The steep, rocky flanks frame the fjord in darkness. High above, the snowfields glow in the blue twilight, and the sky above the northern horizon glows a powerful, almost unnatural turquoise colour. Our small dinghy glides across the water, the spray flying far to either side. Visibility is good on this night, which is not a night.
Because it is mid-June, just before midsummer. Even here, "far south" by Norwegian standards, complete darkness has crept into the deepest crevices of the fjord country for a few short weeks. That's more than enough time for some extraordinary nature experiences: With our Zodiac Cadet 340, which is only 3.40 metres long, we therefore went on a discovery tour against the monumental backdrop of the Hardanger.
"Hardanger" and "Hardangerfjord" are collective terms for a finely branched system of fjords and sounds that stretches for around 200 kilometres from the west coast of Norway into the mountainous interior. This is also the starting point for our adventure: the village of Eidfjord at the eastern end of the fjord arm of the same name.
The small community has dressed up nicely for the thousands and thousands of cruise passengers that pass through the streets every year on the "Nordland Route" up to Nordkapp. In colourful baskets under carved gables, trolls made of fabric and knitted hats and jumpers with reindeer motifs await souvenir hunters.
We set up our boat in the marina on the south side of the bay. Camping equipment, spare canisters and provisions are stowed away, our trusty 15 hp two-stroke Yamaha is hoisted off the jetty and bolted to the transom. Our VW Sharan, which brought us here from Hamburg, won't see us again for another week.
The wind is blowing freshly up the fjord and the water is nervous as we round the breakwater and head for the "Aurora", which is moored at the town pier - one of three cruise ships in the bay that day. The 270 metre colossus is hardly impressed by the choppy sea. Its dazzling white sides tower higher and higher above us.
People wave down from the promenade deck, fourteen floors above us. I wonder what they think we are ...
Our "first steps" take us into the short Simadalsfjord, actually just an elongated bay to the north of Eidfjord. From the perpendicular and over one hundred metre high fur cliffs on its northern shore, bright metallic beats echo in unison: chain links rattling through an anchor hawse. It is early afternoon and the first of the cruisers in the bay is already leaving.
In the broad foamy wake of its wake, we follow it a little to the west. From a distance, the floating hotel, which only a short time ago literally dwarfed the whole of Eidfjord, now looks dwarfish against the mighty panorama of rugged, snow-capped mountain ridges.
After just under ten kilometres, we let our "trailblazer" go, round the rocky outcrop at Kvernauga and head north into the Osafjord, which is much better protected from the stubborn north-westerly wind. The water calms down immediately and we can take off our dripping hoods. Our search for a bivouac site can begin.
But it's not quite as easy as we had hoped. On the one hand, our Norwegian nautical chart reveals all the nautical secrets of the "Indre Hardangerfjorden", but it is silent about the nature of the banks. So we hopefully head for several spots that unfortunately only appear suitable from a distance. The lichen-covered rocks are so slippery and steep almost everywhere that hands and feet can hardly find a foothold.
At last we see an almost horizontal stone slab at water level, large enough for a tent and shielded by the dense beards of old spruce trees. But this place obviously belongs to someone else: Bleached animal bones are scattered everywhere, some of them freshly gnawed off. A long look at the cracking undergrowth is enough to get us back in the boat.
We glide across the fjord, where a small meadow spreads out at the foot of a thundering waterfall. Right next to the crystal-clear watercourse stands an abandoned hut made of pale wooden slats, the door hanging crooked and open on its rusty hinges. Ferns and grasses have already found their way over the threshold and a rotten mattress lies in the corner, slumped like an exhausted traveller. A wildly romantic spot, but unfortunately also deafening ...
But this time our luck is waiting just around the corner: three kilometres before the end of the Osafjord, we discover an old scree slope on the eastern shore, long since overgrown with grass and moss, which stretches all the way to the shore and offers a good landing spot. The place is labelled "Mjølstølen" on the map.
