First Reindeer Spotted

The Expedition encountered its first reindeer at exactly 10:11 a.m. today, roughly 40 kilometers south of Suomussalmi, where I have rented a rustic lakeside cabin for the night. I spotted the beast just after cresting a forested hill. It was standing by the road staring in my direction. It was raining, but I was so excited I got out my camera anyway. He (I will assume he was he though both sexes have antlers) looked at me, then trotted in my direction. Maybe he thought I was another strange type of reindeer. His rack was huge, and as he eyed me from the forest, and walked about, he bucked his rack against a tree. Was I supposed to do the same thing? The roar of an approaching car scared him back into the woods. That event made up for what had been a second consecutive day of riding in the rain.

I've done a much better job of preparing myself for these liquid onslaughts; lessons have been learned from previous experience. I now have a water-tight system, jacket, rainpants, helmet with hood tucked in. Call it the Mannerheim line of rain defense. So far nothing has gotten in, and I've stayed warm. Last night, I camped at a pretty good spot after doing only 27 miles from Kuhmo. That morning I left late trying to wait out a torrential downpour. I ended up seeking shelter for awhile after 1 mile at the visitor's information center. I encountered the same woman who assured me the previous day I would not be eaten by bears. She showed me the weather forecast for the week. It was horrible. Storms all week, with some clearing on Friday. The main event, another big thunder and lightning storm is due to hit Thursday. I think I've done pretty well to make it here under poor conditions, but I'm feeling much better prepared; you can't go wrong with the Mannerheim line of rain defense! The problem is I really can't stop and enjoy the scenery or even pause very long for lunch. Tomorrow, Wednesday, I plan to head to Hossa, which I think might be a much better place to wait out the big storm. It's another 50 to 60 miles and gets me closer to Lapland and more reindeer. It's also about 2 miles from the Russian border, so I don't want to make any navigation errors.

At least I can now rest comfortably knowing that I don't have to change the name of the Expedition to "Riding with Mosquitoes and other Varmits."

Resting in Kuhmo

I rented a cabin for two days in Kuhmo. It will take me that long to rest and dry out. The cabin is located near what is best described as a fake Karelian Village, kind of like a Karelian Disneyland enclosed in a stockade. Once in awhile, a hidden speaker lets out a loud wolf howl, which at first scared the crap out of me. It sounded as if wolves were attacking from all sides.

My view of the fake village is blocked by forests. My hill location is near a beautiful of lake, and in the spruce forest. At a forest service visitor's center I inquire about the road ahead. The ranger assures me that I will not be eaten by bears, though wolves, real ones, have been a problem the last couple of years. Wild reindeer herds have moved in from Russia, followed by the predators. The wolves have been attacking domestic dogs in the area.

Kuhmo is also the center of an internationally acclaimed Chamber Music Festival, which just concluded at about the time I was near drowning on my way here. My friends in Helsinki had told me about this festival and had urged me to try to arrive in time to catch a concert. But I slogged into town the last night of festival and I just couldn't muster the energy to ride the three miles back into town, let alone find dry clothes or scrounge something to eat. So the festival is over. Posters in town now advertise a monster truck show.

With chamber music now longer an option, I visit the Kalevala Center. Kuhmo was the base which Elias Lonnrot used in the 1820s and 1830s to venture into Russian Karelia to record the folk poems and songs that had been kept alive by village elders for generations. The result was a compilation of stories and poems that now comprise Finland's epic folk tale, The Kalevala, later celebrated by painters, who ventured here in 1890s, and Sibelius, who used stories of the Kalevala as a theme in some of his best music.

After a pleasant two days in Kuhmo, it is time to move on again, further north. It's another two days to Suomossalmi, described as a village. The forecast is not good, but I must continue moving. It may be awhile before you here from me again, as libraries are getting scarce.

The Worst Morning

I wake at about 4 am, kill a mosquito, then peer out the tent fly. The sun peeks through a low miasma of fog that hangs through the trees and over the lake. I turnover to sleep some more thinking the day might be promising. But I oversleep the alarm and by the time I get up, pack the wagon, roll up the tent, the sky is a dismal gray.

Thirty minutes into the ride to Kuhmo, some 52 miles to the north, the rain begins to fall. This time there are no dramatics; neither thunder, nor lightning, just a few drops, then a few more. Not a problem, I think. I pedal through forests and strain over hills. The trees are thick here. In little vales lay dark pools of stagnant water or slugglishly moving streams covered with lilly pads. The rain increases in intensity. And then from behind, as if a wraith had caught up to me, the sky darkens, a vicious tail wind hits. Torrents of rain, like machine gun bullets, rip out of the sky. The wind propels me at a high speeds, my wheels cutting a wake through the pooling water on the asphalt. Water drips in through my helmet, down my neck into my clothes. My shoes are soaked. The water finds every nook and cranny in my meager rain suit defenses. Motorists, what few there are, crawl along at slow speeds because they cannot not see the road well. This is not a safe place to ride. I have to find shelter. But there is nothing, but trees. For an hour I skid along in the monsoon. At times the bike seems to hydroplane, if that is even possible. Wet and now blasted by wind, I begin to shiver. The only way I can keep warm is to keep cycling even though I am very tired. I am getting colder, the signs of hypothermia are obvious. I have to find shelter. I consider stopping in the forest and erecting a tarp to hundle under. Finally, I spot a little log hut with open sides sheltering a single wood picnic table. I swing the bike into it, yank open the rear wagon and paw through stuff sacks to find dry clothes. Shivering, I pull on thermal underwear, a wind hat and a sweatshirt. I set up the stove and boil water for coffee. It is the best cup of coffee I have ever tasted. The shivering stops. I stay in my little log hut for two hours, determined not to budge until the diluge stops. A car pulls over and a thin, drawn man, and a heavyset woman get out and walk over to the shelter. The man sits opposite me and smokes. We greet each other with the "eh" hello, in Finnish. I motion to the downpour and say "vetta" which means rain. We sit in silence, then the couples gets up and leaves.

