter at arrival. The day will be harsh, and they are aware of it. I understand them, but I push them along a bit. Knowing there is no road nearby, that we have a plane to catch in 3 days, and that communication is non-existent except for the radio in the guarded shelters (only for emergencies), we have no choice but to continue despite this damned wind.
The group sets off, mesmerized by the landscape with endless horizons, moving forward through the turmoil with that sensation of being outside of time. I feel that behind me everyone is walking in step with my pace, each absorbed in their own thoughts.
By the end of the day, we happily reach our small refuge. We will be alone. We clear the snow drifts from the entrance, then spend a few minutes inside freeing the zippers of our jackets which are well frozen. Surprise: between our gore-tex jacket and our warm fleece, a layer of frosted white perspiration covers us.
We are certainly tired and stunned by the constant noise of the wind, but there remains the task of clearing snow and tending the wood stove. Here, everything is provided in an unattended refuge: wood supply, cooking equipment, food provisions, bedding, candles, matches and so on. All in impeccable and clean condition.
Arrival at the unattended refuge © Raymond Chabanier
We quickly start the fire to rapidly melt snow for the meal, washing dishes, tomorrow’s breakfast and drinking water. The activity of “melting snow” will keep us occupied for much of the evening. Incredible how a bucket full of well-packed snow provides us with so little water!
And it is in good spirits that we spend this last evening in the Filefjell massif. We notice that the wind is dropping. we know that we have finished the difficult days. Clear sky, intense cold, the stars and return of the comet… Hooray!
It is in peaceful silence that we fall asleep.
Finding the sun again at Tyinkrysset
This morning, we leave happily under beautiful sunshine, without wind, to reach our final destination, Tyinkrysset, after a fun descent through small gorges, valleys and beautiful snowy slopes. I take this opportunity to congratulate the group for being so valiant and of constant good spirits, for always keeping up the pace and especially for trusting me in all my decisions. We realize that we have just lived an uncommon experience. This feeling is strengthened by the fact that this is a route quite frequented by Norwegians, yet we encountered only a tiny handful of skiers.
Preparing a Nordic Journey Today
This account describes the conditions encountered by Raymond in 1997. It is neither a current itinerary nor a safety instruction. Weather, trail markings, refuge openings and communication methods must be verified before any expedition. For a current project, consult our Norway trips and discuss your experience with cold and wilderness travel with our team.
The photographs come from period slides. We have chosen to preserve them for their documentary value.
Article written by
Raymond Chabanier
Mountain leader and pilot!
Eclectic! You'll find him from Salzburg to Verona, Madeira, the Vaucluse and Switzerland! He's a geographer, an aeroplane pilot, a curious person and a gourmet. Read more
