The Week I Turned into Popeye (and other stories)
A Loyal Steed
We’ve been driving the same red Volvo 850 wagon in Sweden since 2002. My parents purchased it secondhand from a man near our village in Haxäng who had owned—and cherished—it since its inception/christening in 1997. One of his requirements for the sale was that he had to meet my parents in person. He wouldn’t sell it to any yuppy; its new owners had to pass his intense scrutiny. We passed (obviously). Who would think that a newly transplanted, half-Swedish family with two young children could do the car any harm?
This car has been through the wringer. During its many years of service, it’s roared down countless forest back roads to reach far-flung corners of northern and southern Sweden; it’s been the patient teacher of my slow mastering of the manual transmission; and it has a knack for extracting itself out of whatever rock or snowbank tries to snatch it. More recently, it carried two friends, my brother, and me on a road trip to the white sand beaches of northern Norway (yes, they exist).
Despite all the rough-going, the Volvo bears little indication of abuse. If you don’t look too close, of course. A single scratch runs half the length of the right side from the time my mom sidled the car up to a metal mailbox as she backed out of a driveway (“Don’t tell Dad!”) The trunk latch is partially broken, so it creates an ungodly and unceasing screech any time the tires roll. I’m barely bothered by this anymore, though, since my eardrums at this point are beaten to a pulp. The Volvo’s lasting red color tells of special care; it actually spends countless months locked away in an old barn in the woods (that’s nearly inaccessible in winter) awaiting our annual visits from the U.S.
I realize this sounds like a drawn-out eulogy. It’s not. It’s an ode to the car that has been the Mellgren-Deers’ loyal steed for sixteen years now. I will admit, however, that the Volvo’s track record this week didn’t pass with full marks because one of its essential mechanisms conked out.
I sometimes forget that I broke both thumbs just a few months ago. That is, until I lift or pull anything that weighs more than 8 kilos, whereupon I whimper in pain and ask Ari for help. So imagine my surprise when I parked the Volvo next to a gas station after a very average drive to Östersund, turned the car off, and pulled the parking brake in a smooth upward motion…only to find my arm raised far above the gear box, my hand clutching the completely detached parking brake lever. I stared at it for a full five seconds before I lowered my arm from its Thor-like stance. The shorn metal at the breaking point looked like it had met its match with Popeye. The car was stranded, for the first time in its sixteen years of service, at an Ingo gas station.
In retrospect, the parking brake couldn’t have ripped clean off at a better spot and time. Ari, his parents, and I were picking up a rental car in the same parking lot for our trip to Norway. I immediately called my neighbor, who is a car mechanic and no stranger to helping me out in times of need. He said he’d make the short walk down the block from his shop and pry the parking brake loose from its engaged position. We walked away from the Volvo—the parking brake handle resting conspicuously on the driver’s seat—without much consequence. A loyal steed indeed; the Volvo lives on.
Some Photos from Romsdalseggen, Near Trollstigen
Trollstigen
A Scenic Paddle Through the Metaphysical Nine Levels of Hell
No visit to Scandinavia is complete without a visit to the fjords of Norway. Ari’s parents settled on Ålesund as a suitable basecamp for our daytrips to famous sights such as Trollstigen and Geirangerfjord. Ari’s mom and I both advocated for doing a four-hour kayak daytrip into Geirangerfjord to see the famous Seven Sisters Waterfall.
We rolled into the quiet marina of Hellesylt—a village just around the corner from the entrance to Geirangerfjord— twenty minutes before our kayaking trip was scheduled to start at 10. Our guide, a Swede named Douglas, was already there with other employees of Uteguiden (highly recommend) to help him unload the kayaks onto the sand beach next to an eddy. All four of us hobbled across the parking lot to greet him, the soreness in our glutes and calves still fresh from our long hike along Romsdalseggen the day before. The wind instantly whipped my hair into a dreadlock; it had picked up since we left Ålesund two hours before. A subtle warning which we took no heed to.
Without further ado beyond basic preparation, Douglas hurtled our double kayaks forward into the surf before nimbly jumping into his single kayak and launching into the waters himself. What we couldn’t see from shore, but quickly learned, is that the waters out in the fjord were in fact boiling in turmoil. The swell changed erratically as the fierce headwind steadily pressed us back toward shore. It took an extreme amount of effort to keep our kayak paddling in the direction of Geirangerfjord as it slewed over each wave.
