Island Hopping In The Midnight Sun

   [NOTE: 2020 is the tenth year of my blog at, and since I started it, I’ve been fortunate to get to do some pretty wonderful adventures. Throughout this year, I’ll be writing about 12 favorite adventures I’ve had since I started writing about the outdoors, one per month. This is the ninth in the series. The other stories are here.]

Several years ago in a conversation, a friend said something along these lines: I think it’s funny that in the United States, we don’t think you’re worldly unless you’ve traveled a bit and have a passport, but often times, when we travel, we go halfway around the world to out-of-the-way places and meet people who have never left those places, and we come back and tell stories about those interesting people who have stayed in one place their entire lives. But if they lived just down the road from us, would we think they were interesting at all?

I grew up in a small town in the middle of America, and sometimes when I travel to small towns in other places that feel exotic to me, I catch myself thinking, “This is a great place. I wonder if I could live here?” And then I wonder if the people who live there think their little town is as amazing as I do, or if they wish their town had a movie theater or more things going on, like I did when I was growing up. Maybe both.

Hilary and I walked our bikes into downtown Svolvær, Norway, in the late evening, looking for a spot to sit down and eat “lunch” out of our panniers before riding another 15 miles to the village of Henningsvaer. Svolvaær, population 4,700, is a small town similar in size to my 3,000-person hometown, but is surrounded on one side by 2,000-foot rocky peaks dropping straight into the ocean, and on the other by the open waters of the oceanic seas of the Vestfjorden, separating Norway’s Lofoten archipelago from the mainland by a 2-hour ferry ride. Around 200,000 visitors pass through the town each year, including Hilary and me, on day five of our bike tour, having pedaled just over 180 miles in between three boat rides between islands.

We chatted briefly with Ulke, a man we met, about where we’d camp for the night, as he was also looking for a spot. He was hitchhiking his way through Lofoten on his way to Svalbard, having left Turkey, almost 3,000 miles away, a month and a half ago. He mentioned a place near town, and we said we’d planned to ride a bit more south and then find a spot. As he walked off, I was a bit in awe of his adventure, and smiled that we had crossed paths with him on our own—much smaller-scale—trip, just 300 miles across eight islands. I mean, Ulke’s trip was not a vacation—that was a journey. The type of thing you quit your job to do, move out of your house, maybe never come back.

As we rolled our bikes up to a picnic table, a Norweigian couple asked us where we were headed on our bikes, and where we were from. I said we were from the U.S., and the woman replied, “Kardashians, that is all we know about the United States,” and we all laughed. I commented how beautiful Svolvær was, and she said she had grown up there but had been living in Oslo for almost 40 years. We chatted a bit more, then sat down to eat, and then pedaled south.

The sun hung low in the sky as we wound our way down the E10, and then on a smaller road toward the village of Henningsvaer, where we’d spend the night. We hadn’t been in much of a hurry most of the trip, because it was June, during the midnight sun—at this latitude, eight degrees above the Arctic Circle, the sun doesn’t set between May 25th and July 19th. We had no real reason to stick to a schedule, aside from riding through towns when grocery stores were open. We hadn’t been to bed before midnight since the trip started, and on Day 2, we’d slept off our jetlag from 12:40 a.m. until 1:40 p.m. On Day 3, as we sat and ate lunch at a table outside a convenience store in a small town, I commented on how quiet the little town was, then laughed as I looked at my watch to notice it was almost 10 p.m.

If you catch a few days of sunny weather during this part of the year, the result is the longest “Golden Hour” you might ever see, unless of course you live here, or Alaska, or somewhere else in the high northern latitudes. You look at the horizon and your brain thinks it’s seeing a sunset, and the deep amber and orange light just stays that way … for hours. Normally, if I saw a lovely sunset while camping, I’d rush to grab my camera or my phone and snap a photo of it. That evening while I was cooking dinner near Henningsvær and looked over the calm water to the glowing rocky peak of Sørfjellet, and had that same pang of urgency, but then remembered, no hurry—just take a photo in the next hour or so.

