Reeb Holder.
We were now at the head of the Eikesdal gorge, or valley; a roaring torrent rushed down the centre to Utigaard; on the left were steep precipices with a large fall; while the opposite side was perpendicular, and threatened showers of troll stones. As we descended we saw many huge masses of rocks which had ploughed their way down, carrying all before them. To see one of these lapsus naturæ is a very impressive sight, and makes one hold his breath and think. Passing through the valley, we noticed some very curious snow shoes, in form like the square frames on which sea-lines are wound, but with broader cross-pieces. Birch twigs on each side and over the foot fix them. On we trudged, having bidden farewell to the farmer, thanked him for his good services, and had a skaal for Gamle Norge. Finally, we left the house-painter at his destination, where the old lady told us all about the dust coming down upon her; and then Ole and myself were alone to finish the day. We had started at four a.m., and it was now ten p.m. We at length saw the spire of a church—the kirk at Utigaard—and we began to inquire for Torstin Utigaard of Utigaard, the hunter. At last we found his house, but he was on the fjeld. Could we get a bed anywhere? No, nothing. Ole persevered, and we presently found comfort. Torstin was expected down from the fjeld that night with an English gentleman, whose servant most kindly gave me his bed. After awhile down they came. Enter Torstin, a grand-looking fellow, drenched. They had killed a semle ku, and had left two men behind to bring it down next day. In the morning they arrived with it, forming the wildest reunion of hunters. The Finmark dog, quite black, looked a beauty as he lay by the dead reindeer. “Blenk”—for such was his name—was a good and trusty servant: neither biped nor quadruped would venture to interfere with him when he was on duty. It was a splendid group, worthy of the pencil of a Landseer.
After the pouring rain of the previous evening, which had continued through the night, we all had hopes of fine weather for our trip, and still more did we desire to see, before leaving, Utigaard in the beauty of sunshine. But no; on arising at about five, we found dirtier weather than ever; the mist low down; Blenk still keeping watch by the reindeer which had been brought down; every kind of waterproof oilskin being looked out; and a great demand for sou’-westers. At last the stolkjær was packed, and everything ready to go down to the boats. The baggage on the stolkjær was surmounted by a reindeer head, Blenk ever in attendance, and Torstin Utigaard of Utigaard leading the pony as our chief. Then we were off, looking something between fishermen and smugglers.
It was with much regret we took our last look at Utigaard as we settled down in the boats en route for Syltebø. The valley was grand in the extreme, the mist sometimes breaking up over the sky-line with a sudden rush, as if thankful to get loose and range over the fjeld with freedom. Hardly were we under way, and the crew settled down to the steady-going pace which Norwegians can keep up for any length of time, when Utigaard burst out wondering who could have been the figures he telescoped on the snow on the previous day—the fellows who had nearly spoilt their sport and frightened their deer at the very moment when they thought they had the “rein” well in hand. What could people be doing up there? why should they go? who had ever seen any one in that part of the fjeld? At last the thought flashed across his mind that it might have been us. Was it? Yes, most undoubtedly it was, but happily we had unintentionally turned the deer; it was, however, the right way, so no harm had been done. The deer had been bagged, and we now all rejoiced together.
Eikesdal.
As the three boats rowed steadily in solemn procession down the vand we approached the Vika Pass on the starboard side. At this point the lake is most imposing, its grandeur much enhanced by the mist, which is ever changing, ever beautiful in form and intensity. Soon some of the favourite old Norwegian songs were started, the chorus being echoed by the other boats. On the opposite side of the Vika Pass there had been a great steen-skreed; and so immense are the surroundings that it was impossible to realise the extent of the devastation until we approached the base of it, as it had dashed and lumbered into the lake; then the huge masses revealed themselves in their unmistakable proportions, dwarfing our boats to mere insignificant specks by their side.
Volda.