Sarek revisited.
I must be getting something's right, this time I flew Edinburgh to
Stockholm direct missing out the hell-hole that is Heathrow. Just
enough time for a quick sandwich and on to Luleå.
Bus into town, walk around the corner and into the outdoor shop to
get some gas. Then on to the Hotel Comfort Arctic for the night. The
hotel is opposite the train station, so after a leisurely breakfast I
just strolled over and onto the Narvik train, I take this as far as
Gällivare.
Then four hours on a bus takes me to the fjällstation
at Ritsem on the north side of the huge Ahkkajaure lake. This time it
all went like clockwork everything was on time and the times on the
tickets I had matched the times the train and buses were actually
working to, unlike last year.
Next morning the lake was rough,
waves breaking over the top of the little ferry that took me across
to the tiny settlement of Anonjálmme,
in reality just a collection of summer cabins. There were three of us
on the ferry one guy in running kit with just a small day pack, he
ran off as soon as we landed. Another guy with a very big backpack
and myself. It was luck the other backpacker was there as I very
nearly slipped between the boat and the quay, he managed to grab me.
He was heading down the Padjelanta trail and planned to be in
Kvikkjokk in a weeks time. I had twice as long to get there and no
fixed route. Between Anonjálmme
and the mountain of Ahkká
a short but extremely powerful river flows into Ahkkajaure, the
Vuojatadno. I often like to watch whitewater river and try and
imagine how I could kayak it, trying in my minds eye to pick the best
route down. But not this river, the volume of water was so huge the
power so intense that I couldn't even see how anyone could survive
it, luckily there is a bridge. Once across a little blond haired
toddler comes running up to me chattering away for all her worth in
Swedish, when I answered - in English – she looked horrified,
turned on her heels and fled.
So far I'd been following the
Padjelanta trail but now I was going off piste, that trail went
south-west from here but I was going north-east back to the shore of
the lake. On the map there is a path marked but there's nothing on
the ground. You just have to find your own way between the bogs and
the dwarf willows and alders. It's only about three kilometres in a
straight line but you can never walk in a straight line. Down by the
lake the shore line only very vaguely resembles the map, the lake is
dam controlled for hydro so the level goes up and down all the time.
High above on this side of Ahkká
there are two Corries each with an active glacier in it. The out
flows from both come together and flows down through a short gorge
before fanning out into a delta on the less steep lake shore. Getting
across the various braids of the delta proved much easier than I'd
imagined and I managed to get across them all dry footed. Once across
I followed the stream up through the forest zigzagging around bogs
and impenetrable thickets. Somewhere around the 900m contour just
before the top of the treeline I find a nice flat, level and dry
clearing. So I pitch up for the night, half an hour later the heavens
open, it pours down all night. It
was still raining next morning, I dallied over breakfast. The idea of
coming this way was to climb Ahkká.
From the hut at Ritsem I'd seen the amount of snow still laying high
on the mountain so I knew I probably wouldn't get all the way up. I
had hoped to at least get up into the upper Corries and get some
photo's but now the visibility was around 100m at best. By mid-day
I'd finally accepted that things weren't going to improve and pack
up. If I couldn't get up the mountain I'd go around it.
I'd read that the moorland to the
east of the hills was a good place to see wolves. Last year a pair
had past by my tent in the night leaving footprints in the wet sand,
but I've never seen them. I was trying to contour across the slope,
something easier said than done. Go to low and you get ensnared in
the willow thicket, harder to penetrate than a barbed wire
entanglement. Get to high and it's all steep scree's and crags much
of it snow covered. I spent a lot of time climb up hill only to have
to descend again just a few metres further along. All the time the
rain continued to fall, sometime in mid-afternoon I stumbled across a
flat spot, probably the only flat spot I'd seen all day. A covenant
stream flowed just a couple of metres away. In minutes the tent was
up, water bladder filled, wet kit draped over the inner and the brew
was on the stove.