Hilary Oliver rides a fully loaded touring bike across the bridges to Fredvang, Norway, on the way to Kvalvika.

We had planned out our trip to give us plenty of time to hang out, shoot photos, explore a little bit, drink coffee in cafes, and in general not be in a hurry. Three hundred miles over ten days equaled thirty miles per day. I had found someone’s route starting in Tromsø and ending in the village of Å, and it looked perfect. Fly into Tromsø, rent touring bikes, ride to Å, jump on the ferry to Bodø, fly back to Tromsø, and then head home. If you mention Norway in a traveling context, the first thing people will usually say is, “Isn’t it expensive there?” And yes, it is, but in a country where you can camp anywhere because of something called “allemannsretten,” which means “all man’s right,” any place you like can be a campsite, as long as it’s 150 meters from the nearest building. So it’s kind of a dirtbag touring cyclist’s dream.

Many of the islands are connected by bridges or tunnels, but those that aren’t require a ferry to get across. Our second ferry of the trip, from Gryllefjord to Andenes, took us across open sea, and was the first time I’d ever seen motion sickness bags hanging on the walls. We strapped our bikes to a wall in the vehicle hold downstairs, then sat at a booth in the bistro and watched chairs slide back and forth across the deck and people stagger back and forth from the snack bar as the ship pitched and rolled. I ate a waffle and drank a cup of coffee, and then put my head down on the table and passed out for a half an hour—the jet lag was finally catching up with me.

On the ferry, almost everyone was local, heading down and getting into their cars when the ferry docked at 8:45 p.m., and we headed down to find our bikes and wait our turn. When all the cars had driven off the boat onto shore, we pedaled out, a little surprised to note that eight other touring cyclists had been on the ferry. The door had opened facing almost due west, and as we rode out to see the cluster of buildings of the town of Andenes and the jagged peaks behind it, the sun washed everything a golden orange. We rolled off the boat and onto land, pedaling on a narrow asphalt road into town, the whole thing feeling like we were at the edge of the world. Of course, to most of the people on the ferry, it was just part of another day of getting back and forth between home and work, or home and some errands. Our adventure, someone else’s commute. We ended up camping about 100 feet off the road south of town that night, cliffs dropping down to the Norwegian Sea on the other side of the road, and a moose strolled through our campsite as we cooked dinner at 11 p.m., the golden hour still hanging on.

Hilary Oliver sips morning coffee in camp during a bike tour through Norway's northern islands.

There’s a quote from Andy Warhol’s book America that I think about a lot when I think about living somewhere else, or being somewhere else:

“Everybody has their own America, and then they have pieces of a fantasy America that they think is out there but they can’t see…So the fantasy corners of America…you’ve pieced them together from scenes in movies and music and lines from books. And you live in your dream America that you’ve custom-made from art and schmaltz and emotions just as much as you live in your real one.”

That passage can have many different meanings depending on when you read it, and Warhol’s 1980s America is of course far different than the one we live in now. But when I first read it, what struck me was the idea that I could only live one place at a time—no matter how much I fantasized about other places and what it would be like to stay there for a month, or a year. And as I’ve made my way through the middle part of life, I started to understand that I was never going to live in, say, New York in my late 20s or early 30s. And I was probably never going to live in a lot of places, for that matter. But I could travel, and see places, and try to experience a little bit of them for a few hours or days, and know a little bit more about the world because I’d been there and talked to a few people, and navigated a city, and ordered coffee, and maybe haggled with a cab driver.

I don’t know why we travel; just that we’re lucky to be able to do it at all, if and when we can. I can’t say “I love New York,” or “I love the Lofoten Islands,” like the people who call those places home, and do so because they were born there or because they chose to move there. I don’t know exactly how to communicate my feeling for the places I’ve been, but it’s something like this: I’ve been there, count myself lucky to have gotten to experience it in a small way, and even though I’m not there right now, it makes me happy that it’s still out there happening right now, without me. I got to dip in, have the time of my life there, and dip back out, and life kept going on as it was before I arrived, probably changed not at all by my brief presence there.

