The next morning I get up at five in the morning and it seems to me that the brightness has not changed. Only the direction is different. My travel destination today is the far north.

While browsing I came across a property in the mountains near the Norwegian border called Enaforsholm Fjällgård, which looks very promising. But there are 10 hours on foot, in trains and buses in front of me in Jämtland. 

I treat myself to the luxury of an accommodation. A replacement bus takes me to the mountains close to the closed border with Norway.

Why is it a replacement bus? Apparently there is a train whose route is being repaired. A connection to the outside world normally only takes place once a day, but this time the traffic will probably be completely suspended over the weekend, according to the statement of the bus driver, who stops the converted Sprinter right in front of the entrance to my accommodation.

The operators there did not know anything about it either and made the effort to call the transport companies for me. But they do not get any reliable information.

If you believe Google, and Google at least knew about the replacement bus, a train won’t run again until Monday. It’s longer than I planned, but I’m flexible.

I also learn that the specified restaurant is not in operation and the nearest supermarket is 15 kilometers away. When I ask what I could do, the owner helplessly waves her arms in the air. Then she offers that I could attend the dinner that she will prepare a few (exclusive?) Guests. I agree, even if it gets very expensive.

I move into my room in the beautiful guest house. The farm is as Swedish as you can imagine from an Inga Lindström film. It is located directly on a travelers waterfall, the thunder of which can still be heard from afar. I ask my hosts if they could drive me to the next place with a supermarket the next day so that I can stock up on supplies. But they don’t have time.

Instead, a lady comes up to me and offers me a ride. She is a guest here herself and offered her help when she saw that the elderly couple could not cope with this situation. I am happy to accept the offer.

Herriet introduces herself as an organ player who is currently taking two weeks vacation to drive through Sweden. She lives on the other side of Sweden in Lund. We talk a little, then she invites me on an evening road trip. We drive west to Storlien, the last town before the border. It is higher up in the mountains and I am surprised how deep the snow is here and how icy the rivers and lakes are. That answers the question of whether I can hike through the mountains even if the mountain huts are still closed.

We drive on and come to an abandoned border station. “Can I continue here?” asks Herriet. “No, but apparently nobody controls it. So let’s go and see Norway.” I say.

She continues hesitantly and we see more of the landscape of mountains and snow, which is bathed in the golden light of the setting sun.

At some point we will reach a police cordon. Herriet is very excited and asks what to say. I reassure them and say that if the Norwegians are as friendly as the Swedes, we’ll apologize and just go back. And it was that easy too. The officer speaks briefly to Herriet, smiles and clears the way for her to turn around.

When we reach Enaforsholm I am amazed. Had this figure of a moose always been there? Directly at the simply stands a life-sized, motionless moose. Herriet is also irritated. It looks very real, but no ear, eye or tail moves. I want to take a closer look at that tomorrow. Then it will turn out that it really was a moose.

Herriet keeps her promise and even takes me 40 kilometers to the next place and back because the next supermarket is closed.

Remember I’m back I’m hiking. The owner Elenor interests me the way to a nearby mountain, from which one has a good all-round view. For a while I walk over boards through a moor until the path leads to the mountain, where I also have to walk over snow fields. At the end I reach half a hut over the tree line and face the panorama. The setting recognize me from Alaska and prehistoric times.

When I get back, I’ll be on another tour and I’ll take the route to the silver stops, which will be four kilometers away. Difference the way is not fully completed but separated it is much longer than this distance should be. The path is varied, goes through the forest, over snow and then on paths made of boards over the high moor to the intense mountain. But the waterfall doesn’t have to take me and I turn back immediately. The hunger announces itself.

The next morning I take the offer to take a bike to get to the Storlovan mountain station. The plan seems ambitious, but I have nothing better to do. According to Google, it’s 22 kilometers. Elevation meters not included. The bike has three gears and the frame of the front wheel is crooked. I don’t stress myself and start cycling. It must look silly how a tall man like me with hiking boots and a large backpack on an old grandmother’s bike pedaling up the mountain. I have to push some heights, but I can let other passages roll almost relaxed. I’m a bit nervous because I can well imagine that one or the other very important screw suddenly loosens. I don’t want to think about it. The brakes hardly work.

Surprisingly, I reach the mountain station in the time indicated by Google and think back to the fact that I pushed half the way.
 

Again I find a beautiful landscape in front of me. The station is not yet open, but there are still many Sunday excursions here. I just don’t know what they’re doing here. I see some of them venturing out into the distance on skis. The paths are snowy. Some signs just stick out of the snow. Nevertheless, I keep seeing people with light luggage heading for the next hut and not coming back. I also choose the path to find out where they are going. After a while on the snow, I take the way back and leave the secret unrevealed.