Pølse and potato by Trondheim's fjord. Also, Hell.

Traveling to Norway with kids? Prepare them: They're going to have to help tidy up, or you'll never get anywhere. Today, we pack up and get Reidar's rorbu sorted, then point the White Whale north for Trondheim and beyond. We don't know this yet, but when we get there, we'll find out why you should bring your own cookware when traveling in Norway.

Here's the deal when you rent a place in Norway, whether it's a hytte or an apartment: You clean up after yourself, unless otherwise specified. Hotels don't require that, of course, and some AirBnB or VRBO rentals will include cleaning in the rate. This is something Norwegians take seriously. It's not just a matter of rules but personal responsibility and integrity. Leaving a place without cleaning it up is shameful.

Now to explain that to the offspring … getting kids to (a) get out of bed, (b) pack up their stuff, (c) help tidy up, and (d) do all of the above in a timely manner so we can get the hell out of there before Hell freezes over (we are, after all, literally going to Hell, which does freeze over in the winter) requires adopting a drill-sergeant persona. There may have been swearing involved, in Norwegian.*

By the time we have successfully ferried all our crap back across the channel, Tetrised it all plus six humans into the White Whale, and set course, it's past 11, which would have sucked if we hadn't already agreed on a time-saving omission. We were originally going to take a detour for Atlanterhavsvegen, the Atlantic Road, a much-photographed stretch of road that island-hops its windy way across a string of islands facing the open ocean. Well, f***k the Atlantic Road with its hordes of titanic tourist busses. We're just a couple of days fresh off the drive out to Runde Bird Island, which is every bit as dramatic and is 100% less lined with other tourists.

So: Fremad! Straighest route to Hell, if you please (“straight” as always in Norway being relative).

When you approach midt-Norge, middle Norway — the base of the long neck, if you will — you notice the landscape starts to flatten. It's still striking and beautiful, but after the bombastic majesty of the fjords and mountains we're coming from it feels … mellow. We haul ass, stopping only for some brødskive and a pee break by the foot of Bergsøsundbrua, just, you know, another soaring span.

Enter Hell

In Trøndelag, the landscape widens and flattens out, as do the roads. We book. Four hours and some change after setting out, we arrive at the entrance to Hell. Which is a completely nondescript highway ramp — blink and you miss it — followed by a completely nondescript slog through a completely nondescript industrial area. No fanfare, no massive signs like you'd have in the U.S., not souvenir shops and Cracker Barrels.

Way to make a big deal out of it, guys.

Norwegians tend to consider it gauche to put on show or gimmick of any kind. So it is with our own Hell: You arrive there on a perfectly nondescript residential street where people go about their business. You look at each other and back at the map again: Did we make a wrong turn? Nope. There's really just the old train station, still in use by a few commuters.

And Hell is under construction. The offspring is like, meh.

(If you must know, Hell is from old Norse hellir, meaning a cave formed by an overhanging cliff. Norwegians have a lot of words and phrases for rock formations for some reason. Today, helle and hellestein mean flat rock slab. “Gods Expedition” is just the old-fangled way to spell godsekspedisjon, freight handling. God's expedition is just the old shipping office.)

Trondheimsfjorden

Let's face it, the Trondheim fjord and the areas around it aren't significantly different from the eastern lowland Norway we came from and where I grew up. If you're into history, Trøndelag has a lot to offer. The rolling, fertile farmlands fed relatively powerful kingdoms a thousand years ago. That, and serving as a hub for trade between the continent and the north of Norway and Finland, made the Earls of Lade wealthy enough to rival kingdoms further south. But majestic scenery? Sorry, no. For that you'll have to head to the outer islands.

Also, it's cold.

Most importantly, we have a problem, which also finally brings me to my point. We didn't bring cookware because I assumed that a campground having a kitchen also means it has some pots and pans. Note for posterity: Norwegian campgrounds with kitchens don't have cookware.

Oops.

It's blustery. We're cold and we're stiff and crabby from driving all day. Brødskiver aren't going to cut it, or we'll have a mutiny on our hands. I'd also figured on making a grocery run when we got there, but it's getting late and stores are closed. As luck would have it, the girl at the front desk, who might be the most helpful campground attendant in the entire country and is apparently overjoyed that we're all there, has a pot and pan stashed away, which she lends us. And we have for some reason a bag of potatoes and some hot dogs, so there you go. Dinner: Hot dogs and potatoes with butter.

We don't stay up late. It's our first night camping, we're tired, and I want to get cracking tomorrow morning, so we retire.

Does the baby freak out at sleeping in a tent? Not at all. She settles in, happy as ever, and falls asleep to the sound of gentle waves lapping at the shore.

* For example, helvetes unger, Satan, and faen altså. Remember these. They may come in handy.