Travelling Fletchers

Today was rock day! We’re currently nestled between Pulpit Rock and the Floating Rock – almost equidistant as the bird flies.

Setting ourselves the challenge of climbing one is one thing, but getting to the start is another. The Floating Rock would have meant a journey of nearly three hours, including a ferry crossing. Tempting, but that’s a lot of time before even starting the climb. Instead, we opted for the shorter route – a quick 20-minute drive to the BaseCamp of Pulpit Rock.

The drive was pretty enough. We knew the hike would take us up to about 600m above sea level, so with each hill the car climbed we comforted ourselves with the thought – that’s less work for our legs. Then, just before reaching the parking area, the road dipped downhill and we lost a chunk of those hard-earned metres. Our hearts sank almost as much as the road.

Boots laced, backpacks loaded and spirits high, we set off from BaseCamp. The first section was a steady climb, zig-zagging up a rocky path. At times it felt less like a trail and more like scrambling over a giant pile of trolls. We half-expected the boulders to suddenly roll over, present themselves as trolls and burst into song – or at the very least pass us along in a giant Mexican wave.

Each “step” felt like three steps from our staircase at home, only these weren’t smooth or even. Some had generous platforms where you could pause, others shot you straight into the next climb.

The first big marker was Urskar, a stretch of boulders stacked like nature’s staircase. Here the path opened out briefly and rewarded us with a view back down towards the lake – already a reminder of how far we’d come.

Pushing on, we reached Neverdalskaret, another rocky rise that kept the legs working hard. By now the steady rhythm of climb, pause, climb was well drilled in, and our hearts sank each time the path tilted up again.

Further still, the trail eased into Tjødnane, a gentler section dotted with small pools of water. They looked tempting, but we’d been advised not to fill bottles here, so we stuck to what we’d carried with us. It was still a good chance to pause, catch our breath and steel ourselves for the final push.

The final stretch was the toughest and the most exhilarating. The trail narrowed, the rocks underfoot felt sharper, and every step carried a sense of “nearly there.” My legs were tired, my water lighter, but I kept going with one thought in mind – the views at the top and getting that photo.

Then, almost without warning, the path levelled and spilled out onto the great flat slab of Pulpit Rock itself. After hours of climbing, suddenly there it was – the sheer drop, the fjord stretching out below, and the feeling of standing on the edge of something vast.

The top was alive with people, and not everyone seemed too bothered by the warning signs. Some ignored them completely, sitting right on the edge of the rock as if the 600m drop wasn’t there at all. Others were only mildly disobedient – perched close enough to dangle their feet over but still with some solid rock behind them.

Many people were busy taking photos of each other, swapping places in front of the view. We offered to take shots of couples and groups together –  and they were always grateful. I’d say they jumped at the chance, but that feels a little too ironic given the setting.

We spent some time just sitting – partly to rest our legs, partly to soak in the view, and partly because the rock itself was busy. It took a while before there was space clear enough to stand, breathe, and take in the full drama without a crowd in the way. When the moment came, it was everything I’d hoped for. The view, the sense of height, and yes – finally getting that photo.

It was time to leave, although we could easily have stayed longer. Among the four of us, the idea of an ice cream at BaseCamp before heading back to the cabin quickly won out. With that thought in mind, we hauled ourselves up and started the long descent.

When climbing up, I’d kept my focus on the next step rather than looking ahead at the route still to come. On the way down, I had to do the same – only more so. With the sheer drop never far from sight, the last thing I wanted was to miss my footing.

At one point I slipped. The others were ahead of me, so there was no one close by to catch me. In that instant the world slowed down. I felt my centre of gravity shift, knew I was wobbling, and somehow my body just reacted. My arms shot out like a corkscrew opening a bottle, flailing until they levelled off to steady me. A passing hiker reached out and grabbed my arm, helping me back into balance. In that second, I had been rescued. Onlookers from many different countries all spoke at once – the universal language of concern: “Okay?”

Taking a moment to recover, we carried on. The path was marked with milestones every 50 metres, each one a tiny victory as it meant we were that bit closer to the bottom. Sometimes we missed them altogether, too focused on our footing, but when we realised we’d passed two or more without noticing, we celebrated with a little punch in the air – closer still, step by step.

I’d always thought going downhill was the easy part, and assumed this would be no different. But how wrong I was. The steep steps down were punishing on tired legs, and more than once I resorted to sliding down on my bottom just to be safe. At one point the trail even tilted upwards again – a section I’d completely forgotten about from the climb up. I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to see an “up” before.

Finally, we arrived back at BaseCamp, ready for that long-awaited ice cream. The thought of it had carried us down the mountain step by step. But when we reached the shop, we found it had closed just two minutes earlier.

All we could do was laugh – tired, sore, but proud of what we’d done. Ice cream or not, we’d climbed Pulpit Rock.