Freezing at the foot of a mountain with a hole through it

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 restaurant, and the staff gives you the distinct impression you're an imposition if you're showing up there just to camp rather than plunk a few thousand kroners down on some high cuisine.

Cold slices of bread wasn't that appealing an option, and we didn't want to get back in the car and go back to Brønnøysund, so what does one do? Well, Emma saved the day with bit of kitchen improv. Repurposing a travel tub, she nuked some sausage, carrots, and made pasta with a bag of instant sauce we'd just bought. Et voilà:

Lesson: If you're going to do the camping thing in Norway, bring a set of cookware.

Fortified with some warm food, we make for the hole. The kids, not being much impressed by natural wonders unless you can drive up to them, decided to hang back. Yes, you had to hike up to it, I said, and yes, it's steep, but it's not far at all. Which is all true, but nope. No wiFi up there, you know.

The hike up is brisk but lush. You walk up a rocky path crossed everywhere with trickles and streams. The abundant moisture feeds ferns, mosses, and mushrooms, as if you were in a tropical rainforest. The cavern itself opens up as you round a corner. You can't see it from the campground, and there's no preview on the hike up, so you're not prepared for how big and dramatic that thing is.

The thing looks like it's just waiting to crash down on you. Rockfalls do happen in there. Everything looks as if it were built for something much larger than puny humans; nonetheless, true to Norwegian form, there are wooden steps built in so you can walk through it. On the outer side, you're greeted with s spectacular vista of the outer coastline.

If you're feeling frisky, you can take the long path around the mountain and arrive at the cave from that outer side. On a sunny day it would be a gorgeous sight. We've got kids to take care of, however, and it was overcast and drizzly, so that wasn't in the cards today.

That night we found out why everyone else tenting brings smaller mountaineering-style tents: The big Coleman we brought, the midnight-sun proof “darkroom” tent, is much less windproof than it is lightproof. Throughout the night, the ting flapped and bulged in on us so badly we hardly slept. It was like trying to catch some rest inside a giant bellows.

The kids, for their part, had water seep in and shivered through the early morning in damp sleeping bags. The only one who slep was, as usual, the unflappable Mia.

The next day, awesome as the mountain is, we couldn't wait to get out of there and toss our tents. From here on out, no more fucking tents. Brønnøysund Salvation Army, you're welcome.