I sleep late knowing that I only have about 35 miles to cover today. I need to give myself a break after yesterday's monumental ride. Oescu is still asleep in his tent, festooned with drying clothes. I pack my tent and roll up my sleeping bag. The mosquitoes, for the moment, also appear to have slept late. Sebtastian and his wife have already left. By 10 a.m. I have had my cup of coffee and ration of pastry.
The road follows the Tana River, perhaps the last great salmon river in Europe. Men in fatigues and long wooden fishing boats ply the river, which is at least 100 yards wide. The river winds through through a canyon, with the road clinging to its side. By mid-morning I reach the a sign that declares I have reached the northernmost point in Finland. I have now tranversed the country from its southernmost to its northernmost territory. It is a time for celebration, but other than taking a self-portrait in front of the marker, there is little I can do to celebrate. There is no one else around to tell them about my achievement.
Instead of returning to the main highway, I decide to take the designated National Bike Route, which follows the original post road. I have grown leary of the National Bike routes, as they seem to take the unsuspecting cyclists up the highest hills on the worst roads. But I figure I'll give it another chance. The map indicates that the route can't be more than a few kilometers before merging into the main road.
I immediately regret my decision. The dirt road is narrow and rutted from rills caused by rain rain-off. Ten percent grades force me to walk. The downhill is not much better as the surface is slippery and controlling the bike takes a mighty effort. Around a steep bend I glimpse two sets of huge antlers. Coming down the road are a pair of the largest reindeer with equally impressive racks I have seen since entering Lapland. At this point I have dismounted and am dragging the bike and wagon uphill. "Greeting!" I yell to the reindeer. "How about giving me a hand or antler. Ha." They apparently are not into reindeer jokes. They stare at me not certain what sort of beast approaches. I continue inching uphill, the nearly 100 pounds of bike and gear causing me to backslide for every few steps forward. The reindeer have seen enough. They saunter off into the dense undergrowth, but not before I have snapped a few photos.
The road winds out of the hills and by a fishing camp. . On the banks of the river is a solitary wigman, a Sami hut. The old post road, first used in the 18th Century with apparently little maintence since then finally connects with the paved road after yet another killer grade. Another large reindeer stares down at me as I struggle up the hill. Never again, I tell the beast, am I going to follow a National Bike Route. The reindeer bucks his head in confirmation, then wanders up a steep path. The sun breaks through the clouds for a few seconds. It's the first I've seen of it in a week it seems.
Instead of returning to the main highway, I decide to take the designated National Bike Route, which follows the original post road. I have grown leary of the National Bike routes, as they seem to take the unsuspecting cyclists up the highest hills on the worst roads. But I figure I'll give it another chance. The map indicates that the route can't be more than a few kilometers before merging into the main road.
I immediately regret my decision. The dirt road is narrow and rutted from rills caused by rain rain-off. Ten percent grades force me to walk. The downhill is not much better as the surface is slippery and controlling the bike takes a mighty effort. Around a steep bend I glimpse two sets of huge antlers. Coming down the road are a pair of the largest reindeer with equally impressive racks I have seen since entering Lapland. At this point I have dismounted and am dragging the bike and wagon uphill. "Greeting!" I yell to the reindeer. "How about giving me a hand or antler. Ha." They apparently are not into reindeer jokes. They stare at me not certain what sort of beast approaches. I continue inching uphill, the nearly 100 pounds of bike and gear causing me to backslide for every few steps forward. The reindeer have seen enough. They saunter off into the dense undergrowth, but not before I have snapped a few photos.
The road winds out of the hills and by a fishing camp. . On the banks of the river is a solitary wigman, a Sami hut. The old post road, first used in the 18th Century with apparently little maintence since then finally connects with the paved road after yet another killer grade. Another large reindeer stares down at me as I struggle up the hill. Never again, I tell the beast, am I going to follow a National Bike Route. The reindeer bucks his head in confirmation, then wanders up a steep path. The sun breaks through the clouds for a few seconds. It's the first I've seen of it in a week it seems.
By mid-afternoon I reach Nourgam, the last village in Finland. Nourgam is home to about 200 Sami. I am glad to see the town has a grocery store and a gas station. It even has a bike lane. I pedal a kilometer beyond the store that marks the town center and find the campground. Storm clouds are moving in again. Tomorrow I make my mad dash to the Arctic Ocean. I want to have a good night's rest, so I renting a cabin. On the cabin's porch, as I unhitch the wagon, the bike tetters and starts to fall. I instinctively reach out to grab it, but grab the pole bearing the Expedition Flag instead. The pole breaks in half, the flag flutters to the ground. The blue flag with the bright white reindeer leaping across the center bordered by the inscription Aland to the Arctic has been my source of strength and inspiration throughout the trip ever since I hoisted it on the Aland Islands. Now the pole, already broken once, is useless. I am distraught and angry at myself for my clumsiness. I must have the flag flying tomorrow on my triumphant ride to the Arctic Ocean. But if nothing else, this trip has taught me to be resourceful. I think: I'm in Finland, lot's of forests, forests have trees, which in turn have branches. I search around my little cabin. Sure enough, I find a branch of a willow that appears to be just the right size. The flag's sleave fits snugly over the branch. With a piece of nylon cord I found several days ago by the roadside I bind the new flag pole to my rear rack. It's a perfect fit. In fact, it's more than perfect because now it truly is symbolic. The willow branch is green so it flexes. It's unbreakable.
Later, I ride back into town and fetch groceries and a can of Nicholai Beer to toast my achievement. The storm hits as I prepare dinner. At long last I have managed to time my arrival just right.
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