Day 4: Sälka-Tjäktja
On the third night, the skies opened up and rain came pouring down on us. Fortunately, our loan tent managed to shield us from the flooding quite well: by morning light, only a small puddle had formed inside the tent in a bumpy spot. Since we didn’t want to start hiking again before the rain had stopped, we gladly took the opportunity to chill out in the comfort of our sleeping bags until late in the morning.
When we eventually got our backpacks packed, we stopped by the huts for some last-minute shopping. The hot-and-cold treatment in the sauna and the river had somewhat subdued the pain in my knee, but I still winced at the thought of putting pressure on my right leg despite all the sports tape. Chef had the stroke of genius to ask the hosts if someone had left behind a spare pair of trekking poles. To me, such a possibility felt highly unlikely and I wouldn’t have even bothered to ask. But lo and behold, they did in fact have a spare pair – how lucky could I possibly get! The hosts refused payment for the poles, and I’m finding it hard to describe the feelings of relief and gratitude that swept over me at that very moment. A couple of popped painkillers later, we were right back on the trail.
The trekking poles soon became unexpectedly useful, when we had to wade several streams that the heavy rain had made extra challenging to cross. I always loaned one of the poles to Chef so we both could keep our balance while stumbling on slippery rocks. One of the crossings, however, seemed a bit scary: we would have to get knee-deep in the water, and the flow was strong. We were convinced that one pole each would not be enough to keep us from losing balance while also carrying our backpacks. At first, we considered the possibility that Chef would do the crossing first, then throw the poles back to me. However, the stream was wide and we couldn’t risk losing the poles. We walked around for a good while looking for a narrower crossing spot but saw none.
Once again, luck was with us when one of the hikers having a lunch break nearby came over and offered to help us. He told us he enjoyed crossings like that and had already gone back and forth thrice that day to help others cross. We got to borrow his friend’s trekking poles, which he then collected from us on the other side. After the half-hour hassle, we finally made it across without falling in the water. Wading such freezing streams without shoes on does wonderful things to your feet, by the way!
Then begun our uphill battle toward the highest point on Kungsleden, Tjäktjapasset (1150 m): first a gentle rise and eventually a steep climb up a muddy slope. It’s amazing how far a person can go without really bending one of her knees at all – I pushed myself up with the poles and my left leg while my right leg just sort of stiffly dragged behind like dead weight. We were moving slowly again, but we didn’t let that ruin our mood. The views kept getting better the higher we got. Pictured below is the perfect camping spot we saw on our way to the top. A level, grassy spot next to a little stream for drinking water, with amazing views far down the valley – what more could you ask for? We were not ready to call it a day yet, but we shared this tip with a couple of really tired-looking passers-by a bit later.
Right after Tjäktjapasset, the scenery changed dramatically from idyllic greenery to barren rocklands. So. Many. Rocks. The Sälka-Tjäktja leg is only 12 km long, but felt like twice as much due to the never-ending rocks. We passed by a couple of camps and snorted at the thought of putting up our own tent there; we didn’t even want to see another rock again, let alone wake up in the middle of the bastards the next morning.
We also passed straight by the Tjäktja huts, because there was no sauna there. Besides, any otherwise potential camping spot would have been ruined by the rockpocalypse surrounding us. Our perseverance was rewarded when we found a comfortable, grassy spot next to a thundering river. The only downside were the millions of mosquitoes attacking us, but Chef’s campfire kept them away long enough for us to enjoy our dinner without needing a blood transfusion afterward. This time, a dip in the freezing water didn’t seem appealing, so we opted to crawl straight into our sleeping bags and marinate in our own filth overnight.
Day 5: Tjäktja-Alesjaure
At least from the point of view of an antisocial Finn such as myself, Central European hiking tourists seem to have a strong need for undesirable social interaction and handing out advice nobody asked for. On the fifth morning, we were harassed by the French instead of the Germans. Variety is the spice of life! A group of French people passed by our camp at the crack of dawn (or at least before 9 am) and took it upon themselves to wake us up by incessant yelling. “Hello! HELLOOOO THERE! Time to wake up! Hehehehehehehe! Lol!”
Oh well, at least we got the day going. For some reason, my memories of this 13-km leg to Alesjaure are hazy at best. Despite the bunch of photos I took, the details still escape me. I do remember the trail becoming easier and going pleasantly downhill for a good part of the day. Kungsleden occasionally passes through fenced areas the locals use to pen their reindeer, and we managed to catch a glimpse of a herd of these handsome fellas, who barely paid any attention to us. Based on my photos, there were some river crossings as well.
Right by the Alesjaure huts, there is a meandering, turquoise river that many might recognise from popular Instagram photos. The best photos of the river could be taken by climbing a nearby mountain, but we couldn’t be arsed to strain our bodies to take the same photos hundreds have taken before us and better than us. Instead, we continued on to the huts.
The huts are built on top of a small, steep hill with a view over the aforementioned Instagram river, as well as the Alisjávri lake gleaming on the other side. There are several buildings for accommodation, as well as a large main building with a shop and a huge dining area. Next to the outhouses, there is a sign pointing to probably the world’s most majestic pissing-in-the-wind spot for the gentlemen.
We got to the huts right in time for the ladies’ sauna, so I left Chef to set up camp for us and headed straight to the delicious warmth. In the meanwhile, Chef had arranged a surprise for me: that night, we wouldn’t be sleeping outside in a tent, but in a real bed in the warm indoors! It cost Chef 500 SEK (~50€) per bed, which at that point of the hike seemed worth the price. We ran into Mister D. from the Sälka sauna again and happily shared a room with him.
While Chef and D. took their turn in the sauna, I was unsuspectingly wandering in the yard and accidentally got in the middle of another hiker couple engaged in a breakup of epic proportions – by the end of the spectacle, one of them got on a helicopter and just flew away. I tried to cook myself dinner, but all the gas stoves were occupied by a Massive Group of Brits. Soon the other party of the breakup rushed in with a few friends, sat at the same table with me and began a deep and thorough analysis of what had happened earlier, trying to justify their own assholeish behaviour. I was too hungry to stay and listen to the drama, so I decided to go wash some laundry instead.
This time I didn’t want to go to the mixed sauna. Instead, I was watching like a hawk for a chance to heat up my food. Chef and D. joined me later, and eventually there were only the three of us left, sharing our snacks. D. ate our smoked cod roe paste and gave us a big chunk of Cadbury’s chocolate in exchange – trade makes the world go round, amirite? We had to sit in the corner of the kitchen, because the Massive Group of Brits had spread their snacks all over the biggest dinner table, thus “reserving” it for their own use in the morning. Where were those world famous manners then, I ask?