April 9, 2017.  Shortly before Easter break, a small snowstorm hit Oslo.  Nothing like the knee-deep dumping of white stuff that we sometimes get back home in Chicago.  But enough to slow traffic and give Norwegians an excuse to ditch work and go skiing.  The fickle weather we’ve had this year hasn’t afforded much opportunity for enjoying the trails, so any small dusting is much appreciated.

By the time that Matthew and I had a chance to get outside, most everything had melted, so we elected to go for a hike instead.  We combed the DNT (Norwegian Trekking Association) map for a new yet nearby footpath and finally decided upon one in the Baerumsmarka (the forest that surrounds the neighborhood of Baerum).  Notable sights advertised along the route included the Haslumseter ski chapel, a shooting range (passing it was a bit unnerving, as we kept waiting to be struck by a stray bullet), a viewpoint known as the Skuta, and Brunkollen, a snack shack for hikers.  As most of you know, our hikes always include refueling at one of Norway’s adorable, log cabin-ish sportstuas — which literally translates as “sports living room.”

For those of you who are interested in the trek but are without a car, it’s a short jaunt on  the #6 T-bane metro line to Kolsås.  Hop off at the Bekkestua stop, and from there, it’s a half-hour roadside meander to reach the forest path.  The good news is that along the way you’ll see lovely homes, rolling green golf courses, and stables ringed by pastures full of gorgeous horses.  Don’t worry, the trailhead is clearly marked; after you pass the furniture refinishing shop, you’ll see the path winding alongside a creek.

I’d say the hike is fairly easy, with the caveat that, like all Norwegian trails, you’ll have to watch your step.  Gnarled tree roots and sizeable boulders lace the path, reminding you that this is wild terrain, not the heavily groomed, sanitized-for-your-protection boardwalks commonly found in U.S. state parks.  The hilliness will also give you a bit of a workout, but the stunning viewpoints along the way are totally worth it.

Beyond big vistas, however, we enjoyed the small, quiet moments.  Burbling brooks created by snowmelt.  Early spring flowers poking through the moss.  Dense groves of stick-straight pine trees stretching into the sky.  Towering ant condos made of pine-needles, visibly vibrating as their industrious inhabitants work to repair the ravages of winter.  Thickets of ferns unfurling their fiddleheads, transforming the forest floor into what looks like the string section of a symphony tuning up before a performance.

Breaks in the forest canopy allow sunlight to filter through the trees and light up a carpet of moss on the forest floor.

Wood ants (Formica rufa) busily try to rebuild their nest of pine needles after the spring thaw.

Looks like friggin’ Brigadoon, doesn’t it?

Norwegians call these flower “Blåveis” (“blue ways”) and the English common name is “blue anemone.” The official scientific name is “Hepatica nobilis,” meaning “noble liver,” because the plant’s leaves are three-lobed like a human liver. Icky name for a pretty flower, though.)

Parts of the trail still lay under a blanket of snow and ice. Glad I took my crampons along — we needed them at several points to keep our footing.

Eventually we made it to the Skuta — meaning something like “the captain” or “ship head” or “shining brow” (passersby disagreed on the translation into English.)  It’s so named because it’s a geological ridge that looms like the prow of a boat over the Oslo fjord.  A somewhat breathless hike up a steep incline takes you to the Skuta’s  summit, where you can collapse on a bench and enjoy the spectacular view.   And not far away awaits Brunkollen, the hiker’s hut that offers Norwegian waffles to re-stoke your energy level after your exertions.

Brunkollen is a bit more boxy and rigid-looking than the typical folksy Norwegian log cabins — probably because it was built by the Nazi’s during World War II.  But the owners have added lots of charm with an emphasis on troll décor, wildlife, and carved wooden furniture.  And if you come on a Tuesday or Wednesday, you’ll get to partake in “soup day,” which offers homemade stew in addition to the traditional waffles and sweet buns known as skolebrød (“school bread” — basically a sort of coconut-sprinkled Danish with a yellow custard center.)

A bookcase painted with traditional images of Norwegian wilderness and trolls provides fodder for literary types.

Brunkollen peeks through the woods at the end of a tangled trail and beckons us inside.

