Chapter VII: The Fjeld and Reindeer (2)

We were now at the head of the Eikesdal gorge, or valley; a roaring torrent rushed down the centre to Utigaard; on the left were steep precipices with a large fall; while the opposite side was perpendicular, and threatened showers of troll stones. As we descended we saw many huge masses of rocks which had ploughed their way down, carrying all before them. To see one of these _lapsus naturæ_ is a very impressive sight, and makes one hold his breath and think. Passing through the valley, we noticed some very curious snow shoes, in form like the square frames on which sea-lines are wound, but with broader cross-pieces. Birch twigs on each side and over the foot fix them. On we trudged, having bidden farewell to the farmer, thanked him for his good services, and had a _skaal_ for Gamle Norge. Finally, we left the house-painter at his destination, where the old lady told us all about the dust coming down upon her; and then Ole and myself were alone to finish the day. We had started at four A.M., and it was now ten P.M. We at length saw the spire of a church—the kirk at Utigaard—and we began to inquire for Torstin Utigaard of Utigaard, the hunter. At last we found his house, but he was on the fjeld. Could we get a bed anywhere? No, nothing. Ole persevered, and we presently found comfort. Torstin was expected down from the fjeld that night with an English gentleman, whose servant most kindly gave me his bed. After awhile down they came. Enter Torstin, a grand-looking fellow, drenched. They had killed a _semle ku_, and had left two men behind to bring it down next day. In the morning they arrived with it, forming the wildest reunion of hunters. The Finmark dog, quite black, looked a beauty as he lay by the dead reindeer. “Blenk”—for such was his name—was a good and trusty servant: neither biped nor quadruped would venture to interfere with him when he was on duty. It was a splendid group, worthy of the pencil of a Landseer.

After the pouring rain of the previous evening, which had continued through the night, we all had hopes of fine weather for our trip, and still more did we desire to see, before leaving, Utigaard in the beauty of sunshine. But no; on arising at about five, we found dirtier weather than ever; the mist low down; Blenk still keeping watch by the reindeer which had been brought down; every kind of waterproof oilskin being looked out; and a great demand for sou’-westers. At last the _stolkjær_ was packed, and everything ready to go down to the boats. The baggage on the _stolkjær_ was surmounted by a reindeer head, Blenk ever in attendance, and Torstin Utigaard of Utigaard leading the pony as our chief. Then we were off, looking something between fishermen and smugglers.

It was with much regret we took our last look at Utigaard as we settled down in the boats _en route_ for Syltebø. The valley was grand in the extreme, the mist sometimes breaking up over the sky-line with a sudden rush, as if thankful to get loose and range over the fjeld with freedom. Hardly were we under way, and the crew settled down to the steady-going pace which Norwegians can keep up for any length of time, when Utigaard burst out wondering who could have been the figures he telescoped on the snow on the previous day—the fellows who had nearly spoilt their sport and frightened their deer at the very moment when they thought they had the “rein” well in hand. What could people be doing up there? why should they go? who had ever seen any one in that part of the fjeld? At last the thought flashed across his mind that it might have been us. Was it? Yes, most undoubtedly it was, but happily we had unintentionally turned the deer; it was, however, the right way, so no harm had been done. The deer had been bagged, and we now all rejoiced together.

As the three boats rowed steadily in solemn procession down the _vand_ we approached the Vika Pass on the starboard side. At this point the lake is most imposing, its grandeur much enhanced by the mist, which is ever changing, ever beautiful in form and intensity. Soon some of the favourite old Norwegian songs were started, the chorus being echoed by the other boats. On the opposite side of the Vika Pass there had been a great _steen-skreed_; and so immense are the surroundings that it was impossible to realise the extent of the devastation until we approached the base of it, as it had dashed and lumbered into the lake; then the huge masses revealed themselves in their unmistakable proportions, dwarfing our boats to mere insignificant specks by their side.

