Riding with Reindeer - Bicycling in Finland

Riding with Reindeer now an e-book

2011-07-14T16:07:00.000-07:00

I am pleased to annouced that on July 1, 2011, Rivendell Publishing NW released the e-book version of Riding with Reindeer. The e-book is available in all formats (Kindle, I-Pad, Nook) for $6.99.

Riding with Reindeer to be published in April

2010-02-09T17:47:00.000-08:00

My apologies for being absent for the past year; but, I have been working feverishly with my editors and production team to get Riding with Reindeer - A Bicycle Odyssey through Finland, Lapland and Arctic Norway finished (no pun intended). Review copies are now out. The book will be available to the public through the publisher's website (http://www.rivendellpublishingnw.com/) starting in mid-April. It should be available in retail outlets by late May or early June. I am planning a number of signings in Seattle area bookstores. The website will post these when these dates are confirmed. We are also planning events outside of the area, and will announce these when confirmed.

Riding With Reindeer: The Book

2008-05-21T11:43:00.000-07:00

Since returning from my ride, I have been busy writing a book about my adventures in Finland and Arctic Norway. Like the trip itself progress has been slow, but steady. At least in the relative comfort of my study I am not dodging rain storms. I've managed to maintain a fairly regular writing schedule and as of this day I'm about two-third of the way finished with the first draft. The blog only skimmed the surface of the trip. In the book, I provide many anecdotes on Finnish history and culture that were relevant as I made my way through various parts of the country, as well experiences that I could not get into the blog. Through writing the book and reviewing my journals, notes and photographs, I more or less have been able to recreate the trip in my mind. Sometimes I find it hard to believe I actually did it. How did I manage to rouse myself from my little tent eat a few morsels then ride a folding bike through the forest and then the soggy marshes of Lapland for 50 days! It's amazing what you can do if you just snip off a little bit each day. Writing the book has been like that. Writing an entire book is rather daunting, but my goal was to just try and get a few pages down every other day or so. The plan seems to be working and now I have about 300 pages finished in rough form. By mid-summer I will begin the editing process, which is always brutal. By the first of the year I hope to have the manuscript to the editor, and by next year at this time, if all goes according to plan (and it seldom does), Riding with Reindeer - A Bicycle adventure through Finland, Lapland and Arctic Norway - should be in the bookstores.

Postscript

2007-08-31T08:23:00.000-07:00

In the comfortable confines of Helsinki and no longer facing the prospect of packing up and traveling somewhere I've had the opportunity to scan the journal. As anyone who has traveled and kept a journal knows, one sacrifices good grammar, spelling, etc., for the sake of getting thoughts and observations down on paper before they become stale or are lost. Just ask Lewis and Clark. I am indebted to the many libraries that provided a free 15 to 20 minutes of internet time. I felt like I was back in the newspaper business hammering out stories under deadline. Unfortunately, I did not have a rewrite person or a copy editor on the other end to clean things up. Many of these entries were made after I had ridden 50 to 80 miles over bad roads and through storms. I did my best to compose properly, but with the meter running while trying to decipher computer instructions in Finnish, Swedish and Norwegian at various times I wasn't always successful. The keyboards here are different, containing the additional letters, ä, ö and a few Norwegian ones that aren't on this Finnish keyboard I'm currently tapping on. I read a few of the back entries and am slightly embarrassed (but not too much) by obvious errors, the tenses that switch, bad spelling, etc. But because I recorded these impressions as soon as I could I think I've captured the essence of the trip in its naked truth, as well as my state of mind at the time. I really was going mad in North Karelia after being pounded by incessant storms and seeing nothing but forest for weeks, but it's hard to dredge those feeling up now in the comfort of a Helsinki internet cafe nursing a beer, a comfortable hotel room awaiting me a few blocks away. When I return home I will clean them up. But not too much.

And one last thing. I did learn some Finnish. I can probably recognize at least 100 words or so, days of the week, road signs (warning you are entering a military bombing range). I still can only count to one, which is rather limiting. In the time remaining I plan to continue my studies and I hope to be able to count to two by the time I return home.

Return to Helsinki

2007-08-31T08:11:00.000-07:00

I caught the intercity train to Helsinki on Thursday. This is allegedly the slow train, but it splits the countryside at about 100 mph. From my window seat I feel like I'm hurdling back through time, seeing areas that took me days to bike through flash by in seconds. The scraggly shrub birch of Lapland is replaced by the giant (they seem giant to me now) birch. It's the spruce that are scraggly now. The land opens into many farms with hay neatly shrink wrapped in white. The bales resemble marshmellows lined up waiting for the roast. We cut through cloudbursts, sunbursts and at last we slow and approach Helsinki. The sun has broken through the clouds. The golden light shines off the Olympic stadium tower, Finlandia Hall and the golden domes of Upenski Cathedral glisten. I gather my stuff and ride to the harbor where I'm greeted by a rainbow framing the bay against a backdrop of tumultous clouds and shafts of sun. And then a strange thing happens. It gets dark. The moon and stars come out, the first time I've seen the night sky.

The ride is over. It's time to go home.

Expedition retreats Rovaniemi

2007-08-28T01:15:00.000-07:00

After three days of eating and saunas and laying around the big house I feel like I'm returning to somewhat of a normal state. I do mostly nothing during this period except for an occasional bike excursion and a run to the market.

On Monday I pack up and ride to the the local hotel which doubles as the bus stop. Here, I dissemble the bike once again. I'm getting very good at this. It only takes 30 minutes to get the bike in its case and to dismantle the wagon. The two hour and forty minute bus ride to Rovaniemi covers the same ground I chugged through nearly three weeks ago. It's hard to believe I biked all of this. The reindeer seem to be more numerous, gathering in larger numbers than before.

In Rovaniemi I put the bike together and ride to the camp ground on the banks of the Ounasjoki. I meet a Swedish bike rider, Andreas, who, along with his wife, has biked from the North Cape and plans to continue to Turkey. He's fascinated by my bike, and can't seem to get enough photos of it.

This may be the last night of camping. The temperature at night is now close to freezing. It has been dropping steadily each day. I have also noticed that we now have a real night, with darkness. The sun sets at about 8:30 pm. When I first arrived in Helsinki it set at about 11:30 pm. Each day is noticeably shorter.

In the morning, I am off to the train station to see if I can get to Oulu on the Gulf of Bothnia. I would like to spend two days there before heading back to Helsinki, again, via train.

The last ride

2007-08-26T05:21:00.000-07:00

The sun beams through the hut windows. This I didn't expect. I am 40 miles from the village of Sirkka, which is home to the Levi ski resort, host of the coming World Cup ski championships. Each day I seem to have grown more weary, my muscles aching a little more at the end of the day. I have one more ride left in me, and today will be it. When I reach Sirkka I will have completed a grand loop around Lapland.

The route takes me back into the dreaded fells, the high hills in Lapland. But with the sun out they, at first, do not seem as bad as before. The forest here is brimming with reindeer, and they seem to be out in force today to say good-bye. The herd includes an elusive white one that prances like a ghost through the dark woods. By mid-day what had been a nice morning begins to deteriorate. Clouds move swiftly in from the east. To lighten my load I am only carrying a little food. By noon this is gone. I stop the bike and wander into the woods. The forest has a bumper crop of huckleberries, and like a hungry bear I paw through the thickets, eating away.

