Røldal
Let this bit of text and these big pictures serve as a metaphor of sorts for Norrøna's all-new outerwear collection: "Røldal"
THERE IS SOMETHING ABOUT RØLDAL. It's hard to put your finger on it. Maybe it's the setting – the way the town just pops up, there amidst the mountain fastnesses of the Norwegian interior, on the other side of the tunnels. Maybe it's the people – their native calm, their habit of sitting outside the local store, having just bought their absurdly expensive groceries. There they sit with a cup of coffee. There's war in Iraq, war in Afghanistan, but in Røldal, you can sit with your cup of coffee and talk about Norwegian farm policies and the snow that fell last year.
Røldal is a sort of meditation.
Røldal is Zen.
Roldal is Yin and, somehow, Yang too.
WE ARRIVED AT RØLDAL late on an April evening. We had driven from Oslo, bought a burger in Drammen, listened to Norwegian rap on the radio, debated whether the police would bother with a speed trap at Seljordvannet, and concluded that the officers were probably at home instead, reading Stieg Larsson novels.
In a cabin at Seim campground sat four representatives of the Norwegian freeride culture. The air smelled of tacos and used Gore-Tex. At the end of the sofa was Magnus Tveito, the young veteran, the Telemark genius from Ål who has won the Røldal Freeride Challenge a number of times. More and more these days he's been skiing Alpine style, and to the distress of Alpinists he has proved faster in that discipline than most lifelong Alpine devotees. Also on the sofa: Bjørn Thomas Romsøe, the new kid on the block, a 20-year-old from Stavanger who has put in roughly 1,000 ski days at Røldal as well as a full season at Engelberg. Beside him: his buddy Eirik Skjæveland, whose tally of Røldal ski days is impressive in its own right. And in the deepest recess of the corner sofa sat Magnus Davidsen, 18, born and raised north of the Arctic Circle and now an eager student at Oppdal's ski-oriented secondary school. In the background flickered a 14-inch television. The three men were watching a documentary. They were well into it.
"Hello, guys," said photographer Frode Sandbech, still tasting the burger on his breath.
"Hello," said the guys on the sofa.
"Everything OK?"
"Yup."
No need to say more. We were, after all, in Røldal.
THE NEXT MORNING WE BOUGHT cappuccino from the gas station's automat and hitched a ride on a trail-grooming machine to the top of the ski area. Behind the wheel was Oddvar, the manager of Røldal. The weather was glorious, and Oddvar was in a glorious mood; it was beginning to look like one of those days that you might call glorious in every way. Kristen Seim had joined us. A local fellow. One with a beautiful dialect, a four-wheel-drive Audi, an electrician's job in the North Sea and an ocean of time in which to ski. Then there was Tonje Gangeskar – a nurse, a Røldal immigrant, a mother of three and married to the man behind the legendary Røldal Freeride Challenge: Pelle Gangeskar. Tonje was the cheeriest of us all.
"I'm so fired up," she said. "I'm so fired up that I don't know what to do with myself."
She appeared to mean it, and I grew nervous on her behalf – for how would a fired-up mother of three tackle the steep mountainsides of Røldal? Would she give her all – maybe a little too much? Would she roll over a cliff, injure herself?
THE SNOWCAT STOPPED at the top. We got off. We lay all our skis and poles in the snow. The snowcat drove off. It became quiet.
Very quiet.
We stood under an azure sky, enjoying a panoramic view toward the glacier so lyrically named Folgefonna. We had a strange feeling – of being privileged, of being chosen.
"Let's find a place," said Frode.
"What kind of place?" the native asked.
"A cool place, where we can take pictures," said Frode.
And so we went to Månedalen.
THOUGH RØLDAL has so much to offer – it has off-piste slopes, it has Djevelrenna and Saudasvingen, and it has a number of other, more secret pleasures – Månedalen is by most accounts the essence of Røldal. Månedalen is the face of Røldal not because it's so spectacular, not because it's an international icon, but because Månedalen is what it is: easily accessible, off-piste, the gateway to all that is Røldal, a mixture of good snow and wind-packed snow and gentle inclines and steep drop-offs and snowdrifts and boulders and all those features that the skiers of St. Anton call möglichkeiten.
Opportunities.
Månedalen has opportunities.
AND MAGNUS TVEITO somersaulted. And Bjørn Thomas Romsøe leaped. And Magnus Davidsen gave full throttle. But who was the big surprise? Who flew like a projectile through the air, uninhibited and unafraid? Yes, it was Tonje, mother of three. The home-care provider serving the elderly of Røldal – the woman who claimed she hadn't been on skis much of late.
"Does living here make you like that?" I asked as she climbed to jump a high drift for the third time.
"Yes!" she said.
"I think Røldal does something to you."
ONLY AFTERWARD did I notice which songs the ski centre played over its speaker system. Earlier in the day it had been Tina Turner. And Bjørn Eidsvåg. And TNT. But now, now that our mother of three had soared across the azure sky, another song echoed through the mountains:
Forever young, I want to be forever young.
Do you really want to live forever?
Forever, forever.
No need to say more.
Røldal's own public address system had said it all.
Text: Eivind Eidslott
Photos: Frode Sandbech