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Aloha Spirits in Northern Norway

We traveled to Northern Norway to document the joy of surfing in extreme, but breathtakingly beautiful conditions.

Aloha Spirits in Northern Norway
BY JACOB WESTER

Steep mountain sides surround us, like wise trolls from a distant timeline, weathered and worn by long-gone glaciers, green moss now covering the black rock. White sheep forage on steep grass, defying the chilling winds funneled by the deep valley. The subtle hues of the arctic circle are welcoming, comfortable on the eyes. When rare sun rays pierce through the low clouds, the scenery reveals its vibrancy, as the waves reflect a translucent cyan blue before crashing loudly onto white sand. A small but playful groundswell is building, the offshore breeze grooming playful lines down the point, making for welcoming conditions for acclimatizing to cold water and thick neoprene. Knowing it is our last surf before a few days of hard wind, we take full advantage out of every ripple the North Atlantic Ocean sends our way. Tomorrow this place will have taken on a very different, much more hostile appearance.

"When rare sun rays pierce through the low clouds, the scenery reveals its vibrancy"

The front

The front is due to arrive any hour now, weather charts calling for anything in between regular bad weather and full arctic storm. In our fishing cabin in the quaint fiord, weather and surf forecast websites are refreshed hourly, for any update or hint on where to find the most manageable conditions. Wetsuits dried and ready, fresh wax coat on the surfboards. Tents are inspected, every seam scrutinized. To properly score in this part of the world, equipment means everything, and any inconsistency can ruin a session, the whole trip even. As our social media devices are put on sleep mode and reading lamps are switched off, the wind grows in intensity, rattling our windows through the night. Every surfer knows the feeling of combined anxiety and excitement, the questions that linger in our minds while falling asleep before a swell. Tomorrow they will be answered; we tell each other before updating the charts just one last time.

Clear skies

The morning after the winds have subsided, and when arriving at a secret coastline we have been given directions to, we are greeted by clean waves, improving with the incoming tide. A few cars parked in the grassy field outside the quiet farm village, and local surfers getting changed are signs that in 2015, no surf spots are kept away from satellite photos and internet forums. Still, there are enough of waves to keep us all warm in the frigid line-up. The media crew on the beach is doing their best to keep dry. The rain keeps hammering down; to a point where little freshwater streams start flooding the field, and cameras start breaking down. If finding good surf this far north in October is a daunting task, documenting it is proving even more difficult. It's easy to mistake the athletes in the water for the tough ones; stripping naked in near freezing temps and paddling out into the North Atlantic Ocean to get their fix of far-traveled energy. Instead, the real heroes are often the ones on the beach, stumbling on slippery rocks, wearing layers upon layers of technical clothing, cameras in plastic bags, fighting the elements to get the shot, all to make the trip "worth it". Even if the true reward is in the waves surfed, without documentations they are just memories, and in a time where success is measured in thumbs-up icons and visitor stats, the golden memories of the moments you shared in the water are no longer enough, for better or for worse.

Mythical northern lights

A window of blue afternoon sky is getting nearer, and from experience we know that it might be only a matter of minutes before the rain starts again. In only a week, late summer has turned into autumn, the rain crystallizing above us, capping the black mountains with a fine layer of white snow. In front of the picturesque lineup we pitch our tents on wet grass, sheltered by the cliff wall on one side and some old fishing sheds. Neoprene is hung to dry after hours in the water, not that it won't still be wet the following morning, but any attempts to make surfing in the Arctic easier count. As dark falls, we make another pot of pesto tortellini and prepare for the night, to the sound of polished rocks rumbling in the shore break below our tents.

Like a faint torch, a striking green hue shines through the tent fabric, disappearing just as quickly. The sound of zippers does its best to penetrate the ocean's roar, as we curiously peek our heads out into the freezing wind. Moments after, we sprint out in sweatpants, cameras in hand to document the fabled phenomenon the past week's cloud layer has prevented us from seeing; the Aurora Borealis. It starts with only the faintest streaks of green and blue, seemingly appearing out of thin air, only to vanish before our eyes have had a chance to adjust to the dark. Every pulse becoming more radiant, and before we know it we are gazing in awe at the dancing curtains, shifting colors under starry skies. After a week of battling the elements, it's as if Mother Nature has decided to treat us with just a taste of the breathtaking beauty she is capable of, as if we have finally proven ourselves worthy. With our jaws still open, we watch on as the mesmerizing curtains of emerald green are veiled in a dark cloud layer, and the winds once again take hold of the bay. The exhibition is over for now, but these islands will stay in our minds forever. See you next time, Lofoten, may the forces of life yet again gravitate us towards your majestic shores, because in the hardship of finding what we came for, something else has emerged, a yearning for the undisturbed, the unknown and the truly magical. It's waiting for you no matter where you are in the world.

