The Misty Mountains Called
Ask just about anyone in Trondheim what they think of autumn in October and November, and you are likely to receive a grimace with a comment about it being an unpleasant time of the year. Autumn tends to bring a dramatic change into darkness, with lots of wind and rain. This can feel jarring after the long, sunny days of summer, but I found autumn to be more complex than just the dark, moody weather. There are several aspects to the season, which I believe make it a truly spectacular time here in Norway.
The Autumnal Sigh
Autumn was my favorite season back in the States. I have fond memories of clutching new stationary for the first day of school while walking through leaf piles to hear the delightful crunching sound, the crisp bite of cool wind on my cheeks, the bright golden aspen trees decorating the mountain sides, fluffy scarves wrapped around my neck, and dare I mention anything pumpkin flavored?
Summer in Norway is a heavy and energetic season, bursting with life, light, and noise. It's like sprinting in a short race, where you unleash every bit of energy you have and barely spare a moment for a full breath of air. Autumn is the sigh of relief as you pass the finish line, your lungs finally filling up again while your body sags into the earth. There is a tangible lightness in the air that makes you suddenly realize how heavy and dense the summer had been with life.
The birds begin to whisper instead of shout, and they either leave south for the winter or huddle into cozy nests. Only the ravens and magpies linger to guard the coastal city. Much to my displeasure, I also noticed an increase in spiders, or at least they were largely visible on the fences trying to fatten up before the frost set in. It made traversing through the forests a bit less pleasant, as I frequently walked face-first into spiderwebs draped inconspicuously between the trees.
A Vibrant Rainbow
Autumn is paradoxically the season of life and death, simultaneously wound in a cycle of interdependence that is most visible this time of the year. There are a myriad of patterns and brilliant hues as the trees and bushes sing their last encore. Leaves crescendo into a fanfare of colors before gently waltzing to the forest floor and disappearing into a muted melody of carob and umber. The dark-flushed shades of moody storm clouds make the leaves, berries, and moss shine all the brighter.
It is also precisely because the trees and plants begin to wither that the quirky, curious mushrooms poke their capped-heads above ground to devour the fallen debris; a vital participant in this beautiful circle of life. The red-topped fly agaric mushrooms (Amanita muscaria) dot the dark forest floors like furtive woodland creatures eagerly foraging in the decay.
Deep in the Fog
One unique thing that Norway brings in autumn that I didn't have while living in the dry western US is fog. It's probably not a novelty to some people, but fog provides a new dimension of mystery to this special season. There's nothing quite like staring into a hazy white wall in a deep forest in October. It's easy to see where all the fairy tales of mystical beasts, spirits, and otherworldly creatures come from. Fog holds a quiet and powerful aura of unknown possibilities, and the deeper you go, the less sure you are of your own faculties.
On one hike in the western mountains, I ended up sitting down for a bit and watched a heavy wall of fog slowly parade into the fjord. I felt it had a bit of personality, leisurely promenading above the water and gradually swallowing up the hills one by one. Sometimes the tops would swirl and curl in the breeze, while the base stayed stiff and dense. Eventually, I realized I should probably head back to the trail before I couldn’t find my way home.
Before my trip to Senja, we crammed in two days of back-to-back orienteering in order to finish the maps for the season. I hadn't been on this side of the mountain before, as it was a bit arduous to get to on bike. Thankfully, our friend drove us to the main area so that we could maximize our time hiking. This was my first time experiencing so much fog, and I could hardly contain my excitement as we drove up the mountains into the low, heavy clouds.
It was dense and silent when we stepped out of the car. It was eerie, empty, and I loved it. The first few minutes of the trip were indicative of the day's adventures to come. We needed to cross some large bogs filled up with rain water and mud. The texture felt like walking on a deep, soggy carpet. It was often difficult to see how deep the water was since the grass was still poking up from the ground. The investment in my sturdy hiking boots once again paid off.
One large bog we entered was consumed by a deep, heavy fog on the far side. I couldn’t help but think, “Oh, this is the moment in video games when a dragon comes tearing out of the clouds and crashes down into the clearing for a 15-minute boss fight.” The imaginative hero in my head secretly hoped that would happen, despite our clear lack of dragon-slaying gear.
Alas, no dragons descended, and we ventured forward into the white unknown. Plenty of trials awaited us nonetheless. The first and most creepy was the plethora of spiderwebs draped between the trees. The mist at least helped illuminate the webs, casting beads of dew onto the strands like pearls. Further into the hills, where the mist thinned, it was a gamble whether you would walk face-first into a giant spider or not. Once, when we stopped for a drink of water, I noticed a spider dangling from my friend's hair and quickly batted it into the bushes.