In the last 10 miles I am vaguely aware that there will be no more big rides with a load. I've done my 2,200 miles. I've accomplished what I set out to do. But it seems as if the cascade of events, the nonstop stimulus of adventures, has worn my brain out. When I ride now I cannot sustain a thought for long; not even a decent day dream about how nice it would to roll back into Helsinki or to sleep in my own bed and not worry about moving every day. My thoughts are scattered fragments, and these are followed by blankness. It is as if my brain is too tired to function. I see the asphalt and trees. I hear only the distant rustle of pine boughs. As Tommy observed yesterday the birds are gone and so are their songs. The tips of the birch have turned yellow. The purple fireweed blossoms are now withered brown seed stalks, the pinks and blues of the lupine are only a memory. Only the hearty yarrow is still in bloom. Every day it gets colder.

When I finally crawl into Sirkka, I know I have done it, but I cannot feel it. The long journey has sucked the emotion away from my body.

I need to rest.

I rent an entire house;, four bedrooms, sauna, fireplace, big kitchen and enough room to rummage around for a few days. It is over. After returning from the store with food and a couple of cans of Karjala beer, I unlock the key to my home for the next three nights and try to put in perspective what has just happened.

Still Cycling South

2007-08-26T05:09:00.000-07:00

The morning is dismal, with rain dripping from an endless gray sky. With the cold it is difficult to rip myself away from the warm log Sämi cabin. The 15 miles to Enontekio is painfully slow across an endless plateau in the chilly rain. At last the town comes, a smattering of sad buildings and end-of-season cabins that looked like they have seen better times. But there is one thing here that cheers my soul. A gas station, and that means warm coffee and donuts. I know I can get five miles out of a good donut. It also gives me a break to slip on my head warmer, winter cycling gloves and another layer under my parka; it's that cold. A few miles outside of Enontekio, heading west toward the Swedish border I am overtaken by two young Finnish men on bicycles. They are on a two week outing. Tommy, a chemistry student, speaks very good English. We cycle side-by-side, talking away for the next 10 miles while his buddy keeps a sharp lookout for cars. The conversation is like a energizing tonic. I hardly notice the miles that go by, or the hills. Tommy is curious about my bike. He thinks I am probably the first person ever to ride from bottom to the top of Finland, plus continue on to what he refers to as the North Sea, on a folding bike.

"If you stay here another few weeks you will see snow," he tells me. "Winter is coming. The birds are gone and the reindeer moss is no longer by the side of the road."

Tommy tells me he's off to Mexico City in a few months to continue his studies in Spanish. We part at the road junction. Tommy and his friend head north, up the left arm of Finland, while I turn south to Muonio, following the E8 which hugs the border with Sweden. I have now crossed Finland from east to west, as well as from north to south. By 6 pm I reach Muonio, having covered 65 miles. I rent a "hut" close to town. At 17 Euros it is a bargain. Shortly after I tuck in for dinner, the sky darkens and the rain falls. It continues all night.

Where are your reindeer?

2007-08-25T02:23:00.001-07:00

In the morning, I am up at 6 am, quickly break camp and ride to a lonely spot of road where I was told I could catch the bus to the Sami town of Kautokeino. Once again, I dissemble the bike and wagon, then wait at this lonely outpost. I am joined by a young Norwegian man, also with a bike (not dissembled), who comfirms that I'm at the correct spot. At last a mini-bus pulls up. Three other Norwegian men and their bikes are already stuffed into the passenger compartment. If I had not taken my bike apart there would have been no room for me. The bus drives through a beautiful forested valley of tall Norwegian spruce and birch.

In the middle of the forest the driver stops the bus. We wait. She turns to me and explains in broken English that we are waiting for a Sämi woman, who will meet us at this spot. With all the bikes crammed into the aisle of the bus there is only one seat left.

"She will sit next to you," declares the driver. "You better hope she doesn't have a reindeer with her."

The woman does not have a reindeer. We are off again, climbing into a narrow canyon. The Alta River tumbles through a series of cataracts. I am reminded of the North Cascades. At the top of the canyon we emerge onto a broad plain that resembles Eastern Montana, a big grassy expanse with herds of reindeer scattered about and low mountains on the horizion. We let the cyclists off, and then the three of us continue to Kautokenio. The two women babble on.

"We are talking in Sämi," the driver tells me. "She was my neighbor when I lived in Kuatokenio. She has many reindeer. I drive a bus so I don't have reindeer."

I ask, "Does she know where your reindeer are?" The woman translates the English into Sämi.

"They are at the coast," she says via the driver.

I have this vision of reindeer basking in the sand at a luxury hotel at the coast. Then I remember what Hammerfest was like. The image dissipates.

There is more I want to ask, but the language barrier makes this difficult.

The bus driver lets the woman off at her house.

"What will you do in Kautokeino?

"I will put together my bike, then I might continue to Hetta in Finland or stay in Kautokeino. Right now I really would just rather take a nap. Do you have to drive back to Alta today?"

"Yes, but first I will go back to visit my friend. She has invited me over for coffee and fish. Besides, I still need to collect her fare."

The driver asks where I want to be let off. I wanted to tell her Helsinki, but settle for a block of buildings that constitute the village center. The driver bids me good-bye and I am left in a dusty parking lot with my two bags. I begin building the bike. This is truly the most Sämi of the villages I have visited, way off the tourist path. Indeed, I am next to the tourist office, which contains almost no tourist information. The sun is out, and for the first time in weeks I am actually warm. The Sämi go about their business while I assemble the bike. A man walks by in the traditional Sämi tunic. The village has the laconic feeling of a Navajo or Mexican village. No one seems to be in a big hurry. Everyone stops and greets another. The woman from the tourist office without tourist information, sits in a chair outside the building and watches me put my bike together piece by piece. At last the bike and wagon are assembled. I buy some food at the local store. I really would like to spend the night here, but it's only 1 pm. A hand written sign on the office of the local campground announces it is closed until 6 pm. Would-be customers are directed to a nearby blue house. I find the house and knock on the door. No one is home and it seems as if no one will be home for a very long time. The sun is out, a rarity in these parts, I decide to use the afternoon to make a dash back to Finland.

It has been awhile since I've cycled and my muscles cry out in protest. I slowly make my way across a treeless plateau. Storm clouds scuttle in from the north. Shortly before crossing the border back into Finland, at the 34 mile mark, I reach the 2,000th mile of my trip. A mile further is the tiny Sämi settlement of Tunturikeskus. I rent cabin that is built of thick, sturdy logs in the traditional Sämi style. While I am inside the office/cafe/reindeer shop, a man is eyeing my bike curiously. He asks where I've been and where I'm from.

"I am Sämi," he tells me by way of introduction.

"Do you have reindeer?"

"Oh yes, I have many reindeer."

"Where are they?" I am not so sure why I am so suddenly interested in knowing where everyone's reindeeer are. But it seems to be a good conversation starter in these parts. The Sämi seem eager to tell me whether they own reindeer. Besides, I have not seen any reindeer since I resumed pedalling. They were so abundant in their big herds yesterday. I wonder where they have gone.

