Episode summary:
I braved thick fog and damp reindeer to reach the very top of Europe. I shunned the tourist traps of Nordkapp and instead walked the Knivskjelodden hiking trail, which ends 1km north of Nordkapp.
If you are wondering ‘what are some interesting facts about Nordkapp’, ‘is Nordkapp worth visiting’ or ‘what is the Knivskjelodden hiking trail’, this episode might have some answers for you.
Listen to a podcast about hiking to the northernmost point of mainland Europe.
Transcript – S4 E7: Walking to the top of Europe
This week we’re braving thick fog and damp reindeer to reach the very top of Europe.
I like to think that out of every travel disappointment emerges a bit of luck. I missed a long-distance bus in Zambia once and was put on another one where I met a wonderful choir who sang beautifully all the way to Lusaka. An Atlanta–New York flight was cancelled one spring resulting in me having a truly amazing and genuine down-home experience at a small Bed & Breakfast near the airport that I had to book at very short notice.
This silver lining philosophy proved true again when I arrived at Nordkapp at the far northern tip of Norway. It’s a massive car park and visitor centre, both of which are expensive. I take one look at the lines of tour buses and the crowds of people and make a rather swift u-turn.
I had hoped to be – albeit it just for a second or two – the most northerly person on continental Europe but maybe it is not to be.
Finding the true northernmost point of mainland Europe
A few minutes drive south of the rather disappointing money-making circus at Nordkapp I find a smaller car park – where there is no fee – and a sign telling me I can walk up to an outlying peninsula of land. This is the Knivskjelodden Trail.
But – hang on a second – the far end of this trail, it appears, is no ordinary outlying peninsula of land. The sign tells me that it is north of Nordkapp. I double-check this with my map app and yes, while Nordkapp may be as far as you can drive north, the peninsula at the end of this trail is more than 1km further north: the true northernmost point of continental Europe.
Before you can say Roald Engelbregt Gravning Amundsen, my boots, anorak and beanie are on and I am stomping over the boggy ground, heading north into the gathering mist.
The path crosses moorland and a few rocky areas, where I mistake outcrops of bright white quartz for snow. I feel the path ascending slightly and as it does my head and then my entire body nudges into the very low, cotton-wool cloud. I am in thick fog now and can hear waves crashing somewhere nearby, at the bottom of what I presume are very tall cliffs.
I imagine on a bright, clear day it’s glorious out here, with views for miles. But when you can see less than two metres in front of you, it’s a different story.
Creatures in the mist – human and otherwise
I walk on, slowly, picking my way carefully and hoping I do not inadvertently step off one of those very tall cliffs. Someone – or something – blows its nose very close by and suddenly there is a tall Norwegian man standing next to me. “Follow the Ts,” he says, pointing at a rock on which a bright red ‘T’ is painted. “This is the real path. In about 1 kilometre you will come out of the cloud.” I thank him but he is already gone into the mist.
A kilometre further on I do not come out of the cloud but I do hear more nose-blowing. Lots of it, actually. I wonder if I have come across a hiking group that has caught a collective common cold but then – in a brief thinning of the mirk – I see I am in the middle of a herd of damp, steaming reindeer. The beasts break off from their chewing and snorting for just a second to examine the bedraggled human before them.
I find a rock and decide to have my own snack while I sit out the fog. I have time. Up here at 71 degrees North in July the sun never sets so it’s not like I have a dusk curfew to think about.
Soon I am rewarded, as the low cloud lifts just enough to reveal a wild, rocky landscape. I thought I was facing north but am in fact looking southwest and out to small islands just offshore.
I am alone out here. Perfect.
An alien landscape
I soon descend into a large amphitheatre of grassy slopes dissected by a stream that drains into a bay called Skardet.
Over years – decades, perhaps – hundreds of giant pine trees have been washed up on the rocky beach here. Sea salt has caked and bleached them silvery-white.
I hop from one to another, taking photos. The place looks alien. Where have all these logs come from and how why did they all end up here? Was it merely tides washing random felled trees in to this bit of shoreline, or did a container ship go down in a storm, maybe, spilling timber cargo that choked the bay.
Whatever the cause, the scene at Skardet is haunting.
I’m on the final stretch now, striding along the Knivskjelodden peninsula, passing giant granite boulders and traversing slanting rock slabs. Among the heather-like plants are tiny, bright-orange dots – these are cloudberries, very rare fruit which are wincingly bitter when eaten raw but delicious when sugared into a jam.
No more land
I finally see the small, red-roofed North Cape lighthouse, which marks my journey’s end. As I approach it, a wind whips in from around the headland and I am buffeted as I hop down onto the guano-caked shoreline rocks.
I am fighting to stay upright in the wind and not be blown into the Barents Sea, which is sending freezing waves crashing against the rocks. I can see – south-east over the water – the looming bulk of Nordkapp, where I was earlier.
This is it. There is no more land. I am now, for sure, the northernmost person in Europe.
© copyright Matthew Brace
