We Are Our Best Choices

As I stood outside the lodge’s mountain-facing edge, it was clear that the fence was shuttered with a strap and lock. I walked towards the river, around the perimeter of the building, and I saw: an empty gravel lot. An emptied pool with mineral streaks. The rushing river. A large cardboard package sitting by the lodge front door. A bunch of skis leaned up next to the front door. A bare patio. Several other buildings that also looked… empty. 

To be fair, I had received a curious message late the night before after booking my stay– which I’d only noticed while sipping a coffee on my way to the train that morning.

Here is the entire and only message I received from the lodge after my booking: 

Dear Elisabeth,

Thank you for booking your stay with us in the beautiful mountains! 

Please note that our accommodation operates on a self-service basis during the off-season.

Here's how it works:

Check-in: Upon arrival, you will check in on your own. Detailed instructions will be sent to you closer to your stay.

Beddings: You will find all necessary beddings in a designated location within the accommodation. Feel free to make yourself comfortable!

Self-Cleaning: Before departure, we kindly ask that you clean up after yourself. Cleaning supplies will be available for your use.

If this arrangement doesn’t suit your preferences, no worries! You can cancel free of charge within 48 hours of booking.

If you have any questions, please feel free to reach out to us.

Wishing you a wonderful and relaxing stay!

Best regards,

Voss Mountain Lodge

As I walked around the side of the empty lodge and other buildings, it was clear that no one else was there. Thankfully, the wifi signals were robust, and the network was open. I double checked, and no other email message had come through with additional details. I called the number on the bottom of the email. 

Thankfully, a fairly nice guy named– you guessed it– Erik, answered my call.. 

Coming down from the adrenaline rush of my unexpected hike down the mountain to an empty lodge, I was still in a bit of a heightened state. This reaction solidified into actual shock when Erik confirmed that I was alone there with no staff, that he himself was hours away, and that I was the only guest booked for the night. There would be no food service, and definitely no dogs, no pool dips, lodge hall jam session or freshly baked bread. But I could let myself into a secondary building through the side door. And the sauna was there and could be turned on with a flashlight. 

As politely but directly as possible, I explained to Erik that no further instructions had been sent to me after my initial email. That based on the listing on booking.com– where there was no mention at all of this off season scenario— this situation was not meeting my expectations. I’d paid a rate for two nights for what I thought would be the full hostel experience, and I was frustrated with this turn of events. Also, I had only a bag of peanuts with me to eat.

As the sun was beginning to dip behind the mountains. I thought of my options. The river was my thinking soundtrack as I went through a kind of bargaining in my mind with with myself while pacing on the phone with Erik. I heard myself say out loud that I would stay the night, but would like to leave the next day, rather than stay by myself under the circumstances for two days and nights as planned. Erik apologized for the lack of clarity and communications, and agreed that it was fine for me to receive a refund for the second night. We then discussed logistics. He explained that there was a different, more established train stop up the road about two miles away which might be easier to reach tomorrow with my suitcase. There was also a self service grocery store kiosk about a two mile walk away. 

So, it was settled. I would stay at the hostel alone for the night. 

The smaller building where I was staying was like a summer camp facility that smelled like it had seen some life. The sign that greeted me when I walked in the unlocked side door said:

We Are Our Choices. 

- Jean-Paul Sartre.

I turned on the sauna right away, after dropping my things in my room. I grabbed the spartan linens– the only clean ones I could see in the linen room which was otherwise a heap of dirty and soiled towels and sheets. I drank a tall glass of water in the kitchen. I stood outside in the sun and laughed and stretched, and the river rushed on, while the sauna warmed. 

Eventually, I started to feel hungry. I set off walking down the gravel drive, onto the road that followed the river. For a while, I was alone, with mountains and severe-looking pine rock bluffs on both sides. I wondered if Norway really only had 65 bears, as I’d read somewhere. Then, coming around a bend in the road, I was surprised to encounter three teenagers. I stopped to chat with them. I learned that they were on a school trip from Bergen, staying in the same mountain valley close by to the lodge. They were punchy, tired, hungry and still had yet to produce an assigned poem about the nature that they were meant to be observing. They all spoke with British accents, as many Norwegians do, since their English education came from British English speakers. They all looked very urban, and were wearing minimal clothing for the brisk temperature. 

I told them I was a writer and could probably help them with their poem if they would tell me in which direction I could find the grocery kiosk. I realized I hadn’t written down the directions there, but rather only the directions to the second train station.  

They had no clue about the kiosk, but I enjoy writing assignments and they seemed stuck. I was also glad to be in the presence of other human beings. We stood together in the road as the sky darkened with slate gray clouds. It got colder. I asked them questions about what they’d seen and their states of mind while hiking. How did this place compare to their home? What was going on within this environment, according to their senses? I recorded the questions and answers with a voice memo on my phone. Then we played it back, pulling out compelling phrases like “the naked trees” and “blood red berries.” With a pen, I peppered some lines of their responses into what they’d already written, recommended some changes, and crossed out a few of the most hackneyed rhymes and phrases. The part where they used the words “pain” and “despair” in relation to their poetry assignment should probably be toned down, I suggested. I reminded them that it didn’t have to rhyme. They expressed their gratitude, and we went our separate ways with all of our hoods up. 

This encounter did not produce a great poem, but it was a good reminder: nothing had to suck. It was all just an experience. I wasn’t going to die from being alone and a little cold and hungry in the mountain lodge, just as they weren’t going to die from being forced to write a poem in the countryside.