"They are over there," he says, motioning to some vague place in the great fathomless plateau I've been slowly pedaling across. I look "over there" and see nothing. I realize "over there" might be a hundred miles away.

The storm hits during the night, but I am snug in my log house.

Escape from Hammerfest

2007-08-25T02:12:00.000-07:00

I follow the Expedition orders to retreat south using any available land transportation means available, whether it be by pedaling or riding a reindeer. Actually, it is by bus, which in Norwegian Finmark requires a bit of scrambling. The reader board on the front of bus bound for Alta simply says "bus." Fortunately, it seems most Norwegians speak some English. Through inquiries I get on the right bus.

The road from Hammerfest is precarious to say the least. It cling to the sides of steep barren mountains. A single paved lane is cut into the side. The roadside falls off into a bottomless fjord. For the first time, I see reindeer in big herds munching away at the moss and grass, the only thing that seems to grow in this climate. Through a tunnel that seems a million miles long and over a narrow bridge with no room for a bike, the bus moves slowly away from the freezing winds of the most northern city in the world. To cycle this route would have been suicide. After an hour, we turn away from the fjord and ascend a high maintain valley bisected by a tumbling river fed by gushing tributaries from higher reaches. Storm clouds obscure the higher peaks and veils of rain cloak the upper valleys from which these tributaries originate. Occasionally, the mists part revealing spots of last year's snow clinging to the mountains.

We descend into another fjord and there is Alta basking in the afternoon sun against a backdrop of snow-flecked mountains. The alpine forest has also returned, meaning the climate is less severe here. Indeed, it is much warmer in Alta.

I get off at the city center. I assemble the bike and ride about 6 miles to the site of ancient rock carvings for which Alta is famous. The stone carvings dating from 2,000 to 6,000 years ago depict reindeer and bear hunts, as well as a figure on skiis.

Because it is warmer here, I camp next to the Alta River. For the next few days I will follow the path of G. Acerbi, the Italian traveler, who, in 1799, was one of the first Europeans to visit these parts. Acerbi was always complaining of mosquitoes, something I can relate to. But the cold has killed off the pests. They will bother me no more.

Waiting for the bus in Hammerfest

2007-08-21T01:08:00.001-07:00

I will always remember Hammerfest for the bitter wind that blew in from the north, from the Arctic Ocean. It was a constant reminder that the North Pole is closer than Helsinki. I would have froze to death if I had camped in a tent. Instead, I found the town's only campground, a small site by a lake but dwarfed by the ugliest apartment complex I've ever seen. That building was perched on the hill that surrounded the lake. As usual, the proprietor was gone, back at 5 pm, so I did the best I could to make myself busy in the ensuing two hours. There isn't many options for touring as the city is perched on the side of a cliff, and the only road winds into these bare granite green mountains to God-Knows-Where. Besides the wind is howling. I bike out to the site of an old fort. Apparently the British saw fit to sack the town in 1809, and the lone cannon monument marks the site where the good citizens of Hammerfest erected a fort after the British attack. The city again was leveled during World War II. Food resupply is my next priority, and then I kill time in the library, catching up on the news in Newsweek, the only English language periodical on hand. When I return, I am greeted by the campgrounds resident reindeer herd, who oblige by posing quietly by the Expedition bicycle, banner aflutter for the last time. The cabin is warm if not a bit spartan.

I'm up early in the morning. The cycle of squalls, wind and sun continues without let up. I bike into town and discover that the bus schedule to Alta has been changed. I'm an hour early. For the first time in the trip I dissemble the entire bike. This takes about 45 minutes. It's clear I'm going to have to get rid of some stuff before I flew home. The library has opened so I have an opportunity to update the blog. The plan is to stay in Alta tonight, then catch an early bus to Kautokeino, the last significant town in Norway, build the bike, and bike the like hell until I get to the Finnish frontier town of Hetta.

Hammerfest

2007-08-20T03:56:00.000-07:00

I disembark in Hammerfest, billed as the most northern city in the world. It's further north than Alaska, Siberia and all those inhospital places in Canada. People can live here thanks to the warm gulf stream current. But I could never live here. It is not as grim as Vardø, but it's not a place I want to spend a lot of time in.

When the ship approached the harbor the only thing visible at first through storm clouds and squals were the mountains and a giant oil and gas plant. Yellow flames flickered from smokestakes. Once the Nordkapp entered the harbor, I spied the town clinging to edge of a bay, the gray mountains rising in the background. It was hard to leave the comfortable ship and my cozy cabin. I made my way down to the ship's hold where my bike rested against a giant clothes hamper. The hatch slowly slides open, the attendant motions for me to push the vehicle to the loading elevator.

A blast of freezing wind is my shore greeting. The wind cuts through the air like a frozen knife. A few minutes on shore and I realize I must start south, and soon. I might have to spend the night in this place if I can't get a bus to Alta this evening. My plan is to get back to Finland, via Munio. I need to get back to a place where it's warmer. Most expeditions meet with disaster after reaching their goal. I cannot let this happen. I'm weary, but I must be careful.

I wander into the tourist information office and get directions the local campground. The bus schedule indicates that I can't get a bus out tonight. I'm stuck. I park the bike by the library, not bothering to lock it (who is going to steal such a thing and where would they go?) and walk into the town mall. I find a what amounts to a fast food restaurant and order a chickenburger with a drink. The small treat reconfirms what everyone in Finland told me: Norway is very expensive, perhaps the most expensive country in the world. My little chicken burger costs about $20. This is another reason to flee. I dwaddle over my fries, glad to be out of the wind, and plot my next move.

Aboard the Nordkapp

2007-08-20T03:49:00.000-07:00

Last night the clouds part and I am witness to an incredible sunset. The entire sky turns brilliant orange, and the sun, giant luminous ball slowly skips a path to the northeast before gradually settling behind the mountains. I sleep soundly, but awaken at 5 am. On my way to the wash room I look at the sky. There is not a single cloud visible. It is going to be a good morning.

The way to get around the North Cape is via the Hurtigruten, the ferry line that doubles as both a passenger ship and a freighter, carrying supplies between isolated Arctic towns. In late morning I pedal out of the mountains, back along the lake and into to Kirkeness. The MS Nordkapp is already moored in the harbor. I clamber aboard, now familiar with the ticketing routine, and book passage. I splurge on a cabin with not one, but two port holes. The bike is loaded into the hold with supplies and a few cars.

As we leave Kirkeness, the sun break through the clouds. In the distance are the mountains of Siberian Russia, the sun glinting off a score of rivers cascading down bare rock. They shine in the glare like beads of molten silver. The other side of the fjord is masked by veils of rain, obscuring the mountains. It seems odd to have the sun out here in the most northern reach of my trip. Who would have thought I would be out basking on sun deck in the Arctic Ocean? But nothing lasts long here and before long it is cold and cloudy again.

