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The EXhilaration Adventure, real Hiking Mountain Trail, Kebnekaise Mountain Station continue… July 18, 2008

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It was soon clear that the man had no idea what he was doing. He shouldn’t have been in the mountains. I asked him where his gear was. “Over there,” he said, pointing to the corner of the room. There was a tiny rucksack, a summer sleeping bag and a pair of Wellington boots. “Is that all?” I asked.

“Shit man, I didn‘t expect this. I came straight down the path from Abisko. It was beautiful the first two days. Which way did you come?”

“Over the mountains through Lapporten.”

“What was it like up there?”

“Cold and too much snow.”

“Where are you going?”

“Kebnekaise.”

“Can I join you?”

“I’m climbing. You haven’t got the right stuff. You wouldn’t like it.”

“But I haven’t got any food. You can’t leave me here. I won’t give you shit, man. Let me come.”

I wasn’t keen. I didn‘t trust him, so I offered some advice instead.

“Look, there’s another but thirty kilometres down the valley. If you keep high you should be able to make it in a day. Keep away from the rivers. Two days‘ walk from the but there’s Kebnekaise mountain station. You can buy some food there. I’ll give you enough to eat for three days. I’ll catch you at the hut. If you leave before I get there, write a note.”

It was five in the morning. If he left at six, he’d probably reach the but after twelve hours — six in the evening. That would give him time to cook, sleep and leave by six the following morning. I’d take about nine hours to reach the but and planned to start walking at five in the evening. We should meet up.

He left as I was dozing off. I kept an eye open to check that he didn‘t steal my boots or food. Silly bugger, he should have stayed at home. I fell asleep.

Travel GuidebookThe heat from the fire woke me at four. The air was so dry it tickled my throat. I got up and opened the window. It seemed fine outside: no sun, but no sign of a storm. The Dane wouldn’t have far to walk now, and I doubted whether there would be much snow between him and the mountain station at the foot of Kebnekaise. I hoped the man had learnt his lesson.

An old reindeer trotted towards the hut. I watched as he nosed around near the rubbish bins and firewood, but I couldn‘t stay still enough and he was soon gone.

My clothes were dry and stank of burnt wood and sweat. I’d put them on later. It was warm enough to wander around in my underpants while I packed my rucksack and prepared a bowl of porridge. I’d be away by five. It promised to be a good evening’s walk. I was strong and my shoulders had stopped aching from the fifty-pound rucksack.

Before leaving the but I left a few packets of food behind. Someone might need them. For the first three hours I couldn‘t get into my stride. I was trying too hard to avoid getting my socks wet, and I hadn’t put enough clothes on. Not wanting to stop and pull on an extra sweater I decided to walk faster. I couldn‘t think of a song to sing, though.

I can’t remember the shape of the mountains, nor how the river flowed on the way to the second hut. There was a lot of snow and I thought of my advice to the Dane about keeping away from the river. All I cared about was to reach Kebnekaise quickly so that I could buy at least ten bars of chocolate. Only one brand would do: Marabou milk chocolate made in Sweden. I thought about the many kinds of chocolate bar I would be able to buy: fruit and nut; hazelnut; almond; nut chip; white chocolate. I ranked them so that I would know what to buy in case the shop had no milk chocolate. I wondered whether they sold fresh fruit. I fancied an orange. It was too much to expect them to have pineapples or mangoes, but they might have pineapple juice. By the time I saw the but I had decided to buy a packet of blueberry soup, a carton of pineapple juice and a bar of almond chocolate. This but was much bigger than the first one and could easily house five or six people. Perhaps the Dane had met some other climbers. That would have cheered him up.

The door was locked so I used my ice axe to prise open the window on the roof. There was no sign that anyone had been there recently: no ashes in the fire; no smell of cooking or sweaty clothes. There was plenty of chopped firewood in the corner of the room. The but might have been empty for weeks or even months. I made some soup and went to bed.

As I predicted, the walk had taken me nine hours. I can’t remember it as hard work but it must have been. The Dane had probably camped halfway, thinking me stupid to recommend a twelve-hour walk in one day. Many climbers say that five or six hours is enough. But the Dane was desperate to get out. He would arrive, I thought, while I was sleeping.

