“It is uncertain,” said Ole, “if we come to any better camping-ground.”
Zachariah, who was always foremost in settling all matters, had first to be extinguished before we could light our camp fire at the Nedre Vand.
“Fire,” said we; “some fuel shall be found somewhere—warm tea we will have.”
The donkeys were soon relieved of their burthens. It is astonishing how soon men accustomed to camp life in the mountains, quickly avail themselves of all material. With a few roots, and some dry turf, our water soon boiled over a camp fire. We had never failed during our campaign. There is, besides, something very cheerful in seeing your fire in the shades of evening, on the shore of a lake. Our spirits were soon as gay as usual. After our tea, fladbröd and butter, Ole made himself comfortable under a rock. First, putting up some sods with a spade; then placing a large flat piece of turf, and stunted juniper roots above, Ole slipped himself under, and wrapping a handkerchief, and his bag of pig’s bristles round his neck and head, with our waterproof over all, was soon asleep.
Ole said we had travelled about seventeen miles from Skögadal sœter. At one time just before tea, Ole went up the ridge beyond our camp, to examine the way. He thought he heard a rifle shot, and might meet some reindeer hunters.
It was a beautiful moonlight night; we stood on the shores of the lake after all had gone to rest. There was our sleeping guide under his rock. There our sleeping gipsies ’neath their tents; near our camp our three gallant merles. They had indeed fought their way well for us; nor did we forget to caress them sometimes. The Puru Rawnee had to be bathed occasionally with a little weak brandy and water; sometimes to be strengthened up with a little bruise mixture; biscuit, and now and then a piece of bread, also fell to their share.
Beyond a picturesque island on the other shore, we could see a large glacier stretching apparently into the very waters of the lake.[107] How beautiful in the moonlight below those wild peaks. There were some dark crevasses to be seen on the glacier’s surface. At times, in the stillness of the night, we could hear that sound peculiar to glaciers, a loud cracking noise, which echoed across the waters to our camp.
Up at half-past three o’clock. Zachariah! Vand! water! yog! fire! now quick, Noah! Our gipsies are up. Ole is up, of course. We saw him to bed, or we should think he sat up over night to be ready. Tea, fladbröd, and our last tin of potted meat, for breakfast. Tents struck; all moving along the slope from the lake at seven o’clock.
We slowly make our way over loose stones, and a mountain ridge is soon gained. We commence our descent towards the Lake Bygdin far below us. Descending carefully down a snow slope, we crossed a wild torrent. Sometime afterwards we reached the left slopes of Melkedalen, between the Grava Fjeld and Slaataafjeld. Still continuing our descent of Melkedalen, we reached the shores of a lake.
As we came in sight of this long, and beautiful lake, Ole pointed out the “Poet’s House” on a bold promontory. At the head of the lake we could perceive it. It has just the appearance of a newly-built châlet, or sœter; something lonely and picturesque in its position. Its association with poetry gave it a further charm.