We at last came upon a little lake, in a close glen with walls 1,000 feet high. Not suspecting that we had ascended much above the sea-level, we were surprized to see the gorge all at once open below us, revealing a dark-blue lake, far down among the mountains. We stood on the brink of a wall, over which the stream at our side fell in a “hank” of divided cataracts. Our road was engineered with great difficulty to the bottom of the steep, whence a gentler descent took us to the hamlet of Vasenden, at the, head of the lake. Beyond this there was no road for carrioles, and we accordingly gave ours in charge of a bright, active, and intelligent little post-master, twelve years old. He and his mother then rowed us across the lake to the village of Graven, whence there was a bridle-road across the mountains to a branch of the Hardanger Fiord. They demanded only twelve skillings (ten cents) for the row of three miles, and then posted off to a neighboring farmhouse to engage horses for us.
There was a neat white dwelling on the hill, which we took to be the parsonage, but which proved to be the residence of an army captain on leave, whom we found sitting in the door, cleaning his gun, as we approached. He courteously ushered us into the house, and made his appearance soon afterward in a clean shirt, followed by his wife, with wine and cakes upon a tray. I found him to be a man of more than ordinary intelligence, and of an earnest and reflective turn of mind, rare in men of his profession.
After waiting a, considerable time, we obtained two horses and a strapping farmer’s son for guide. The fellow was delighted to find where we came from, and was continually shouting to the people in the fields: “Here, these are Americans; they were born there!” whereat the people stared, saluted, and then stared again. He shouldered our packs and marched beside the horses with the greatest ease. “You are strong,” I remarked. “Yes,” he replied, “I am a strong Normand,” making his patriotism an excuse for his personal pride. We had a terribly tough pull up the mountain, through fine woods, to the summit level of the field. The view backward, over the lake, was enchanting and we lingered long on the steep, loth to lose it. Turning again, a desolate lake lay before us, heathery swells of the bleak table-land and distant peaks, touched with snow. Once upon the broad, level summit of a Norwegian fjeld, one would never guess what lovely valleys lie under those misty breaks which penetrate its stony heart. There are, in fact, two Norways: one abovea series of detached, irregular masses, bleak, snowy, wind-swept and heather-grown, inhabited by herdsmen and hunters; and one belowa ramification of narrow veins of land and water, with fields and forests, highways and villages.
So, when we had traversed the upper land for several miles, we came to a brink overlooking an-other branch of the lower land, and descended through thick woods to the farms of Ulvik, on the Eyfjord, an arm of the Hardanger. The shores were gloriously beautiful; slopes of dazzling turf inclosed the bright, blue water, and clumps of oak, ash, and linden, in park-like groups, studded the fields. Low, red farmhouses, each with its hollow square of stables and granaries, dotted the hillsides, and the people, male and female, were. everywhere out reaping the ripe barley and piling it pillar-wise, upon tall stakes. Owing to this circumstance we were obliged to wait some time for oarsmen. There was no milk to be had, nor, indeed, anything to eat notwithstanding the signs of plenty on all sides. My friend, wandering from house to house, at last discovered an old man, who brought him a bowl of mead in exchange for a cigar. Late in the afternoon two men came, put us into a shabby and leaky boat, and pulled away slowly for Vik, ten miles distant.
The fiord was shut in by lofty and abrupt mountains, often interrupted by deep lateral gorges. This is the general character of the Hardanger Fjord, a broad, winding sheet of water, with many arms, but whose extent is diminished to the eye by the grandeur of its shores. Nothing can be wilder or more desolate than this scenery, especially at the junction of the two branches, where all signs of habitation are shut out of sight, and one is surrounded by mighty precipices of dark red rock, vanishing away to the eastward in a gloomy defile. It was three hours and a half before we reached Vik, at the head of a bay on the southern side.
We were now but eight miles from the Vöring-Foss, and set out betimes the next morning, taking with us a bottle of red wine, some dry bread, and a guide. We walked across the birch-wooded isthmus behind Vik to the Eyfjordsvand, a lake about three miles long, which completely cuts off the further valley, the mountains on either side falling to it in sheer precipices 1,000 feet high.