Again, despite there being a distinct lack of dragon-slaying, that didn't mean there weren't treasures abound. The hills were heavily peppered with wild blueberries and mushrooms. You could walk just about anywhere and scoop up a large handful of blueberries for a boost of energy. On one particularly steep ascent, we met a nice older man who was collecting mushrooms. He had scored several large boletus mushrooms and proudly showed them to us. My Norwegian was pretty awful, but I was able to understand that he was explaining what to look for in the stalks and mushroom caps to identify the mushroom correctly.
A surprising aspect of the Norwegian landscape is how ecologically diverse it can be, even just a few meters apart. In this mountain zone alone we passed through a dense jungle of thick vines and moss, then a wide open bog, then traversed a rocky evergreen hillside, followed by yet another bog. Perhaps this diversity is nothing novel and I have merely overlooked these nuances in the past. Nevertheless, I was happy to marvel at the constantly-changing environment and the complex interconnectivity of organisms.
Spectacular Sunlight
Since arriving in Norway, I notice the changing of the sun here so acutely with the seasons. Winter gives a soft pastel glow, spring is a bright, low spotlight, summer is a high, illuminating globe, and autumn is a sleepy golden ray.
One autumn afternoon, I was out taking pictures of blueberries by the side of a lake. Just out into the water was a small island with two trees. I could see the floor of the lake dotted with pebbles, and my inner child took control. I kicked off my boots and socks and carefully stepped across the rocks, sloshed through some soggy grass drenched on the island's edge, then scurried up to the top.
It had already been a beautiful sunset view from the side of the lake, but I'm so glad I went out onto the island. I was able to get a direct view of the fiery hues reflecting off of the lake as they stretched and sank beneath the hills. It was such a simple moment, sitting on the rocks, wiggling my toes in the cold water while watching the sunbeams dance on the edges of the ripples in the water. The sun seemed to be saying, “Hurrah! We made it through another exciting summer, now let's get ready to rest.”
A Forager’s Delight
Foraging became an interest of mine when the pandemic started, and has since become an enjoyable hobby I now look forward to each summer and autumn. Watching the flowers turn to fruits and the rain coaxing the mushrooms from the ground connects me with the nature and passing of the seasons. I felt comfortable identifying wild berries, having grown up with raspberries and gardens in our backyards. This year I spent even more time whittling away my weekend hours crouched low under the tall berry bushes to find the hidden red gems buried beneath the branches. I felt like a wild, wonder-eyed child scuttling through the rough leaves, spiders scampering across my arms and hair as I greedily invaded their space for berries. The world felt enormous looking up from the forest floor, and I was in pure bliss, forgetting about anything else except for where I would find the next ripe bunch of berries.
For all my confidence in berry-picking, mushroom hunting was the illusive skill that felt accessible to only the most knowledgeable foragers. This is still somewhat the case, there are so many mushrooms that will make you sick or kill you. It was a real treat when my company organized a mushroom-hunting trip with the Trondheim Mushroom Association. Several experts came out and walked with us around my local mountain range, casually spotting mushrooms with their trained hawk-eye precision and explaining in detail which features to look for. They compared similar species, showing us patterns, colors, shapes, fluids, and smells that would help us identify the safe and dangerous ones. By the end of the hike I felt so inspired, not necessarily to go out and try to eat mushrooms, but rather to explore the plethora of species in my local community. They are quite beautiful little organisms.
The next day I was motivated to try my luck finding chanterelles and convinced a friend to join me. There is a particular species of them called traktkantarell that is easy to identify, and there are no species of chanterelles here that can hurt you. I felt like this was a safe bet if I was planning to pick mushrooms to eat.
Shortly into the hike, we were able to find small handfuls of these mushrooms peeking up from the far side of a specific tree where they are known to grow. Sometimes we found small clusters and other times we found small hill sides of them. I was also able to start predicting where to look for mushrooms based on where I saw blueberries. Blueberries need acidic soil and apparently mushrooms struggle to grow there, so you won't find mushrooms near blueberry bushes. We were able to gather a nice bundle of mushrooms and ended up making a home-made pizza with them later that afternoon.
While following a trail of beautiful (but not edible) mushrooms into the mossy forest, my friend noticed something rather peculiar. There are many worn trails in the ground, roughly the size of a bike tire, that often snake throughout the woods. I thought that might be what had caused this particular trail, since mountain bikers frequent the area. But this trail went through the forest with far too many low-hanging branches to make that plausible. There was a busy trail of ants marching along the trail, and we realized that they were the ones making these marks in the ground.
We followed the trail, being careful not to step on them, to see where it would lead. Sure enough, the trail led to an enormous ant hill built up by the side of the human-made trail. Ants were swarming all over the top, traveling to and from the trails leading into the forest. I imagine they were rushing to finish all their last-minute preparations for winter. It was incredible the size of their home and how their travels on the ground had been so frequent it left a visible mark. Nature is so cool.