In the afternoon the rain stops and I continue my journey. On my map, settlements such as Muijarvi and Lauvaskylä are listed, but Muijärvi is nothing more than a cell phone tower, a dog, and a house. Lauvaskylä is even less substantial. Along the roadside giant toadstools have erupted from the soil. The sky begins to break and I know the rain has finished for today. It almost got me, but I lived to bike another day.

Near Kuhmo, I see an old artillery piece parked by the road. Nearby is a monument to the 1939 Winter War, when Russian invaded Finland. It was near here the Stalin tried to quickly win the war by sending his armies across Finland at its narrowest point. He hoped to sever Finland in two at "its narrow waist." He failed, the outnumbered Finns fought the Russians to a standstill during one of the coldest winters in memory. I wander among overgrown tank traps and old battle trenches, a reminder of the grim conflict that raged here more than 60 years ago.

As I enter Kuhmo the sun comes out. It seems a miracle given what happened earlier in the day. The roadside at the city limit is bright with the red, yellow and pink lupine blossoms, stalks lazily swaying hello in the faint breeze.

Expedition Reaches North Karelia

It is time to leave Kuopio. I still am not a 100%, but am well enough to resume the journey. My goal is a place called Tahko roughly halfway to Nurmes. From there, it appeares from the map that a boat can take me across Syväri, a huge lake, a massive lake that blocks my route to the North Karelian town of Nurmes. Along the way I pass a mountain of white stuff that resembles snow, then a mountain of reddish-brown stuff, then a huge factory where bags labeled calcium nitrate are waiting to be hauled away by big trucks. I reach Tahko at about 4 pm, but find that the first few inns I check are booked. I also discover that there is no longer boat service across Lake Syväri. This is disappointing. It means a 40 km detour the next day.

I continue my search for a place to spend the night. There is no way I am going to camp in the woods tonight. Massive thunderheads are building on the horizon. I need to get somewhere quick. At the end of the road, I find a massive Sokos Hotel, one of the big mid-luxury chain hotels common in Finland. There will be no pooping in the woods tonight. I check in, and enjoyed my luxury room. This area is like the Lake Tahoe of Finland, full of luxury condos, golf courses, ski runs (currently not in use) cabins and summer homes. And according to the signs and trail maps, a great place to cross country ski. So this is where everyone in Helsinki is spending July!

The next day I decide to shorten my trip by sticking to the main highways and avoiding the blue bike routes. For the first time in nearly a week, I am feeling pretty good. My cold has passed, though I have a few left over coughs. Much to my surprise the E75 has little traffic. The day is rather uneventful; the weather good, though I can see a wall of thunderheads building in the East. By 6 pm I have travelled 60 miles and have reached Nurmes in North Karelia. I have also surpassed the 1,000 mile mark in my trip.

I camp at place called Bomba (named after a 19th Century Keralian man and not some Spanish song) about two miles south of Nurmes. I decide to stay an extra day before setting out for Kuhmo. It is pleasant enough here next to another giant lake, Pielinen. Near my campsite a farmer has staked his hay in a curious tall mounds. The campground is not very full so I have the kitchen largely to myself and there is a restaurant with a buffet. In the evening the sky is full of a massive flock of squaking bean geese. Storm clouds gather. In the far horizon a gold ray of light highlights the forest.

Karelia is the birth place of the Kalevala, the Finnish epic collection of folklore. Most of the myths and legends originated from this part of the country, in the deep forest. I will get a chance to experience the scenery that caused the creation of these legends, where the main heroes vanquish their foes by out-singing them.

The Smoke Sauna

On my third day in Kuopio, I take the pharmacist's advice and visit Jätkänkämpä, the world's largest public smoke sauna. The Finns, who essentially invented the sauna, believe that the only way to get a true sauna is via one fired by wood. Jätkänkämpä is only open to the public on Tuesdays (it takes an entire day to heat the sauna) so my extra day in Kuopio serves me well by providing this rare opportunity. The day had been relatively mild, but a few minutes after I hop on my bike and begin the 5 km trip to the sauna, I am inundated by yet another cloudburst. I am soaked by the time I get to the sauna, a simple log cabin, which in my imagination I thought would be bigger. I pay my 10 Euros, get two towels with instructions to use, one in the sauna to wrap around my waist and the other to dry off after I'm done.

I quickly undress, shower and, as instructed wrap the towel around my waist. Usually you wear nothing in the sauna, as there are separate sections or times for men and women. But Jätkänkämpä is a mixed sauna so modesty is the policy. The last door in the progesssion from dressing room to shower, opens to the sauna. A wall of heat hits me as I stare into blackness. My eyes strain to adjust in the dim light there is only one small window. I can make out a chamber about 20 feet by 20 feet with three tiers of benches on three sides and what looks like a large barbecue-like inclosure where the hot coals or cinders faintly glow. I feel like I am descending into Dante's Inferno. I make my way across the room past the dim outlines of other lost souls and sit on the lowest tier, where the heat is not as intense. As my eyes grow accustom to the dimness, I see that my fellow sauna-goers are a mixed lot: familes with children, men and women of all ages. A man, about the size of a walrus, gets up and from a shiny bucket ladles dollops of water onto the coals, which hiss and steam, slightly raising the humidity in the room. Much to my surprise, there is no smoke, only the pleasant but not overpowering smell of wood. I don't know how long I am in the room. I sweat profusely. I am wondering what the procedure is. I watch my fellow sauna-mates get up and walk slowly to one of two doors, one for the men's shower (on the right), the other for the women's. As the heat permeates my thinking process, I am desperate to remember to go through the door on the right. Whatever I do I must make it to that door: Don't embarrass yourself. At some point I can't stand it anymore and gingerly walk across the room to the correct door. I take a cold shower and re-entered the sauna for round 2.

