Nordfjord, Coastal Norway
Are our memories snapshots or moving pictures filled with sound and animation? We seem to see in different ways so the playback must not be in the same format from one of us to another. Words can paint a picture filled with color, shape, and form and with verbs of action flow with motion too. As in a camera compressing information, fragments may be lost and what one retains may be another’s loss. But the starting point must always be the initial observation. Do we in our hurried lives miss too much by simply not learning to see?
A maze of islands and a plethora of fjords stretch the coast of Norway into a distance equivalent to half the circumference of the Earth. Our expedition has just begun and yet we have been presented with so much visual stimuli. Gouged by ice and flooded by the sea, Nordfjorden (one of many with the same appellation) seems to change its name at every twist and turn until there comes a point where the sea no longer pushes its tidal finger towards the land and where fresh water flowing from mountains high above dominates the scene. And what a scene it was! Embraced by steep hillsides the valley took on the classical ice-sculpted u-form. Trees dressed in shades of springtime green marched to the water’s edge below and inter-fingered with snowy slopes above. In places the slopes were so pronounced that no soil could find a place to lie and thus no vegetation grew. Here and there the hillsides leveled to a gentle incline that seemed to sprout neat white houses and red barns amidst a field of hay. Waterfalls cascaded like silver threads from hidden lakes and mountain valleys.
Olden is the place where the fjord ends and the Oldendal begins. Here glacial meltwater cascades over polished boulders and pools in lakes as different in shape and size as in color. A heavy sediment load near the face of ancient Briksdalbreen (-breen = glacier) imparts a muddy color and yet further downstream those same suspended particles are fewer and the lakes take on a bluish hue. When the ship could go no further, coaches carried us up ever higher until there was no way to go except on foot, drawn ever forward by a fractured icy countenance peeking from the head of the valley. Signs of springtime were abundant. Warblers, tits, and finches serenaded from perches in birch or alder or rowan. Wildflowers wearing brilliant reds, yellows, and purples waved from beside the trail. Waterfalls gushed from hanging valleys and misted polished rocks adorned with mossy outlines and patterns.
We reviewed our observations over the course of the afternoon as we retraced our steps to the mouth of the fjord where the sea for a brief fragment of time showed her angry self. Some relived the moment by sifting and sorting or editing digital files, implanting the contents in their minds. Some napped and others acquainted themselves with new friends. Many stared far off, eyes gliding from sea to shore, looking, seeing, and synthesizing. In his or her own way all participated in the process of collecting memories for tomorrow.
