Bikepacking Norway: Off the Grid (Video)

I can’t recall a decisive moment to take this trip. The desire to head out materialized slowly over several months in the pressure cooker of a full-time job and the endless stimulation that comes with life in a city like Berlin. I felt caged in, constantly distracted. The line between habits of comfort and pleasure and vices and addictions was growing blurry. An appreciation of the privilege of stable existential comfort didn’t quieten the need for adventure, which is rooted somewhere deep inside my being.

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The aims were simple. Spend a lot of time outdoors, far out there, in nature, disconnected from my daily self. Take lots of time to think, and even more time not to. Do what brings me joy and challenges me both physically and mentally. Travelling by bike brings all these aspects together so well. Nothing strikes a better balance between the ability to reach remote places while covering large distances. All that with a minimal impact on the environment. The “right to roam” in Sweden and Norway means with some common sense and respect for your surroundings, you have the freedom to camp anywhere on public land. The population density is low, and the wilderness is breathtaking yet accessible.

I intentionally didn’t set a goal or destination, and I didn’t want to follow a fixed, pre-planned route. There was nothing to prove, and I valued the freedom to improvise over the added motivation to achieve a specific aim. I had mapped out a few optional checkpoints and inspirations to guide me, but besides those, I was to just keep heading in the general direction of north for as long as it felt right to keep going.

To cycle mostly alone was not as intentional. Having read Into the Wild in the impressionable years of my later teens left me with a strong enough sense that adventures are always better shared, something I had confirmed many times through my own experiences. But then there are these occasions of having nobody around with similar ambition, gear, fitness, or free time. Either I would go alone, risk being lonely, and miss out on shared joy, or I would not go at all and experience nothing.

Setting out solo, my bike was going to be my best friend. I really needed to trust it. This is where working in the bike biz came in handy, as I could pick every component and easily put the bike together myself. Reliability, low-maintenance, and all-roundedness were top priorities. I gladly traded extra grams for fewer opportunities of something to break, but I also wanted to have fun on a bike that rolls well and is relatively easy to handle.

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Bringing all the components together was a Schindelhauer Wilhelm frameset with a carbon fork. In the drivetrain was a belt-driven Rohloff gear hub with an overall gear ratio range of 0.7 to 3.7, equating to limit speeds of about four kilometres and hour at a cadence of 45RPM for climbing and 40 kilometres and hour at 80RPM for flats and descents. My 44mm tires with a semi-slick centre and raised tread on the sides would hopefully keep me sailing smoothly on asphalt sections and give enough traction on loose surfaces. A SON dynamo hub powered the front and rear lights and a 5V USB output. Loaded up on water, oats, beans, and cookies, the bike weighed close to 30 kilos.

I set out in early July, taking the train to speed through northern Germany toward the Baltic Sea, a part of the country I felt I already knew too well and was eager to skip. The first days gently eased me into the experience of the trip. Long time friend Tomáš joined me on his road bike for three days from Copenhagen, crossing the rest of Denmark and into Sweden together. These were the only days with a fixed route and overnights in simple one-room cottages. They gave me a taste of what travelling with a friend would have been like. Lots of laughs and an underlying feeling of safety that if something were to go wrong, somebody would be there to share the load.

Parting with my friend left me with a heavy feeling, which took a while to shake before I could fully embrace my solitude. It also meant leaving the asphalt roads, and this was something I was excited for. For the next three weeks, I would spend about 30 percent of the time on asphalt, 60 percent on all kinds of gravel, and 10 percent on singletrails and hike-a-bikes.

A route for the day was planned in the morning or the night before, heading in the general direction of the next checkpoint. Examples of these being sections of the European Divide Trail, Oslo, or Rondane National Park. A daily ride could be anywhere between 100 and 150 kilometres with 1,000 to 2,500 metres of climbing.

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The waytypes on Komoot were a great guide, making it easy to avoid major roads and target trails and forest dirt tracks. I placed a few waypoints on the map for paths or climbs that looked interesting, and Komoot magic did the rest. My anxious need to ride the most beautiful trails in the most stunning surroundings soon relaxed. I saw that any path I chose to take would amaze me in its own way. Several times, I was accidentally routed onto a hiking path, which I would have found challenging even on an MTB. I was surprised again and again by how much of a beating the bike could take and expected something to give at any moment, but it never did.

The days otherwise followed a repeating pattern. They revolved around the basic necessities of food and sleep. It was a calming rhythm. A simplified life, stripped of many of the comforts I would otherwise rely on. Trading warm showers for the exhilaration of dipping into an icy stream. A movie on the couch for a night by the fire, drying clothes after a rainy day. The office chair for hour long climbs in the saddle. The days were marked by the euphoric highs of these meaningful moments. Fatigued and alone, I enjoyed vast moments of quiet to take it all in.

The lows were less frequent but far more persuasive. Maybe I left it too late, and now I’m scrambling to find a cosy camping spot in the fading light. Or it’s an especially fierce bout of rain. These were the moments when I thought about heading home. But then they passed. And with each one that did, I felt a growing sense of calm and confidence.

The feeling of loneliness also built up as time went on. It ebbed and flowed. I missed my partner and my friends, a feeling that, at some point, never really went away. These emotions played a part in my eventual decision to turn home, but they by no means dominated the experience. Many realizations and insights could only emerge from being alone in such a quiet and vast landscape. By the time I reached Trondheim after about 2,500 kilometres of riding, I knew I had gotten what I came for.

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