On chilly days, the fireplace gets fired up. Clearly a lot of bird species call the place home.

Brunkollen has served as a respite for hikers and skiers since the state recovered it from the Nazi’s at the end of the war.

In the Autumn, mushroom hunters can brush up on their identification skills.

I’m thinking this foxy guy partook a little too enthusiastically of the eggs in the hen house and thus officially joined the memorial wall for the breakfast club (“frokostklubben”).

A cozily warm interior invites you to come and sit for a spell.

Once you’ve grabbed your grub, you can stroll outside to dine on one of Brunkollen’s picnic tables overlooking the fjord.  Or, you can sit on the steps of the adorable, more traditional log cabins situated in the back yard.  It seems that these can be rented for small groups, although I wasn’t entirely clear on the rental process.  Check out photos of the gingerbready huts below.

A breathtaking view from the front yard of Brunkollen.

How cute are these cabins?

I think I could probably live here year ’round, despite the lack of central heating…unless you count the fireplace.

After lunch, we headed over to Haslumseter Kappel (“Haslum Pasture Chapel”), which, although it looks a bit like an old Viking stave church, was actually built in 1969.  Apparently towards the end of World War II, the Lutheran community decided that the hordes of hikers and skiers trekking through the area deserved their own Sportskapellet (“sports chapel”).  I’m sure you can all sympathize with how annoying it can be when you’re zipping through the woods, enjoying nature, then suddenly realize that you won’t make it home in time for church (wink, wink.)

Anyway, the plan was to build a sanctuary that seated 150, plus toilets, a kitchen, a dining room for 100, and two bedrooms large enough to hold up to 18 people.  It took more than two decades to raise the funds, secure the land, and construct the church.  But today, the place holds regular (although some say blessedly brief) Sunday services, staffed by volunteer preachers, organists, and choirs.  Boy scouts and youth groups regularly camp out on the site, and folks also use it for wedding ceremonies and other community events.  

Matthew and I tried to get inside to take photos, but we’d arrived too late for the festivities and the place was locked.  We prowled around the outside and clambered up the front steps for a peek into the windows.  As we stepped away, Matthew suddenly shoved me off the porch, yelling, “Get back, get back!!!!”  The stress in his voice was so sharp that I took off with nary a glance over my shoulder to see how my husband was faring against whatever had frightened him.  Yeah, I’m such a loving wife.

Standing in the grass, I caught my breath and looked for Matthew, who was now examining the steps from a safe distance.  Immediately I knew what was up.  We have a little agreement in our marriage.  He handles the spiders, I handle the snakes.  When either one of us is confronted by our worst nightmare, you can expect a total freakout.   Matthew typically ends up in the next county when he crosses paths with anything that slithers, and I routinely dance a mad fandango — and on one notable occasion, even attempted to jump out of a moving car — when a spider descends upon me.

“Snake or spider?” I questioned.  Matthew said, “Viper,” and pointed towards the steps.  Sure enough, a long European adder (Vipera berus) sat curled in the sunshine.  We crept up on it for a closer look, and it immediately squirmed into its hidey hole, a chink in the concrete.  We stood motionless for awhile as the snake popped its head out, testing the air with its tongue to see if we were still there.  So we stepped a little farther away … and stumbled onto two more vipers slinking along the foundation of the church.  I caught the whole thing on camera and filmed the little group as they wormed their way into crevices beneath the porch.  Check out the video here.

We eventually took a seat on a nearby picnic bench to browse through our photos.  Just then, a Norwegian couple came ambling down the path.  Matthew excitedly told them about the snake and invited them to check it out.  The couple looked at us oddly and said, “There are vipers everywhere here.  Ja, they’re poisonous.  Just leave them alone.  They won’t bite you if you don’t touch them.”  Typical unflappable, practical Norwegians.  Nothing phases ’em.  But unfortunately the couple had no advice as to how to get into the church without blundering into a snake sunning itself on the stoop.

It only took about another half hour to pry Matthew away from his sick fascination for his nemesis, then we made our way home with yet another close-encounters-with-wildlife story to share with you.  Hope you enjoyed it.