Camping Western Australia

A vibrant red, dusty highway stretches out before us into what seems like infinity, at the far reach of our sights it distorts and shimmers from the afternoon heat, fading into the blue of the horizon. For the past hour the image has stayed roughly the same, apart from the occasional road train flying by, its fifty meters of steel and rubber promptly asking us to give way before disappearing in our rear view mirrors.

Western Australia by Camper Van
BY SOFIA SJÖBERG

A vibrant red, dusty highway stretches out before us into what seems like infinity, at the far reach of our sights it distorts and shimmers from the afternoon heat, fading into the blue of the horizon. For the past hour the image has stayed roughly the same, apart from the occasional road train flying by, its fifty meters of steel and rubber promptly asking us to give way before disappearing in our rear view mirrors. The fuel gauge of our rented Toyota Hiace is well below one third, and we can't seem to remember how far the next gas station is… Welcome to West Australia!

Wanderlust \ˈwɒndəlʌst\

a strong desire to travel.

noun

Traveling by camper van is an ambiguous affair – while avoiding many of the arduous preparations of a long journey, such as carefully planning ones stops, booking hotel nights and deciding what to do and see far in advance, one instead deals with the prospect of not knowing much at all of the itinerary beforehand. Not an easy task for a control freak, but an oh-so-alluring potential of exploration for the more adventurous traveler. Perhaps somewhere along the road towards your destination, an enticing sign leads you to something fantastic that you weren't anticipating at all, or maybe you end up realizing that the quaint romantic town described in your guidebook was a total tourist trap and hardly worth staying in for long. Just get back in your van and go look for something new!

Hiking and camping on the coast

The Australian West coast is a camper's heaven. Endless miles of desert roads leading to secret beaches, vast canyons and crystal clear rivers, and the very few people you are likely to meet on your journey will be some of the most easy-going characters you'll find anywhere in the world. And if you think the landscape surrounding you is breathtakingly beautiful (and it is), you better prepare yourself for your first night in the Australian desert. It begins hours before the first stars come out. As the sun starts setting, the sky takes on a mesmerizing gradient, ranging from the brightest orange on the horizon to a dark purple above your head, and as you keep staring up and behind you, nearly tripping over, it stretches into a deep greyish green, far to the east. As night slowly falls, the spectrums of hues blend together into a thick impenetrable black, as one by one the stars of the southern hemisphere's window into space reveal themselves. With no cities around for a thousand miles, light pollution is unheard of. At this point, time ceases to exist, as you gaze into the nothingness of the past, while scattered and confused thoughts of existentialism and the meaning of it all battle for your mind's attention.

A trusty vehicle

"Are you sure we won't get stuck in the sand here?", Sofia asks me nervously as we trot in two-wheel drive down a winding road through the rolling dunes of the Quobba station outback. Somewhere in the distance the Indian Ocean is calling, salt saturating the desert air and flashes of blue horizon luring us closer to the end of the road. Rumors of a world class pointbreak has brought us and our surfboards here, and my intuition tells me we're getting closer, every bend and rollover making me stretch my neck in the hope of finally seeing what I'm silently praying to discover. Just as our poor Toyota is about to sink into the increasingly deeper sand for a final resting place, we make it over one last knoll before our destination is revealed. In front of us a majestic bay stretches out, sapphire-blue waves crashing on sparkling sand, and a reeling lefthand pointbreak rolling down the far end, the offshore spray grooming the swell lines to perfection. At this point I'm having a hard time focusing on the road as we roll into the Red Bluff camping community. In the center of a handful of campgrounds scattered along the beach is a tiny general store/surf shop/pizza restaurant, run by a friendly local woman and her five sons and daughters, all miniature replicas of herself, sun-bleached hair and a deep golden surf tan from countless hours spent in the surf. We get allotted a private space on the far end of the beach where we set up camp for the next two nights, unknowing that they will turn to three, then four and eventually five, in this little slice of paradise. The following days turn into a timeless blur of surfing, sleeping, drinking beer around the fire, and watching the humpback whales migrate in the hundreds on their way north along the coast. These majestic creatures are constantly present, sometimes breaching the surface just outside the surf line-up, providing delightful entertainment in between waves.