Near this spot bears have been seen, and one was tracked only lately. This led to the subject of bear-traps and “self-shooters,” when the Tentmaster-general enlarged on the _modus operandi_ adopted by the postmaster at Sundal. He knew there were bears, and having fully studied the spot, determined to lay a “self-shooter,” if possible, or at all events a trap; and this he very ingeniously so arranged that when the trap caught Master Bruin a red flag should go up: this he could see with a telescope from the post-office as he sat sorting the letters. Some people had noticed that the latter operation took much longer than usual about this time; still no one attributed the delay to the postmaster’s love of bear-hunting, and they little thought that he sorted with one eye and watched for Bruin with the other. At last one day the postmaster saw the red flag. This was too much; the letter eye immediately joined the fun. He was off at once to the bear, shot him, and brought him home; and during the year he managed to get four.

Hard as it rained, we were very sorry when our boat trip drew to a close, and we felt that we should soon have to bid farewell to Torstin and Eikesdal Lake, with its many joys, rough life, and hearty welcomes. We had a glorious walk from the lake to Syltebø, and were glad when we saw in the distance the white house which was to be our haven of rest, and to welcome us as friends. Soon after our arrival our host came in from the river with a good fish; and many a one has been taken from that stream, in spite of the change which has come over Norwegian rivers within the last few years. When English sportsmen began fishing in Norway the _bönder_ attached no value to salmon. They were surprised to see them caught with such slight rods and tackle; but, as soon as it dawned upon them that salmon were worth so much per pound, they began to help themselves by netting them at the mouth of the river, before they could ascend the stream which the enthusiastic Piscator had paid a good sum to rent. The natural consequence is that Norwegian rivers do not afford the sport they once did.

Whilst shooting at Syltebø, one of my friends found a beautiful specimen of amethystic crystal of considerable size. From here a steamer runs to Molde, one of the northern sea-coast centres, and true to its time the little screw came off the landing-place with hardly any one on board, for the season was far advanced: most tourists and sportsmen had returned, and we enjoyed it all the more, as it afforded us a better opportunity of seeing the people themselves.

The variety in Norwegian travel adds greatly to one’s enjoyment. In the present trip we started from a rich expansive valley; thence we ascended through woods of birch and alder by a torrent’s side, vegetation became stunted and sparse, mosses gradually disappeared, and lichens preponderated; then came barren boulders, and, above all, the everlasting snow. Having attained this, our journey was varied by a descent to the wild gorge of Utigaard; the Lake of Eikesdal, a vast body of water, with its grand fall; then again, after the boating procession, through the valley of Syltebø, by the side of its salmon river, to the sea; and finally we were on the deck of the bustling little screw steamer. On stopping at the first place we were surprised to see a large boat coming off, mushroomed with huge umbrellas, whence issued the music of Norwegian voices, and evidently those of ladies; but as they neared the steamer the soft strains ceased, and they came alongside in silence. Our array of oilskins, waterproofs, and sou’-westers announced that foreigners were on board. We, however, considered that this treasure trove should not be a dead letter on a rainy day, and the Patriarch broached the subject of Norwegian music, which happily led to an encore of all the boat songs and many others, reinforced with much gusto by the chorus of oilskins, waterproofs, and sou’-westers. They were a happy band—all ladies and no gentlemen—going to a party at the _præstegaard_, some few miles down the fjord. They assured us the priest would be very pleased to see us, and give us a hearty welcome. It was with much regret we were compelled to decline the invitation, especially as it would have afforded a pleasing episode in our trip, and given us an opportunity of seeing the _vie intime_ of a Norwegian minister’s home _en fête_. As their boat left the steamer, they sang one of our favourite songs, and our modest chorus followed it at a gradually increasing distance until both faded away. After this cheerful but soaking morning we comforted ourselves with stories of the fjeld, salmon, and Norwegian life. Happily the Tentmaster-general was in great force, and, when called upon for a yarn, responded with “muckle hilarity,” giving us one of his reindeer experiences. Can we do better than repeat it here?