We stop at Vardø, brightly painted houses clinging to an island where nothing larger than a blade of grass grows. Vardø sets a new standard in grimness seen on this trip, and there has been a lot. As the boat approaches the harbor, three men clad in 18th Century costumes, one carrying a drum march down a lane to the quay. One carries a drum, another a fife and the third holds a standards. With fife and drum playing, the ship ties up at the dock. As passengers stream off for a short shore excursion they follow the trio as they march through town pie-piping their way toward a museum.

By sunset we are at Batsfjørd, obscured by a sheet of rain, but beyond the sun peaks through a tumultuous cloud layer. A perfect rainbow emerges framed against the red-brown sedimentary cliffs that line the shore. I spend the night in the luxury of my cabin, which even has a television. Believe it or not I can catch up on the news via BBC.

Aboard the MS Vesteralen

2007-08-19T07:50:00.000-07:00

The rain continues all night, but in the early morning it stops. By 7 a.m. I have loaded the bike and begin a short ride through residential Vadso, past the church and then down the hill to the town center. Not a soul stirs in the early morning. The store are closed. I cross the bridge to the town quay. In the distance, I see a big ship slowly closing in on the dock. I wait on the quay in a large parking area next to a warehouse. Except for a sleepy forklift driver and a couple of dock hands, I am the only one waiting as the ship eases to the dock. I search for a place to buy a ticket, but there is no one to ask, and no place that even remotely resembles a ticket office. Seagulls whirl and dip overhead, cawing. Crew members throw huge ropes to the dock workers, who tie the lines to divets. A gang plank automatically lowers to the quay. A man in a uniform (the captain?) emerges. What do I say, "greetings earthman?"

I wait about ten minutes to see what happens, perhaps someone with a portable ticket machine will show. A few dazed passengers wander down the gang plank and into a small souvenir shop which has suddenly sprung to life in the warehouse. The forklife driver begins loading pallets of supplies from the warehouse into the hold of the ship. Time is ticking away and soon the ship will leave. I need to be on that ship, please don't leave me here! I park the bike and clamber up the gangplank where the captain still gazes resolutely at the empty quay.

"Where do I buy a ticket," I ask, assuming the captain, a man of the world, no doubt, speaks English.

"Inside the ship," he says. He points a ticket counter just inside the hatch way.

Of course, this makes perfect sense. Train and bus tickets can be purchased aboard their respective vehicles, why not on a ship?

I am soon at sea, the bike safely stowed in the hold along with a couple of cars and a lot of fish. The MS Vesteralen, one of the ships of the Hurtigruten Line that ply the northern waters servicing the small towns in Finmark, steams east toward Kirkness, the last town in Arctic Norway, a few miles east of the Russian border. On the deck, I watch as bleak islands of granite and moss pass, along with rusting Russian fishing trawlers, spewing black fumes. Clouds obscure cloak mountain tops on the mainland, but on the lower slopes a multitude of rivers cascade from unknown heights to the sea. Cormorants skivvy across the gray water.

Two hours later the ship arrives in Kirkenes. As I ride out of the hold I hear a voice exclaim, "look, a Bike Friday." I turn and bike toward two woman who are gesturing toward my bike. The woman, who are from Holland and who are waiting to board for the westward journey, are flabbergasted to see my folding bike.

I ride to the town center, park the bike at the tourist information office just as the rain plelts down. It is one of those morning where I'm not feeling like doing much. It is wet and cold outside. A few degrees colder and it will snow. So I take a tour of a World War II bombshelter. Kirkenes, which was occupied by the Germans at the onset of the war, was bombed 320 times by the Russians. The town is still honeycombed with underground cave-like shelters. The bombshelter provides some relief from the rain, but it's only 4 degrees centigrade inside.

After lunch at a fast food restaurant, I start cycling out of town, which means pedaling up a steep hill. On top of the hill is the decaying hulk of a steel mill. Kirkenes owes much of its existence to iron and nickel ore found in the nearby mountains. The steel mill closed a few years ago and seems to be in decay. Past the mill, and by a lake I come to the Frontier Museum. It's open and it's warm. I spend a long time here absorbing more information on Kirkenes' fate during World War II.

I've procrastinated enough. It's five miles over a mountain to the nearest campground. Part of the way is by bike path, which follows the shore of lake. The campground office is closed, but I call the number listed on the note and reach the owner. She agrees to drive to the office and rent me a cabin.

"We don't get much business this time of year," she tells me, as she unlocks the office.

"But it's still August," I say.

"Up here mid-August is usually when the weather starts deterioriating and it gets cold."

After renting the cabin, I am left with one more task. I am out of food. I unpack the bike, then ride back over the hills to the nearest grocery store. But uopn reaching the store I decide to bike all the way back to Kirkenes. Here, I ascend a hill for a view of the entire town and bay.

Expedition Reaches the Polar Ocean

2007-08-18T00:03:00.000-07:00

I cross the border into Norway. There is a sign that says you are crossing the national border. It does not tell you that you are in Norway. I guess they figure if you've come this far you should have a pretty good idea which country you are in. The road is littered with squashed remains of dead rodents. I'm not totally sure but I think they are lemmings.

The vegetation has given way to scrubby birch, moss and heather. The northernmost part of Finland was hilly, almost mountainous. While the Finns will not admit to mountains in their country, the Norwegians can boast of some pretty high peaks. My navigation task is to avoid these, though I must cross a headland pass to reach the Arctic Ocean.

At the village of Skipaguerra, I turn west on the E6. The Tana River fades away as I slowly grind my way up the mountain range which separates me from my goal. The road winds relentlessly up into the moors. At last the road levels out at a lake. I can see no more higher hills. And then I descend, rounding a bend at mid-morning, I catch a glimpse of water. Is it another lake? A river? Or, is it the sea? I can't tell. I coast another mile and pull off the road. I find my binoculars, then study the map. This is no doubt left. The water I see is the westernmost arm of Varangerfjord, which connects to the Barents Sea. I have made it! I get back on the bike and coast for miles down to the village of Varangerbotn. This is the time for a celebration. Unfortunately, one of the many disadvantages of traveling solo is that you do not have a companion to celebrate with. At the very moment when I want to proclaim to the world my accomplishment, I find only cawing seagulls and a gas station. In the gas station, I buy a muffin and a cup of coffee. This is my reward for having survived almost two thousand miles of hills, pounding rain, muddy roads and sometimes unbearable solitude. Then I remember I have no money. Norway is not a member of the European Monetary Union. They still use the Kroner of which I have not a single one.

"Uhhh," I stammer to the clerk. "Do you accept credit cards."

They do. I'm grateful. I tell the young woman clerking that I just biked from Helsinki, via the Aland Islands, on a folding bike. She seems singularly unimpressed with this accomplishment. In fact, it sounds almost too unbelievable. I might as well have told her I had come from Mars and that my spaceship was parked in back.

The road to Vadso, the E75, hugs Varangerfjord. Still not satisfied that my achievement has been properly registered. I stop the bike at a pull-off, clamber down the rock embankment and dip my hands into the Barents Sea. Further on down at another pull-off I climb back down to the water, hoping to find a place to eat lunch. I find a nice flat rock and begin nibbling away at my usual fare - a hard-boiled egg, cheese and salami. I soon take notice of the large bones nearby. I see ribs, backbones and the feet of some large creature. It's not a whale or a sea creature, but appears to be the remains of a cow. The bones have been picked clean by the circling birds. I am suddenly unnerved by my surroundings. I eat in a hurry and leave.