On my third trip to the shower, I notice a side entrance that leads to the lake. The true-believers run out the door, down a long dock and swan dive into the lake. Who needs the cold shower when there is a perfectly good ice-cold lake nearby? I have come this far. It only seems right that I jump into a Finnish Lake. I put on my swim trunks. The rain falls, obscuring the lake in kind of an impressionistic fuzz. The wooden planks of the dock are slippery so I walk instead of run, though running would have been my preference because it would give me less time to think about the crazy thing I am about to do. I stroll to the edge of the dock, pause for a second and jump. In that split second, suspended between lake and sky, I remember that swimming is not one of my best skills. In fact, I'm a terrible swimmer. Is it really the smartest thing to be jumping into a deep lake in Finland (or anywhere for that matter)?

Too late. I hit the water. It is like a thousand volts of freshness coursing through my body. Cold, but not shocking. I feel great. Skivving to the surface, I discover I remember how to swim enough to survive. I make my way to the dock and hoist myself out. I am not cold. In fact, I am still warm. Steam vents from my body. I lounge outside, rain falling on me. I feel perfectly pleasant as if it is a normal thing to sit outside on a bench in the rain in your swimsuit. I stay outside for about 15 minutes before returning to the sauna. Now I feel like a pro. On my second trip to the lake I improve my diving technique and swim around for a bit, then I get out and buy a beer, again lounging outside in the rain in swimming trucks feeling perfectly warm. In the winter, the Finns jump into the lake through a hole cut in the ice or they thrash around in the snow. Fortunately, it is not winter.

By now I am feeling really good, but I know I have had enough. My muscles feel rubbery. I feel like Gumby. So I gather my towel and walk back into the passage way and right into the women's shower room. An older lady with ponderous breasts looks up rather faintly amused, as I quickly back out with a lame "sorry."

Recuperating in Kuopio

I decide to spend an extra day in Kuopio to try and shake this nasty cold. I've have a sore throat and am coughing. I'm feeling better today and I now believe I will be ready to start the ride into North Keralia tomorrow. In the meantime, I had a chance to visit a pharmacy. Unlike American drug stores, the pharmacies here stick to drugs, no gift cards or beer specials. The pharmacy had rows and rows of chairs meant for people waiting to have prescriptions filled, and very little in the way of over-the-counter medications. Remember Finland has universal free health care so I assume prescriptions are free. One of the many white-smocked druggists helped me find the one brand of over-the-counter cough lozenges (Codetabs) that they carried. They tasted awful, but worked. That combined with benedryl has helped keep this bug under control. She also recommended that a good sauna might help. So I'm off to the largest smoke sauna house in the world this afternoon.

In the afternoo, I trek to Pujoli Hill, one of the prime attractions in town. The path to the top of the hill is steep, but winds through a lovely spruce forest. At the top is a magnificient view of lakes and forests as far as the eye can see. But the most interesting sight are the two huge ski jump towers. I now have a new appreciation for the sport. The towers rise up out of the forest like some sore of science fiction space tower. I'm dizzy just looking up at them. Future Finnish Olympians are practicing their jumps. Instead of snow, the ramp surface is water-slickened artifical turf. Coaches stand on platform hundreds of feet down hil with stop watches and walkie talkies, shouting instructions to the jumpers (Ilka get that back arched! Petre tips up man!). An electronic read-out records the speed, which ranges between 80 and 90 Km/hour. It is mesmerizing to watch the skiiers, some who appear to be pre-teens, swoosh down the jump ramp, then become airborne for what seems like a long time, before landing with a swish far down at the base of the hill.

This may be my last posting for a few days. The terrain to Nurmes and then to Kuhmo looks challenging. I've done some maintenance on the wagon. I hope this strengthens the axle. The weather (downright hot yesterday) is cool again, but I can't tell if it's going to rain.

Three days to Kuopio, good weather at last

Gray and overcast when I leave Jyvaskayla. I skirt the lake via well marked paths, then somehow get on the wrong road again. You can never let your guard down here. The back track is five miles and I am not happy about it. I join the main route to Kuopio, but here the shoulder is almost nonexistent and the Friday traffic is roaring by at a high clip. I take a detour on a less traveled road, which goes through sparcely populated areas with little traffic. I pass big stacks of neatly stacked firewood. There is little doubt how people get through the winter here.

I camp at a beautiful spot at the Rometrio Campground not far from the town of Pieksänmaa. The sun comes out. After making dinner in the camp kitchen, I watched a loon on the glinting waters of the lake. I sleep in on Saturday, and don't break camp until about 10 a.m. I bike about 200 feet before I stop at a gas station/cafe and have my coffee and roll. Given my new-found respect for the blue roads - on the map national bike routes are in blue - I decide to stick to these routes even though they wind around and grind up hills. They are far less taxing on my nerves than the main highways, many of which have very narrow shoulders. Unfortunately, the signage is inconsistent so it's important to check the maps and landmarks to make sure I'm heading in the right direction. Today is another enjoyable ride through pleasant countryside. In the evening I camp besides a large lake near Leppävirta. Occasionally, on the rides I encounter people walking or pedalling old one-speeds. They look at me with blank expressions, and almost never wave or acknowledge me. I think my appearance is so startling that they don't know what to make of me.