Last year I'd used my Tarptent
Notch a very light tent which uses trekking poles as it's main
supports. Mostly it was fine but there were a couple of nights where
the weather was getting near it limit. What would happen if the
weather was worse than last year? This year I'd switched at the last
moment to my old but much stronger Macpac Ultralite. Being stronger
unfortunately meant to was also heavier, a kilo heavier. The
groundsheet of the ultra is much wider than on the Notch but because
of the way the back of the tent slopes there's less usable headroom,
something that with all the sitting out bad weather was beginning to
grate. The rain didn't let up at all and it was now getting windy, I
went to sleep thinking maybe it was a good decision after all. In the
end it never got that bad and the Notch would have been just fine.
A
couple of kilometres further on from my campsite I came to the end of
the north-east side of Ahkká.
A big black cloud sat on the mountain right down to about the 1000m
contour. The floor of the valley to the south of Ahkká
was at 900m, between the two I could just about make out the way
ahead. On the valley floor was a string of shallow lakes and marshes,
mostly snow covered and frozen. Dozens of streams were pouring off of
the flanks of Ahkká,
from tiny trickles to ranging torrents. Somewhere at the other end of
the valley away in the gloom was a couple of tarns and a col that
lead on to the next section of my route. I trudge on, felling a bit
like Titus Oats, rain getting into my waterproofs down the neck and
up the sleeves, wet snow soaking and freezing my feet. Eventually I
pass the tarns and cross the col, on the other side I can't see much
but know there's a wide valley down there somewhere. Again I pitch
camp early feeling quite pissed off. Next morning it's still raining,
I start to pack but think “Sod it” and un-pack again get out my
kindle and spend the day reading about the Flannan Isles lighthouse
disaster of Christmas 1901. I went to sleep to the sound of rain
falling on the tent fly, I woke to silence. Either I'd gone deaf or
it's stopped raining at last.
Now
I could see, ahead of me were two big snowy mountains Gisuris, and
Niják.
From the valley between these two flowed a river, another one flowed
down from between Niják
and where I was where they joined together they formed a big wide
turbulent whitewater river the Sjnjuvtjudisjåhká.
Somehow I needed to get across this. Feeling much happier - san
Goretex - I stroll down to the river and waisted a couple of hours
trying to find the non-existence way across. Eventually I have to
bite the bullet and hike the twelve kilometres down stream to the
bridge and then twelve kilometres back up stream to get to a point
two hundred metres away. It wasn't that bad, the sky was clearing it
was getting warmer by the minute and the mosquitoes were still
asleep. I'm concentrating on avoiding the boggy bits trying to find
the easiest way through. I'm approaching the upper limits of the
trees, all stunted, spindly, widely spaced birch trees and some dwarf
willows. When I see something moving, something big, an Elk (that's a
Moose to the Yanks) with massive antlers and a calf in tow is running
towards me. I fumble with the camera, she disappears, then I see her
peering out from behind some bushes. I raise the camera and she
vanishes. How can that be? How can an animal half as big again as the
average farm cow with great big antlers just vanish in such rubbish
cove. I'm flabbergasted, I stand there scratching my head for a full
five minutes but she long gone. I continue down to the bridge which
is back on the Padjelanta trail, I've gone around in a big circle and
am now only 15km from where I started. I go a couple of kilometres up
the other bank before finding an idyllic camp. I spread all my wet
things out to dry, set the solar charger up and for the first time on
this trip sit out to cook and eat; bliss.
In
the morning there were definitely more mosquitoes around, not enough
to really bother, but definitely more than yesterday. When I crossed
the river I also crossed from the Stora Sjöfallets
national park into Sarek NP. The area between here and the Norwegian
border is the Padjelanta NP just why they differentiate between the
three I don't know on the ground their all just one big wilderness
area. In Sarek there are no maintained paths and the few bridges
there are are there for the Reindeer herders not walkers. Having said
that the route up the south bank of the Sjnjuvtjudisjåhká
is a popular route through the area so there is a faint path which
makes the going a fair bit quicker. Soon I'm back opposite where I
was trying to ford. There's an old Sammi hut here, made with a round
base and a square top. The frame is made of logs with birch bark
woven between the logs and then finished off with a covering of turf.
