From North Pole to Equator: Studies of Wild Life and Scenes in Many Lands

by Alfred Edmund Brehm

Fig. 1.—Scene on the Sogne Fjord, Norway.

But, majestic as this beauty is, bewildering and overwhelming as are the fjords with their precipitous walls, their ravines and valleys, headlands and peaks, they are yet less characteristic than the islands and skerries lying out in the sea, stretching from the south of the country up to the far north, and forming a maze of bays, sounds, and straits such as can hardly be seen elsewhere in the wide world.

The larger islands reproduce more or less faithfully the characters of the mainland; the smaller ones and the skerries present, under all circumstances, an aspect of their own. But, as one travels towards the north, this aspect changes more or less with every degree of latitude. Like the sea, the islands lack the richness of the south, but are, nevertheless, by no means devoid of beauty. Especially in the midnight hours, when the low midsummer sun stands large and blood-red on the horizon, its veiled brilliance reflected alike from the ice-covered mountain-tops and from the sea, they have an irresistible charm. This is enhanced by the homesteads which are dotted everywhere over the landscape—dwellings built of wood and roofed with turf, glowing in a strange, blood-red colour which contrasts sharply with the green turf roof, the black darkness of the adjacent mountain-side, and the ice-blue of the glaciers in the background of the picture.

The southerner remarks, with some surprise, that these homesteads become larger, handsomer, and more roomy the farther north he travels; that, though no longer surrounded by fields, but at the most by small gardens, they far excel in size and equipment the hut-like buildings of southern Scandinavia; and that the most pretentious of all may be on comparatively small islands, where the rocks are covered only with turf, and where not even a little garden can be won from the inhospitable soil.

The seeming riddle is solved when we remember that in Norland and Finland it is not the land but the sea that is ploughed; that there men do not sow and wield the scythe in summer, but reap in midwinter without having sowed; that it is in the months in which the long night holds its undisputed sway, when the light of the sun has given place to that of the moon, and the rosy flush of dawn and sunset to the glow of the Northern Lights, that the dwellers in the far north gather in the rich harvest of the sea.

About the time of the autumnal equinox strong men are preparing themselves all along the coasts of Norway to secure the harvest of the North. Every town, every village, every hamlet sends one or more well-manned ships to the islands and skerries within the Polar Circle, to anchor for months in every suitable bay. Making the ships or the homesteads on shore their head-quarters, the fishermen proceed to gather in the abundant booty. In the height of summer the whole country is still and deserted, but in winter the bays, islands, and sounds are teeming with busy men, and laborious hands are toiling night and day. Spacious as the dwelling-houses appear, they cannot contain the crowds of people who have assembled; many must remain in the ships, or even seek a rough-and-ready shelter in rudely-constructed turf-covered huts on the shore.

The bustle is at its height about the time of the winter solstice, when we celebrate our Christmas, and the Norsemen their Yule festival. For weeks the sea has been yielding its treasures. Impelled by the strongest impulse which moves living beings, guided by irresistible instinct to sow the seed of future generations, there rise from the depths of the sea innumerable shoals of fishes—cod, haddock, and the like. They ascend to the upper strata of the water, approach the coasts, and throng into the straits, sounds, and fjords in such numbers that they cover the surface of the sea for many miles. Animated, almost maddened, by one impulse, the fish swim so thickly that the boat has literally to force a way among them, that the overweighted net baffles the combined strength of the fishermen or breaks under its burden, that an oar placed upright among the densely packed crowd of swimmers remains for a few moments in its position before falling to one side.[1] Wherever the rocky islands are washed bare by the raging high tides, from the mean tide-mark to the lower edge of the turf which covers their summits, the naked rocks are covered by an unbroken ring of fish split open and laid out to dry, while trestles are also erected that other fish may be exposed for the same purpose to the sharp and drying air. From time to time the rocks and frames are cleared of dried fish, which are packed in bundles and stored in sheds, but only that room may be found for others which in the meantime have been caught and prepared.

For months the bustle continues, and the traffic is uninterrupted; for months the North continues to exchange its treasures with the South. Then in the days when about noon a clear light in the south heralds the coming of the sun still hidden, or when the first rays of sunlight fall for a brief space upon the land, the rich catch comes gradually to an end. The dried cod and ling are carried from the storing sheds to the ships, all available space from keel to deck is filled up, and the fishermen prepare to journey homewards, or abroad into the wide world. One ship after another hoists its brown-edged sails and steers away.

The North becomes quieter again, more deserted the land, desolate the sea. At last, by the time of the spring equinox, all the migrant fishermen have left the fishing grounds, and all the fish have returned to the depths of the sea. But the sea is already sending forth other children to people afresh the straits and sounds, and along with them the skerries and islands; and soon from those same cliffs, at whose base there was but lately all the bustle of the winter, millions of bright bird eyes look down upon the waves.