Solo Through-Hiking and Wild Camping Across Norway

Six Self-Sufficient Days Through the Heart of Jotunheimen National Park

As I stepped into the Norwegian wilds, my body felt charged with freedom while my mind tallied every possible disaster.

One late afternoon I stepped out of a taxi, shouldered my pack, and walked into the home of the giants. The road ended where the wild began. I had planned a week alone through Norway’s interior, carrying my survival chances on my back, and within minutes was cursing my first mistake: twenty-eight kilos of it.

Before discovering ultralight gear or the finances to fund it, I was determined to carry everything I’d need. Even freeze-dried meals add considerable weight and bulk. I was wild camping too, occasionally on snowy ground. The prospect left me unfazed in my mid-twenties.

But the air was electric after months of city fatigue. Soon I was gazing across 3,500 square kilometres of Norway’s highest peaks, with only the cold for company.

I wasn’t remotely qualified to be there, and that was precisely the point.

I had an innate need to test myself, to take the risk and own it, to see what happened when there was no one else to rely on. It offered a glimpse of a world before civilisation, softened only by the modern comforts of food and shelter.

No fanfare, no witnesses. I just emailed my family that I’d be out of touch and went in search of awe.

Only recently have I realised how rare such journeys are. Most people seek company and comfort; I seek solitude and silence. What others find in entertainment and indulgence, I find in austerity. It was, I see now, a form of self-preservation disguised as adventure.

Around frozen lakes and through snowy passes, I traced a week’s route by instinct and the rough measure of daily distance.

A personal priority was not losing daylight and, consequently, my way. Running out of light before reaching camp is one thing; finding a place to pitch wild in the dark is another. That was one reason Norway appealed to me as a trial run. The latitude meant dusk and dawn merged at that time of year; even at two in the morning the torch was redundant in a world that refused to turn dark.

Another draw was Norway’s allemannsretten, the principle of everyman’s right, which allows anyone to roam and camp freely with care. Exactly the ethos that elevates adventure.

One afternoon stands out above the rest: climbing alongside a waterfall to reach a frozen lake cradled by snowy peaks, the scene appearing as though engraved in frosted glass, with the relentless mist and drizzle. The moment was so still, so perfectly unreal that I pitched early just to absorb it.

On late-season snow, I bedded down in bliss, only to be woken by scratching, scraping, and the soft compression of heavy hooves in the night. Peering out into the half-light, I found my camp surrounded by a herd of reindeer grazing the lichen beneath the snow, my tent their table’s centrepiece.

Why animals affect me so deeply I do not fully know. Perhaps it’s the absence of artifice, a language beyond words. In their company, I stop performing. I just exist. I feel most connected to the world when I make myself the only one in it, witnessing the assemblage of alien lives that exist so naturally in nature’s shared living room.

Most people go their entire lives without ever feeling true wildness, to stand as the odd one out while nature goes about its business. You become the encounter the animals report to their kin later.

The fjords were gripped by cliffs. Snow bridges broke to reveal crisp creeks beneath. Mountains shrouded and unveiled themselves in mist and rain. It all felt lifted from an expedition novel. How lucky I was to experience it for myself. The daily rain did nothing to dampen my mood. If anything, it reinforced its authenticity. The muted tones and low visibility were what made the place so ethereal.

Near the end of my journey, the calorie deficit began to intrude on my meditations. It was no longer background noise but a sharp focus. Nine-hour days and rationed meals were wearing me down. My pack grew lighter, yet I grew weaker in parallel. Tempted by the promise of supplies, I finally gave in at a mountain refuge, leaving cash for a couple of protein bars, calling it an unheroic but safe end to a self-sufficient experiment.

By camping midway between refuges, I ensured I was mostly alone. If I did see anyone, they were usually heading the other way. By moving with purpose, I’d avoid small talk and keep my protective bubble against social engagement intact.

It was solitude I craved most: the silence, the self-reliance, the raw company of the wild. What began as a week chasing freedom ended in finding peace in the absence of everything else. It asks nothing of me, yet it changes and steadies who I am, cleansing the city’s silt from my mind and leaving a clarity in the calm.