It just stopped raining in Lauvvik. Clouds roll over hills in Lysefjord mouth.

A lighthouse next to Bergsholmen island in Lysefjord mouth.

It rained in the morning and we were glad to have chosen a program that allowed us to cowardly hide under a roof — in a ship's cabin. We were a bit worried that we would not be able to see hilltops around the fjord, but that was the program for the day. We were also considerably rejoicing over the fact that we have found a laundry. The hotel had none, but in the adjacent mall, we discovered the local version of a dry cleaning outlet. A lady behind the counter claimed to not speak English, but she knew enough to explain that as far as we would not mind the laundry not being dry-cleaned, ironed and folded, for NOK 370 she would toss it in a washing machine and subsequently a dryer, and we could pick it up in 24 hours. Quality of our accommodation had suddenly risen in our eyes — it was not cheap, but it was indeed a very convenient solution — not having to spend several hours lingering around a machine and watching the process; nor being forced to wash by hand in our bathroom and ponder with difficulty how to dry it all. Under the influence of this good news, we extended our stay by two more days — for those we got moved to a regular room — but we didn't need our tub anymore, or larger bathroom and general space. Then we reckoned that parking at the mall cost money, but our car was under a roof, which eliminated the need to stumble somewhere with bags in a rain. The mall included two grocery stores, giving us easy opportunity to collect snacks for the day — without having to store them at our room. We drove off to Lauvvik with light hearts, despite the rainy weather.

Tourists milling on the edge of the Pulpit Rock.

Pulpit Rock is a precipice over a sheer cliff down to the fjord.

A line of cars for the car ferry stood in the harbor, but we parked on the side near a bench overlooking the fjord. We came very early, but after all we did not want to risk missing the boat. Meanwhile it stopped raining and we began to admire tall hills wrapped in clouds. And we watched as cars were being loaded on two ferries that managed to come, one after the other. Sid remembered that in 1991, you drove onto the boat, it departed, and during the crossing a conductor came by to collect money. Lately, cars have transponders and everything is automated — but people are still needed to direct and stash cars so that the boat loads as many as would fit — trucks, trailers and motorhomes load separately from passenger cars. The whole loading lasts only a few minutes — since cars get arranged in lines on the shore so that they just drive in.

The passenger ferry moored eventually, and loading was even simpler — the ferryman held a list of names, checking off people as they boarded. I was glad, for we had no Norwegian phones and Norwegian systems, and had no recourse. An English-speaking tourist boarded last, waving his phone and claiming that he purchased a ticket, but it seemed that the payment did not go through, and what should he do? Tourist and ferryman alike pecked at their gadgets, trying to figure out what happened — and the boat stroke off and to the surprise of ours and the tourists's — simply went with all of us away. The ferryman eventually proposed that the chap buy another ticket, for another ferry or later boat, for once he paid, he can ride. In this aspect, Norway reminded us of Wyoming — an attitude that problems can be worked out, no need to panic or despair.

A small cruise ship offers tourists an exclusive shower in Hengjanefossen falls

Lysefjord is large — here with kayaks for scale.

We took seats inside the boat, but in the end spent most of the time up on the top deck. Sun crawled out and things got pretty. We were obviously not the only people who scorned the offers of a cruise, and instead went for a regular traffic boat — the top deck was crowded, while the boat was half-empty. We slithered under a bridge and entered Lysefjord proper. From surface it looked different again, emphasizing how high the rocky cliffs rise from sea level. We passed Preikestolen with its crowds on the precipice (congratulating ourselves for not being there), we viewed Hengjanefossen — that's the highpoint for all those sight-seeing cruises and fast boats — we spotted them too — a ship just under the falls, as well as boats crammed with tourists strapped to seats with emergency vests on. Tourist bustle receded past the waterfalls and we continued into the depth of the fjorden, stopping at miniature jetties, where people disembarked and boarded, wearing trekking backpacks. Flørli is worth mentioning — also offered as one of the official attractions — four thousand four hundred forty four wooden steps up to the mountaintop over the fjord. I admit that my knees ache when I only imagine the stairs, but it was sure interesting to see.

We also saw Kjerag — the one we did not reach hiking, but we have pictures now (again, with crowds). After approximately an hour we arrived to the fjord's end, in Lysebotn. Most passengers disembarked here, a few boarded — including a gentleman who came up saying he had a ticket for the morning ferry, but missed it. Ferryman's answer was that having the ticket, he could ride — no problem again. The way back was better, returning passengers we no longer eager and tended to lounge in the cabin, which allowed us to take pictures of the fjord without heads of tourists lining the railing — and we snatched chairs on the aft, giving us a feeling of being millionaires on their private yacht.

Kjerag — a boulder jammed in a crevice on the edge of a cliff.