First scene, _tente abri_ on the fjeld. Snow close above; in fact, too much snow for sport. The Tentmaster-general telescoping alone in the camp, if one may so call two tents. Having had a very hard and weary stalk on the previous day, he was resting whilst the Major and Dan went up after deer. Soon after they had settled down to work, the Finmark dog “Passop” became very uneasy, and so fretted the string by which he was led that Dan thought he might break away, which would be sudden destruction to everything; he therefore carried the dog in his arms. Shortly afterwards, Dan, doubtlessly becoming slightly tired of carrying the dog, relaxed his hold a little. At that moment Passop caught sight of a buck, sprang from Dan’s arms, and bolted after the deer. Dan threw up his arms in despair, and gave vent to several Norwegian hunting quotations unfavourable to Passop’s future happiness. One thing was certain—the dog would go till he died from sheer exhaustion, and Dan would never recover his favourite Finmarker. Dan soliloquised, and watched long with his telescope, and finally gave way to grief. The next few hours were very blank and sad—deer and Passop both gone. In the afternoon, with melancholy thoughts and sluggish conversation, they began retracing their steps to the camp, which was about six miles distant. As soon as they were in sight of their fjeld home the Tentmaster-general came cheerfully to meet them, for he had seen seven deer steadily going down to a lake, and had anxiously awaited the return of Passop. No time, however, was to be lost. Off he went in pursuit alone, with the Major’s rifle. Hardly had he got away from the camp when he caught a glimpse of more deer—two this time, both going to the edge. He lay down to watch them, for patience as well as judgment is required in reindeer work. After some time a strange sound, like the bark of a dog, came down; but who ever heard the bark of a dog in the wilds of the fjeld and on the snow? Listening again, in a few minutes, from behind a huge boulder, came a _stor buck_ straight on, with a dog close behind. What a chance! Happily the Tentmaster was equal to the occasion. In the twinkling of an eye the shot was fired, the buck was hit, but carried his bullet with him, and made for the water. The dog gaining on him a little, he dashed into the water to swim for it; but Passop dashed in too, for by this time our hunter had recovered from his astonishment at the strange dog, and recognised it as Passop. The ice-water of these lakes is, of course, intensely, cold, and the dog was obliged to come back: he, however, did not do so until he had had a good tug at the deer, which by this time had turned on his side and was dead. A second time Passop tried to reach him, and was obliged to return; but the third time he got on his back, and sitting there, held the horns in his teeth. As the dog could not bring him ashore, what was to be done? By this time the Major had come up, and determined to swim for him, and tow him on shore. The ice-water was too cold for him also, and he was obliged to turn back. The deer was too far out to lasso, even could they lead the line up from the camp. But _nil desperandum_. Hardly had their wondering got full swing when a tremendous squall swept down the hillside, caught the deer and Passop, and they drifted in. The Major made another attempt, and the deer was landed. They were soon off to the camp, where Dan, with a very sad heart, was preparing _speise_. When the latter looked up and saw them coming, accompanied by his beloved dog, his expression soon changed, and Passop was caught up into his arms as quickly as he had sprung from them in the morning, while Dan, with a radiant face and his head a little on one side, turning round to the Tentmaster-general, said, “Good man, Maget good man.” Passop was made much of, Dan’s happiness restored, and the one bottle of champagne was iced in the snow, to drink to “Rensdyr jagt paa hoie fjeld.” It was a great day happily terminated, and long to be remembered.

For some days we had been on the tramp, and arrived at Indfjord. Thursday, August 20th, 1875, was a sad day there. Returned from a long tour through very wild, rough districts, where neither food nor lodgings were to be had, we were settling down for a good night’s rest, certainly under difficulties, at the house of a good farmer named Ole Erikson Boe, when the gruesome news came of a disaster in the mountains above. A tremendous rock crash, or _steen-skreed_, had taken place at a spot called Sylbotten, some three thousand feet above, where there were two _sæters_ occupied by two _piger_, who had charge of the cows belonging to the good people down the valley. We started off at once. In a more than quiet spot like this, with what a crash does such news burst upon every one! What sympathy it brings out; what interest in the details of the occurrence! What sadness marks each face, and how quiet and subdued all are, though all are talking!