On the third day from Jyvaskalya I awake with a sore throat. I still feel strong, but I realize I am coming down with a cold. The 50 mile ride to Kuopio is against some of the steepest, longest hills I've encountered on the trip. They are monsters. In some places I have no choice but to walk. During one long downhill coast, I flush a large bird rom among the grass roadside. It had a fanned tail with white and black rings against a gray background. Is it a turkey? On another stretch I am over taken by two friendly young Finnish cyclists who are out on a day ride. As usual they ask what brought me to Finland. I said I heard the cycling was good and that the country was relatively flat. I added that I was encountering a lot hills than I expected. I also noted that outside of Åland I had encountered almost no other cross-country cyclists. "Mostly foreigners use the system," replies Maelta. "If a Finn wants to go to Lapland they will drive. But it is a good country to cycle in. It's flat." He made this last statement as we labored up still another hill.

I am not feeling well. My throat makes it difficult to talk. I decide to forgo camping, and check my Lonely Planet for an inexpensive hotel. LP recommends the Railroad Hotel, which, as its name implies, is located at the station. I find the hotel, and check in at the Grilli - the restaurant downstairs. The proprietor who doesn't speak English leads me through a door in the back, up a winding staircase and onto an immaculate second floor landing, with polished wood floors, 1950s retro style furniture and not a speck of dust anywhere. The room is just as nice and very quite. The passenger trains are all electric so they make no noise and they never blow their horn. For the first time I have a chance to watch Finnish television. Guess what? Most of the programs are in English with Finnish subtitles. No wonder all the kids know at least some English.

In the evening I wander around Kuopio, which is a rather large town by Finnish standards (almost 100,000 population). It has a pleasant city square with an outdoor market. Many of the older buildings are wooden with brightly painted window and door trim.

I plan to stay here for at least two days to rest and recuperate. I may even stay a third day, hoping that this cold doesn't get any worse.

Resting in Jyväskyla

I am waiting out the bad weather before beginning the next stage of the trip to Kuopio, which will take three days of modest cycling. Jyväskyla is the city that Alvar Aalto, the famous Finnish architect, spent his salad days. I visit the museum dedicated to his work, then wander the college campus where he designed most of the buildings. I am to admit I am not wowed by the architecture, though the buildings seem functional and practical, and like many Finnish buildings they tend to blend into the natural surroundings. The range of his work spans the elegance of Finlandia Hall, the only substantial building he designed in central Helsinki, to a dormitory at MIT in Boston. Altar's quick wit and eloquence impressed his first architectural mentor who told him that he should forget architecture and become a journalist. Fortunately, for Finland and the rest of his future clients, he stuck to his childhood dream of becoming an architect.

The city is perched next to a lake (so what else is new) and clustered on hills. On the highest hill at the center of the campus stands a campanila, designed by Aalto, who thought the the hills around Jyvaskyla reminded him of Tuscany. Slender cabled pedestrain and road bridges span the lake. The lakefront itself is a big park with blooming flowers and bike paths. The rest of the day is spent relaxing, grocery shopping and searching for a bike shop to buy oil for my chain. The thunderstorms have ceased, but it is still gray outside. Despite yesterday's monster ride, my body is bouncing back nicely. In the afternoon I take advantage of the sauna here in the summer hotel. My eyes have returned to full viewing capacity.

Near disaster on road to Jyväskyla and another monster storm

The inside of my tent is stained with little spots of blood indicating the intensity of the fight last night. This is not exactly what I like to wake up to. I crawl out of the tent and immediately notice that something is wrong. My left eye can only open halfway! It is like the lid is glued shut. I walk to the wash room and throw water over my face, then pry my eye open. The eye looks fine, but the lid isn't working, like a garage door that only opens halfway. A mosquito (the bastards!) bit me last night on the eyelid, just in the right spot. I look deranged. With one and two-thirds eyes still operational, the Expedition decides to press on. Kati had warned me that another storm would move in tomorrow. Lingering is not an option. I got to get to Jyväskyla today. Instead of twisting around on the backroads, the Expedition Team (again, this consists of the bike, the wagon, some maps and me) does not want to spend another day slowly creeping through the countryside on dirt paths. We will take the E9, the major highway that shoots like an arrow straight to Jyväskyla, more than 110 kms away.

About 2 miles east of Orvesi while coasting down a hill careful to keep to the 1 meter wide shoulder, I hear a sickening grating from behind, followed by a jolt. I fight to keep the bike from jerking into the rushing traffic. I finally grind to a stop, and turn to see that the left tire of the wagon is gone! The grinding was the metal stub of the axle being filed away on the asphalt. I lean the bike against a guardrail and take a closer look. The cotter pin holding the wheel to the axle has sheared off. Given the tremendous stress I've subjected this equipment to this is not a total surprise. The wheel has disappeared. I have extra cotter pins, but not another wheel. I walk up the highway as trucks, buses and cars zip by at 100 km per hour. No wheel. I hop over the railing and search the steep embankment. No wheel. This is serious, very serious. Though I have managed to not get killed, which is a good thing, I need the wheel to keep the expedition moving. I search on, wandering further down the weed and grass-covered embankment. Finally, I spot a wheel-like thing partially hidden in a clump of grass. It's my wheel and it is intact. When I return to the bike, I realize I have another problem. Half of the axle stubb where the tire attaches has been ground away. Will the tire even fit back on? I carefully work the wheel. It fits, but there is absolutely no margin for error. One more accident and I'm cooked. With the wheel back on, I gingerly walk the bike and wagon about 100 yards up the road to a pull-out where I can begin repairs in relative safety. I carry a full set of tools and quickly make repairs, feeling myself very lucky that I found the wheel and that enough of the axle remains to be operational. What if it had flew off on a bridge crossing a river?

I am under way again. The main road is well graded. I have a tailwind. The kilometers fly by even though there is a constant series of hills that need to be crossed. Whomever said Finland was flat has never biked here. By late afternoon I have logged in 60 miles and am taking a break at a Neste gas station when I look to the sky. Towering dark clouds are heading my direction. No time to lose. I put on my jacket and jump on the bike, hoping to out-run the storm cell.

