sweden - Swedish Lapland Visitors Board

sweden
Off t he Be at en Pat h
by K ris s y Moe hl
F i n d i n g a dv e n t u r e
o n ( a n d o ff )
S w e d e n ’ s h i s to r i c
K i n g’ s T r a i l
p h o t o s b y F r e d r i k M a r m s at e r
C
ruising down smooth,
broad singletrack
alongside a churning
Arctic river, I fall
into stride with Fred
Marmsater and Luke
Nelson, my two blond,
bearded friends, mimicking their
footfalls like an old habit. The sun
shines just enough to keep us warm
in shorts, but the wind counters,
requiring a long-sleeve shirt. It’s our
last day running Sweden’s ancient
King’s Trail, and also our shortest, at
only 12 miles.
We could be running our fastest
split of the trip, but instead we stop
for photos, wander off-route and sit
on a rocky ledge overlooking a small
waterfall. I soak in the vast ridgeline
views, and the ancient, gnarled birch
trees that line the river’s edge and pour
up the slopes, their leaves seeming
to change, before our eyes, from the
greens of summer to the golden yellows
and deep oranges of fall.
We have spent seven days on the
King’s Trail, known locally as the
“Kungsleden.” We have danced over
rocks, forded a frigid thigh-high
river, hiked over passes and laughed
about inside jokes that only the three
of us could appreciate. Now, before
continuing, we take a moment to snack
and savor the quiet, before plunging
back into the schedules and screens of
our daily lives.
Fred’s phone chimes, making a
sound we have not heard in four days.
Our host is ready for our arrival. We
pack up our running vests and cruise
the final two miles into Abisko, a small
town in Swedish Lapland where the
Kungsleden Gate marks the northern
terminus of our adventure. Under
the bold white letters carved into the
old wooden structure, we dawdle,
adjusting our packs, taking photos of
fellow travelers and sharing stories,
reluctant to leave the simplicity of life
on the trail.
Fred, 39, a longtime competitive
mountain biker, has a muscular build,
and his Nordic features, typically set in
a serious expression, easily melt into a
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PREVIOUS SPREAD: Racing the storm to arrive at the comforts of Kebnakaise Station,
on day two.
CLOCKWISE FROM TOP: Lacing up outside one of the King’s Trail’s shoe-free huts; Nelson
and the author wade across an icy river to dry ground; weeding out unnecessary gear.
OPPOSITE: Morning sun creeps down the hillside as Nelson and the author cross a bridge
over Arctic rapids. pearly white smile. He was raised in Stockholm, where he found his love for the
outdoors, sailing the fiords and skiing the local hills, and still carries his Swedish
passport. After 20 years in the United States, Fred still considers Sweden home,
though he now lives in Boulder, Colorado.
For Fred, the Kungsleden had been a longtime physical and creative goal. He was
intrigued by the idea of traveling to the north of Sweden, where he had never been,
and photographing the adventure. The 125 miles of the 265-mile trail we’d cover
would also be farther than he had ever run before.
Luke, 34, who also sports a scruffy beard and dirty-blond hair, could be mistaken
for Fred’s younger brother. Luke’s build is leaner, though with disproportionately
large calves. Based in Pocatello, Idaho, he runs in the summer, testing himself
regularly at ultra-distance races, and skis in the winter. Driven and punctual, a multitasker extraodinaire, by day Luke is a physician’s assistant and father; by night he
accomplishes feats of endurance a superhero might envy.
United by a common love of running, exploring wild places and capturing their
essences in beautiful imagery, Fred,
Luke and I have worked well together
on past projects. Since meeting in
2010, we have teamed up for numerous
photo shoots for sponsors and media
outlets. In 2011, Fred photographed
Luke and me during our efforts to
set new fastest known times (FKTs)
for men and women on Utah’s Zion
Traverse (see “Lions in Zion,” Issue
82, September 2012). Over the course
of these adventures, we’ve developed a
sibling-like relationship.
Always up for adventure and long
runs, Luke and I happily cleared
our calendars when Fred proposed
the trip in late winter 2014. After
months of planning, fundraising and
exchanging emails, a succession of
flights connecting Denver to Kiruna,
in northern Sweden, and a night
of sorting gear, we arrived at the
unassuming Vakkotavare hut, the
start of our journey, on September 1st.