We pass on, with a little provision in our wallets, and soon come to some reapers in the valley, working in the fields, with leather aprons for their protection. We started with Halve Jacobsen, the owner of the _sæter_, who went up, taking a pony and foal, in case the mare’s services were required: the foal always runs by the mother. On our sad mission we could not be otherwise than struck with the joyfulness of this young animal, its abounding spirits, caprioles, and quirks and capers. Before arriving at the steep part of the ascent we stopped at a small outbuilding close to the farm, the front of the house looking over the Indfjord, with a grand expanse before one, the morning light shimmering down to the edge of the water far, far below, and all seeming peace and gladness. At the back of the house, between that and the _laave_, we found a vastly different scene—pain, grief, and heavy hearts. What a contrast to the brightness on the fjord side—the sunny side that was! The anxious group was in shadow, comparatively speaking, the centre attraction being a roughly made stretcher, on which was lying, hardly conscious, pale, agonized, and bone-broken, Ingeborg, Erichsdatter, Griseth. Poor girl! she had been brought down some three thousand feet by a very steep _sæter_ path—for there was hardly any road—jogged and shaken, with one leg broken, ribs crushed, and her face much cut and bruised by the cracking up of the _sæter_ before the overwhelming force which carried it away. Around her were the _bönder_ folk, and one poor old woman whose grief seemed beyond consolation. The autumn was advanced, and the winter coming quickly on, for the first snow days had begun. She had only one cow to support her: that was at Sjolbotten, and was killed, so her only hope of livelihood was for the moment swept from her, as no cow could be got under £5, and “no siller had she.” What a chance for some rich Samaritan to heal a broken heart for the small sum of £5! But as “many a mickle makes a muckle,” so, doubtless, would a new cow be bought by the kindly spirits of the good Indfjord folk. Their love for each other is a lesson to even the most civilised among us. Indeed, it is very noticeable that small communities care for everybody, while large masses notice no individual—only charitable institutions.

But we have not yet commenced the ascent. The mare leads through the brushwood, the cheerful foal diverging now and then in the self-conceit of all young things, fancying they know better than their mothers. It was a steep climb. The mare slipped; but Halve said it was all right, she knew the way. The morning was warm, and, as soon as we arrived at a kind of ledge looking over the valley and fjord, we halted. What a lovely, or rather, what a grand scene it was! Still there was no forgetting our mission—no shaking off its sadness. Our present object, after Ingeborg’s arrival, was to go up and see after her companion, Ingrana. Our halt was not for long. We had already taken off our coats, and hung them on a pine-stump. To our surprise, Halve left his there until our return, and said, when we did not, “You can leave anything as you like in Gamle Norge.”

_En route_, in three hours we had left our last brier and alder behind, and were on the plateau of the High Fjeld, and found much _smörgrass_, so good for cows. As _smör_ is the Norse for butter, it will explain the name. For a long time we tramped over the _botten_, carpeted with rich flora; but at the end we saw the _steen-skreed_, or landslip. Some four or five _bönder_ were already there, and seemed very surprised to see a foreigner coming up with Halve. A few words of explanation, and all was understood: one common object in view, that of helping each other, soon bound us together. Ingrana naturally had not been to sleep since the disaster. It is difficult to imagine any Norske _pige_ nervous, but poor Ingrana had been shaken and frightened out of her wits. Her description, after a little entreaty and patience on the part of the persuader, ran thus:—Early in the morning Ingrana was awakened by a heavy rolling sound of thunder, followed directly by a crash. She rushed from her _sæter_, and, coming out of her door, saw Ingeborg’s _sæter_ carried away and buried. It is difficult to realise the feelings of this simple-minded girl, living so solitary a life for three months. In a moment—a second of time—one was taken and the other left. Ten cows also were buried; and, no help being at hand, Ingrana had to go down this lonely mountain with the sad news, leaving her companion fixed, pinned, and crushed until she could return with assistance.