About a mile later, the sky turns dark gray, as if night is descending. The traffic mysteriously lightens. It becomes very quite, as if a great tension grips the land. A horse, pastured nearby rears violently and whinnies as if calling out a last warning to me.

A second later there is a bright flash, then a monstrous crackle, another flash followed by a cannon-like concussion a few seconds later. Rain belts out of the sky in super-sized drops. In seconds I am soaked. I am ascending a forested hill dominated by a large cell phone tower. The lightning flashes again, more thunder. There is no place to take shelter. I push on over the hill, hoping that the rubber wheels of my bike will protect me from being zapped by a million volts. Beyond the hill I can see more towering cumulus clouds, but beyond this advance is blue sky. The storm rages on around me. Giant logging trucks now hurdle down the road, hauling freshly cut spruce. In their angry wake I am covered in muck and mist. I dodge pieces of flying bark. The only thing I can think of besides the conduction properties of electricity is that I must be the unluckiest bicycle rider ever, and that the Gods truly hate me. It seems as if Zeus himself is now hurling lighning bolts at me, trying to stop my entry to Jyväskyla, now only 12 miles ahead.

At last, I find what I am searching for, a tiny side road leading to a church. From an earlier review of the map, I know this connects to the bike route on a quiet section of road that will lead me via an alternate route into the city. As I turn away from the mayhem of the highway, the sun breaks out and darkness lifts from the land. Wisps of steam rise from the drenched road. I slowly make my way forward over hills and by a big lake.

But Zeus isn't done. I dodge squalls all the way to Jyväskyla, ducking into tunnels, huddling with commuters in bus shelters. I am as determined to get to the city, as the storm is determined to stop me. At last I round a bend and see the clock tower of the city and a graceful suspension bridge across the lake.

By 8 pm I have checked into the Amis Summer Hotel, a converted college dormitory. The reception worker tells me that the only available room is on the third floor. There is no lift. "It's good exercise to climb the stairs," she tells. "Yeah, I can really use a little excerise," I reply, as water drips off my clothes onto the counter.

From my window, I stare out the window as yet another cloudburst erupts. I am in Central Finland and I wonder what other obstacles I will have to overcome to reach North Karelia, now about a week away. I know I cannot continue to ride 80 miles a day hauling 50 pounds of gear with a faulty axle under these conditions.

At least Finnish students live well. The room has a kitchen and a shower, with towel-warming racks. After unpacking I drag myself down the three floors, get on the bike, find a market, buy groceries and beer, drag myself back to the hotel, up three flights of stairs, make dinner, drink beer, then collapse into bed.

Interview with local newspaper, battle with bugs

The morning is picture perfect as I leave the hostel in Tampere, not a cloud in the sky, a perfect day for a bike ride. Not more than 50 yards into the day I hear a thump, then grating, then a sudden lightness of load. The wagon has detached. Fortunately, this occurs on a sidewalk early in the morning. I retrieve the wagon and make sure it is secure. About a mile later while crossing a busy street, I hear a snap. I look behind. The flag that carries the Riding with Reindeer Expedition flag has snapped off at the base. The flag, which has flown proudly since it was raised on the Åland Islands, lays in the middle of the street. I cannot retrieve it until the light changes. Big trucks and cars deftly steer around it and over it, avoiding smashing it with tires. When the light changes, I race out to the middle of the street and retreive the flag, strap it onto the carrier with bungee cords, and hope for no more mishaps.

After leaving town, the path enters a big wooded park. I followed this for several miles through birch and pine forests, past ponds with lilly pads until I come to a lake at a place called Rustholi. I have been following National Bike Route 9, but once again a sign pointing out the appropriate direction is no where to be seen. I know I have to follow the lake and head in a northeasternly direction, so I pick my way through a tangle of dirt paths until I find the trail again. For the rest of the afternoon, I travel on dirt roads winding through pastoral and hilly countryside dotted with lakes and farms. At one point, the path is no more than a rutted wagon track. It is slow going. My tires can't get a solid grip on loose gravel. On steep grades I walk. By 2 pm I am worn out and decide to stop at the lovely Saynäniemi campground about 6 kms south of the village of Orvesi.

After I register for my spot, a woman standing nearby asks in English if she can interview me. This is Kati Kääkkonen, a feature writer and photographter for the local Orevidian newspaper. I think it is a slow news day. I guess she decided to hang around the campground and wait for a feature idea to roll in. She asks what brought me to this part of Finland and whether I am lonely on such a long journey. I tell her that every day brings some new adventure and that loneliness is not an issue yet. If anything, I tell her, I hope the onslaught of adventures slows down a bit. We have a nice chat, then she takes a bunch of pictures of me posing by my bike. She says she will try to e-mail me a copy of the article.

I spend the rest of the afternoon lounging in the campground outdoor cafe, nursing a couple of Karjala beers. By early mid-evening, the clouds have moved in and rain begins to fall. I climb into the tent, kill off a few slow-moving mosquitos, listen a bit to the BBC, then try to sleep. I am awakened by something gnawing away at my neck and by other things crawling around on my arms and legs. A monster bug, some sort of half beetle, half fly with bulbous eyes and metalic skin is loose in my sleeping bag. A battalion of tiny little mosquitos buzz around overhead. I fumble for my headlamp, then grope to catch the monster which hops around sacks of clothes stashed haphazardly in the tent. I finally corner it on the edge of my sleeping bag and pummel it with my fists. It will not die, though I finally stunned it enough to whisk it out of the tent. Then, I battle the mosquitos, a different breed than the sluggish ones encountered earlier. These guys are like commandos, striking then disappearing. The battle rages for about half an hour before I think I get them all. I do not sleep well on this night.