Vakkotavare, near the midpoint of the
King’s Trail, encompasses a simple
main hut with a welcoming deck, a few
out-buildings for toilets and a small
store where hikers can resupply.
The next morning, we left our laptops
and extra gear with our kind Swedish
host, who would shuttle it to the
northern end of the trail. It felt surreal
to finally be standing at the trailhead
in our super-light packs, taking in the
“Kungsleden” sign pointing north.
The Kungsleden is a human highway,
a rocky path pounded into the earth by
thousands of hikers, with simple huts
as well as established “stations”—fully
equipped lodges and resupply points—
along its length. Our plan was to use
the Kungsleden as a thoroughfare,
from which we would weave loops and
horseshoes through the less-traveled
backcountry before rejoining the main
trail near a hut for dinner, a bed and a
wood-fired sauna.
That first morning, our animated
chatter, punctuated by a few hoots and
hollers, soon gave way to awe at the
intense quiet. As we ran beneath high,
rounded mountaintops, buffed smooth
by long-extinct glaciers, we indulged
in wild blueberries picked from short,
reddish bushes and dipped our water
bottles in ice-cold streams.
Roughly nine miles in, we were
halted by the grand sight of Teusajaure,
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CLOCKWISE FROM TOP: Blueberry fields along the trail add a dash of color; a boardwalk
over a bog; taking in the sunrise from the warm hut; Nelson breaks for a foraged snack.
OPPOSITE: Running hard toward Alicejaura Hut and the salmon-and-pesto dinner
that awaits.
a long lake stretching east and west to mountainous views on either end. Our
northbound trajectory required the added adventure of paddling aluminum boats
across the lake. Luke, a former river guide, jumped behind the oars. He would have
powered us the 150 yards across, but I insisted on a rowing lesson. The extra time
allowed Fred to snap photos from his own boat, and was good for a few laughs as I
figured out how to “put my back into it.” The open beach encouraged us to break for
lunch, so we sat by the lake, skipping rocks across the water and reviewing the map.
The rest of that day, we held the reins taut, conserving our energy. We still had seven
days and almost 125 miles to go before Abisko.
That first day, and the next, the temperamental weather put our light kits
to the test. Reindeer blocked our path, munching on small arctic plants, and Fred
stopped our progress multiple times to make use of the several extra pounds of
photo equipment he was carrying. We ended our second day, Tuesday, at Kebnekaise
Station, a beautiful lodge with private
sleeping quarters, Wi-Fi, saunas, a
drying room for wet clothing and a fullservice restaurant. We took advantage
of the chance to connect with friends
and family back home, then curled up
on cushioned chairs around low wood
tables, watching flames lick the rocks
in the fireplace.
The next morning, we spread our
map on the table to prepare for our
day’s objective: running to the top of
Sweden’s highest peak, 10,000-foot
Kebnekaise Mountain. The clouds hung
low over the mountains, yet we clung to
the hope of a “sucker hole,” a break in the
weather that would allow us to summit
the rocky, jagged peak. We climbed as
quickly as we could, but still shivered
as the winds whipped us. Just before
the final 1,000-foot summit push, we
realized we did not have enough layers
for the stormy conditions; if anyone
turned an ankle or worse, we would
be in a dire situation. After five miles
and 5,000 feet of climbing, we turned
around and, defeated, returned to the
comfort of “Keb” station.
That afternoon, Luke caught wind of
a local guides’ challenge, a time trial to
a massive boulder perched 1,500 feet up
the hill behind the station. The guides
use this kilometer-long uphill run to
test themselves and their clients before
starting their trips into the mountains.
Outside the guide hut there is an 8” x
10” sheet of paper recording the fastest
times; Luke wanted to add his name and
“Pocatello, Idaho” to the list. Getting a
head start, Fred and I hiked up to the
high point and watched Luke’s bright
blue jersey weave through the birch
trees and up the grassy hillside to the
rock. Between his gasps, we grilled him
for his time: 10 minutes 30 seconds, a
full minute under the previous record
and a nice redemption for our team’s
earlier failure to summit Keb.