Graffiti inside show a date of 1909, back then I think the Sammi were
still nomadic. The wind has eroded away much of the turf leaving the
frame exposed to the elements. It looked rather sad and forlorn, a
monument to a bygone era.
That
night I camped between Gisuris and Niják, again sitting outside the
tent to eat but there's a few more mosquitoes about as it was getting
warmer. There's a big ridge coming down from the summit of Gisuris
down to a col just above where I camped then it goes up to a couple
of small rocky tops. The big ridge is just a bit too steep and snowy
to do alone and without ice axe etc. but the rocky peaks look much
more do-able. I left the tent up and all the food and camping gear
behind and set off with just a small day pack, oh the joy of not
having that great big lump on your back. I quickly get onto the start
of the ridge and look back at my little tent. Two people are standing
near the tent, one goes up to it and bends down; then they leave.
“Funny” I think, I guessed they were maybe checking whether there
was anyone in the tent and was ok, but put it out of my mind and
climb on. The two tops were just a little bit scrambley had to use
my hands every now and then but mostly just a nice ridge walk. Big
views to the south and west across Padjelanta all the way to the
distant peaks of Norway, lots of snow that way. I Dropped off the
summit down to a col between my peak and the main bulk of Gisuris,
sidestepped the cornice and was back at the tent by mid-day. There
on the grass by the tent door was a pair of binoculars, not mine,
mine are Bushnell's these were Sliva. There wasn't much I could about
them the couple were long gone. I can only assume they'd found them
and thought they might be mine.
Ahead
of me was a watershed, the river I'd come up – the Nijákjågasj –
flowed back the way I'd come. The one I was approaching flowed away
from me. It drain a large glacier bowl to the west (the right as I
travelled) on the side of a mountain called Ruohtes. When the many
braids of slit laden icy cold water came together they formed the
Smájllájåhkå river. But first I had to cross each braid one at a
time. None of them was much more than knee deep but the force of
water against my leg was enough to keep me concentrating. After each
crossing I had to empty the grit out of my shoes as it made walking
painful. Just as I started crossing it also started to rain, just a
shower, but it turned a lovely warm afternoon into a humid
mosquitoefest. I tried camping by a large snow patch but it didn't
really do much, I tried my head-net but it was far to hot under that.
In the end I eat inside my cramped inner tent balanced on one elbow
cursing the mozzies and wishing for a bigger tent. The route down the
Ruohtesvágge (Rouhtes valley) following the Smájllájåhkå river
is a popular one so the path was well worn and quick. Soon I was down
at it's south end at the top of the truly amazing Skárjá falls, I
try to video them but I'm no film maker. The falls drop about 200m
over a kilometre down an often very narrow gorge, sometimes only 3m
or 4m wide. At the bottom the Smájllájåhkå flows across a wide
flat boggy valley floor, here it flows into another river – the
Guohperjåhkå – together they now become
the Ráhpa,
the big river that effectively divides the park in two. Last year I'd
taken the path down the true left bank of the river, this time I was
going over to the pathless right bank, but first I had to get across.
I followed the Guohper upstream for about 8km to a point where
another river – the Algga – joins it. There's a good ford here
I'd used last year. But this year the water was very high maybe a
metre higher. Even though it was still early I decided to camp for
the night and try early the next morning when water levels would
hopefully be lower.
I was away by six and the rivers
were much lower, the Guohper can up to mid–thigh, the Algga was
only calf deep. The rest of the day was spent wandering up and down
the steep hillside between the willow thickets and scree slopes. By
six that evening I'd only covered ten kilometres on the map but what
felt like three times that over the ground. The mosquitoes were now
beginning to get bad and it was hot maybe into the lower thirties
Celsius. I camped that night on a rocky promontory over looking the
river 300m below, thinking it would get any breeze there was. Only
there was no breeze to be had, it was however a great viewpoint. I
spent a long time just scanning the valley looking for any sign of
the abundant wildlife that is said to live here, didn't see a thing.