I pass small fishing villages. In the dim light of the gray afternoon, they appear bleak and as weary as I. Large wooden frames, fish drying racks that resemble the trusses of a ship being built, stand by the sea. But there are no fish. The sky is gray, but thankfully there is no head wind. Water tumbles out of the headlands in frothing cascades down to the sea. There are no trees, nothing higher than grass and moss grows here.

By late afternoon evening I arrive in Vadso, the administrative center of Finmark, Norway. I find an ATM and load up on Kroners. Then, I pull out my Lonely Planet book, and turn to a dog-eared page where I circled the only affordable noncamping option, a furnished apartment. The woman on the other end of the line doesn't speak English, but I manage to convey the message that I want to rent the apartment. Thirty minutes later she is handing me the key, and I settle in for the night just before a massive storm pummels the city. This is a bleak place. Along the road, by the sea, old wooden fishing boats rot on the rocks.

The northernmost village

2007-08-18T00:00:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

Utsjoki

2007-08-17T23:53:00.001-07:00

This is the kind of morning I hate. Thick mist has settled on Inari. The lake, with its magical islands has all but disappeared in a canvass of white. The good thing is that I am rested after two days in Inari, and ready to ride. Today, I plan to ride about a 50 mile or so to a campground listed on the map along the Utsjoki River. This will place me about 50 miles southeast of Nuorgam, the northernmost settlement in Finland. I start out heading north on National Bike Route 4. The mist is like a wet sponge. I start to get wet so I stop and put on my rain pants. Over a rise, I come to a small lake. In the middle of the lake I see the figure of a man standing in a canoe, fishing. His outline is fuzzed. It seems as if he isn't real at all but the product of an impressionist painter. The dismalness makes it difficult for me to muster enthusiasm for this morning's ride. In the first hour-and-a-half I encounter rise after rise. My pace slows to a crawl, barely 6 miles per hour.

At mid-morning I come to the junction with highway 971, which juts off to the east to Kirkenes, Norway. My original plan was to go to Kirkenes via this route. I had calculated I could reach the city in about two to three days. But now I have become fixated on cycling to the northernmost point, Nourgam. I stay the course and continue grinding north on highway 4.

The hills soon cease and I enter a flat, featureless gray green land of cedar bush and a few Inari pines. The mist lifts A few reindeer wander the road, despite the long wooden fences that parrallel the road. In many places the fences have openings where the reindeer can wander into the right of way. I pass bogs, ponds and swamps, where bean geese and swans linger.. If I had to camp here I would be in trouble because there is no dry ground. Cars or campers streak by every ten minute or so, but other than that I am by myself in a silent dull green soggy land. I come to a monument, which tells me that this was the site of the last battle of the Lapland War between Finnish forces and the Retreating Nazi Army. It is a hellish place.

Every once in awhile I pass a lonely Sami cabin, but no one ever seems to be home. To the east, the hills are cloaked in dense rain. I'm hoping the clouds stay put. I do not need more dampness in my life right now.

Toward late afternoon the terrain becomes more mountainous. I enter a valley bissected by the Ochejohki and bordered by high hills covered in pines. I am feeling much stronger now on the bike and am congratulating myself for perservering the ride. By when I reach the campground, I am greeted by a sign that says "closed for the season." I check my watch. There is enough time to reach Utsjoki the next town, but it's about 20 miles to the north. My hastily concocted plan is to look for a campsite along the road, but if one fails materialize to continue all the way to Utsjoki, which would bring my mileage total to an inhumane 80 for the day. The road twists through a river canyon with steep walls. The few decent campsites are already occupied. By 8:30 p.m., with the light growing dim I pass the spires of the Utsjoki Church and wobble into the campground. I am dead tired and rather astounded that I made it without further injuring my knee though saddle sores have returned with a vengance.

As I unroll my tent, a young man jumps from a neighboring tent and rushes over to help. Oescu from Belgium has been hitch-hiking through Finland between hikes across Lapland's many National Parks. He tells me he has just finished a midnight trek across the wildly beautiful Kevin Luounnonpuisto. Like me he is a solo traveler and eager to talk to anyone. As he helps jam in tent stakes, I can barely see him because he is obscured by a cloud of mosquitos. They are so thick here that when I inhale I breathe them in. I am choking on mosquitos. When the tent is up I dive in and Oescu has no choice but to flee to his before he is eaten alive.

In the tiny kitchen cabin, Oescu and I join a German couple that just started their bike trip. Thankfully English is the common language. We talk about our travels. The Germans, who are also bound for Arctic Norway, warn me that Norway is very expensive. After such a difficult start for the day, I am grateful for the company and the conversation. Tonight I am tired, but happy even though I need to spend extra time killing off mosquitos before I button up the tent for the night. As if to highlight my changed mood, the sun comes out just before setting and once again everything is once again bright and new.

Among the Sämi

2007-08-14T00:56:00.000-07:00

I have limited time so here is the brain dump on the last four days.

Day 1, left Rovaniemi on pleasant day. Surprised that area north of Arctic Circle looks like area south of Arctic Circle; good-sized forests, farms. Encounter headwinds, blowing from the north, that grow in intensity as day progresses. Gusts to 30 mph, makes progress difficult. I put in my 50 miles, then pitch my tent in a farmer's yard converted to a campground on the banks of the Ounsjöki, Finland's largest river.

Day 2, temperature drops about 40 degrees overnight. I don't sleep because it's suddenly so cold. But in the morning I'm thankful that the wind has abated. I make good progress and by mid-afternoon I'm already cycling through the Sämi town of Kittilä. The local campground is deserted. The tiny office is deserted, but a phone is scrawled on a board. I call, no answer. Two men chopping heads off fish in the camground kitchen can't help. I bike back into town. It seems deserted. I find the owner of a guesthouse and rent a room. I am the only guest in the town's only decent restaurant, but the reindeer pasta is good here.

Day 3, rain and 40 miles of dirt-mud road through a wilderness of bog, marsh and forest. I encounter a pair of German cyclists who are familiar with the area. He tells me he's biked here for 15 years and I'm the first American he's ever encountered and one of the few going north. Soon, the Germans have disappeared over a hill. At the last village I enjoy what I suspect will be my last cup of coffee and donut. The days dreary and the rain comes in annoying drizzles. I must pay more attention here to riding because the road is littered with potholes and slick with mud in some places. At first there are many farms, but these give way to forest. Once in awhile there is a log cabin and barking dogs. The road knifes through the forest in a straight line, disappearing over an endless series of hills. There is almost no traffic so I can dodge potholes by weaving to both sides of the road.