We rolled out of Kebnekaise on
Thursday morning, refreshed by a
good night’s sleep and a warm sauna
the night before. We again ventured
off the main trail, heading northeast
through the Laddjubahta Valley toward
Tarfala Station, a sporadically manned
scientific outpost in a vast high-alpine
boulderfield. The cold, rainy weather
again forced us to wear most of our
clothing. We spent most of the day
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CLOCKWISE FROM ABOVE: Nelson dances over rocks on the surprisingly technical valley
floor; barely out of the gate on day one, the striking flora necessitated a photo op; trying
to generate heat, Nelson charges up a ridge alongside a glacier near Darfaljvri Pass; the
author, battling the Arctic weather, wearing every stitch of her clothing.
route finding and weaving through rocky high-alpine terrain. At Tarfala Station, we
regrouped to dry our clothes, warm up and consume calories, then stepped back out
into the storm, and moved toward 5,500-foot Darfaljvri Pass, our high point for the
day. When I lifted my head to peer out from under the brim of my dripping hood, I
could see Luke and Fred ahead of me, sliding through snowfields and tackling terrain
that called for a mix of climbing and traversing. Near the pass, we ran alongside a
massive glacier, peering into its deep, blue crevasses.
Fred tried to capture a few photos of the scramble to the top, but the rain and
bone-chilling cold forced the camera back into his pack: we needed to keep moving
to retain body heat. The fierce wind blew my hood off my head as we reached
the ridgeline of Darfaljvri. We could make out the glacier behind us, but the rest
of the view was enveloped in clouds. We huddled under a rock pile near the top
to decipher our map and pick out upcoming landmarks. I was wearing a down
the tr ail running life /
63
jacket, a windshell, a rain jacket, a
long-sleeved wool shirt, a Buff around
my ears, double gloves, tights and
windpants, but was still cold. It was
time to get moving.
We dipped below the clouds on the
other side of the pass, and were treated
to a view of a long valley dotted with
turquoise lakes that stood in stark
contrast to the dull gray boulderfields.
After descending, we began picking
our way through the torturously
technical, rock-strewn valley floor. We
waded through the creeks connecting
the lakes, and rejoined the King’s Trail
just south of the Sälka hut, our stop for
the night.
We arrived cold and tired after our
longest day yet: 21 miles and 5,000
feet of gain in eight hours. At Sälka,
the stugvard—a volunteer host who
spends his summers tending to the
cabins—offered our weary bodies
a warm seat by the fire and a sweet
strawberry drink to start the recovery
process. I had dark circles under my
eyes and my hands had turned puffy
and red, but I wore a hard-earned
smile.
For the remainder of the
trip, we stayed on the main trail,
running alongside the established
hiking culture. In contrast to the
slippery snowfields, boulder fields
and route-finding challenges that had
characterized our off-trail adventures,
the well-worn, often multi-lane
Kungsleden provided an easy, navigable
route for our final three days.
Along the way, we chatted with
fellow hikers carrying 60-pound packs.
“How can you travel so far with so
little?” they would ask us.
“We travel farther because we carry
so little,” was our reply.
Krissy Moehl is an ambassador for
Patagonia, Ultraspire and Vasque
and finds she learns the most through
long trail-running miles and world
travels. Her King’s Trail adventure
was supported by Clif Bar, Flora
Health and Trail Butter.
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CLOCKWISE FROM TOP: On the last, gorgeous morning on the King’s Trail, Nelson
stretches in anticipation of the final 20K; the insignia of the Swedish Tourism Federation
at the trail’s end; poring over topo maps to devise the next day’s adventure.
OPPOSITE: Nelson and the author open up their stride on the final day.
Tr ailhe ad / King’s Tr ail Getting there:
The King’s Trail is 264 miles from Hemavan
in the south to Abisko in the north. To get to
Abisko, fly to Kiruna via Stockholm or another
European hub with SAS or Norweigan Air,
or take the train from Stockholm (www.sj.se).
From Kiruna airport, take the train or bus
to Abisko.
Seasons:
June-September is the best time to run and
camp along the trail. Always prepare for
extreme conditions, even in summer—this is the
Artic Circle.
Tourist Info: Information on trail logistics,
huts, distances and more can be found on the
Swedish Tourism website:
www.svenskaturistforeningen.se/en/DiscoverSweden/Facilities-and-activities/Lappland/
kingstrail/
Accommodations:
The Abisko Mountain Station has an excellent
restaurant, bar and hotel, along with hostel
accommodations, and is within walking
distance of the train station and King’s
Trail trailhead.
Insider Tip:
For a logistically easy 70-mile stretch, run from
Abisko to Nikkaluokta via Kebnekaise, as both
Nikkaluokta and Abisko have public transit
connections to Kiruna.