We arrived after three and a half hours’ hard ascent, when some sour milk that had been left was given us. The Englishman elicited a smile from Ingrana when, taking the bowl from his lips, his moustache was white with cream. This was hopeful and a good sign.

The slip was accelerated by a very large waterspout striking the face of the mountain, as amongst the rocks which were brought down was a quantity of sand, and the presence and action of water were palpable, deep pools being left in many places. The scene was appalling—a wreck in the wildest sense of the word. Some three-quarters of a mile of mountain side had come down, carrying all before it—_rammeding_, as the Norse word is. Huge rocks, a few stunted trees, hardly any kind of herbage—what a hurly-burly of desolation! Looking across and over it, we saw the distant placid fjord and open sea. What a contrast, the peace of one and the turbulence of the other! Still the damage was a known quantity, every year something of the kind happening, sometimes with loss of life, sometimes without. The accompanying sketch was taken from the lower portion, looking upwards.

After going over the greater part of this chaos we went back to the preserved _sæter_, where we were most kindly received, our sympathy being accepted in the same spirit in which it was offered. Then we returned. We found Halve’s coat quite safe and undisturbed, and after the usual time arrived at Ole Erikson Boe’s farm, where we had a simple repast of good _fladbrod_ and _bunker_, there being no meat here. We rested, and early in the morning started for Fiva. During the evening Boe showed me an old Danske Bible, folio size, A.D. 1590, with large brass clasps. The good folk wanted me to bring my wife to the funeral, in case the poor girl should not survive. In the morning we went down to the shore, as we heard the steamer for Molde was coming in to take Ingeborg thither, should she be still alive. Life was all but extinct when she was got on board. Ole Fiva and myself started in a boat for Veblungsnæs, having thanked the good people of Indfjord for their kind welcome, and they expressing their gratitude for our interest and sympathy, and reiterating their desire to welcome my wife at Indfjord.

The morning was lovely for boat travel; such peace that convulsions like those we had witnessed seemed incredible. But it was no dream: the inhabitants of Indfjord, the family of Ingeborg, Ingrana, and the poor woman without her solitary cow, all were stern realities.

Soon after our return to Fiva we heard that Ingeborg was dead, had been taken back from Molde, and was to be buried in the _gravested_ at Indfjord on September 2nd, 1875. Accordingly, early that morning we started in carrioles from Fiva to Veblungsnæs, where myself, wife, daughter, and Ole Fiva took a boat with six oars for Indfjord. A lovely, peaceful morning it was as we left the landing-place at Veblungsnæs. Soon the six oars began their sturdy dip as we came under the shadow of the mountains: the dip was strong, as Norwegians only can row for a long travelling sweep and perfect time. After settling down with our _tine_ of provisions—for we were travelling Norskily, and no Norske is complete without a well-filled _tine_—a sad tone seemed pervading the boat: our mission was one of sympathy for the bereavement of others, with an after-thought of thankfulness that we had been spared in health, and were sound in body and bone. But the melancholy of every one was broken by a remark from Ole that we should soon see the Runic _steen_, which is about half a Norske mile from Veblungsnæs. A lieutenant of engineers, who was superintending a new bridge, had described this stone to us, and we were eager to see it. At last we came upon it. The boatman ran alongside, and threw water over it to develop it. In nine hundred years pluvial attrition alone is sure to make its mark, to say nothing of our energetic friend Neptune’s constant stormdrift and tempest. (The writer would apologize for the term “pluvial attrition,” but there are so many long words about just now, what with street advertisements and urban authors.) A general view of the Runic stone is given in the opposite engraving, while the initial ornament on page 175 was drawn from a plant plucked on the spot. The letters are thirteen in number, and their length about eighteen inches. Twelve feet from the sea-level, under low-water mark, and projecting some few feet, runs a ledge of rocks, beneath which is supposed to be secreted untold wealth.

