Kirkenes, Norway, may be the only place on Earth where the sight of wildflowers and virgin pine forests is a letdown. The town is located about 850 miles above the Arctic Circle—closer to the North Pole than to the capital in Oslo—so a visitor could be forgiven for expecting more jarring reality than Currier and Ives scenery. But then the Arctic culture begins to unfold. Getting stuck in a reindeer traffic jam, for instance, or opening up a menu to find the blue plate special is pan-fried whale.
Kirkenes is the starting point of a six-day Norwegian Coastal Voyage trip down a jigsaw shoreline that resembles an unfinished puzzle. During World War II, when Norway was under German occupation, Kirkenes’ strategic location on the Russian border and the Barents Sea made it a battleground. By war’s end, it was reduced to rubble and had the sad distinction of being one of the most bombed-out places in all of Europe. To this day, mountains are hollow from use as one-time bunkers, rocks are pockmarked from torpedo holes, and undersea divers still come up against war wrecks. Yet, those same divers also surface with some of the largest king crabs in the world—a 15-pounder is considered puny—and boil them up in sea water for a polar-style, haute cuisine feast. The only thing better is topping it off with a hot tub soak under a brilliant midnight sun. It’s tough to leave Kirkenes, but the ship, along with some of the most gorgeous coastline, awaits.
According to local legend, God created the world in six days and on the seventh, he had so many leftover stones he threw them on the ground and called it Norway. That’s one way of explaining this crazy coastal topography of endless islands, year-round snow-capped mountains and fjords carved out of ancient glaciers.
The Norwegian Coastal Voyage fleet of 11 vessels has been navigating these waters for more than a hundred years. Ships like the 490-passenger MS Nordkapp deliver everything from food to coffins to towns tucked away in 34 ports of call. These days, though, people are its number one cargo and the entertainment is what Mother Nature provides.
This section of Norway, Finnmark, is the land of the “northernmost.” It boasts the northernmost town, the northernmost church, even the northernmost golf course. The distinctions are endless and sometimes gimmicky. But the North Cape, located on a bare rock of an island a thousand feet above the North Atlantic, genuinely feels like the end of the world. It’s the very upper reaches of mainland Europe. This windswept swatch of land is knighted with a globe that marks the distant point of an archaic landscape. Next stop from here for the truly fearless—only the North Pole itself.
In ancient times, North Cape was a place of sacrifice by the indigenous Sámi people. Some 70,000 Sámis still live in the northern Lapland reaches of Sweden, Finland and Russia, though Norway remains home to the majority. Bi-lingual road signs in Norwegian and Sámi make the point. About a third make their living as traditional reindeer herders. The buttery reindeer skin blankets they sell are sought-after souvenirs.
Surprisingly, the Gulf Stream tempers the climate which allows for polar communities at latitudes that Greenland and Arctic Canada can’t support. Still, cold is cold—at least for all but the toughest Nordlendingers, as the folks in the extreme north call themselves. They routinely dismiss questions about subzero temps. “There is no bad weather,” insists a bus driver named Tor-Olaf, “only bad clothes.” The big chill is no barrier for this snowmobile and chain-tire society. Bonfires and winter campouts are their idea of frozen treats. On a clear winter night, the reward for braving the Arctic blasts is a front row seat to the Aurora Borealis, otherwise known as the Northern Lights. This heavenly phenomenon occurs in the Arctic Circle when charged solar particles light up the winter sky with a magnificent light show.
When spring comes, the sun rises and stays put. From about mid-May until the end of August, it never dips below the horizon. On a clear July night, you can see pink clouds stripe the sky like peppermint sticks. It may be one in the morning but the Ray-Bans are on and it’s just too beautiful to call it a night.
As the MS Nordkapp serpentines around the atolls and through the fjords of this ever-changing coastline, you get the impression that a madcap master architect had a field day with this country. The building blocks are the same—the islands, the mountains—but they’re assembled in subtly different formations, resulting in dramatically different landscapes, mile by nautical mile. Then out of nowhere, a mist takes over, covering the sea like a steamy cauldron and turning the scenery positively Jurassic. The mist, locals say, means the elves are dancing.
The ports of call begin to look less like frontier outposts and more like places vaguely reminiscent of home the further south you go. From the fifth-floor open-air deck, passengers enjoy the views, snuggled under plaid wool blankets. “I’m suffering from fresh air pollution,” a German tourist jokes.
