It is 04:00 am when I decide to end the night. I sit up and try to assess the situation. What a rough night. Wind and strong gusts came from different directions, slapping outer and inner tent against each other. The floor and bottom of the air mattress are completely wet. I have a lake at the left lower corner, right were my boots were during the night. The sleeping bag has wet spots where it touched the ground or drops hit it. The down is already starting to clump. Fudge.
I put on all my layers and stuff the sleeping bag away in a dry bag within a dry bag. I look around and store away everything else that needs to stay as dry as possible.
My mind is racing. How will I get the inner tent and sleeping pad dry if it keeps raining like this? Stays cold like this?
I open the side of the tent, turn my boots, and watch the water flowing out of them. My socks are hanging wet above my head on the small clothesline I made.
This will be uncomfortable.
Just recently I read in a book that being uncomfortable slows down the experienced time. Uncomfortable moments last way longer than the actual time passed on the clock. As weird as it sounds, this is actually a good thing. Being uncomfortable makes us able to distinguish experiences and moments. It makes a day as long as a week. It breaks a year into memorable chunks.
I get the foam pat out that my brother gave me together with a gift card for my last birthday. Or was it Christmas? This little pad has been one of the most valuable items I have packed on this trip, concerning how often I have already used it. I put my phone, the Garmin, my map, notebook, and mug on it.
The weather forecast says at least the rain will stop in the late morning. Tomorrow it will be dry before rain and wind will pick up again around noon. I could be at Kebnekaise by then.
I look outside. There’s no use in trying to leave now. I take the damp socks off the clothesline and put them between my legs. At least they can be warm when I put them back on.
I open the vestibule a little and get the stove going. Coffee first. And a hot breakfast while waiting and trying to figure out what to do.
It’s 19:45 and then sun peeks out behind the clouds. I asked for a good, dry spot for the night in this windy landscape and 30 minutes later I found a beautiful small patch of grass in between the shrubs, heather, and mosses. I kickoff my boots and socks. I get the still completely wet tent out and start setting up the inner tent in the hope that by bed time the wind will have dried it out. Holding it like a kite, I let the wind decide in which direction to pitch it. To give the least resistance for the upcoming windy night.
What a day. It felt like one creek crossing after the other – through creeks running way more water than usual. When I reached the first one, after breaking the very wet camp, I thought I am doomed to go back to Abisko. A couple of hikers were already trying to find another way, avoiding the rushing, almost knee deep waters. I could see their bright rain jackets in the distance. I was already making my peace with going back, when a guy in running shoes, a tiny soaked backpack, and a wet plastic bag with even wetter clothes inside reached the creek. He looked at me and the hikers in the distance. Then he shrugged and started to waddle across.
I stood there and watched him. I had overthought the creek crossing so much that I was fascinated by him just doing it. Why was I hesitant? My boots were already wet, the water fast but not too deep. Yeah, a walking stick would be great but he didn’t have one either.
And if he did it I could as well.
I guess it’s the typical effect of newness. You think it can’t be done until someone just does it. And then it is almost easy for everyone who follows. Well, easy-ish. Every creek crossing today, I had to think of this guy and how he had probably managed all of them with a shoulder shrug. And every creek crossing, I got more confident and even light hearted on this crazy day.
After making the Tjäktja pass, another beautiful valley opened up, and the path to Sälka felt light. The wind is starting to dry my clothes. My boots and socks stayed really wet all day and I started to ruin my heels, I could feel it. I considered pitching my tent by the cabin, but it felt crowded with the couple of people there, so I pushed a little further.
Somehow I kept good spirits the whole day once I had left camp. I also had a lot of cheerful self-talk. Last night and today felt like an adventure. A struggle. Good.
It’s 9 pm and the sun gives a last hi in between the mountains. My tent is almost fully dry and I made my peace with it. My boots are slowly getting there. I will leave them outside tonight, trusting the weather, and hoping for dry feet tomorrow morning. If I start early and make a steady pace like the days before I should get to Kebnekaise dry.
That would be so nice. A whiskey after this day would have been also so nice. Instead I crawl into my sleeping bag and am already excited for the morning coffee.