Because I didn‘t think there would be much snow between the but and Kebnekaise (for the next day or two I wouldn’t climb above 2,000 feet) I thought it would be no problem to walk during the day and enjoy some warm weather. I was prepared to wait until noon to see whether the Dane turned up. If he didn‘t, I’d tell the rescue services at Kebnekaise. He’d no longer be my responsibility then. I didn‘t fancy sending the rescuers out for nothing, and the Dane was quite likely to be wrapped snugly in his sleeping bag dreaming of roast beef, bottles of beer, or whatever he liked. Anyway, it was his own fault.

I must have been exhausted because I woke at three in the afternoon and just didn‘t feel like moving. I had a good excuse to stay in bed, and read the labels of my food packets. Up at five and away by six, I thought. The Dane didn‘t turn up.

I hate unreliable people. If the Dane showed his face I’d tell him to stop pissing people about. If youhave an arrangement you stick to it, snow or no snow.

I was ready to leave at seven. Everything was packed and stacked against the wall of the hut. I was scribbling the man a note: “It looks like I got here first. I will tell the rescue people that I arranged to meet you but you didn‘t turn up. When you get to Kebnekaise tell them you’re the missing man.” I dated and timed the note and pinned it to the door.

I’d have to try to reach Kebnekaise in a day. It was thirty-eight kilometres away: fifteen hours‘ walk if I pushed hard. If I only stopped twice I might be able to do it in thirteen hours. The Dane could be dead by then. What was the alternative? I wasn’t going to leave my rucksack behind and run to the mountain station. What if it started to rain or snow on me? No, the Dane would have to put up with it.

The walk was easy and I would have liked to have taken my time. I was right, there was very little snow on the ground and it made a huge difference to my mood to see some greenery and a river without ice. It made me want to finish the walk in twelve hours. I wanted to know how fast and for how long I could keep walking without rest. There’s enormous pleasure to be had in stretching yourself despite fatigue and lack of food. I imagined that I was a reindeer covering the ground in graceful, bounding strides. Kebnekaise, no sweat. I’d show that bloody Dane. He’d had a head start and still he couldn‘t keep up. I was master of the mountains and couldn‘t be beaten. All I needed was Lapland water, a few cubes of chocolate and a tin of sardines. Kebnekaise mountain station, easy, easy.

Ten hours later I was leaning against the wall of one of the huts at Kebnekaise. My right leg had seized up and I couldn‘t bend it, nor could I sit down or walk about. The toes of my left foot felt like they were bleeding. The toenails had dug into the flesh. When I threw my rucksack off I was lifted a few feet into the air. I felt so light. I didn‘t want to eat, just rest and maybe sleep.

I didn‘t make myself very clear to the woman at the desk inside the hut. She thought I’d had an argument with my Danish friend and left him in the mountains. I tried again. This time she understood. Missing person near Kebnekaise. “It happens too often,” she said. “Never travel alone. This isn’t Switzerland, you know. You might have an accident and not see someone for two or three weeks.” People were difficult to find in the snow, she said. I’d done my job and went away to pitch my tent.

Next day I’d walk the final leg to Nikkaluotka and catch the bus to Kiruna. I’d be back in Copenhagen in a couple of days. I wanted to get out.

The loneliness eats you. Only yesterday I’d sat reading the labels on my food. Why? Because it was the only contact I had with the world outside the mountains. Another week and I might well have gone loopy.

While I was having a wash outside the bus station in Nikkaluotka I heard a helicopter overhead. It landed a hundred yards away from me near the road. There was a body attached to the side — covered Completely in a green blanket. I didn‘t want to look, but I needed to make sure it wasn’t the Dane. The pilot was smoking a cigarette and tapping the road with the toe of his boot.

“Is someone ill?” I asked.

“Dead.”

“Who is he?”

“Some Danish guy we found up near Kebnekaise. Poor bloke was stuck at the top of one of the mountains. I don’t know what he was doing so high, but you can’t tell these people.”

I nodded. I was back in Copenhagen in two days. I have no plans to return to Lapland.

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