Again I was up early, I left the
tent up and set off up the hill behind my camp. An hours scrambling
saw me up the steepest section and onto an easy angled snow slope.
The snow was even at this time of day very soft, but ok to walk on.
Higher it gave way to scree, here I was meet by a pair of fat fluffy
white birds with black streaks on their wings. They were very
defiantly defending their nest site, chirping away at the top of
their voices. I took their photo and moved away, later I found out
they were Snow Buntings. The hill I'd climbed was “point 1354” it
was just the end of a scree ridge that flanked a glacial cirque. At
the head of the cirque was a peak called Skårvatjåhkkå,
the climb up to this peak looked to technical to solo but I could
follow the ridge up to the hill next to it, point 1658. The going was
quite easy, alternating scree and easy angled snow patches. I was
romping along, taking photo's and just soaking it all up when a
movement to my right caught my eye. I only got a glimpse of it but
the unmistakable silhouette of an Eagle soared by. I also saw a heard
of Reindeer plodding purposely up the middle of the glacier. Just
what were they doing up here? Across the glacier a crumbling rock
outcrop on the side of Skårvatjåhkkå
had laid down a long line of moraine right down the middle of the
glacier, the rock was pure Iron ore and the moraine was bright red.
From the top of point 1658 I was able to look down to the col before
Skårvatjåhkkå
and there were the reindeer laying down in the snow cooling off.
Next morning was the eight day in
a row that was hot and sunny after the wet start I could hardly
believe it. South of where I was camped the river Ráhpa goes through
a big meander around the base of a hill called Låddebákte on the
other bank. The path on that side shortcuts the meander by crossing a
col on the other side of Låddebákte. Another river – the
Sarvesjåhkå – flows into the Ráhpa on the apex of the meander.
The whole area around the river bend has a very remote feel to it,
there are no paths down here. This section would be the crux of the
trip, I had a succession of rivers to cross and any one of them could
turn out to be my Rubicon. The first couple of hours were idyllic
wandering along in the sunshine, keeping just above the willows. I
look up and there are not one but two eagles, White tailed Eagles,
lighter than Golden eagles almost grey with very distinct white
tails. Then I came to the stream that drained the glacier I'd been on
the day before. There was an island of river gravel in mid-stream,
getting to that was easy. The stream on the other side was something
else. I loosened my pack straps and stepped in, leaning heavily on my
walking poles I got about five metres across with only three more to
go, I couldn't feel bottom with my pole it's too deep, I back off.
Try again just down stream, no better. I walk upstream and come to
the base of a waterfall that issues fourth out of deep gorge, no
chance there. I walk downstream, I try again and again, still no
luck. Then I'm down by the main river – the Ráhpa – there's a
gravel bar just before the stream flows into the river, the ground is
less steep here so the stream should be just a little slower. I inch
my way across, there's still power in the stream but it's not
threatening to throw me off balance, it comes up over my knees but no
further.
On the other side I try to eat
but the mosquitoes are out, and not just normal mosquitoes. Here were
some super mosquitoes, about 2cm long with yellow stripes. At first I
thought they were wasps but they don't sting they bite with a
proboscis just like normal mosquitoes. Their bites were really
painful like a clegg bite, they actually drew blood. The only escape
is to keep moving. An hour later another glacier stream flowing into
the Ráhpa, again there's a gravel bar just before it flows into the
river. This ones deeper, but less powerful so is easier to cross.
