Beneath clouds, the Børgefjell had looked intimidating, but under clear skies it was as bright and welcoming as a mountain wilderness could ever be. In ways that I couldn’t fathom the rising land called to me as no other wild land had. I pushed toward it eagerly along a gravel track, and three miles passed easily, until the track dead-ended at the national park border. Ahead now were birch woods, pathless and wild. But who needed a path? In the past fourteen months I’d experienced an entire continent of forests, and they put these woods into perspective. Soon, I was weaving through willowy undergrowth that might once have tested my patience but now seemed open and easily negotiated. Plus, the woods didn’t extend far. Back in the southern Apennines, tree line was at 6,600 feet, but here the trees ended at 1,500 feet. After a short distance I burst free into the sparse open space of Arctic tundra.

“Who needed a path? In the past fourteen months I’d experienced an entire continent of forests, and they put these woods into perspective”

Much of the Børgefjell is tundra, an environment notable for its year-round permafrost—permanently frozen ground that exists just inches beneath the surface. Because of it, tundra features a lot of standing water that cannot drain away, and thin, acidic soil. Plants like lichen, moss, sedge, and bilberry grow upon the surface, rarely rising more than an inch or two. Fierce winds regularly scour the land, and temperatures remain milder right against the earth. Most Arctic plants grow low to survive.

The tundra captivated me from the very first step. It was unexpectedly and luminously green, there were thousands of tiny flowers, and there was very little grass: the ground cover was made up almost exclusively from low-growing shrubs. The diminutive size of the plants made them seem more precious than plants in less harsh environments. Each one looked tough—it had to be to survive—but also fragile. The tundra was an austere place, but the vegetation added incredible richness to it. I vowed to tread with care.

I sat in stillness, considering my place in this land. More than ever, I sensed that here—outdoors in nature, not just here in the Børgefjell—was where we as a species fit best. We weren’t meant to live behind walls with soft carpet underfoot and electricity keeping us comfortable. Yes, we still needed shelter, but not all the time. We needed this so-called ‘wild’ as much, if not more. It was our original home, after all.

Perhaps once, long before cities and extensive human-dominated landscapes existed, there hadn’t even been a word for the wild. The natural world was merely the environment we lived within. But when cultivation began, a description for what we had control of, and what we didn’t, was probably useful. This distinction may well have been where our separation from nature began.

“I sat in stillness, considering my place in this land. More than ever, I sensed that here—outdoors in nature, not just here in the Børgefjell—was where we as a species fit best”

Prior to that, nature had been an integral part of human existence. It constantly touched us, shaping us into what we now are. Environmental factors great and small sculpted our physical traits, abilities, senses, instincts and minds. Undoubtedly, life during this evolution was frequently hard. Almost certainly, there was no golden era when humans lived in perfect harmony with the land, and no time without tragedy, famine, danger and sudden death. But, as functioning ecosystems around the world demonstrate, plants and animals can coexist in relative stability. For humans to have developed into what we now are, it seems likely that there were settled periods when we fitted into nature without it excessively harming us, or us excessively harming it. Periods when nature was essentially home.

Since then, of course, as we’ve grown in cleverness, we have stepped away from that home. In the last 3,000 years, and even more in the last 300, we have separated ourselves from nature with a completeness never before achieved. We have built protective barriers against it—for understandable reasons, and with some benefits. We have remade the world and reinvented our own place in it, but we haven’t been able to remake what we fundamentally are.

No matter how advanced we have become, our brains and bodies are still hard-wired to respond to and benefit from an immense range of stimuli that nature provides. Chemical compounds that plants send into the air; patterns and shapes only found in nature; sounds that prompt beneficial reactions within our brains; environmental stresses that keep our bodies strong, healthy and balanced—the human animal still requires them all, and frequently suffers negative consequences without them, as scientific research is only now starting to reveal. The senses, instincts and abilities that we once relied upon still exist within us—they are the foundation that supports us. Many of these human traits are now woefully neglected. A few may even have been lost. But many remain, waiting to be nudged awake.

This was what I was feeling: a reawakening of senses and instincts that had been asleep; a reawakening of an essential part of what our species had evolved to be. It didn’t mean I had to go and live in a cave now, take a step backwards. The reawakening was a step forward to a fuller existence, a filling in of missing pieces—and it felt great. No, greater than great. It felt euphoric.

As the minutes passed my euphoria grew. It wasn’t a jump-up-and-down feeling of excitement—it went deeper and filled me with an extra-ordinary sense of peace. It felt comfortable and ancient, as though it were an emotion I’d known far in my past.

In visiting these northern fjells I saw that I hadn’t merely stepped into the wild, I’d returned to it. And I wasn’t merely at home here—I was back home. As I sat alone in the Børgefjell peaceful euphoria enveloped me.

“I saw that I hadn’t merely stepped into the wild, I’d returned to it”

Clouds rolled across the fjells early in the evening. Soon, wind and rain rattled my shelter. From my new vantage point, it wasn’t bad weather, and the tent didn’t feel like a betrayal of my place in nature. I needed and benefited from the wild, and I needed and benefited from appropriate shelter, too.

I didn’t have to reject either. Getting the balance right was the thing.

I lay within my tent with the entrance half open and cheered the storm on. Later, the rain ceased and the flame of sunset lit the fjells. Later still, in the twilight that was as dark as the night would get, sixteen reindeer ambled by, utterly untroubled by my presence. Here in the national park they behaved how I wanted all my fellow citizens of the wild to behave, as though I were just another creature and this was a home we shared. At that, the day felt complete.

I had a strong suspicion that my time in Arctic Norway was not going to be the worst two months of The Walk.

**********

On Sacred Ground describes the second half of Andrew Terrill’s epic 7,000-mile/11,265-kilometre walk across the ‘other’ Europe – the hidden wild side of Europe that many people miss. The first half was chronicled in The Earth Beneath My Feet, published in June 2021, with an extract from it featured on Mpora here.

On Sacred Ground was published by Enchanted Rock Press on October 1^st 2022. It can be found on Amazon in hardback, paperback and ebook formats.

BUY ‘ON SACRED GROUND’ HERE

You May Also Like

Best Hikes In France | Top 10

Walking Books | 5 of the Best

8 of the Best Walks In Southern Scotland

Best Long-Distance Walks In Snowdonia

5 Types of Hikers You’ll Meet On The Trails