The translation of these Runic hieroglyphics is, “The Court of Justice,” and this inscription was evidently placed in a conspicuous position to guide any who came to the court in old pagan days; for Romsdal was one of the last of the pagan strongholds. Above, high up, close to Sylbotten, was a pagan temple; but the Court of Justice was held at Devold, Romsdal.

There was now a regular good settle down for a long pull. Up to this time we have been in shadow, but now we round a point, and taking what a landsman would call the “first on the left,” we go due south down to Indfjord. The sea-water is beautifully clear, reflecting the quartz rocks. _à merveille_, like the good old chandeliers of our grandfathers after a spring cleaning; the rich sunlit yellow seaweed is grander far than ormolu; and here are three herons in repose, water-ousels with their snow-white breasts, and now and then sparkles by an old cormorant or diver. As we go down the fjord the snow range at the end of it blocks in everything, the morning mist waiting in the valley for exit, if possible.

By this time we near the hamlet, and high above us on the left, on a kind of plateau, we see many figures congregated. They were in front of Erich’s house, Griseth being the name of the farm. We soon steered in, and then between two boathouses, at a rude pile-driven landing-place, the well-known scrape of keel on shore was heard, and we had safely arrived at Indfjord. Griseth had sent down to meet us and invite us up to the house, but we return the message that we would rather not disturb the family, but await their arrival at the _gravested_; so, with our _tine_, we picked out a spot for lunch, and enjoyed some cold reindeer meat, biscuit, cheese, &c. During lunch we could see the _bönder_ folk collecting high up at Griseth, overlooking the fjord, and at two o’clock we saw them by the telescope start down the narrow mountain path, the coffin being lashed on to the little cart to prevent it slipping. Soon they were lost in a dip of the wood, from which they emerged nearer to us. As we stood at the _gravested_, or graveplace—like our word homestead, home-place—a man came up and shook hands with us, and then standing on the wall, commenced tolling the bell; for there is no church, but only a bell-tower.

Soon the procession drew near. First came the coffin, black, lashed on to the hay-cart, and drawn by a beautiful young _blakken_, or Norske pony, whose collar was of old carved wood painted, the _bonde_ driver walking behind the coffin, which bore three wreaths of wild flowers. At a distance behind the coffin followed the men, and after an interval the sorrowing women, who were succeeded by men of the family, many sad hearts, and Ingrana. It was a modest but impressive scene. When the pony arrived at the _gravested_, hearing the tolling bell, he shied and jibbed, as if regretting what he had done. The coffin was therefore carried in at once. There being no clergyman, a friend sang a hymn. The coffin was lowered into the grave; the wreaths removed; the ropes withdrawn. Some one said to Ingrana, “You were lucky to escape.” “I could not have been ready,” she said; “God wanted me not, and left me a little longer. She was ready,” meaning Ingeborg, whom they were burying. They then sang the second hymn, “Hjemme, Hjemme,” as the friends shovelled the earth in, and the heavy thud of the large spadeful boomed like parts of Handel’s “Dead March” in _Saul_. After filling in the grave the wreaths were placed on the newly raised mound, and the ceremony closed with “Hjemme.” The weird sea birds screamed, and all went away together. Many will recount the story of Ingeborg, Erichsdatter, Griseth.

Before leaving the _gravested_ the grave-boards must be noted, they being so remarkable in form, so quaint, and also so Bosphoric. Sometimes a white butterfly is introduced, as typical of the soul. How different from the present association with the allegory of their transient nothingness! After the funeral we had to pay two or three visits. All the farmers wanted us to visit them—some to tell of sport, others to offer us _aqua vitæ_ and stamped cakes like the Dutch _waffles_; and when we returned to Ole Erikson Boe’s he gave me an old Norske belt as a memento of our visit, which we need hardly say is most carefully treasured.

So passed away Ingeborg, Erichsdatter of Griseth, while Ingrana remained waiting her bidding.

