Trip 42 — Fasta Åland Walk

Day 6: Kroklund to Havsvidden via Pantsarnäs and Getabergen
Tuesday, 25 June 2024

Today: 42942 steps/33.52 km/20.83 mi/6h 19m
Total: 191888 steps/152.35 km/94.67 mi/27h 52m

A few unknowns today: places where the ideal routing takes me through wilderness without roads or paths. With that in mind, I left Kroklund with a combination of exhilaration and trepidation.

Two-lane Route 4 had a 90-kilometer-per-hour speed limit and no protected walkway or shoulder. There wasn't much traffic, and it was rare that cars passed each other near me, but I hope there are plans to install a pathway for bikes and walkers here as I saw them doing in Hammarland yesterday.

The paper map was good for more than squashing mosquitoes. It — and the map of the Sadelinleden back at Skarpnåtö — showed a pathway to Geta that had the advantages of taking me through the woods and getting me off the highway. It began with a quick, easy ascent before a left turn brought me into a forest with dense underbrush.

I startled a roe deer, and it barked as it fled. I'd never heard a deer vocalize before. It sounded like a dog, making loud, shrill, sharp barks that were echoed by its brethren further into the forest.

"I'm not going to hurt you," I said, hoping the English of the roe deer matched the excellent quality spoken by most people of Åland.

The path was narrow and the underbrush thick. I felt myself tear down two unseen spider webs. "Sorry!" I said. I've never wanted to be a homewrecker.

I ascended to an expansive view across the body of water known as the Orrfjärden. On the other side was the peninsula I'd be rounding in an hour. The path gently brought me down, behind the Grannas Äppel orchards, before ascending again. The predominant insect of this stretch was mosquitoes, and I took the highest speed possible without tripping over branches.

I came to the Höckböleholmen, a nature preserve that encompasses the northeastern extremity of the Sadelinleden. At a clearing, reeds protruded from the swamp. On the other side, a herd of about 30 happy white cows swished their tails. A motorboat came by with three fishermen. Dragonflies promised an eventual abatement of the mosquitoes. The sun was shining and the area was awash in purple and yellow flowers. How long could I stay here?

Not too long, because of the unknowns. I walked to the northeastern end of the U-shaped Sadelinleden — the poster here put its length at 63 kilometers, 14 fewer than were advertised at Skarpnåtö — and reached the road, where a sign pointed the way to the Havsvidden resort, seven kilometers away.

That's where I was staying, but I had to cover Geta first, starting with the two-hour loop around Möckelgräs and Pantsarnäs, the peninsula I'd seen from the top of the trail. Here were modern homes interspersed with the usual red-and-white barns, plus a windmill and a few cows.

I came back to the main road, crossed it, and entered what felt like another country for the final kilometer before the Soltuna restaurant. This was arid land, more reminiscent of the remote, desertlike, hilly parts of Aruba. The road climbed and there was no sign of the restaurant until the final moment.

Soltuna isn't just a restaurant; it's also a miniature-golf course and the starting point for a hike down to the Djupvik caves. I arrived just in time for a lunch of Greek-style beef patty with tzatziki. The cost covered a small salad buffet that included lingonberries and an apple compote that I would happily spread over everything I eat in Åland, maybe everywhere.

From here I'd venture into my first unknown. I hoped to find my way from Soltuna down through the wilderness of rocks, trees, and shrubbery — about 500 meters if I could do it in a straight line — until I reached a road that would take me past a couple of lakes. From near the bottom of that road, it looked as though I could similarly traverse 250 meters to connect to another road, and finally another 250 meters to the network of roads that would lead me to Havsvidden.

I solicited advice from one of the Soltuna staff. "Excuse me, do you know the trails around here pretty well?"

"Yes."

"I'm trying to walk to Havsvidden. Is there a way to get there going down the path from here?"

"No," she said, shaking her head vigorously.

"It looks as though I might be able to find a way across the rocks until I get to the next road. Do you know whether that's possible?"

"Well, I'm not sure," she said. "But it's far."

"Far is OK. I guess if I don't find a way, I can come back here."

"Just try to stay on high ground. The lower ground can be wet."

