The morning was crisp, the air clear, and my spirits high. I set off into the Norwegian fjell, feeling strong, eager, and alive. The path up into the mountains was steep, but I embraced every step. This was exactly the kind of solitude and challenge I had come for.
Hours later, I reached the high plateau. Silence stretched in all directions, broken only by the wind brushing across the stone and grass. I felt on top of the world – quite literally.
From there, I was meant to descend into the valley again. The campsite owner had warned me: no marked path, few signs, and a difficult descent. That had thrilled me at the time. Now, standing at the edge of the unknown, it felt different.
Still, I pressed forward. I crossed the open land, navigating by rough landmarks – a small, still lake in a hollow, distant hills. But the landscape soon began to blur. The path disappeared into the grass, and then into nothing at all.
Suddenly, I was alone on a slope with no idea where to go. I stared at my map, hoping for clarity. Nothing. Then – a glimmer of hope. On the opposite slope, below, I thought I saw a real path.
I decided to go for it.
I began the descent slowly, but the ground betrayed me. It grew steeper, looser, more unstable. Every step was harder than the last. Then I stopped dead – in front of me, a sheer cliff, five to seven metres high.
No way down. No way back.
Panic crept in. I followed the edge, praying for a break in the cliff, something, anything. Eventually I saw it: a branch near the edge. Perhaps, I thought, I could use it to lower myself down.
I gripped the branch, tested my weight, and started to climb.
Then I slipped.
For a split second, I was hanging from the branch, heart pounding, breath frozen. My grip weakened. My hands burned.
And then I fell.
Time slowed. The rocks rushed up to meet me. I didn’t scream – there was no time. Just the blur of stone, the rush of air, and the terrifying certainty that this was it.
Then – impact.
Silence.
I was lying in a bed of sharp boulders. No pain. No cracking bones. No blood. Just… shock. I blinked, hardly believing it. I moved my hands. My legs. I was alive.
I sat there for a while, staring up at the cliff I had fallen from, trembling. My mind was blank. I had no words, just a thundering heart and the weight of what had just happened.
Eventually, I stood up on shaky legs. I couldn’t stay there forever – I had to get back before darkness fell.
By some miracle, I found the path again. It was unclear, broken, split in places. But I followed it. When I lost it again, I forced myself to stay calm, retracing my steps until I found it once more.
The final descent was terrifying. Without the path, I wouldn’t have stood a chance. Even with it, the ground was steep and slippery. But I made it.
When I finally reached the valley floor, my legs gave out. I dropped to my knees – not from injury, but from sheer emotional exhaustion.
That night, back in Flåm, I couldn’t sleep. The memory of the fall replayed over and over again in my mind. I had come to Norway for adventure – but I had come far too close to never coming back.
The next morning, I packed up and left. There would be other journeys, other mountains – but for now, I needed space to breathe. And to be grateful I was still breathing at all.
