The peak

Store Austbotntind is like a knife that cuts the sky into tiny pieces

IF ANYONE EVER ARRANGED a competition between Scandinavia’s most spectacular mountains; a sort of mountain peak talent show; a Nordic championship for steep summits; or a showdown for first place among alpine-type mountains, I know how I’d vote: Store Austbotntind (Elevation: 2,203 meters). If I could get away with it, I’d even cheat, and vote repeatedly. Just so that’s said.

I THINK I WAS 12 the first time I noticed that awesome mountain. Maybe I was 13. It doesn’t matter. At any rate, I saw a picture in a book, a big picture. All the way at the bottom of the page were just two words: “Store Austbotntind.” No more words were needed. Anyone who looked at the picture was drawn in. And I thought: “Can this mountain be real?” Or was it fiction? A Donald Duck mountain? A talented illustrator’s wet dream? I read on. The mountain was no fantasy. But how could it possibly be in Norway? It looked as if it would be more at home elsewhere, like in the French Alps, or New Zealand, or Karakoram.

MANY YEARS LATER I stood on top of Store Ringstind, a mighty giant itself in the Hurrungane mountain range. I was satisfied with the trek up on skis, satisfied with the view, and excited about the descent. But something disrupted the experience. There was something that drew my attention away from Store Ringstind. You might ask who or what? A neighbor. A neighbor named Store Austbotntind. She just rose up from the landscape and snapped at us like an angry German Shepherd dog as if to say, “I am bigger. I am tougher. Just try me. I dare you.” It was intimidating. Standing atop a majestic peak, but feeling a bit inferior anyway. And I thought: Store Austbotntind is impossible. I will never get there. I want to, but I don’t dare.

TALKING TO PEOPLE who had climbed Store Austbotntind without equipment later did not make things better. “As long as conditions are good, it’s fine without protection,” people said. “But it has to be dry,” people said. “And you can’t be afraid of heights,” people said. “And you can’t fall,” people said. “If you fall, it’s all over,” people said. I didn’t ask for a more detailed explanation of the phrase “it’s all over.” I had a vague idea of what they meant.

YEARS PASSED. I tried to repress Store Austbotntind, focus on other mountains and pick safe treks. But every time I ended up in the Hurrungane range, I felt compelled to study my old dream. I would catch myself sitting on a rock, with binoculars, studying that mountain in greater detail than any other. “I want to but I don’t dare,” I thought. “I want to but I don’t dare.” Then, suddenly and miraculously, my sentence turned itself around. “I don’t dare, but I want to.”

THE OPPORTUNITY DID NOT ARISE until September. The weather was excellent, but winter had already seized the terrain above 2,000 meters. At least 30 to 40 centimeters of snow. Maybe ice. Ten wild horses couldn’t have dragged me up Store Austbotntind in fresh snow, ice and without protection. That’s why I called Norrøna’s climbing ambassador Bjørn Eivind Årtun and asked him to join me. He was overqualified. He had just climbed a new and otherworldly route up Mount Foraker in Alaska. He was planning to travel to Patagonia soon, and then to the Himalayas. But he would come along. “I haven’t been up Store Austbotntind,” he said. “I’d like to go up there.” Photographer Sverre Hjørnevik and western Norway’s biggest outdoor enthusiast Tor Sæthre drove in from Bergen at a good clip. The team was complete.

WHAT CAN YOU WRITE about a successful trek? How do you describe a successful climb? Should I describe the hike up to the lower peak, Vesttoppen? Should I talk about the lunch break, and dialogue between men? Should I write about climbing down from Vesttoppen to a cleft under the main peak, where I stood with my face into the mountain, my toes on a tiny protrusion, five fingers locked onto a good handhold, and thinking, “this is definitely a no fall zone.” Should I tell about the moment that Bjørn Eivind dug out the climbing gear and disappeared into the clouds like an acrobat? Should I describe the snow, the slippery sections, and the last stretch up in the sky? Or is it good enough to describe the final meters to the summit marker, those last meters into the heavens?

TO MAKE IT ALL the way to the Store Austbotntind summit, you have to make it around a stone block. You have to make it around “an impossibility” and confront the abyss. I thought I would crack. I thought I would be satisfied with nearly making it all the way up. But something happened that day. Something magical. It must have been Bjørn Eivind’s superb skills as a mountain guide, the calm he created, the high spirits. It must have been the weather, camaraderie, enthusiasm. Because without much reflection, I took those last steps over the abyss and up on the top of Store Austbotntind itself. I won’t say it was one small step for mankind, but one giant leap for me or anything like that. Instead, I’d have to describe it as a hasty and not particularly graceful step for anyone. Just the same, it is a step I would like to take more often. Much more often.

Text: Eivind Eidslott
Photos: Sverre Hjørnevik