The journey by road from Vossevangen to Eide or Ulvik is an agreeable experience, especially after several days on the steamer, and this gives as good an example as any of the pleasure which may be derived from this mode of travelling.
To Ulvik by "kariol"
It was late in the autumn when I last made this journey, in bright, cloudless, October weather, warm sun, and crisp, frosty air—quite an ideal day for driving, as the roads were dry and firm. About five miles on the way the road ascends through a forest of pine-trees and high, rocky knolls, into whose deep shadow the sure-footed pony plunges, to emerge into the warm and dazzling sunshine. We drive by the craggy margin of a series of wild mountain tarns, whose surface is still as Dian's looking-glass, and in whose depths are reflected the craggs, the silver birches and pines, so perfectly that you could with difficulty see where the land joined the water's margin. In a near pool a trout rises, leaving circling lines of light blue ripple on the surface of the sleeping water, thus accentuating the perfect stillness. For a moment we pause, just to enjoy for a brief space the silence profound.
The pony's hoofs no longer click on the hard road; only the faintest murmur of some distant stream can be heard, or the rustle of a crisp leaf as it falls from the graceful silver birch near by, which stands—singly of its kind—a striking contrast to its more sombre companions the pines—a harmony of gold, silver, and deep warm green—in the bright sunshine of this perfect October morning.
Onward and upward we drive along the wild mountain road, still embosomed in trees, when, at a sharp bend, on emerging from the forest, suddenly we are confronted by an awful abyss, enclosed by an amphitheatre of huge perpendicular mountain buttresses, while near at hand, and from just beneath our feet, plunges Skjervefos with mighty volume into the chasm hundreds of feet below, sending clouds of spray high into the air.
The road now descends in long zigzag sweeps down the breast of the steep cliff, and passes, through clouds of spray, over a bridge near the foot of the waterfall. Down the steep valley we pursue our way and pass several farms, where large numbers of goats are fenced in their winter quarters near to the houses.
The tiny hamlet of Vasenden is now reached, and after a change of horses here, we continue our journey uphill again for several miles, on the road to Ulvik. The steep mountain road is well wooded most of the way, until at length the watershed is reached.
Here a fine lake, Espelandsvand, reposes at a height of some 1,200 feet above the fjord, surrounded by high mountains. The road in descending approaches in several places the very brink of a deep and narrow gorge, from whose hidden depths arises the deep gurgle of the mountain torrent on its hurried way to join the waters of the fjord below.