Surfing is a must do

Then there's the surf. A pointbreak breaking for 300 meters down a shallow coral shelf, producing immaculate almond-shaped barrels, grinding down the reef at a barely makeable speed. Even though many of the waves race past me on my struggling backhand, the few that I make it to the end of are some of the best I've ever experienced, and I have a hard time containing my excitement, hooting and hollering to Sofia on the cliffs, with her Canon 5D in hand. The line-up out back is an eclectic mix of old salty men on oversized gun surfboards, young semi-pros with stickered boards, girlfriends on longboards and hippies with dreadlocks and big smiles. Nothing of the notorious localism I have read about online, even though I quickly learn to respect the noticeable pecking order, letting the obviously more skilled crowd get the biggest set waves. There are still plenty of action for everyone, and a friendly smile opens up even the grumpiest old-timer. After the sun has set, the same faces are seen around campfires and tailgate barbeques all over the campground, where many seem to have gotten stuck for the season, ignoring distant calls of civilization urging them to return to normal lives. As the stars come out, we set up our cameras for timelapses, hoping to capture some of the magic that is happening above us, all the while our heads turn heavy from the five hours in the water and the beverages that followed.

Ski Touring

My backpack feels heavier for every meter, slowly deforming my spine and wearing down my shoulders. My mouth tastes like blood, while salty pearls of sweat find their way to my eyes. I look back up, I'm not there yet, just a few hundred more steps, keep walking, keep counting, block out the pain.

Ski Touring
BY SOFIA SJÖBERG

My backpack feels heavier for every meter, slowly deforming my spine and wearing down my shoulders. My mouth tastes like blood, while salty pearls of sweat find their way to my eyes. I look back up, I'm not there yet, just a few hundred more steps, keep walking, keep counting, block out the pain. On shaking legs, I reach the summit and I'm immediately humbled by the uninterrupted panorama before me. Before I know it, serotonin receptors are firing, emotions bursting out from the deep, reigniting me with vigor from within. Below my feet is a mountain face stretching out for a thousand meters covered by a smooth blanket of powder, with the evening sun replicated thousand-fold in the uncountable snow crystals. Making high-speed turns down the run, I no longer feel any pain. My mind is as clear as it ever has been, unadulterated joy spreading through my nervous system, and the minutes seem like hours. Back at the bottom, I start counting the hours until I get to do it again.

"...a mountain face stretching out for a thousand meters covered by a smooth blanket of powder, with the evening sun replicated thousand-fold in the uncountable snow crystals"

- Sofia Sjöberg

The pastime us earthlings refer to as "skiing", must seem peculiar, if not laughable if observed by an extraterrestrial species. We give hard-earned money to amusement park-like mountain resorts, where intricate cable systems transport us to the top, allowing us to slide down snow in near friction-less conditions on wooden planks strapped to our feet, only to start over, again and again and again. Like hairless apes, freed by technology from the natural dangers of living, we race down miles of groomed trails, carving our signatures in the glistening snow with sharp metal edges. When our legs give up and food money runs out, we get back in our cars and migrate back to our urban hives and desk jobs, our bodies for the moment reignited by signal substances we no longer have use for in modern civilization, but still so eagerly seek.

However, this is a very modern interpretation of skiing. Long before the first p-tex base or metal edge was ever conceived of, and before anyone ever got the idea of hauling people up a mountain on a cable for payment, crafty Scandinavians began strapping their feet to wooden planks, allowing them a more efficient means of transportation through deep snow. Over time, steady improvement of gear and technique evolved this new phenomenon into a practical way of hunting, gathering, and communicating, as our animal-hide clad ancestors unknowingly invented what we today call ski-touring.

Fast forward 5000 years, and although human ingenuity, competition and spirit for invention has further evolved this once crude way of transportation, the principles remain the same. We designed our now countless different models of wooden planks to float on top of powder snow, crafted metal edges to cut through ice, we shaved off every superfluous gram we could find to help us on our journeys, to reach farther, higher and steeper. And today, when in many places, multi-billion dollar corporations charge us big money to ride down over-crowded slopes, many of us are returning to the original way of skiing. Exchanging lift queues for solitude, quantity for quality, and apres-ski beer for trail mix, a new generation of skiers are rediscovering the virtue of earning one's turns, the silence of the mountains, and how far into the unknown a little off-season cardio training can get you.

San Diego Surf Spots

We traveled to Northern Norway to document the joy of surfing in extreme, but breathtakingly beautiful conditions.

San Diego Surf Spots
BY JUSTIN BARR

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GORGEOUS BEACH POINT BREAKS

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