Despite the fact that I hadn’t skied for fifteen years, I thought that it would be a waste of southern Sweden’s best winter in 30 years if I went on a walking tour for my last outing of this trip. I’d bought a pair of ex Swedish army “White Lightning” skis and army ski boots the previous week, hoping that the cold weather would continue.
On my last day at work, I’d hoped to get away with an indecent amount of haste, but I ended up leaving later than planned due to an uncharacteristic bout of conscientiousness, and saying goodbye to all of my Swedish colleagues. I’d packed up all of my gear over the previous week, so I nipped back to my digs, got changed, picked my bags up, dropped my keys and pass off at security and drove up to Gothenburg.
After doing a bit of shopping and getting lost a few times, I finally made it to Olle’s place, where I left all of my stuff that I wouldn’t need for the weekend. He’d kept my skis there too, so we got them and his kit and set off for Vättlefjäll. It was quite late when we arrived, so we unpacked the car and got our skis ready. While I was putting mine on, one of the leather straps broke on the binding. Olle repaired this by the light of a headtorch with a bit of paracord from his knife lanyard.
Despite the fact that this was Sweden, not Mosside, I still had a sense of trepidation as we left the car behind on the carpark; would it be there on our return in two days time? We decided to follow the route that we’d paddled in September, as despite the temperatures rising in the last week, the lakes were still well frozen.
I’d packed the previous week, when it was quite a bit colder, so I was carrying a bit too much kit for the conditions. Along with my complete lack of fitness and the fact that I hadn’t skied for fifteen years, this made for slow going. I was a little overdressed too, as it was only about -3 °C.
We collected some logs at a woodshed about halfway to the shelter where we were going to spend the night and strapped them onto our packs. This increased the weight significantly, so much so that at one point I fell over and couldn’t get up again unaided. If I’d have been alone I would have had to cut a rucsac strap. Along with the fact that my ski bindings weren’t as flexible at the toe as Olle’s, this meant that at the low bridges that we encountered, I had to take my pack off and throw it under.
At around midnight, we arrived at the island shelter on Stora Kroksjön where we would spend the night. We needn’t have bothered carrying the logs, as the local authorities obviously had a new snow mobile that they wanted to use; every shelter that we visited had a massive pile of wood near to it, including this one.
Very soon we had a fire going with pans of snow melting around it, Olle got himself established in the shelter and I hung my hammock and tarp to suitable trees.
Despite the lateness of the hour, we stayed up for a few hours talking, eating and drinking, and Olle made another fire idol.
Olle looking a bit sinister:
I had to get up a couple of times to take a leak, but at least the view was good:
After sleeping late, we had a look around our camp in daylight,
then relit the fire, melted snow for water and had a good breakfast.
For an easy day, we decided to explore Stora Kroksjön, then set up camp in the southern shelter on the lake before nightfall. We started an anticlockwise circuit
( passing the southern shelter en route ), and at the SE corner we found a beck that wasn’t frozen. Due to overhanging, frozen banks though, we couldn’t reach it, so I found another use for a folding cup and turned it into a long ladle.
The freezing cold, pure water tasted like nectar after the melted snow that we’d been drinking.
By this point, my ski technique was starting to improve, although this brought problems of it’s own. Every little improvement just meant that I was using muscles that I hadn’t been using previously, which in turn meant somewhere new to ache in a few hours time. We also noticed a big difference in the consistency of the snow the further we got away from the city. Out here it was like soap flakes ( I’m afraid that I don’t know the Inuit word for soapflake ).
Lunch was enjoyed at the northern shelter, and around this time the wind picked up quite a bit.
Skiing south after lunch, we realised that the shelter that we’d planned to stay in would be facing into the wind, so we returned to the island shelter. After we got a big fire going to dry off our damp clothing, we sorted the sleeping arrangements and then settled down to a more relaxing night with good food, wine and whisky.
The wind had dropped by the next morning, so after breakfast we retraced our tracks to the carpark.
There were lots more people out today, including quite a few younger ones. Up until then, most of the folks out skiing seemed to be middle aged women. There was an older couple out on the lake in snow camo suits, who flitted in and out of sight.
For those of you with an unhealthy interest in external frame, ex army rucsacs, here's a pic of Olle's pack:
I haven't got a pic of it, but as we approached the carpark we passed a lady who must have been in her late sixties or early seventies ( there were lots of older ladies out, all of whom had fantastic skiing technique ), who was wearing the same red smock as Olle. Proof that quality crosses the generation divide.
With massive relief we got back to the car ( it was still there ), dumped our packs and took off our skis.