Harstad is a town on Norway’s largest island that used to make its living exporting herring. Now it’s a place that reflects the country’s wealth. The discovery of North Sea oil in the late 1960s transformed Norway into one of the world’s riches—and most expensive—countries. “We have a good life here,” says tour guide Harald Isachesen. It’s about as boastful as a Norwegian ever gets.
Like Kirkenes, though, Harstad has a gloomy war history. It was the site of a Russian prisoner of war camp, used by the Germans for slave labor. Conditions were so harsh the men were forced to burn the wood floors of their barracks for warmth. Some 800 Russian soldiers perished here, marked by a modest concrete memorial. It stands in the shadows of the Trondenes church, built both as sanctuary and fortress in the Viking era and later converted from Catholic to Lutheran after the Reformation. How many generations have been confirmed, baptized, married and buried here, one can only guess.
Each passing vista from the ship is like another page of a children’s picture book. The granite peaks have given rise to enough passed-down tales to fill an elephant’s ear. Over at Hornelen Mountain, witches are said to gather at the summit on Midsummer Eve and have a dance with old St. Nick. Then there’s the Seven Sisters Mountains, a bit further south. One evening long ago, the “girls” ran away from their father and danced naked in the waters of the fjords. When the sun rose the next day, they were turned into stone.
In Norwegian mythology, sunlight also causes trolls to turn to stone. These crooked-nosed, four-fingered creatures hide out in forests and on mountainsides, only coming out after dark. Clearly, more than a few trolls have been caught beyond daybreak–it’s the only way to explain why so many rock formations have uncanny troll-like features.
The closest you can get to one here is a spin on the Troll Fjord. Norway is one of only four places in the world that has fjords—Alaska, Chile and New Zealand are the others. A fjord is a narrow sea channel gouged out by glaciers. This one is just over a mile long and a fraction of that wide. The ship enters the fjord and into the shadows of the mountains. Their sheer sides pose a permanent threat of rock falls. The captain maneuvers a three-point turn in the fjord so passengers can appreciate it from every angle. “The view is a blessing today,” someone on the packed sundeck says.
When ports of call are too short for a long excursion, there’s usually time for a leg-stretching expedition into harbor towns, where stocky oystercatchers fly overhead and cry a wistful soundtrack. It’s a chance to admire the terraced, wood-framed homes, some with grass roofs, like the ones in the beautiful Lofoten Islands. Many homes are painted the red of traditional fishing cabins called rorbuer, though the originals paints were created from cod liver oil and animal blood.
Today, though petroleum is Norway’s number one industry, fishing is its legacy. This heritage is reflected in the original art collection onboard the ship by Norway’s most famous living artist, Karl Erik Harr. The cruise company commissioned Harr’s paintings to create a kind of floating art gallery, one that reflects the hardships of the people along the coast. It’s a way for outsiders to peer into Norwegian history. There’s nothing serene or peaceful about Harr’s seascapes. They project an almost love-hate relationship he has with the sea. Harr’s paintings are stripped of romanticism. The skies threaten. The waves bully. You can almost feel the seasickness.
That rugged way of life hasn’t disappeared. Fishing, even whaling, is big business, and the Nordkapp’s dining room is as good a place as any to sample Scandinavian delicacies like herring, fried cod tongues and minke whale meat burgers. Whale hunting is extremely regulated in Norway—and still controversial. Other house specialties are super-lean reindeer filets and tart polar cloudberries that are whipped into mousses, syrups and jams. Natives wash down their meals with chilled shots of the potato-based liqueur called acquavit but a uniquely Norwegian and storied version. Linie brand aquavit is shipped from Norway across the equator to Australia and back in oak caskets. Sloshing around in ocean swells is said to give it a richer, mature flavor.
After nearly a week, the ship finally closes in on the invisible line of the Arctic Circle: latitude 66° 30’N. On northbound voyages, an Arctic Circle “baptism” takes place when the ship crosses into polar territory. Ice cubes are poured down the backs of passengers—those who volunteer, that is—to prepare them for their Arctic adventure. Body-warming shots of Linie aquavit follow. On the south-bound trip out, though, there is no celebration. The passage is uneventful. Ask a ship official, and he’ll tell you it’s because the Arctic Circle is crossed in the morning when most people are still waking up. The real reason? It’s impossible to feel much like celebrating when you’re about to leave this incredible corner of the world behind.