Isterdal is full of interest and character, with a wild river, precipitous mountains on either side, snow on the high peaks above, a rushing of waters below, hardly any track, and shut in by a façade of rock at the end of the valley; and yet it is the way from Romsdal to Valdal. Let us, therefore, explore it, and do so in two fyttes—a short carriole ride to the _sæter_ with the ladies, and beyond, high, high up, for real research without the ladies.

_Place aux dames._ We tried the short journey with two carrioles, and for an English mile or two we did pretty well, as they will go anywhere and over anything; but as we got into the scrubwood and underwood the road grew worse, the wheels going sometimes over a boulder one or two feet in height, the axle assuming an alarming angle, and the _skyd-gut_ hanging on the high side to keep the vehicle from turning over—first one side and then the other—till the fair occupants of the machine were shaken to a jelly, and would fain try to walk. Still we all persevere, and soon arrive at the meal-mill, given in the accompanying page illustration. What a retired spot for business! Who would ever think of it as a centre to draw customers and found a business—as a likely spot for a man beginning with the conventional half-crown becoming the architect of his own fortune?

The water seen here is the Ister—ever thick and muddy, and always in violent motion. What a contrast to the calm dignity of the adjacent mountains in all their graduated phases! A little above this is a shoot which brings down water to turn the mill. On our arrival the miller comes out with a quiet kind of welcome, and very kindly shows us the stones doing their share of work to bring about _fladbrod_ for the people of the valley during their summer visit: it is for the _sæter_ people they work principally.

Leaving the mill, we pass on to the denser scrub and brushwood. We had with us an old Skye terrier, full of noble traits of character—courage and endurance—but being as blind as Belisarius, and running against some of the rocks in the track, he was not only thrown on his haunches, but his nerve was shaken—that Highland nerve which is of such rare stuff. Let us immortalise our blind Norwegian canine traveller by a description. If lost, an advertisement should run thus:—“Lost, a brindled Skye terrier, answering to the name of ‘Kyle.’ Rough broken hair, broad chest, short-legged, bow-legged, middle-aged and strong, and carries his tail high. True to the core, with a head as large as a deerhound’s. Teeth to match.” The Norwegians at first thought it would be well to shoot him, but when they came to know him better he soon enlisted them all among his many ardent admirers.

Perhaps the idea may flit across the mind of some, Why bring a blind Scotch terrier into a work on Norway? This is why: old Kyle was taken that day for a young bear by a simple-minded Norwegian cow. Never were fear and fright more vividly portrayed than by the action of that animal, and of her tail especially, on the first glimpse of the brown brindled terrier. Hearing his name mentioned, he has just wagged his tail, which is quite flat, like an otter’s, and when very pleased he wags it with the flat side on to the floor to produce more sound.

By this time we are at the _sæter_, where the _piger_ have come to look after the cows until September. Having driven on to the only flat piece of grass, we unpack for lunch, when the produce of the aforesaid cows comes to our comfort in an unadulterated form, and thoroughly is the simple fare enjoyed. After lunch we visit the interior of the _sæter_, and find spinning going on steadily, a little national tune being hummed to the whirring wheel accompaniment. The weaving is done during the winter months. In the summer a little spinning is done, but only by the most industrious.

To see Isterdal the only way is to walk. Let us, therefore, continue on from the _sæter_ in the direction of the Valdal. This was done with Ole Fiva. Soon we began to ascend, for the end of the valley is precipitous, with a fine fall, the top of which must be reached before arriving at the plateau, _botten_, or _balloch_. On commencing the ascent Ole pointed out in the river below a spot where a bear had been killed; and higher up again where a bear lived, for he had seen it there. Some idea of the situation is given by the opposite woodcut, with the _aiguilles_ on the right. This is looking down Isterdal. The path was effaced the day before we passed by the descent of a quantity of rough stuff, more than sufficient to have carried us with it into the valley beneath. The _aiguilles_ are of a similar formation to the Troltinderne in Romsdal, and seem to be a nursery of trolds for future ages.

