Starting Sognefjellsvegen
May 22, 2026 Filed under Curious, Happy, Introspection
I slept with the window open and got plenty of fresh air. The departure of a couple of tour buses heralded my return to consciousness. The watch claimed eight hours of good sleep, which was good because I’d need every scrap of energy today: I had to climb 870 meters up, along 10 kilometers of road. That’s about 3000 feet of ascent in a little over 6 miles.
How do they know when a bridge like this has gotten too damaged to use?
But before the hard part, I had a couple of easy miles following a river. I passed a grand waterfall called Åsafossen, a lake called Eidsvatnet, and a couple of kiosks that proudly declared a philosopher named Ludwig Wittgenstein had lived in the area:
Ludwig Wittgenstein is important around these parts.
More stuff about Wittgenstein and his cabin.
Wittingstein (born 1889 in Vienna: died 1951 in Cambridge) changed the entire direction of philosophy twice during the 20th century. On both occasions, central parts of his work emerged during his stays in Skjolden. Upon his upbringing in one of the wealthiest and most talented Jewish families in Vienna he left for studies in Berlin, Manchester and Cambridge, becoming acquainted with some of the foremost thinkers at the time.
Philosophy was not an aim in itself for Wittgenstein, but a way of dealing with life and existence — most importantly by developing new ways of thinking about them.
Comparing philosophy to both poetry and architecture, he found asking the right questions more important than offering decisive answers.
In 1922 Wittgenstein published his Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, a short, yet very complex work. His text was the result of pondering problems throughout four years of war as well as important preparatory work in Skjolden in 1913-14. “What can be said at all can be said clearly; and whereof one cannot speak thereof one must be silent.”
His second main work was published in 1953, after his death: His Philosophische Untersuchungen (Philosophical Investigations) was largely a critique of his first book.
Some of the most famous sections were written in Skjolden in 1936.
Wittgenstein visited Norway on six occasions between 1913 and 1950. After his visit to Oystese in the Hardanger fjord in the summer of 1913 he returned in October the same year — this time to Skjolden, exiling himself in order to concentrate on his work.
Wittgenstein commenced building his own house in Skjolden as early as 1914. He acquired land on a ledge above the north end of the Eidsvatnet lake. Due to the war he didn’t return to Skjolden until 1921, a brief stay which also saw him work at the local lemonade factory after having given away his entire inheritance. He came back for a few weeks in 1931; but his longest stay in Skjolden was during the years 1936-37, and for a period of 15 months he lived in his house at the Eidsvatnet working on his philosophical questions. In 1950, the year before his death, Wittgenstein visited Skjolden one last time.
(As an aside, check out this blog entry about AI slop and bots and the future of the internet, from the Ludwig Wittgenstein Project site. Kind of refreshing.)
That’s the coolest sculpture I’ve seen all day, hands down.
Not sure what this is about. Probably related to Wittgenstein?
Local church and local mountains, seen from ground level.
In a few miles I beheld the Fortun Church. Very pretty! Just beyond it was the beginning of the very steep part of my route. I poked a map in case there was a café and the “Fortunsdalen Besøkssenter kafe” came up, but alas it was closed. The only thing I could do was make a right turn and begin ascending the mountain.
I knew I was in for a lot of climb…
Google Maps describes this highway (Sognefjellsvegen) as “The National Tourist Route: A steep, narrow road from Luster to Lom, passing lakes, snowfields, and craggy mountain peaks.” And I can attest, that’s pretty dang accurate.
There’s that church again, waaaayyy down there…
I guess this is what happens when you stop applying weather-sealant to your cabin walls for too many years.
The “you are here” dot is still distressingly close to the bottom of the mountain!
It’s chilly up there…
At the first turnout, probably 500 feet up from the valley, I stopped to rest my knees and eat a snack.
Looking over the railing at the town where I’d been a few hours ago, I realized I could see the same church. Now I was seeing it from above, between shoulders of mountain dusted with snow, on a road that I had been climbing all morning and would continue to climb all day.
“Wait a second,” I thought… “This is one of those experiences I said I was greedy for, when I made that list. I’m actually here. I can actually cross something off that list.”
