Borderland

Mark Waring takes an autumnal roam around theglorious central Scandinavian wilderness at theborder of Norway and Sweden

I’D PASSED THIS WAY some years before but at a much different tempo. Then, head down, arms pumping, I’d hurtled round this corner without thought beyond its place as a punctuation mark in the story of a long walk. A heartbeat and I was gone. Day two of a thousand-mile summer and I’d not noticed it. Stuffed full of emotion, both worries and excitement, I’d failed to see the jaunty wooden figure. Carved from a single block of Rogen pine stood a cheerful four-foot hiker, replete with walking stick, hand raised in greeting.

Now, three years later, in warm autumn sunshine there’s time for inspection, as much tactile as visual. I trace a finger along his knarled face until I stop at a mossy beard. “Careful, that was used to poison wolves years ago”, a voice calls. I turn and see the friendly hut warden of Skedbro. We fall into a long conversation. She talks extensively about Rogen’s history; for such pure wilderness it’s a human one as much as geological. She tells me that ‘Varglav’ or ‘wolf moss’ was used by hardy smallholders who fought to carve a living out of this spectacular landscape. Rare in the rest of Scandinavia, it is abundant in these venerable forests. The moss was harvested from the ancient pines and dried before being mixed with crushed glass and then used to lace meat. A cruel end perhaps but no doubt a useful weapon as man tried to prevail over nature in a harsh landscape.

Rogen might have been a difficult place in which to live but for the visitor it’s simply breathtaking. I’d started this walk only a day before but had already fallen back under its spell. Three years previously I’d charged through in the very first days of a 1,000-mile hike which covered the entire length of the Swedish mountain chain. Immediately I was struck by its beauty, and my appreciation grew the further away I travelled. I’d vowed to return.