Hilary Oliver fixes a flat tire at a beach on the first day of a bike tour in northern Norway.

Bike travel, I think, makes the world feel bigger, because its slower pace forces you to pay attention. A town that’s a half an hour away by car or bus can be half a day away via bicycle—both in our backyards as well as halfway around the world. Biking to the next town over wakes you up to things you’ve missed while flying by at 35 mph or 65 mph dozens of times, and the process of exploring your home territory can make the whole place feel bigger. Which is travel, too. But when we’re close to home we usually have our travel brain turned off, and we’re less open to discovery, and wonder. And maybe that’s why we feel bored with where we live, even though it’s probably more interesting than we give it credit for. I think part of what my friend was saying, when he was talking about us traveling the world to find people who stayed in one out-of-the-way place their whole lives, is that you don’t necessarily have to travel the world to be worldly.

If you timed it right, you could almost get through our entire 10-day, 300-mile Norway bike trip in a single day driving a car on the exact same route. But experiencing it at 11 mph over a week and a half means more images have stuck with me for years afterward:

Looking back at Hilary pedaling an all-but-deserted road in late evening, dodging not cars, but sheep, wearing Gore-tex mitts over her cycling gloves. Riding through a dark mountain tunnel under construction, water dripping everywhere, no lights inside, hoping no cars came through. Sitting at the top of Reinebringen, a steep hike to a peak, where the clouds parted for a few minutes so we could see mountain-ringed inlet and the town 2,000 feet below. Lying in the tent scratching the dozens of welts on my legs from some sort of insects that bit me while I was cooking dinner and Hilary asked, “Do you want to put on some pants?” to which I replied, “Nah, I think they’re just gnats or something.” Trying to sleep on the popular Kvalvika beach after watching the sun “set” sideways at midnight, only to be awoken by the dozens of sheep bleating through the night as they grazed around us, keeping the grass as trimmed as a golf course green. Jumping into the freezing surf for four seconds just so we could say we swam in the Arctic Ocean, and then wondering if it was technically just the Norwegian Sea, or if the Norwegian Sea was considered part of the Arctic Ocean. Looking to the west and remembering that over the next ridge, there was nothing but open ocean for 1500 miles to Greenland. A man dropping a 100-Norwegian Krone bill out the window of a pizza restaurant in Bodø to a street musician who had just packed up his steel drums to leave for the night after playing for a couple hours on the plaza below.

Hilary Oliver draws the attention of local sheep during a bike tour of northern Norway.

Brendan Leonard throws on the tent fly to set up camp within view of a fjord and mountain range during a bike tour of the islands of northern Norway.

Fish drying on a rack outside the village of Ramberg.

The MS Lofoten exiting the narrow passageway to the famous Trollfjord.

On our third-to last day, we stopped at a small tourist shop in Ramberg for coffee and waffles, and chatted with the man tending the register, Henrik, who had been born in the house across the street in 1943 when it was full of German troops during World War II. His mother had fed some of the 500 Russian prisoners in the town, and had been taken away by the Gestapo, and was supposed to be sent to Auschwitz, but was not. Henrik had become a driftwood artist, and his eyesight had been fading the past few years. He came out of the shop and sat at our table to talk for a few minutes in the sun before we headed on our way again.

We bought a small glass fishing float from the shop and packed it in our panniers, hoping it would survive the next few days of our ride so we could take it home. When I see it on our bookshelf next to some other knick knacks, the float always reminds me of being halfway around the world, talking to a guy who had seen a lot in his 72 years, but could still point across the street to the house where he was born.

Thanks for reading.
These posts are able to continue thanks to the handful of wonderful people who back Semi-Rad on Patreon for as little as $1 a month. If you’d like to join them, click here for more info—you’ll also get access to the Patreon-only posts I write, as well as discounts to my shop and other free stuff.