The ferry from the peninsula rounded into the ravenous mouth of the fjord. Forty minutes or so, giving him ample time to reconsider. He pondered the warning sign; the fact he had with him a virtually inexperienced hiker. The weather deteriorated in the past two hours and it was no longer the semi-effortless cliffside pilgrimage. It was supposed to be fun, after all. And here she stood, boatside, with a wispy strand of hair billowing in the gale, the backpack on the ground between her.

The forecast said heavy winds but he thought it would be grand because they had the tent. A measly, misshapen tent, but a tent nonetheless. It should do.

The megaphone above them expelled a loud jumble in Norwegian before announcing, ‘We are now approaching Florli.’

‘Is that it?’

‘Yeah.’

He contemplated the movement of others around them. Seeing if anybody was getting off.

‘Grab a hold of your bags.’ Then, tongue-in-cheek, ‘Once we’re off we’re off. Nowhere else to go for the next twelve kilometres or so.’

She did not respond. Her arm looped through the backpack strap and clumsily lifted up the bulk. He reached down and helped to lift it onto her back. ‘That ok?’

The rain dashed onto their hooded ponchos fluttering up and down in the heightening wind. The ferry rotated, turning towards the escarpments. A whitewashed shack on the lonesome jetty ahead. He watched it get closer until the ferry engine cut to a halt and the front of it rotated away. They moved sideways toward the wooden wharf. Silence. Then the bumper; it hit the dock with a hollow thump, rocking them off balance. 

‘I think we’re the only ones,’ he said, looking back. No reply from her. ‘You ready?’

The rain picked up or he seemed more sensitive to it now. She nodded uncertainly and tucked her thumbs into the straps. He could see the weight of it bothered her. He felt himself faced with an imperative to make a call – a last-minute retreat. The ramp was lowered and the attendants looked at them. Quick decision. The hell with it. He stepped out of the puddle gathering at his feet and walked towards the jetty. She followed in pursuit, stepping through the barriers after him and then down the ramp onto the wooden dock. He tried not to think, not to breathe. It was all part of committing. He should have known that’s not how it was supposed to be.

The rain spattered against their cellophane-smothered heads.

‘You okay?’

No reply. He looked back; she was walking quietly, her face concentrated on the walkway below. He heard the ferry rudder kick up with a loud moan. By the time he looked back the ramp of it had already withdrawn, sealing a reality that was sobering to him. When he came to terms with it he turned and examined the scene before them. The white shack a couple of footsteps away, unpeopled. A yay-high fence marking the perimeter around it.

Behind it the trail went through a gap before winding up into the towering escarpments his eyes had been trying to avoid since they disembarked from the boat. Seven hundred metres in height and more malicious with the weather. Seven hundred metres: a numerical figure that was now redundant to him.

Twelve kilometres. On any odd day it would be a short day’s walk. And yet this was not one of them. He knew it. She did too. As the raindrops got heavier he saw with vivid foresight the dangers ahead. The slippery, haphazard ledges escaping from under their feet. The visibility cloaked by the sweeping rain sheets. The frail poles of their festival tent buckling under the weight of the storm.

He was irresponsible. He had no idea what he put her through. The outcome would be his and his only to bear. He gazed at the tableau unfolding before him as they picked up pace on that narrow and unassimilable trail. Eleven and a half kilometres now. Not far. It’ll all be over soon.