We embarked in a crazy, leaky boat, and went down to the other end. of the, lake, where, in the midst of a little valley of rich alluvial soil, covered with patches of barley and potatoes, stood the hamlet of Staebö. Here we entered the mouth of a sublime gorge which opened to the eastward a mere split in the mighty ramparts of the Hardanger Fjeld. We ascended the defile by a rough footpath, at first through alder thickets, but afterward over immense masses of rocky ruin, which had tumbled from the crags far above and almost blocked up the valley. For silence, desolation, and awful grandeur, this defile equals any of the Alpine passes. In the spring, when the rocks, split by wedges of ice, disengage themselves from the summit, and thunder down upon the piled wrecks of ages, it must be terribly sublime. A bridge consisting of two logs spanned across abutments of loose stones, and vibrating strongly under our tread, took us over the torrent.
Our road, for some distance was a mere staircase, scrambling up, down, under, over, and between the chaos of sundered rocks. A little further, and the defile shut in altogether, forming a “cul de sac” of apparently perpendicular walls, from 2,000 to 3,000 feet high. “How are we to get out of this,” I asked the guide. “Yonder,” said he, pointing to the inaccessible summit in front. “But where does the stream come from,” “That you will soon see.” Lo ! all at once a clean split from top to bottom disclosed itself in the wall on our left, and in passing its mouth we had a glimpse up the monstrous chasm, whose dark blue sides, falling sheer 3,000 feet, vanished at the bottom in eternal gloom and spray.
Crossing the stream again, we commenced ascending over the debris of stony avalanches, the path becoming steeper and steeper, until the far-off summit almost hung over our heads. It was now a zigzag ladder, roughly thrown together, but very firm. The red mare which my friend rode climbed it like a cat, never hesitating, even at an angle of 50 degrees, and never making a false step. The performance of this noble animal was almost incredible. I should never have believed a horse capable of such gymnastics, had I not seen it with my own eyes, had I not mounted her myself at the most difficult points, in order to test her powers.
We were now on the great plateau of the liar-danger Fjeld, 2,500 feet above the sea. A wild region lay before usgreat swells, covered with heather, sweeping into the distance and given up to solitude and silence. A few isolated peaks, streaked with snow, rose from this upper level; and a deep break on our left revealed the top of the chasm through which the torrent made its way. At its extremity, a mile or more distant, rose a light cloud of vapor, seeming close at hand in the thin mountain air. The thick, spongy soil, not more than two feet deep, rests on a solid bed of rockthe entire Hardanger Field, in fact, is but a single rock-and is therefore always swampy. Whortleberries were abundant, as well as the mulberry, which I have found growing in Newfoundland; and the guide, running off on the hunt of them, was continually leading us astray. But at last we approached the wreath of whirling spray, and heard the hollow roar of the Vöring-Foss. The great chasm yawned before us; another step, and we stood on the brink. I seized the branch of a tough pine sapling as a support and leaned over. My head did not swim; the height was too great for that, the impression too grand and wonderful. The shelf of rock on which I stood projected far out over a gulf 1,200 feet deep, whose opposite side rose in one great escarpment from the bottom to a height of 800 feet above my head. On this black wall, wet with eternal spray, was painted a splendid rain-bow, forming two-thirds of a circle before it melted into the gloom below. A little stream fell in one long thread of silver from the very summit, like a plumb-line dropt to measure the 2,000 feet.
On my right hand the river, coming down from the level of the field in a torn, twisted, and boiling mass, reached the brink of the gulf at a point about 400 feet below me, whence it fell in a single sheet to the bottom, a depth of between 800 and 900 feet.
Could one view it from below, this fall would present one of the grandest spectacles in the world. In height, volume of water, and sublime surroundings it has no equal. The spectator, however, looks down upon it from a great height above its brink, whence it is so foreshortened that he can only guess its majesty and beauty. By lying upon your belly and thrusting your head out beyond the roots of the pines, you can safely peer into the dread abyss, and watch, through the vortex of whirling spray in its tortured womb, the starry coruscations which radiate from the bottom of the fall, like rockets of water incessantly exploding.