I found that astonishing, and beyond that I was also astonished that I remembered the list, which I’d written over seven years ago. I could still remember the moment: I’d been soaking in a bathtub back home in Oakland, after a long workday in a long procession of workdays, asking myself “How did I get here? How did I get from being content with what I’ve already done, to being desperate for something more?”
It’s funny – in a grim kind of way – that seven years later I’m on a bike trip mostly because my job wasn’t right for me. Not the work itself, but the job: The conditions of the employment. The flexibility to travel really is that important to me, apparently. I hungered for it then and I still do now.
A car pulled in next to me and three older people got out. Two of them posed at the railing while the third took their photo. I volunteered to take a photo with all three, and they gratefully accepted.
The oldest of them asked a few friendly questions in halting English about my bike and my trip, then pointed at his friends and said, “These are from Kirkenes. On the border with Russia. They have never been here to see the mountain park.”
“Oh,” I said. “Are they from Finland?”
He shook his head, then gestured for me to look at his phone. He opened a map and scrolled it north. There, at the very end of the skinny tail of Norway, was a chunk of border that reached over the top of Sweden and Finland and connected directly with Russia. I had no idea the two shared a border.
I told the man so, and he smiled, then made a kind of grimace and glanced at his friends. “They are worried about war with Russia. I am showing them other places; maybe they will move.”
I nodded, and said a few sympathetic things. He shook my hand, then they all bundled into the car and continued down the mountain.
Do I look like I’m enjoying the climb? Actually I kind of am…
Up, up, up I went, swapping between podcasts and my Norway/Sweden playlist. The looming clouds threatened rain but didn’t quite deliver, for which I was grateful.
In many places, the road didn’t bother switching back to keep the grade reasonable, and just plowed straight up the mountainside. On one of these I had an odd encounter with some sheep:
It looks like there’s one sheep braver than the others, and it’s leading the rest of the flock down the side of the mountain in search of fresher grass. Where would they end up? Who can say.
Halt for sheep inspection committee!
Meanwhile, I kept going up, and up. I embraced a habit of holding the brake with my left hand and grabbing the guardrail with my right, so I could take a breather without climbing off the bike — always an awkward maneuver on steep hills.
Progress was very slow, but I had nothing to do except climb. The only choice I could make was between resting my knees and using them some more, so I concentrated on balancing that. I was glad I had plenty of podcasts to catch up on, and enough cell coverage to trade little notes with family and friends.
We have funny ways of mixing being totally alone, and always connected, in this wacky modern world…
In the late evening I reached a little spot called “The Four Waterfalls”:
Another hundred feet upward I could see a bend in the road with a hotel. I wanted to get indoors and maybe find some dinner, but I carefully avoided rushing.
The mist was swirling as I parked and went inside…
The clerk at reception couldn’t find my reservation. I looked in through my notes, then through my emails… Oh dear; this wasn’t the hotel I booked at. The hotel I needed was another 2000 feet up the mountain!
I told the clerk about my error, and she went poking at her computer again. “Our rooms are fully booked for a wedding, but you can stay in the hostel. If anyone asks just say you’re with the wedding party.”
I gratefully booked and paid for a hostel bed. “I don’t suppose your restaurant is still open?”
“No, we closed an hour ago, but let me check something…” She walked into the back, towards the sound of clanging pots and pans. A minute later she emerged. “We still have soup! I can heat you up some.”
And so, I sat in the lobby of the hotel, next to some canoodling wedding guests, and devoured a bowl of fish soup and a couple of rolls. Twenty bucks was a lot for soup but I was grateful to have it.
Not sure which I’m more curious about: Cluedo, or Norge Rundt.
I also called the other hotel and left a message, saying that even though I’d booked two days I would only be arriving for the second one. They pointed out that they had a tough cancellation policy where I still owed them 70% of the cost of the room even if I didn’t show up, and I shrugged and said I didn’t have a choice. To keep pedaling as it got darker and colder would be dangerous.
Not super fancy, but it keeps the weather out.
Claimed an entire parking space for my bike!
The hostel bed turned out to be a bunk bed in its own room, so I had more privacy than I expected. I sipped a root beer I’d been carrying since Balestrand and poked at photos for a while. My schedule had tomorrow labeled as a day off, but now I would need to keep my legs moving to reach the “actual” hotel and stay on schedule. I felt embarrassed: I don’t usually mix up map markers or confuse locations, and this was the second day in a row of that. Arrr!