I have no idea where I'm going to stay on this night. At 5 pm I come to a bar-knife-thread-and-spool everything store. I am in downtown Pokka (hwy 955), which seems to consist of this building, a few ramshackle cabins and a pen of barking huskies. The barman, a talkative Sämi, talks me into renting his cabin, which I accept as the mosquitoes are voracious here and I'm not eager to pitch camp in the bog. Problem is that the shower is in the women's restroom. "Just lock the door when you take a shower," he tells me. Later than night as the bar fills with drinking men and women, I sneak in to take my shower. There is banging on the door from women yelling in Finnish or Sami (I can't tell which). I assume they are yelling at me to hurry up or get out or why is a man in the woman's bathroom, anyway. I hurry to dress and flee into the woods back to my little cabin, forgetting to take my only bar of soap.

Day 4. To ease my load, I resdistributed the wagon's weight. I worry about the stress on the beleaguered axle, and worry about how it will survive more ruts and holes in the mud track. But I'm also running out of food. Need to reach Inari today or else. Not far from Pokka the road turns to asphalt. I pass through moors, the forest dwindles. I pass many big reindeer, including white ones. They are shy here, will stare at me until I get close, then trot in front of the bike about 20 yards. They scatter into the forest when I try to get close for a picture. This is the area of the great reindeer round-ups of yesteryear, a vast forest and bog in which the reindeer roam and eat. By noon, the infamous fells come into sight. They appear on the horizon as low lying hills. There is no way around them. They are the biggest obstacle between me and the Arctic Sea. At first the grade is easy, but the road continues to go up and up, steeper and steeper. At the highest fell I do a foolish thing and challenge myself to try to climb it in my lowest gear. This is a mistake. I reach the top and encounter three forest workers with binders and clipboards. One speaks a few words of English. I ask if there are more hills. They don't sugar coat the news here. "Yes, there are more hills," she replies, as I drip with perspiration. On subsequent hills, I begin to feel pain in the tendon of my left knee. By mid afternoon it is very painful to pedal, especially up hill. On one of the last fells I am attacked by a cloud of stinging flying ants. I am stung on the back of the neck. This takes my mind off my painful left tendon. I limp into Inari in the early evening, buy a beer, rent a cabin and collapse. Today I rode 70 miles one on leg over the hills of bicycle death. I'm three days from the polar sea.

Day 5, Inäri. I'm resting today, visiting the Sämi museum and hiking. The knee muscle is only hurtful when biking. Another dull and dismal day, light rain constant. I have bike out on a muddy road to the trailhead leading three miles into the woods to the Sami Wilderness Church dating from the 18th Century. The trail leads into the forest and disappears. Big gray-black clouds seem to be bearing down on Inari. No hiking for me today, I decide, and turn back, arriving at my cabin just before the downpour begins. I'm getting better at dodging storms. I'm don't remember the last sunny day. Was it Rovaniemi?

My time is up. Hopefully, not too many typos.

Reindeer missing from Santa Claus Village

2007-08-09T05:02:00.000-07:00

The Expedition Team sent a scouting party to the famed Santa Claus Village, which straddles the Arctic Circle about 4 miles west of Rovaniemi. Unfortunately, Mr. Claus, who keeps a regular office at Santa Claus Village was out for a break when I arrived. But I had the opportunity to visit his three-story log cabin office, which is decorated with many photos of Claus meeting with heads of state, military officers - perhaps generals - and just regular people. Mr. Claus does not permit you to take a photo of you with him, should it come to that. As part of his business empire, Mr. Claus employs a full-time professional who will gladly sell you a portrait. The village consisted solely of restaurants and gift shops. Next to the present Santa office construction workers are busy building a newer, bigger office, which, according to the signs, will be ready by November of 2007. So where is the Man? Judging from his booming empire, he was probably out doing some project management, a hardhat replacing traditional garb. At the village post office, elves busily stamped post cards. Other elves, obvious in their red elf suits and curly pointed shores, smoked in the back alley.

Curiously, I see no reindeer here, the very place you would expect to see them hanging out, maybe even helping with the mail. I may have stumbled on the answer. In a shop called "Santa Food" I stumble upon an entire counter of smoked reindeer meat! Next door, at another shop is a stack of reindeer hides! In the next shop, I see a lot of big knives, never a good sign if you are a critter. But next across the aisle, I spy a row of hats on antler hat racks.

If you are a reindeer and reading this blog, please note the warning. Stay clear of this area if you know what's good for you.

The Capital of Lapland

2007-08-08T01:38:00.000-07:00

In the heat of the late afternoon, I pedal across the bridge spanning the Ounasjoki and enter Rovaniemi, capital of Lapland. You would think after crossing the Arctic Circle that it would get colder, but oh no, it's really warm here. The 55 mile ride from Kemijärvi to Rovaniemi was miserable. The traffic is intense and there was little margin for error on the miniscule shoulder. Fortunately, the drivers slow for the many reindeer wandering around. During quiet stretches I can the sound of tinkling bells in the forest. Many of the reindeer here, in addition to their bright blue or orange collars, sport bells. When I hear the bells I think to myself, "Ah, another Rudoph!" I see a lot of young reindeer trotting alongside either mother or father. In the afternoon I pass what appears to be a mine shaft with "Lordi Park" scrawled in white paint across the top. Lordi is a popular Finnish rock group whose members dress up in outrageous costumes. I wonder if this is their secret club house.

As I walk my bike across the city square, filled with Laplanders enjoying beer and other refreshments at the sidewalk cafes, a man come sprinting up to me. He asks if I needed help with directions. When I tell him where I have come from, he is astounded. He grabs my hand and shakes it vigorously. He directs me to the Hotel Santa Claus, which also administers the Rudoph Hostel, where I am currently staying. It's not Ruka, but it's good enough. I am here for another full day. This will give me a chance to rest and plang the route north for the final push. I now expect to reach the Arctic Ocean by August 20th. It's good that I'm getting there earlier than planned because the days are getting shorter rapidly. It seems the sun is setting a good 10 minutes earlier each day.

My physical condition is still pretty good though I'm currently one giant festering bug target. I got broiled by the sun yesterday and today. I see that some of my skin is falling off. I've I had few small accidents with the bike, with some components now being held together with duct tape (like the rear view mirrow). I had mended the rearview mirror by using duct tape to fasten it back onto the handle bars. This didn't work that well, as it lacked rigidity. My new plan was to lash it back on with dental floss, brace it with a popsicle stick I found by the road, then tape the whole thing over. The wagon axel remains in good shape, so I think I can make it without the whole apparatus falling apart. There is no room for error. Timo told me that last bike mechanic in Ivalo, about 200 miles north of here, closed shop for the season already. So from here on up I'm on my own.

Due to numerous technical problems and the lack of internet facilities further north, I regret this may be the last transmission for awhile. I've had trouble accessing the blog on Internet Explorer and can only use an alternative browser which must be negotiated in Finnish, a language in which I'm not exactly fluent in. Although I've learned many words, I can't seem to get my mouth around the longer words.

Crossing the Arctic Circle, Discovering a Giant Snowman

2007-08-08T01:29:00.001-07:00

It is hard to leave Ruka after three days of R&R in my luxurious apartment, but within an hour of renewing my quest it seems that the sauna, two couches and the Muppets in Finnish, had become only a distant dream.The day is fine with a threat of rain (of course), but nothing that I cannot handle. By mid-afternoon, I have reached the fabled Arctic Circle. I expect a government survey marker, but in true Finnish style there is only a 30-foot tall inflatable snowman and a coffee shop. I pose with snowman, then celebrate my entry into the Arctic with coffee and donuts. Along with way, at a monument to a Winter War battle, a Finnish couple having a picnic offers me coffee and biscuits.

