I RUSH HEADLONG into the forest. I should slow down, but my mind, accustomed to the sights and rhythms of urban life, is a blur. Trunks of pine, spruce and birch. Musty scent of pine. Cloaks of spongy moss. Ant hills chest-high, the rushing flow of water. The beckoning of not-too-distant snow-flecked mountains. But it appears more like an abstract painting viewed in a gallery. Am I really here?
I pass others on the trail, mostly day-trippers, as evidenced by their small packs. The kayak paddle strapped to my rucksack attracts comment. “Vad häftigt!” (“How cool!”), one woman exclaims, after I tell her I plan to hike up into the hills and paddle down, if possible, from the source of one of the rivers. It pleases me for a moment to be doing something considered “cool.” But that just seems superficial. I would stop to tell her how important this trip is for me, but I simply mile and move on.
I’ve waited for two years to be back in the mountains. The yearning has been intense
