My first solo vacation took me to Norway.
I had chosen a small valley that was supposed to lead me to Norway’s largest fjord – the Sognefjord, which stretches nearly 200 kilometers from the coast deep into the country’s interior.
I had traveled non-stop from Germany to central Norway, and although the journey had left me exhausted, I stepped off the train full of excitement and ready to start my hike.
The train station was located up on the Fjell, the Norwegian highlands, so my first challenge was a steep descent into the valley, followed by a roughly 30-kilometer hike to my destination: a campsite in the town of Flåm, by the Aurlandsfjord – a branch of the Sognefjord. But the chance to finally immerse myself in the Norwegian wilderness was far too tempting to resist.
I have to admit, I didn’t make it very far that first day. Fatigue caught up with me quickly, and I realized I wasn’t in the right state to fully enjoy the landscape. I left the trail and found a cozy spot in a small grove where I felt safe and sheltered.
After setting up my tent, I lay in the sun and enjoyed the warm day. My only complaint was the relentless mosquitoes. Soon enough, I looked like a walking pincushion. One bite in particular, on my toe, swelled up and turned red — it didn’t look good. A small infection seemed to be developing. By nightfall, the toe had gotten even worse, swollen and painful. I could barely squeeze into my hiking boots, which made continuing my trek difficult.
I tried to push on, but the pain became unbearable. Fortunately, there was a small railway in the valley — the famous Flåm Railway, a gem of Norwegian engineering and a popular tourist attraction. I limped to the nearest station and took the train the rest of the way to the fjord and the campsite — in comfort and with a fantastic view.
Even though I couldn’t walk through the landscape as planned, the train ride offered spectacular views of nature and the surroundings. The numerous tunnels carved through the mountains, often by sheer manpower, added to the experience. I must admit, I enjoyed the ride immensely.
Once I arrived in Flåm, I went straight to the campsite. I hoped the infection would go away on its own — I hadn’t brought any medication and was relying on nature to do its healing work. Unfortunately, the toe kept getting worse: more swollen, more painful, more colorful. Eventually, I had no choice but to see a doctor.
That presented its own challenge. I didn’t speak Norwegian, and I didn’t have a dictionary. Bravely, I approached a few passersby and asked for a doctor. Luckily, the Norwegian word for „doctor“ is nearly identical to the German one, so people understood me.
Eventually, I found a large building that I assumed was a hospital. I went inside. There were many signs, but I couldn’t read them, so it took a while before I realized my mistake — it was actually a retirement home. I was glad no one noticed me, and I quietly made my way out.
As it turned out, I had been just a few meters away from the actual medical practice.
The examination went smoothly, and to my surprise — and relief — the doctor spoke fluent German and was eager to show it. I was incredibly grateful. He assured me the toe wasn’t seriously infected. I just needed to keep it clean, dry, and rest it. He gave me a prescription, and after paying for the visit, I could finally start to relax and enjoy my vacation again.
I picked up the medication, rested for another two days, and gradually started feeling better — and more eager to explore again. I asked the campsite owner for a hike recommendation.
She immediately had a suggestion: a hike from the valley back up into the Fjell. She warned me it wasn’t a marked trail, and the markings would be sparse. I’d have to find and follow the route myself, especially on the descent back into the valley — the more difficult part of the trek. But that’s exactly the kind of adventure I had imagined for myself in Norway, and I was thrilled.
That evening, I prepared for the trip and set out early the next morning. The ascent was steep, but I loved every minute of it. The views were breathtaking, and reaching the high plateau of the Fjell filled me with joy.
So far, the trail had been easy to follow, and I was confident it would stay that way.
Deep in the Fjell, I reached a point where I had to find my own way back down. There were no more paths, but I found it exciting. A few natural landmarks — a small lake nestled in a hollow, for instance — helped guide me. I made good progress.
Then things took a turn for the quirky: I came across a small flock of sheep, and one decided to follow me — relentlessly. No matter what I tried, I couldn’t shake it. I could only hope it would eventually lose interest. Thankfully, it did.
But the trail became harder and harder to follow. Soon, I was standing on a slope with no visible path in sight. I had no idea which way to go.
I pulled out my map, but it didn’t help much either. So I followed what looked like a faint path, but that too vanished. Worse, the terrain became increasingly steep and tricky.
Eventually, on the opposite side of a ravine, I thought I spotted a real trail. The map seemed to confirm it, so I carefully made my way down the slope — or rather, scrambled and slid.
Then I hit a dead end. I was standing above a rocky cliff, staring down at a drop of 5 to 7 meters. The slope behind me was too steep to climb back up. I decided to follow the cliff in hopes of finding a way down.
When I didn’t, I chose to attempt a climb down the rock face. To be safe, I held onto a branch — but moments later, I slipped and found myself dangling by that very branch.
I’d seen movie scenes of people hanging off cliffs, but let me tell you — it doesn’t last long. My grip loosened quickly, and I realized I was going to fall. Below me was a field of boulders, and any hope of a graceful landing vanished.
When I did fall, I was shocked but incredibly lucky. I didn’t hear any bones crack. Somehow, I had landed between the rocks without injury. Maybe a guardian angel had caught me.
I stood up, legs shaking, and looked back up at the cliff I had just fallen from. Relief flooded over me — followed by the need to sit down and process what had just happened.
Once the shock wore off, I knew I had to keep moving if I wanted to make it back to the valley before dark. I eventually found the trail again. It was confusing — splitting off, fading, reappearing — but I managed to stay on course.
A few small streams crossed the path, and my boots got increasingly soaked, but I didn’t mind anymore.
When the final descent into the valley began, I got nervous again — it was so steep, and without a clear path, I had no chance of getting down safely. I lost the trail once more but, now more cautious, I retraced my steps until I found it again.
From then on, it was a steady hike down. And when I finally reached the valley floor, I felt all the stress of the past hours drain from my body. My knees were trembling.
Having had enough adventure for one day, I took the train back to Flåm.
I had originally planned to stay longer in the valley, but that night the memories of my fall haunted me. I decided it was time to move on, to seek new adventures elsewhere — the kind that wouldn’t make me fear for my life.