By evening I had reach Kemijärvi after a long 75 mile day. Just as I pull into the campground I encounter three other cyclists; one young man and two older men. Later, after we had all pitched our tents, I introduce myself. The young chap's name is Timo and he speaks some English. Timo tells me he and his father and his father's friend started from the "top" of Finland and are heading south to Turku. "It's downhill on the map," he says, when I note that the only cross-country cyclists I have encountered are all going south. Timo provides me with valuable information about the road north. It seems that after I rest a bit in Rovaniemi I will face about eight days of travel. At some point I will reached the dreaded "Fells" long hillocks that I've become to call the Hills of Bicycle Death. Timo grimaced when he described the day they had to cross the Fells. "It was very bad," he said. He also warned me about putting the bike on the bus. His bike and his father's bike sustained damage during a bus trip to their starting point. The driver shoved the bikes in with little regard to fragile components. Timo and I talk long into the night, and exchange e-mail addresses in the morning.

Hiking the Bear Trail

2007-08-04T02:08:00.000-07:00

I am happily at rest in Ruka, enjoying my luxurious accommodations. I'm sure more hardship lays ahead, but I'm not thinking about that for the next three days. I haven't done much in Ruka, though I did hike the first few miles of the Karkun Kierros (Bear Trail), a multi-day trek that passes through a number of national parks and terminates here. For the first time since I've been in Finland I felt I like I was in a real forest. The trees were gnarled and stunted, not the uniform clean and boring forests that I passed for days. Huckleberries abound. I saw squirrels, which have been rare, and startled a family of grouse.

Most of today I eat, watch television and take saunas. My favorite show is the weather report (saa in Finnish), which is at the end of the news - uutiset. I promised my butt there would be no biking on at least one day. And so the bike, which has its own room, sits quietly at ease. Tomorrow, if the weather holds I'll take a day trip to Jumma, some 18 miles northeast, which is reportedly the region of Finland and Europe's last wilderness area. But if the weather is bad you'll find my curled up on this couch. Monday, my planned departure day, is supposed to have perfect weather. If so, I will begin the two ride east to Rovaniemi, capital of Lapland. Here I'll rest, again, reprovision and prepare for the final leg of the trip, covering the 400 miles to the Arctic Ocean.

(A note on photos: It is getting more difficult to transmit photos due to equipment incompatibility and the amount of time it takes. Most of the pictures transmit with huge sections cropped out randomly.)

Lapland Rocks!

2007-08-04T01:49:00.000-07:00

In the morning, the sun shines; 24 hours now without rain, a frickin miracle. After last night's motorcross entertainment I'm not in the mood for sticking around. I pack up quickly and leave. The road climbs into the hills. Within an hour I see the biggest hills, almost mountains, I've seen in Finland. I can also see ski lifts and a jump tower. I am approaching Ruka, billed as Finland's premier ski resort. But it is summer and Ruka is quiet. The Finns have been trying to lure visitors here in the summer by offering big discounts on accommodations. The center of the village is ripped up for construction. Pile-drivers pound away at new foundation supports. Cement trunks whoosh past. I wonder if this will be the peaceful place I envisioned for my multi-day rest. At the information office I pull out the tattered ad I had cut out the previous day from a promotional guide. Yes, they do have apartments and no they don't face the construction, but look over the hill on the other side. I am exhausted after six straight days of riding, much of it through horrible weather. This is no time to be picky. I rent the "clubi" apartment sight unseen. I cannot pedal another mile.

When I open the door to my third floor apartment, I am astounded. I had expected a modest studio, or one-bedroom at best. What I see is a 1,400 square-foot penthouse. I wander my new digs in amazement. There are two bedrooms, two bathrooms, two showers, a loft with four more beds, a giant kitchen with enough utensils and cooking stuff to feed an army. There is a washing machine, a huge box-like machine that turns out to be a drier, a big television and my own personal sauna. And the view! I have a 180 degree view of all of Southern Lapland. How lovely it looks from here. No longer will I need to consult obscure weather reports. I can watch the weather from one of my two couches. The master bedroom is adorned with a pair of antique skiis. The walk-in closet is 25 times the size of the tent I've been thrashing around in. The twists and turns of this trip have been boggling. One minute I'm living like a wild beast in the woods, my shoes rotting away, surviving on hard-boiled eggs and cheese. The next minute I'm wandering around in a palace.

I will be here for three nights, but I may stay longer. I may never leave.

I quickly stocked up on beer and stuff I could cook for the next three days. Another wonderful surprise - the market is in the same building as the apartment, just two floors down.

Motorcycles on Santa's Lane

2007-08-04T01:37:00.000-07:00

I am in Kuusamo for less than an hour. The hotels are booked. I move on. The clouds meance. Three miles north of town I turn into a campground/spa complex on a road that translated into "Santa's Lane." I think I'm going to see a lot of this. I pay my seven euros and pitch camp on a dirt knoll within sight of the giant spa hotel. I wander to the hotel. It most certainly is a spa in the European fashion. Everyone roams around in big white fluffy bathrobes looking postively serene. Except me. I am not wearing a big fluffy white bathrobe. I wear my last pair of decent pants (only a few stains) and a grease-streaked shirt. On the second floor, I find the object of my search: The buffet. Whenever I find a buffet, I attack. The buffet owners lose money on me, because they unwittingly have set up what amounts to a carb and protein paradise. This buffet is very good, with all kinds of salads, meat and fish dishes. I've had salmon prepared in more ways than I can recall on this trip. From the buffet I look down upon a poolside wonderland full of rocky grottos, canals and happy children swimming about.

After the wonders of the buffet and the spa with the froclicking children in the water grotto, it is rather difficult to muster up enthusiasm to return to my tent. My tent consists of about 3 square feet of space and barely enough space to squat. Putting on pants requires me to elongate my body the length of the tent in a lying position. Then I have to wiggle into the pants.

I linger a bit in the lobby browsing a brochure describing a ski resort 15 miles north alled Ruka. This is an advertisement for fully equipped "clubbi" apartments for 50 Euros a night. There is a picture of a slick Scandic-designed interior apartment with a kitchen and living room. I look at the picture. I think of my tent. I rip out the ad. This is the place for me. I will set course for Ruka and the clubbi apartment. I must. I have cycled now for five straight days, covering about 60 miles a day. My pace is phenomenal, considering I have battled through storms while lugging 50 pounds of gear. But I know I can't possibly keep this up. I got to rest before my body has some sort of meltdown.

In the evening I can't sleep. It happens that the campground is used as a motorcycle race track by restless kids who are sequestered with their parents in the caravan park next door. The roar of the cycles on Santa's Lane lasts far into the midsummer's night. This is not to linger. I have to move on.

Expedition reaches Lapland, rides with reindeer

2007-08-02T06:37:00.000-07:00

A ray of sunlight slants in through the window of my hotel room in Hossa. Am I dreaming or is the sun actually out? It is.