The evening glows on these pinnacles are marvellously and beautifully grand, and the transitions of hue from one to the other beyond imagination and conception. Still we work up. Ole, ignoring the slightly defined regular track, goes up really awful places, hauling himself up, and astonishing his follower and companion by displaying the most unnecessary and enviable agility. All honour to such strength and energy! By this time we had reached the plateau from which the murky Ister takes a header into the valley which lay at our feet. Once on the plateau, we could get along better over the stunted flora and bare rocks, with snow here and there, especially on the south-west side. The track is indicated by a few pieces of rock, put here and there in a pile, which being of the same formation as the rock we are walking on, the similarity of colour makes them very indistinct at times: the best way is to look out for one on the sky-line, if possible. After a long tramp we crossed the Ister again, and found it still more turbid, which was puzzling, as it seemed to come from a glacier above; but of this more anon. We worked on until we could look down Valdal, and having drunk in nature in that direction, took a little food from our wallets, and lay down for an _al fresco_ siesta on a handsome natural carpet of _fjelde reis_ and other vegetation.

After that, Ole began telling of expeditions, traditions, and excursions to the Jager’s Steen, and formally wound up with the report of a frozen lake which a hunter had seen, but which had not been visited since. Could we find it? Was the Herr inclined to go? “Most certainly.” So we started.

There is a wonderful sense of freedom, and yet of a closer commune with one’s Creator, in wandering over almost untrodden ground to admire some portion of his works that have been rarely visited by man. It is suggestive of drawing aside the veil of the tabernacle of nature; and happy is the man who derives comfort and soul strength in so doing! Ole led straight up over rocks bare and betumbled; not a symptom of vegetation; above us a glacier coming to the edge of a precipice, and the melting ice forming a fringed fall. We lay down, looking over the side on a bed of scarlet and crimson _fjelde reis_, a kind of cotoneaster. Beyond this ledge we saw the glacier imperceptibly coming on, backed in the long perspective of glacial blocks by a huge bare mass of rock, the Biskop, and the Drönningen. This was the source of the Ister. The water, some distance from the foot of the fall, passed over a soft deposit, which sullied its pristine purity right down to the sea, the “murky Ister,” thus acquiring near its origin its characteristic turbidity.

Now for a try for the unknown lake. Ole keeps on, thinking he has his bearings all right. At last, having climbed up by the side of a fall dashing down through bare rocks, came the summit, and creeping round a boulder, before us lies a lake intensely deep in colour, and full of icebergs and floes of old ice. Where we stood there was snow, with tracks of reindeer; but in places the former had melted, the _lemmings_ had been there, and the reindeer-flowers were coming up. These we eat with _fladbrod og smör_ after a time, for we could not at once settle down to a snack without paying a tribute of respect to the majesty of nature before us. Beginning our meal in earnest, in the midst of it we heard a noise like a roll of thunder, the direction of which we soon discovered. On the left side of the lake the vast expanse of snow was riven by a gigantic avalanche, which ploughed its way down, and, coming to the edge of the rocks, plunged headlong into the lake, agitating all the ice, and causing the icebergs to jostle each other; but both water and ice soon regained their equilibrium, and nature lay before us in solemn silence and undisturbed majesty. It can well be imagined that having once attained such a spot—some 5,000 feet above the sea—there was a desire to linger, though the day was fading, and we had five and a half hours’ walk home. However, “En route!” was the word. Straight down from bare rock to rock simply ends in no knees after a time, and one’s legs become something between strips of asparagus and sea-kale. There was, however, one thing in store: once on a fair road, we could make some running. It was a lovely evening: we were late, it was true, but, as horses go freely with their noses towards home, we both took to the road very kindly, and went along with a will. Ole did not talk much. It is the pace that kills, and after sixteen hours’ trudge with our provisions, he no doubt felt that he had done enough. With health and strength, such a day amidst grand scenery is a joy for ever.