I knew we were in for a long ass day when Ari and I began to doubt our ability to simply make it to the entrance of Geirangerfjord. My biceps and forearms felt like they were ripping from exertion and I could feel the cramping tautness of each tendon in my curled knuckles. Salt water pooled in the loose material of my spray skirt; I prayed it wasn’t slowly dribbling onto my camera gear below.
When we finally did round the corner, and enter Geirangerfjord proper, Ari and my arms more closely resembled overcooked spaghetti than muscle, tendons, and bone. The swell trundled more easily here and the wind had subsided; all five of us relaxed a bit to let the waves propel us forward. In our near-vegetative state, we let our heads lull back and took in the stunning cliffs and delicate waterfalls looming above us.
Douglas made us stop for lunch on one of two places along the fjord where disembarking was possible. Here, we discovered two things:
Three out of four of our phones had been resting in a salt water puddle at the bottom of Ari’s parent’s kayak in a leaky Ziploc bag. Water literally dripped from the ports of their short-circuiting interiors.
Three-ish hours of kayaking through molasses creates feral appetites.
Ari and his dad descended on the cookie supply like a pack of seagulls on a beached fish—his mom and I scarcely managed to snatch meager rations before the plastic wrapper collapsed in a limp heap. When I asked Douglas if we were behind schedule (I asked this as a somewhat rhetorical question), he hesitated before replying, “Ehh, yeah, like a half-an-hour.” Lies.
The Seven Sisters Waterfall—our destination, as I had nearly forgotten at this point— came into view as the famed Hurtigruten cruise ship glided soundlessly beneath it. The wispy forks of water shimmered in the sun, transforming the water and rock into flowing silk. On the shore opposite, the Präst waterfall cascaded into the salty waters, not nearly as ethereal in appearance as its sibling. Such beauty, while we rocked in such pain.
You know the phrase that dads usually say: “When I was young, I walked to school uphill both ways” to demonstrate their grit to their lazy, phone-obsessed, license-holding teenagers? Well, when reapplied to kayaking in a Norwegian fjord during variable weather, I scoff at the phrase no longer. We discovered the moment we turned around from the Seven Sisters that the wind had changed direction and now roared directly into our crusty faces. I nearly tossed my paddle into the surf and resigned myself to float in the fjord’s recesses forever.
Paddling back to Hellesylt from Geirangerfjord felt like clawing our way through Dante’s Nine Levels of Hell. We did not know pain just hours before. Apart from each having a steady trickle of saltwater drip down our lower backs—always love a good swass—Ari and I moaned in synchrony over the various aches and shooting pains pillaging our bodies. Every time I looked to shore for a point of reference of our progress, a bubble of curses frothed at my mouth. I swore at the wind, the waves, the aerodynamics of our beluga whale kayak, at the itches I couldn’t scratch, the blisters forming on my fingers, and the damn rock pile onshore that we could never seem to pass.
We arrived at the beach in Hellesylt at 18:15; or, EIGHT hours and fifteen minutes after we had started. Only twice as long (and 4 times as painful) as the tour was supposed to take. Extracting ourselves from the kayaks looked like what I imagine unwrapping a pretzel into its original rolled dough form would. Ari and I both sported fresh raccoon sunburns and red “kayakers’” hands (sunburns from the middle knuckle to wrist). Ari’s dad blew the blister competition out of the park with quarter-sized gouges on both hands. All four of us looked possessed of the same determination to any passersby—deliriously running barefoot to the car with wet butts that looked suspiciously like pee stains, we tossed modesty into the wind and peeled off our saltwater-logged clothes before staggering back to help Douglas load the kayaks on the trailer. When we conclusively collapsed in the warm cocoon of the rental car, sighs(moans) of relief melted into giggles. How did we find ourselves here, in one of the most beautiful places in Norway, loathing our experience of it? I don’t know, but I sure hope that when I look back on that day (once my bruises, blisters, and soreness have departed), I’ll be reminded that perfectly painless days in unique places don’t make good stories.
-Sofia