I walked on and eventually found my way– with the help of a Norwegian dad camping by the river with his little girl– to the kiosk where I purchased frozen fish filets, a leek, carrots, yogurt, instant coffee, and British candy. By the grace of the mountain spirits, there was already a bottle of barely-touched Sauvignon Blanc waiting for me in the lodge kitchen fridge. 

I got back as night was falling. It fell fast. I ate some pre-dinner candy (I'm a grown ass woman, afterall, and I make the rules). I took another sauna session and when I emerged, the shadows had subsumed the light. The view from all the windows was suddenly just blackness. The lodge itself, a little too dark inside for my taste, with paltry old yellow lightbulbs. There was no lock to the lodge door on the inside, only a lock on my bedroom door. A long, empty hallway extended in two directions on either side of the kitchen. It seemed like an appropriately eerie setting for an ax murderer who really wanted to make an entrance. Or a troll. This was their territory, after all. I turned on soothing music and cooked myself dinner, choosing not to look right or left. 

I ended up crawling into my room shortly after eating, when the quiet and the dark became a little too much. I locked my door, and finished a glass of wine while I typed about my experience that day and messaged with friends who comforted me with jokes and a great Norwegian comedy video about cabin life. I wanted to work on other projects, but I was really cold. I’d attempted to fire up the heat in my room as night fell but as the hours went by, the temperature barely climbed. I got into bed with all my layers on. It got colder still. I put on my hat. I remembered that friction is best for conducting heat. Layers were needed. I lay my sweater over my core, and another sheet– the only extra clean linen I’d been able to find– under the duvet. 

Finally, as midnight neared, I was starting to feel restful and close to drifting off when a disturbance cut through the natural white noise of the river. Car wheels on the gravel outside. 

I heard sounds for the next twenty minutes or so as more than a couple people entered the lodge with stomping feet. They didn’t speak to each other much, but if they had it wouldn’t have mattered because I couldn’t understand their language and my heart was beating very loudly within my duvet cave. 

When I finally worked up the bravery to emerge from my fluff cocoon and from my room I met a few of the members of a group of travelers from Poland, who seemed exhausted from driving across Norway. Thankfully, I didn’t have to interact with them much before we all crashed in our respective rooms. 

The next day was significantly colder. Again, I started off with a sauna. It began to snow as I gathered myself for the next phase. 

Here is where I give a huge shout out to the secondhand warm wear I acquired at a thrift store in Oslo, when it was still 60 degrees and sunny. Three woolen knit items: Mittens, a hat that makes me look a bit like a gnome, and long socks that went over my knees were my mountain valley saving grace. At times, they allowed for comfort, and at other times, they kept me safe. 

I was ready to get out of there and back to Oslo, so I started my journey to the other nearby train station a bit early. The snow, which began daintily, picked up in intensity as I walked. I made it about 1.5 km up the road, wheeling my suitcase on the icy pavement like an urban traveler who had been accidentally teleported. I’m sure the trolls had a good laugh about it. I got to the bottom of the hill beneath the train. This road, running alongside an aquamarine river, was gravel and went up about 200 meters. At points, there were areas of clay and gravel where I could roll the wheels for a period. The rest of the time, I carried the case. 

By the time I got to the stop– this time, complete with a parking lot and a wooden platform– I was sweating. At the mountain top, the snow was falling in wet clumps, and the wind whipping. I’d walked there with purpose, quickly, and I realized upon arriving that my plan had a flaw: the train was due in 45 minutes. And now I was really, really cold and without a winter coat. 

Thankfully, Norway is a place where adventurers are welcome and provided for. Adventurers get sweaty and might need to strip and change by the time they reach the mountaintop. And of course, there’s often snow on the mountain. So, there was a warming room right next to the train with an electric heater already running, and a table and chairs. Also, a back room full of skis. Everyone skis in Norway, and apparently they all trust one another not to mess with theirs. Some kind of adventurer's code.

Part of me knows that I surely could have been tougher, lasted longer in my mountain stay. It hasn't always been the case, but I think of myself as someone who likes to be brave and challenged. There’s certainly something to be admired about one’s ability to deal with, or embrace the results of one’s choices, no matter how imperfectly they play out. It may have been rewarding to do so. The peace and isolation of the lodge’s location might have been ripe for a tranquil hike, or a fruitful writing or painting session, though it came with extra challenges and at least a few more essential hikes. But it's also ok to have preferences, to be able to discern between the kinds of adventures that feed your soul versus deplete your energy.

Sartre also said, The best work is not what is most difficult for you, it is what you do best.

I know myself. The compounding variables and uncomfortable surprises–like the prospect of wheeling my suitcase through inches of possible snow the next day without a proper coat and only rain boots– invoked the specter of stress. As a result, my sense of alert and reactivity was much more online than my creative self, or my open self. And once that balance has been tipped? Well, then it's a bit like asking a boulder (or a dense, heavy suitcase) to roll up a mountain. Or asking a troll to tea. There’s no amount of entreaty and softening of the experience that’s going to produce a desired result.

A Norwegian friend recently reflected to me that one of my strengths seems to be being in touch with my inner self. Sometimes that can be uncomfortable. Sometimes it means really noticing how I feel, not how I wish I could feel.

We each have a voice inside us that only carries if and when we're willing to embody what it is saying. That's probably where the phrase "in-tune with yourself" comes from.

Following instinct can mean recognizing miscalculations, moving away from circumstances, and moving on towards others. On the cold mountain's edge, to warm my body as the train came around the mountain, I hummed myself a melody: the sound of the feeling of sunny Oslo calling me back.