Struggle to Tampere

My legs are stiff in the morning. I did not slept well. It is another 75 miles to Tampere. Under these conditions, it is important for the Expedition Team to hold to its discipline and use all knowledge acquired during training.

With a stiff upper lip, I scramble out of the tent during a break in the rain, pack the wagon and wet tent, and drag the bike back to the road. I'll have to get coffee later. It is 7 am and not another soul is out. The clouds are thick. A cloying mist falls, keeping everything perfectly damp. With aching legs, I backtrack around the massive lake. The bluebells, yarrow and golden rod that shown so brilliantly in the sunshine yesterday now are dull and gray. I now understand why much of Sibelius's music is dark and moody, reflecing these listless summer days when it seems as if the sun will never shine again. I bike on through a tunnel of trees down a road that disappears into infinity. Signs warn of moose and elk, but I have yet to see one of these beasts though I practically lived like one for the last 24 hours. In two hours I encounter three cars. Outside of the village of Kötliö I pass a church. It is Sunday, but there appears to be no service. I ride through silent, sleeping villages, over hills shaped by glaciers and through flatland fields of potatoes, rye and wheat. A farmer is busy bailing hay in the mist. By 11:30 I have biked almost 30 miles, somehow managing to average 8.5 mph. Outside Huittinen I see a gas station. Gas stations in Finland serve as restaurants, bathrooms, general stores, even hardware stores. I order a cheeseburger in Finnish. For the past two days I have been in an area which sees virtually no foreign travelers, as a consequence no one speaks English.

"You mean you want a cheeseburger," replies the clerk. "Yes!" I must be nearing the fringe of the known world again. After lunch I pedal on. The day seems to grow colder, the mist thicker, the hills higher. The ach in my legs intensifies. After each rest, my joints stin. I have clearly over-reached and I am paying for it now. At 2 pm I reach the pleasant town of Vammala, which straddles two lakes. I know I cannot pedal the remaining 30 miles. I ride to the other end of town and find a railroad station. Within an hour the conductor is helping to hoist my bike and wagon into the bike car. The electric train zooms off, seemingly at an incredible speed. In Tampere, I fullfill my promise by checking into a single room at the local hostel, and celebrating my arrival with a real restaurant meal.

Today, I rest, after sleeping extremely well. My legs and joints seem to be recovering nicely. Tomorrow, I head north and east, much of it on dirt roads through forest. Tampere is a wonderfull surprise, a beautiful city between two giant lakes. This is where Finland's industrial revolution started, and it's where Lenin sequestered himself for short periods before returning to lead the Russian revolution. In my two days here I'm quite taken by the place. There is a pleasant city square and open-air market on the canal that connects the two giant lakes that hem in the city from the north and south. Slender suspension bridges cross the canal to cobble-stone streets and old restored brick-built woolen mills.

Wild Time in Ålands and Beyond

The Expedition Team is quite content on the great big ship full of restaurants heading to the Äland Islands. The Team has to be dragged away from Jack's Karoke Bar where middle-aged men belt out Finnish folk songs. Give these guys a few drinks and they really loosen up. The Team debarks at Mariehamn, capital of Äland, a sort Grand Finwick among national entities. It issues its own postage stamps, has no army and contracts out complicated stuff to Finland. Although the expedition team enjoyed the boat ride, they are overcome with delight when they see the camping spot by the bay, the sun out, bikini-clad young women frolicking on a nearby beach. Mariehamn, itself, is a pleasant town of tree-lined residential streets and a small pedestrian mall with outdoor cafes. Business is thriving on this sunsplashed day. A scouting mission in the afternoon to the town of Gottby discovers a 30-foot high midsummersnight pole, gaily decorated with flowers and a crown of wooden ships circling near the top.

The next day the I set out on a mission to explore the islands, reluctantly leaving my little piece of paradise. The sun is out with a few clouds. I pass tidy little villages, farms and forest. But by mid-afternoon the wind begins to blow, clouds moved in. Heeding my lesson from last week, I quickly reach the ruins of a Russian fort, Bomarsund, where I pitch camp. While out looking for the bike ferry landing, the storm hits with full force. To make matters worse the bike ferry no longer operates on a regular basis. A phone number is scribbled on a post, suggesting that would-be riders call the "BÄT" ferry if you want it to come. I call. No answer. Heading up muddy, water-gullied roads I reach my camp and jump into the tent, where I remain for the rest of the evening except for an excursion to a nearby cafe for dinner. The wind howls all night.

In the morning, I wake to the wailing of a gang of ferocious seagulls, which are screaming at the tent and pecking at the rain fly. This was my cue to get up. With the bat taxi out of commission, I face the prospect of turning back to Mariehamn or continuing along the islands using the regular ferries until it found a way back to the mainland. I decide on principle that backtracking is a bad idea. I will go forward, not sure where I'll end up.

Under dark gray skies, I quickly pack and head toward Vardo, connecting to the next island via a barge. Next, I make it to Hummelvik, where I load onto another ferry that carries me another 75 miles to the island of Brändo, where I pedal 15 miles, and catch the Viggens to Osnäs. From here the islands are connected by bridges and barges to the mainland. I camp that night near Kustavi, having successfully visited more than a dozen of the lessen known Älands and mastering the Swedish ferry schedule. There is only one problem. I am 200 miles off course, having landed west of Turku, instead of east.