"Very helpful. Thanks for your opinion."

I started picking my way across the rocks. They were partly covered in dry moss that crunched under my feet. At times, I had to step onto a springy combination of pine needles and branches. One of these was damp; I understood what she meant. But it never became muddy.

I alternated my focus between my phone and my feet, to ensure that I continued in the right direction and didn't trip. Sometimes I had to lower myself down a rock slab, but it was never steep, and sometimes nature provided natural steps for the purpose. It took only about twenty minutes before I crossed a short field of loose rocks and joined the road.

That was the hardest unknown; I was pretty confident that the other two would be much easier. The second unknown was about a half-hour down the road.

The sound of a car surprised me from behind. I hope I wasn't about to be told to get out.

The driver stopped and said something. He was wearing the yellow vest of someone in construction.

"I'm sorry, I don't speak Swedish," I said.

He responded with something else I didn't understand, which I assume meant "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I'm just walking to Havsvidden," I said.

"Havsvidden is far. Three kilometers," he said. (I was sure it was farther than that.)

I smiled. "I have already walked twenty-eight kilometers today."

"It's hot," he said.

"I have water."

"I was working on a road in Mariehamn today, moving stones. Eighteen, nineteen kilos each." He made gestures and sighs to emphasize that the heat was unusual and unappreciated during the workday.

"Oh, dear, I hope you had a lot of people helping you."

"Only one other," he said. "Ready to go home."

"Enjoy your rest," I said as he drove away.

The most likely candidate for unknown number two — what appeared on the map as a faint, but discernible, green patch — turned out to be the strip of land where they had installed the line of telephone towers. It was probably passable if no other options worked, but I continued for a couple of minutes and found a real path through a burnt part of the forest. This joined the next road, after which following the telephone towers seemed to be the best option for unknown number three. It wasn't quite a path, but it wasn't quite not a path, either: grass up to my waist followed by a final but easy rock scramble. Then it was 25 minutes along dirt roads to the Havsvidden resort.

I tried a dip in the pool, but it was freezing, and then I remembered that this was Finland and I should go in the sauna first. Five minutes there, letting my skin ooze, followed by a quick plunge in cold water — it really did feel perfect, and I walked back up the path to my room with an airy tingle and a delicate waddle, like the slow pendulum on a grandfather clock, moaning contently.

Havsvidden is about as far north as Åland gets, and the hotel's restaurant has broad views of the open sea from its terrace. I had just gotten my Riesling and was waiting for the steak tartare and mussels when my peace — and that of the other 40 or so diners — was invaded by the largest buzzing insect of them all, the one that hovers like a spider high above, inexorably taunting, the one invented by humans.

I refer, of course, to a drone. I'd seen a notice at the reception desk that one would be filming for promotional purposes, not close enough to capture people's physiognomic details. But it hadn't dawned on me that they would use it to interrupt our meal.

Other than at a drone show, I've never seen a drone that I didn't hope would crash violently into the earth without hurting anyone. I cannot conceive of why regular people are allowed to fly something so hideous in public. I don't trust that it won't hit me, and I don't trust that it's not spying on me. It is among the worst of the recent technological developments, and it has the lamentable features of being ugly and noisy.

"Are they done with the giant fly?" I asked when the steak arrived.

She knew what I meant. "Well, it's open air, but...we'll see." Fortunately the horror was over.

At 11 p.m., I joined people for the sunset. The wide rock field is an especially lovely place to watch it, and you can't see it from your room here anyway because all the rooms face east in the name of anthroposophy (a movement that, among other things, promotes positive morning energy through greeting the sun). There was a joyous communal spirit with so many people out on the rocks together.

The sun takes a long time to set here. See a sunset in Florida or the Caribbean and it takes a minute, maybe even less, for the sun to disappear once the sea is tangent to its bottom. Here it takes several minutes. It seemed to get stuck in the middle, then rise a bit, then drop, then rise — perhaps it was being controlled by the same crew that hoisted the maypole. But eventually they, or nature, got it all the way down, to give off a suggestive glow for a few hours until it self-hoists again.

Go on to day 7