Fjørdgasm: Norway on the half shell

The hole in Torghatten isn't the cute little pinhole at all that you see on postcards and tourism sites. Once you get up there you'll find it's a cavern. In contrast to the rounded shape of the mountain it pierces, it's all ragged edges and looks as if it were hammered out in a fit of massive troll violence. It's a cold, blustery day out there. We're about to have a miserable night and curse our tent to Hell, but we don't know that yet. Mia is bundled up in weatherproof bibs and a raincoat and isn't fazed at all. Our first setback was when we arrived at the campground and found out I was wrong: They don't have pots and pans. Kitchen, yes, but nothing to cook with. We'd decided to save space and not bring any because I was convinced campground kitchens would have at least something, just like the cabins do. Nope. They were none to friendly about it, either. The only campground out there at the mountain is also a high-end r

I'm flooded as the Vennesund ferry shudders and sets out from the dock at Holm. My dad had an almost religious reverence for Helgeland, the stretch of coast from here to the Arctic Circle, and I'm overwhelmed. Maybe it's just me. Who knows. Childhood perceptions imbue all sorts of things with an importance they may never have had, but it is what it is. In my mind this is a place that meant something to my dad, so that's what's coming back to me. It's also why we're here. Helgeland is a detour, but we're taking it for everyone else to see Torghatten and for my own selfish reasons, to retread old paths. We took this trip, our family, when I was maybe 9, or 10 — 11? Who remembers these things? We'd wrap ourselves in my dad's pillowy Citroën and head from Hokksund to Lofoten in the summer. That one year we took a detour to Torghatten, and as I remember it my dad walked on air the entire time. So now, on the deck of the ferry, I'