The next day I strike out due north for Tampere. I figure this segment will take two days. If the weather is bad I will backtrack to Turku and take a train to Tampere. But the weather is good in the morning. I dry off everything, so my load weight is down to normal. Plus, I feel very strong. The area I am now in is not in Lonely Planet. I don't know what it's called, but the first part of the trip I stop and have coffee and great donuts. I christen this area "Donut Land." North of Donut Land, I make good time through a relatively flat region with large farms and fewer stands of forests. There is little traffic. A fox jumps out on the road ahead of me, then peers from some brushes. He thinks I can't see him. The farther north I pedal, the more expansive are the forests, the smaller the farms. By about 4 pm I have reached Lake Pyhäjarvi. I pass on the first campground, noting that my map shows another one north of Sakya, another 15 miles to the north. Since I am feeling so robust I decide to put a few more miles on to lessen tomorrow's ride. But when I got to Sakya, there is no campground. Now I am worried. The instances of disappearing campgrounds are alarming. I ride to Eura at the northernmost section of lake, then back down the other side to another listed camp. It, too, is shuttered. By now it is very late, like around 9 pm, I have cycled more than 83 miles with a full load, a record for me. I have one alternative left. I turn onto a dirt road and enter the forest, then find a rough track and drag the bike and wagon over a hill. In Finland, it is legal to camp on private property providing you leave no trace and are a reasonable distance away from a dwelling. No one lives anywhere near where I sequester myself. I find myself in the middle of giant huckleberry field. But as I harvest the succulent fruit, I notice a curious buzzing. Mosquitoes, millions of them are swarming. They dive into my eyes. They shuttle up my nose. They fly into my mouth. I scramble to get the tent up, but in my haste derail the zipper to the mosquito net, creating an opening for the bastards to get in. It is a half an hour before I manage to kill all the bugs inside the tent. This is not the best situation. I am caked in sweat and dead mosquitos. My clothes stink. To make matters more interesting, the woods are filled with curious sounds, like the shrieking of either an owl or a some prehistoric bird. In the early morning, the rain starts. I will have to pack a wet tent and try to convince my body that it can cycle another 75 miles to Tampere, where I promise myself I will check into a hotel.

Aboard the Amerolla bound for Mariehamn

The Expedition is now safely aboard a ship that is 9 stories tall and equipped with a casino, shopping aracde, more restaurants than can be counted, a disco, and a helicopter pad. I spent considerable time early in the voyage wandering aimlessly amid this nordic floating wonderland.

We pass island after island and now have set a course into the Gulf of Bothnia, heading, I hope to the fabled Åland Islands. In case you think I'm going soft, I'll resume biking in a couple of hours for an unknown destination within the archipelago. More later.

Turku

The Expedition reached Turku yesterday afternoon where we take a much-needed rest day. The Expedition in its ever creative accommodations strategy is now holed up in a convent, run by the Bridgettine Sisters, an order established by the Pope in 1290. I arrive just before the heavens opened up again. The place is spotless, but the rules are strict. I never thought I would hear myself saying, "I got to get back to the convent before 10." The ride into Turku brought views of more farms, replaced by gleaming suburan shopping centers, gas stations and fast food joints. Downtown Turku has much character, with the older buildings reflecting a mix of Swedish and Russian styles. Swedish is the language here, and it is a bit easier to decipher than Finnish, which has been a struggle.

The bike has also sustained its first equipment failure. Shortly, after arriving at the convent I discovered a flat rear tire. That has been repaired so I was able to scoot around town again. I've booked passage for tomorrow on one of the Viking Lines mega ships heading for the Äland Islands. I'm not sure what happens after that as I have some vague plan to bike up the island archipelago using another ferry system that caters to bikes. Most of my stuff has dried out so I'm ready to head out again.

One the Road to Turku

This message may be a bit odd as I'm trying to decipher the posting instructions in Swedish. After three eventful days on the road I am within 25 miles of Turku, the ancient capital of Finland. The great weather experienced in Helsinki has turned into what the weather report calls unsettled conditions. This means thunder, lightning, hail the size of ice cubes.
Through my Balkan and Israeli folkdance connections, I got in touch with the local Helsinki folk club. Through the club and a lovely night of dancing in a Helsinki park and later meeting for coffee in a bayside cafe, I met the teacher, Wim, who, when told of my route, explained: "You can visit me. I live on a farm on Bike Route 1."

So early the next morning I pack up and pedal out of Helsinki, cross the last causeway and roll into the forests and fields. It is overcast, but no rain, and by noon I have already covered more than half the distance. I stop for lunch on a wooden causeway, constructed for bikes and pedestrians, where I eat over the water; fir, elm and oak trees, lush by the riverside. The only sound that of birds chirping and the distant plunk of a fisherman's line. I feel as if I have arrived in Rivendell itself.

Near Inkoo I lose the road and am forced to make several weary backtracks over tough dirt roads through deep forests and signs warning of ferocious dogs. At last, I find Wim's house, the one with the wooden shoes danging from the fence (He's from Holland you know," one of my new found Helsinki friends told me). Wim is a man who does everything. He farms. He repairs old wooden boats. He drives a horse and buggy for tourists at a nearby town. There is not enough room at his house so I am handed off to the lord of the manor, the owners of the farm, called Marieberg. Viveca and Hans are both doctors and live about 1 km down the road in a 100-year-old farmhouse. I stay in the spacious upstairs usually the haunt of a half dozen children and grandchildren, but empty tonight.

The next morning after a late breakfast I say good-bye and head to Ekenas, only 25 miles away. Here, I camp among the hoards, next to a tentful of teenage Finnish girls who have a boombox and are not shy about using it. In the afternoon while dining at an outdoor restaurant in town, I and all the other patrons are bombed by hail the size of ice cubes. The diluge lasts for 30 minutes. When I return to camp, I find that my tent is partially collapsed. Everything is soaked.