Still I'm mobbed by mosquitoes. Now I'm walking along right next to
the river on sand and gravel out of the trees, making good time
until I come to the confluence with the Sarvesjåhkå, which I
followed upstream. The ground here is very boggy and the willows grow
right up to the river banks, it feels more like the jungle than the
Arctic. I find a ridge of river gravel, an old bank, it's dry and
flat topped, I camped on it. The rain started just as I zipped up the
tent and it lasted all night. I was therefore quite surprised to open
up to sunshine in the morning, however everything was soaking wet,
every bush, every leaf. I pushed on upstream looking for somewhere to
cross, everything depends on getting over to the other side. On the
other side two large streams flowed into the river, upstream of them
the flow should have less volume, so should be easier to cross. That
was my theory, but it didn't look like that from the bank. Then I
came to a section where the river widened out into several braids,
this had to be it. Normally I change my boots for trail shoes and
roll up or take off my trousers for river crossings but now I was so
wet with water audible sloshing about in my boots it didn't seem
worth the effort. I just waded in, the first couple of braids went
easily then I came to the main flow. About a hundred metres then a
small gravel bar and then another forty metres, there was so much
silt in the water I couldn't see the bottom so couldn't tell how deep
it was. Straight away it was over my knee, then hip deep and finally
up to my waist. The pressure against my legs was so strong I was
being pushed backwards downstream with each step I took. Then I was
being pushed back even when I stood still, the pebbles on the bottom
were rolling under my feet. I couldn't stop where I was, I couldn't
go back I was over halfway, so I kept going. I paused for breath on
the gravel bar before plunging in again for the last stream, this was
not quite as bad as the main flow. I was now on a big island
mid-river, I couldn't see what was on the other side, luckily there
was only a shallow backwater to cross. Despite the mosquitoes I sat
on a rock in the sun for over an hour empting my boots, drying out
and regaining some equilibrium, now I'd crossed the Rubicon there was
no going back.
So, onward and upward. Climbing
up through these natural forests is such a joy, seeing the vegetation
change as you go up or down, so different from the man made woods in
the UK. An hour later I'm at the timberline and making my way up into
a long V-shaped valley. I'd crossed the river at about 600m, up at
the head of this valley at 1400m there should be a pass into the next
valley. There's no path, no sign anyone has ever been this way not
even Reindeer tracks in the snow. I'm contouring steep scree slopes
maybe 100m above the stream. It's a long straight valley but somehow
I just can't quite see very far ahead, there's always a little rise
blocking the view. Once you get to that rise there's another one just
a short way ahead. Then there's snow bridging the stream, I kick
steps up this “soon be there” I think, but each time I think this
has to be the top there's another little bit to climb. By now the
sun has disappeared and a cold mist descended, all the step kicking
in wet boots had cooled my feet. I'm wriggling my toes trying to get
some feeling back into them, “just where is the El Paso” I come
to the end of the snow and it's all big blocky unstable scree, and
then finally I'm there. No time to stop too cold for that. Down the
other side, more blocky scree to wobble over. A couple of kilometres
further I find a level-ish if not very flat patch of grass between
two streams. In minutes I'm in my sleeping bag warming my feet.
More rain in the night and thick
mist in the morning but it does start to lift as I pack. On one side
the foot of a big glacier, on the other a rocky scree slope
disappearing into the clagg. Somewhere down the valley around a
corner out of sight a bridge is marked on the map, I head for it.
Despite the colder weather there are still loads of mosquitoes the
only way to avoid them is to keep moving. The valley floor is covered
with moraines, not so long ago that glacier must have come all the
way down. I climb over one moraine heap only to be meet with another,
up down, up down. Still I can't see any bridge. I'm beginning to
wonder whether it's been washed away, not unheard of around here. I
climb another heap and there it is right under me. I'd planned to do
another climb around here but not in this weather, so I had plenty of
time. I camped just after the bridge even though it was still early.
Next morning started with the last climb, just a few hundred metres
over a saddle on the end of the mountain and then I'm looking down on
the Sammi autumn cabins at Pårek. Beyond them the lakes and forest
around Kvikkjokk. Once again I get soaked from walking through the
wet forests but it doesn't matter now. I camped for the last time
just a few kilometres form Kivikkjokk where my route meets the
Kungsleden in a small clearing. And then the last walk down to the
fjällstation and the end of the adventure.