We climb ashore next to a lonely, mighty bollard, intended for cruisers, and immediately moor our boat to it. An exploratory tour takes us over treacherous terrain through a landscape scattered with huge boulders, as if scattered by trolls, to a rocky plateau about 50 metres above sea level. The view is magnificent - the fjord below us shines like beaten gold in the evening sunshine. There is not a soul around us, stone towers enclose us.
Getting our tent and equipment up here is a sweaty affair, but it's worth it. Soon our fire is burning under a cave-like overhang, crackling and crackling into the mild, Nordic summer night. The colours become softer and softer until finally a deep blue spans the sky like a vault. But no stars appear, it remains so bright. As we eventually crawl into the tent, the sun moves just below the horizon to the east and towards the early morning.
We learn two important lessons the next day: as beautiful as the weather may be, it can change so quickly in the fjord country. The opposing forces of the scorching sun and the frozen, glistening carapace of the Folgefonna glacier - the third largest in Norway - form a powerful weather machine.
Even under the most innocent of skies, it can send icy gusts through the narrow gorges and whip up a confused mess of waves at the intersections of the fjords. We feel like we're travelling across a field without a shock absorber as we leave the Osafjord and follow the Eidfjord southwest. No matter how quickly we try to get back into the land shield - you can get plenty of bruises even in an air-filled rubber boat ...
Where Eidfjord, Sørfjord and Utnefjord (which leads on to the open sea) meet, Kinsarvik lies in the shelter of a small bay. Once moored, there is not a breath of air above the small marina. We spread out our soaking wet clothes, walk to the Esso petrol station at the entrance to the town and return with two full 10-litre canisters and a bag of ice - for sore shins and canned beer.
The holiday resort has three campsites right on the water. We choose the closest one and fall into a deep sleep between the sack-jumping, archery-playing children and the motorhome drivers from Bottrop playing bingo.
When we wake up again, it is late evening, the campsite is as quiet as a Wild West town at noon, but the blue glow of the sky is of unrivalled intensity. We quietly pack our things and head back to the harbour, where the car ferry to Utne, on the other side of the fjord, is brightly lit and deserted, waiting for the next working day.
This night trip was not actually planned, but why not? Visibility is as good as during the day; the banks, which only have a few landmarks anyway, are clearly recognisable. In addition, our destination sparkles over to us like a samaragd: It is the light of the Slåttenes lighthouse, around 6 kilometres to the north of us.
To avoid waking the crew of a charter yacht, we paddle out of the harbour into the now completely calm bay. We only start the engine a long way from the shore.
It takes us less than an hour to carefully manoeuvre our Zodiac between the rocks at the foot of the white-painted, squat tower. Above us, its sectors shine brilliantly and unwaveringly across the fjord. With only our sleeping mats and sleeping bags, we lie down under this umbrella of light and sleep until dawn.
And it lives up to its name: a fine drizzle wakes us up. Thick, rain-heavy grey has covered the suddenly wild-looking landscape like a wet woollen blanket. The mountains disappear into it and the water shines in a dull steel grey. The atmosphere is almost mystical.
If a dragon ship were to come out of the fog bank in the south with its oars dipping in the same tone and its stern raised threateningly, we wouldn't even be surprised.
But nothing of the sort happens. We roll up our clammy sleeping bags, get fleece jumpers and woolly hats out of the boat and make ourselves a hot cup of tea with the gas cooker. Then we spread out the sea chart on the damp rock. South or west? The fog already seems to be lifting there
the fog seems to be lifting - and the decision is made.
The cruise stages (in km)
Eidsfjord - Mjølstølen (35)
Mjølstølen - Kinsarvik (37)
Kinsarvik - Slåttenes (6
Slåttenes - Norheimsund (34)
Norheimsund - Jondal (14)
Jondal - Kinsarvik (40)
Kinsarvik - Odda (39)
Total 205 km