Here's a pic of the binding that Olle fixed. If anyone gets a pair of these skis, be careful when you choose them. The leather on the other binding cracked on the way back to the car. As the skis have been in storage for some time, it's hard to tell if the leather's sound.
On my last day at work, I’d hoped to get away with an indecent amount of haste, but I ended up leaving later than planned due to an uncharacteristic bout of conscientiousness, and saying goodbye to all of my Swedish colleagues. I’d packed up all of my gear over the previous week, so I nipped back to my digs, got changed, picked my bags up, dropped my keys and pass off at security and drove up to Gothenburg.
After doing a bit of shopping and getting lost a few times, I finally made it to Olle’s place, where I left all of my stuff that I wouldn’t need for the weekend. He’d kept my skis there too, so we got them and his kit and set off for Vättlefjäll. It was quite late when we arrived, so we unpacked the car and got our skis ready. While I was putting mine on, one of the leather straps broke on the binding. Olle repaired this by the light of a headtorch with a bit of paracord from his knife lanyard.
Despite the fact that this was Sweden, not Mosside, I still had a sense of trepidation as we left the car behind on the carpark; would it be there on our return in two days time? We decided to follow the route that we’d paddled in September, as despite the temperatures rising in the last week, the lakes were still well frozen.
I’d packed the previous week, when it was quite a bit colder, so I was carrying a bit too much kit for the conditions. Along with my complete lack of fitness and the fact that I hadn’t skied for fifteen years, this made for slow going. I was a little overdressed too, as it was only about -3 °C.
We collected some logs at a woodshed about halfway to the shelter where we were going to spend the night and strapped them onto our packs. This increased the weight significantly, so much so that at one point I fell over and couldn’t get up again unaided. If I’d have been alone I would have had to cut a rucsac strap. Along with the fact that my ski bindings weren’t as flexible at the toe as Olle’s, this meant that at the low bridges that we encountered, I had to take my pack off and throw it under.
At around midnight, we arrived at the island shelter on Stora Kroksjön where we would spend the night. We needn’t have bothered carrying the logs, as the local authorities obviously had a new snow mobile that they wanted to use; every shelter that we visited had a massive pile of wood near to it, including this one.
Very soon we had a fire going with pans of snow melting around it, Olle got himself established in the shelter and I hung my hammock and tarp to suitable trees.
Despite the lateness of the hour, we stayed up for a few hours talking, eating and drinking, and Olle made another fire idol.
Olle looking a bit sinister:
I had to get up a couple of times to take a leak, but at least the view was good:
After sleeping late, we had a look around our camp in daylight,
then relit the fire, melted snow for water and had a good breakfast.
For an easy day, we decided to explore Stora Kroksjön, then set up camp in the southern shelter on the lake before nightfall. We started an anticlockwise circuit
( passing the southern shelter en route ), and at the SE corner we found a beck that wasn’t frozen. Due to overhanging, frozen banks though, we couldn’t reach it, so I found another use for a folding cup and turned it into a long ladle.
The freezing cold, pure water tasted like nectar after the melted snow that we’d been drinking.
By this point, my ski technique was starting to improve, although this brought problems of it’s own. Every little improvement just meant that I was using muscles that I hadn’t been using previously, which in turn meant somewhere new to ache in a few hours time. We also noticed a big difference in the consistency of the snow the further we got away from the city. Out here it was like soap flakes ( I’m afraid that I don’t know the Inuit word for soapflake ).
Lunch was enjoyed at the northern shelter, and around this time the wind picked up quite a bit.
Skiing south after lunch, we realised that the shelter that we’d planned to stay in would be facing into the wind, so we returned to the island shelter. After we got a big fire going to dry off our damp clothing, we sorted the sleeping arrangements and then settled down to a more relaxing night with good food, wine and whisky.
The wind had dropped by the next morning, so after breakfast we retraced our tracks to the carpark.
There were lots more people out today, including quite a few younger ones. Up until then, most of the folks out skiing seemed to be middle aged women. There was an older couple out on the lake in snow camo suits, who flitted in and out of sight.
For those of you with an unhealthy interest in external frame, ex army rucsacs, here's a pic of Olle's pack:
I haven't got a pic of it, but as we approached the carpark we passed a lady who must have been in her late sixties or early seventies ( there were lots of older ladies out, all of whom had fantastic skiing technique ), who was wearing the same red smock as Olle. Proof that quality crosses the generation divide.
With massive relief we got back to the car ( it was still there ), dumped our packs and took off our skis.
Here's a pic of the binding that Olle fixed. If anyone gets a pair of these skis, be careful when you choose them. The leather on the other binding cracked on the way back to the car. As the skis have been in storage for some time, it's hard to tell if the leather's sound.
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