Midnight Sunbeams; or, Bits of Travel Through the Land of the Norseman

by Edwin Coolidge Kimball

In the large show windows of two shops were life-size figures of peasant girls dressed in bridal costumes, with the heavy bridal crowns of gold or silver upon the head, and an abundance of brooches with pendants, with which they are adorned for the occasion; there were also figures in the national costume, with the pretty plaited head-dress. It is said that the peasants view with disfavor this reproduction of themselves in shop windows; and many of the younger women have cast aside the national costume, and have imitated the dress of their city and foreign visitors.

Within the stores were costumes, wood carvings, antique jewelry, furniture, and many interesting articles for sale,—all at high prices; for Odde is altogether too frequented a resort, and its inhabitants have enjoyed the patronage of travellers during too many seasons, to enable one to purchase at less than three times the cost of similar articles in more out-of-the-way places farther north. The graceful head-dress was for sale arranged in a compact roll, but we found it such a complicated affair, that without a Norwegian girl to put it together, we knew our manly intellects could never sufficiently grasp its mysteries of arrangement to enable us to show it to home friends; and as none of the girls would agree to go to America with us, or throw themselves in like a chromo with the head-dress, we relinquished the idea of buying one. The bridal crowns are handed down from generation to generation, and as they are made of genuine gold and silver, with much elaborate workmanship, they are often valued at over $200.

On returning to our hotel we heard a lady upon the piazza exclaim, “Why, here are some old friends!” and we were greeted by a party of sociable Scotch people, with whom we had previously travelled in the North, who appeared so rejoiced to see us that it seemed almost like meeting home friends, and gave an added pleasure to our stay at Odde.

During the day Odde is almost deserted, for nearly all the guests at the hotels take their lunch and go fishing, or start on an excursion, early in the morning, returning at seven o’clock to dinner.

It numbers many attractive excursions and places of interest to be visited, at the head of which properly stands the trip to the famous waterfall called the Skjæggedalsfos, a word that no one is expected to pronounce except after patient practice with a native. A bonnie Scotch lassie called it the Skedaddle fos, which showed she was acquainted with American colloquialisms; yet as Noah Webster states that the word “skedaddle” is of Swedish and Danish origin, it may be first cousin to this lengthy Norse word.

The hotels furnish guides for the trip to the Skjæggedalsfos, a guide going with each boat-load of not more than six persons, and lunches are put up for the entire party. The day we made the excursion two parties went from our hotel, and three from the other, making a company of thirty people in all, including the guides; the parties started at different hours, so we were not all at the waterfall at the same time. We left at eight o’clock in the morning, and were rowed down the fjord for an hour, crossing the mouth of a river flowing into the fjord in a wide cascade, just beyond which we landed, and, mounting a steep bank, began our walk of two hours and a half over a rough path, continually ascending, until it reaches an elevation of eighteen hundred feet above the fjord.

There are beautiful views backward of the fjord below, and the mountains rising heavenward till they are crowned by the pure snow mantle of the Folgefond, with its numerous glaciers descending over the mountain sides; as the path ascends high up the sides of the ravine, we have charming views of the river rushing below, with its series of cascades. Part of the way our course is through woods, and then we mount over smooth ledges and steps cut in the rock, a long and wearisome walk amid grand but desolate scenery, till the path descends, and we arrive in a field where haymakers are at work, near a small lake, across which we are rowed.

We land near a roaring cascade, the discharge of the large lake beyond, and, walking over the narrow neck of land, we embark in boats with extra oarsmen, for a row of an hour and a half up a lake, five miles long, situated fifteen hundred feet above the level of the fjord.

The lake is surrounded by lofty mountains, in places covered with snow, rising abruptly from the dark water. There is no sign of life, save now and then a fish leaping for a second out of the water, and a few birds cleaving the air; the eternal stillness is only broken by our voices and the resounding echoes sent back by the walls of rock. As we slowly advance up the lake, we see, at the end of a gorge at the left, two waterfalls called the Tyssestrenge, coming over the side of a precipice more than five hundred feet high, which midway in their course unite in one fall, resembling in the distance two strings, as their name implies; their rocky surroundings are very grand and abrupt in formation, and they appear to be inaccessible.

As we round a projecting headland, the never to be forgotten view of the Skjæggedalsfos bursts upon us, descending in one unbroken leap of five hundred and thirty feet, the water as it comes over the cliff shooting out into the air like rockets, then falling in a white drapery of foam over the dark rocks, and rebounding in clouds of mist. Approaching nearer, we perceive the numerous smaller cascades at the sides, and the opposite cliff, whose smooth surface, bathed in eternal spray, gleams in the sunlight like molten silver.