Today is supposed to be my rest day, the day that the big storm hits with all its fury. But I learned from the news the previous night that the big storm hit yesterday. It came early and I rode right through it. Today is going to be decent, then another storm is expected. There is no time to waste. I will try to get to Kuusamo at the southern fringe of Lapland.

The sunlight dapples through the forest bringing out the different hues of green. Lakes shimmer blue and cottongrass fluffs lazily in the breeze. Reindeer, lot's of them, emerge from the wood, staring at me as I pedal by. Unlike the solidary animals I saw a few days ago, these all wear brightly colored collars around their necks. During one stretch, I crest a hill only to see three large reindeer with magnificant antlers clomping my direction. I take a picture, calling them the three amigos. The reindeer all seem to be fascinated by the bike. They stare at me and after concluding I'm not a wolf they clomp over for a closer look. The reindeer have huge feet, adapted for the snow. But too me, it looks like they are wearing shoes four sizes too big. After concluding I'm not a fellow reindeer, they usually loose interest and wander back into the forest. Today, I am truly riding with the reindeer.

The weather holds all day, the first day of riding in more than a week that I haven't been soaked. I have stopped for a few minutes at the visitor's center in Kuusamo where they have a free internet access. I may spend a couple of days here if I can find a cheap hotel. Some sort of celebration is in order. According to the map I have reached Lapland.

More storms to Hossa

2007-08-02T06:25:00.000-07:00

Under dark threatening skies I leave Suomussalmi. The rain hits about 20 minutes after I leave. the map is imprecise and I take a wrong turn. I must double-back a few miles. The wind kicks up. The trees sway and howl in the wind. The road climbs steep hills. I am confused because there are no signs and I'm not sure I'm on the right road. There is nothing but forest and a thin line of wet pavement. After an hour of being not sure of my path and after carefully consulting the map I decide I am on the right road. The place names on the map are spelled differently than on the road signs. The hills get steeper. I have to walk, lugging my bike and wagon up 10 percent grades, rain smashing into my face. My rain suit holds, but the constant downpours are beginning to drive my crazy. I think about what my next stop, the little town of Hossa, is going to be like. I day-dream of sidewalk cafes, a sun-splashed market square, an open air concert. When I can't sustain a thought I sing. My repertoire is limited to Singing in the Rain, Somewhere Over the Rainbow, Rain Drops are Falling on My Head. I can't remember the verses so I just make up the words. When I tire of singing. I curse the hills, usually as a steep one approaches. When I see the dark veil of yet another squall heading my way I curse the rain. And when the big drops slam down I laugh and yell at the sky "is that the best you can do. Is that your best shot. You call this rain?" I talk to the few reindeer that venture out in this horrible weather. "Nice rack!" What else can I say to a reindeer? I try to focus my mind on all sorts of other things, but today it is difficult. The miles drag on so slowly as if time is standing still. Toward mid-day my saddle sores are causing excruciating pain. I stuff a towel between my shorts and riding pants, hoping to cushion the sore spots. Perhaps I can patent this device: The Bicycle Diaper. I shift endlessly on the saddle trying new positions to ease the pain. The rain, the sameness of the forest, the gray green are constant, ceaseless. Everything I have known seems to have washed away. My world is my bike and the wet endless forest. I can't even stop for a proper lunch. I grab food in snatches from my handlebar bag between downpours. I stand and gobble down hard-boiled eggs, a slice of cheese or salami. The ink on my map runs, the paper is a pulpy mess. I curse the hills again. I curse my bad luck. But I keep moving. I must keep moving even if I have to crawl to Hossa. There are few cars. Most that pass have Russian license plates. I'm only a few miles from the Siberian border. I understand why people go insane in these conditions.

There are no sidewalk cafes in Hossa. The first campground has no cabins. They are all rented. The campground itself is a sea of mud. The clerk tells me there is a hotel by the road. They may have a room. They do, and I am saved for at least another night. As I unpack my soggy stuff and try to dry it using every available hook and knob in the room, a shaft of bright light beams in through the window. The sun has come out. "Where have you been!" I yell.

First Reindeer Spotted

2007-07-31T06:52:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-30T00:19:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-30T00:01:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-27T03:15:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-27T02:49:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-24T01:35:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-23T00:57:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-19T01:26:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-19T00:43:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-19T00:16:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-16T08:30:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-15T08:45:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-11T01:06:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-10T06:20:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-09T00:46:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-05T06:22:00.001-07:00

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?

2007-07-03T22:07:00.000-07:00

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

2007-07-02T04:52:00.000-07:00

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.

Through Finland to the Arctic on a bicycle

2007-06-11T13:27:00.000-07:00

On June 30, 2007, I plan to leave my Seattle home, fly to Helsinki, Finland, and begin a 2,300 mile self-supported bicycle journey. My path will initially head west to Turku, then south to the Aland Islands, the southernmost point in my trip. From the Aland, the expedition turns north to Tampere, then northeast to the university town of Jyvaskyla, then east to the lake country. At this point the route is somewhat uncertain, though I'm sure it will be clearer at the moment of decision. The current plan is to continue east to Savonlinna, then head directly north to Kuopio (site of the world's largest fire-heated sauna). After my sauna I turn directly north into Finnish Keralia, skirting the Russian border. At Kuusamo, I again head west to Rovaniemi, capital of Lapland. I must reach this point by mid-August to have a chance at riding to the Arctic Ocean. If the weather and my legs hold, I'll pedal through the land of the reindeer to Ivalo, and into Norway to Kirkenes, a fishing port on the Barents Sea. I must return to Helsinki by September 3 to catch my flight home.

After publication of my first book, The Gentleman From Finland - Adventures on the Trans-Siberian Express (available through Amazon, Barnes and Noble and independent bookstores, http://www.rivendellpublishingnw.com/), I developed a strong interest in Finland. This journey is the result of that interest. The bike gives me the opportunity to feel and experience the country on "ground level." I plan to visit areas of political and historical significance, including the haunts of Jean Sibelius, the composer; Carl Gustav Mannerheim, who led out-numbered Finnish forces against the Russian onslaught in the winter of 1939, and Alvar Aalto, the architect. The last part of the trip will be in Lapland, homeland of the Sami, the original inhabitants of the north. Here, I will encounter Sami reindeer herds and hopefully not herds of mosquitos.

I will ride a Bike Friday New World Tourist, a specialized 27-speed folding bike designed for expeditions such as this. When folded, it fits snugly into a suitcase that can be checked in as regular baggage on any airline. During my 4-day stay in Helsinki, I will gather the last of my supplies, build the bike and the axle and wheel assembly that converts the suitcase into a gear-carrying wagon. The wagon will hold a small tent, sleeping bag, stove, a few days supply of food, spare parts, shortwave radio and other essentials.

I have learned that southern and central Finland are great places to bike tour. They are relatively flat with many dedicated bike routes. The north and Karelia are somewhat unknown. I guess I'll find out. I fear the wind.

So come along for the journey. I cannot guarantee entries every day. My writing schedule will depend on finding internet cafes every few days or a reindeer with a laptop and a broadband connection.

And if anyone has ever biked north Rovaniemi, please post a condition report!