I am up early the next morning, make coffee, pack and am on the road by 7:45 a.m. I wind my way through more forests and farms. The farmhouses are either painted dark red with white trim or yellow gradually. Cresting one forested ridge, I encountered a strange beaver-like animal, mottled brown with gray fur. It scuttles into the woods before I get a good look. After lunch the storms hit. Lightning flashes and thunder crackles. I am on a hill, exposed. Then come the torrent. The rain shoots down so hard it blinds me. I can't keep my eyes open. I desperately look for a shelter, as such a condition on a road with a tiny shoulder is unsafe. Finally, I find an abandoned fruit stand and wait an hour for the worst of the downpour to stop. I intended to stop at a campground about five miles up the road, along one of the many fjords that cut across southern Finland. But when I arrive at the spot, there is no campground. I continue on, again in a downpour, everything soaked. I am desperate to protect my map because if I lose that to pulp I will never find my way. One of my notebooks, the one with valuable Helsinki notes, has turned to mush. It is 25 miles to the next down over a series of hills on a busy highway. I press on. After nearly 9 hours of cycling I finally reach a hotel, which seems much better than a campground. I now have a chance to dry out and get a good night's sleep.

This morning I am refreshed, repacked and reasonably re-reorganized, though the weather still looks marginal. I plan to make my triumphant ride in Turku by mid-afternoon.

Finding the Way

Today, the Expedition sent a scout team west to find a route out of town. After a 35 mile ride the party reported that a direct route had been found with abundant sources of food and drink. With this information in hand the Riding with Reindeer Expedition will leave its comfortable situation in Helsinki and ride into terra incognito tomorrow.

The above means that I took a morning ride to improve my map reading skills. I think I'm doing much better. I'm getting used to reading the Finnish-Swedish signs and with the help of my trusty magnifying glass I can actually see the map. I have to quit burning holes in it though. My route took me along National Bike Path 1, a lovely, but impractical route that winds along coast, through forests and some of the most amazing residential areas I have ever seen. The Finns really know how to plan a city. The houses and apartments kind of melt into the landscape. Everything is accessible by bike. In more than 200 miles of riding during the past four days I have yet to venture onto a road with traffic.

Yesterday, I devoted to solving the mystery of my Finnish great grandmother. The archivist at the Jewish Community Center just shook his head sadly when I was only able to give him a name. "They came and went from all over, who knows?" he told me. The visit wasn't in vain, though, I spent a delightful hour with the synagogue's cantor, who gave me the grand tour and a little history about the community in Finland. It seems I am descended partially from either soliders or used clothing merchants.

Yes, things are expensive in Finland, and for those of you wondering, so far, save for the purchase of a second stove (couldn't find fuel for the MSR) and about 100 eruos worth of maps, I've pretty much stayed within the Riding with Reindeer Expedition rather tight budget.

The Road to Sibelius and Where Am I?

Yesterday I managed to make a 50-mile roundtrip ride to Ainola, the home of the great Finnish Composer, Jean Sibelius, into a 70 mile ride. The day was brilliantly sunny. I quickly found the bike paths out of town, then turned north toward Tuusala on a beautiful path along the Vantaajoki River. Within ten miles the suburbs were behind me and I was in and out of forests and fields. Lupines, columbines, yarrow and clover were in full blossom taking advantage of the 18 hours of sunshine. Although Finland is fairly flat, there are slight changes in elevation that one feels on a bike. The hills are not high enough to gain a perspective so my usual means of determining direction was not available. Also, the sun continued to be in strange places. I made a series of miscalculations in Tuusala, which added about 8 miles to my trip, but eventually I saw Lake Tuusala, and then a tiny sign for Ainola, the turn-off for the Sibelius house.

Located in a splendid grove of pines over looking a flowering garden of peonies and roses, the house is more or less a giant cottage. It is furnished as if the master himself still lived there. In the drawing room is a baby grand piano, which Sibelius seldom used to compose, preferring instead to write the music in his head before committing it to manuscript. But after 1929 and after composing 7 symphonies and numerous other pieces, Sibelius found he could not write anymore music. For the next 38 years his publishers waited desperately for the much anticipated 8th symphony.

It never came. I departed Ainola in high spirts, thinking I would return to Helsinki by mid-afternoon. I wasn't paying attention to the map, and thought I was heading in the right direction. But as I entered the suburbs nothing looked familiar. While consulting the map, a passerby offered to help. Where I am? I asked. He confirmed that I was heading in the exact wrong direction and pointed out that I needed to take the road to Malm. At the train station, just follow the path next to the tracks toward Helsinki, he told me. I quickly found the tracks, but once again veered off into unchartered forest. Again, I flagged a passerby, this time a tall blonde who could have easily passed for Ms World. Where am I? I asked. She was shocked that my destination was Helsinki. "You are going to Russia," she said. This was not good. I retraced my steps back to the Malm train station, and again flagged down a helpful Finnish passerby. Where I am? I asked yet again. I said I wanted to go to Helsinki and pointed in a direction. No, no, she said, and pointed in exactly the opposite direction. This was the point were I decided my once reliable sense of direction was hopelessly messed up. I followed her directions, checking the map at every junction. The print was so small I used a magnifying glass to read the street names. At last I crossed the Vantaajoki and connected with the familiar path. If you think Finland is cold, forget it. It was nearly 80 degrees F yesterday. I've worn my shorts everyday and a t/shirt. Also, please excuse weird or lack of punctuation as these keyboards are strange and the meter is always running.

Helsinki, City of Bike Paths

The Riding with Reindeer Expedition has landed in Helsinki. The team is tired, but in good spirits. This means that I am fine and the bicycle arrived undamaged. Helsinki is a beautiful city of water, curving streets, parks, trams and a tangle of designated bike lanes. Except for the downtown, it is also a city that is largely empty as many residents have fled for summer homes by lakes and the sea. I went riding a few hours after I arrived even though I had not slept for about 24 hours (the flight over). I put the bike together and by evening I was on the streets. I promptly got lost. Fortunately, Helsinki is a smallish big city and all roads eventually seem to bring you back to the water. I'm here three more days, enough time to determine the route out, and learn some more Finnish.