Lysefjorden.

I still owe you a detour to søppel — the boat sported a sign Ikke kast søppel over bord, with English translation (don't throw rubbish overboard) and a pictogram. This clarified that the trailer in Mandal was no advertisement for something, but a common trash box. Of course, since then we use the word sopel for rubbish.

Thus we came back to our hotel room relatively early — and decide to do some shopping — Sid's shorts, which we brought along, had fallen apart, and he demanded new ones. It brought out the advantage of our hotel being located in downtown — checking out more or less ALL stores did not take long. Eventually we succeeded in finding shorts for Hippo — moreover, I found trousers fitting me. You can't call them shorts, for they are of length appropriate for my age and figure — but they're made out of a lightweight cheesecloth with camo pattern, hence they don't draw attention as much.

Kjelavika Beach — Carol wades in Norwegian Sea.

It had been a good idea, for the following day turned hot, and that heat stayed with us for the rest of our stay in Norway. Our frienda moved from Sinnes to Fister, and we wanted to visit them there as well. Soňa had picked interesting places for them to stay at, and the house in Fister featured North Sea and included a small fishing boat. When we got there, the house was empty, but this time we left nothing to chance and had obtained wifi password from our friends; we also received a code to unlock the house. I made my coffee there and we ate our lunch/snack in a civilized manner at a table — wondering where to turn to, since we did not feel like fishing or dragging ourselves in this heat to another waterfall. I remembered having noticed a turn-off to a nearby place named Kjelavika, sporting a sign with a bathing person pictogram. Given the temperatures, we decided to check it out. The bath offered a restroom, a mowed lawn, benches, barbecue grills, and about ten more people. Hippo refused to soak, but Yeti insisted on cooling off. I can straight admit that it took me fifteen minutes to dip in — much longer than my actual stay immersed in water, which was cold in a northern way.

Meeting with Czech friends: dinner is fish with mushrooms.

In summer near Stavanger the sun sets shortly before eleven.

Refreshed (at least I, dunno about Hippo), we drove back to the house. There, in short order, both expeditions arrived, the fishing one with one fish, and the waterfalling one with chanterelles. Exchange of the fishermen ensued, as well as much boasting about who and if and how large fish they would yet catch. I confess I got overcome by jet lag again, so I lazied on a deck chair. In the meantime, people came and went, phone calls were made to check on fishing progress, eventually turning into collective cooking — I let clam and cockle soup pass, but the fish with potatoes and mushrooms was good. The sun took its sweet time slowly setting over the sea, hence I insisted that we should start returning to accomplish sleep for the rest of this super short, northern, night.

For our Saturday, Soňa recommended a river flowing over bedrock, where people bathe in granite pools. The way there goes through Sinnes and Sirdal tundra, which drew our interest during our trip to Kjerag. We stopped in the tundra, admiring it and taking pictures, but we eventually even found the river. Not to make things easier, the ski resort and local name of the bathing place is Brokke; the river is called Fisstøylsåni. There is a tiny parking lot next to the "badeplass" — but on a Saturday in the hottest heat that Norway had ever recorded, there was naturally no place to park. We were just about to give it up, when we spotted a convenient ditch that would accommodate our Volvo — thus we ended up recreating there, albeit a bit upstream — the main hole was crowded, because you can jump from a rock into the river there — after I dipped about twice waist-deep in it, I must only conclude that Norwegians must be more part-Yeti than me. I could not think of jumping into that ice-box. We did nevertheless modestly splash in the nearest pools; I moved gradually downstream until I found a place with a natural slide — in the stream, you could slide on your butt into a shallow pool. The spoiled Yeti took this as sufficient cooling-off, and he rumbled that in our civilized Wyoming, we operate hot springs for such bathing.

Carol's mascot on Fisstøylsåni River near Brokke.

Late evening in Dirdal: Frafjorden.

On our way back we explored ways to hike the tundra somewhere. Despite how many tourists visit Norway, marked trails are in short supply, so we just scrambled up some hill. I forgot my Ventolin, but I think I would have been wheezy event with it. There's just not that much chance to walk on even ground in Norway, and if you don't walk directly on rock, you sink ankle deep into mud, squelching around like a swamp monster. Little paths present a problem, as they intersect with sheep routes and keep disappearing as people (and sheep) try to avoid the deeper swamps. Sheep appeared to be everywhere in this tundra, and being used to beg, for they bunched near tourists and their cars, waiting what may fall out of them. There were even signs in places asking people to please not feed the sheep, since it creates more problems than does good.

Sunday was to be our last day at Lysefjord, so we had planned to drive in its vicinity and check out various spots. We began with a waterfall in Jørpeland. We could not figure out how to drive near it, in the end parking in a ditch somewhere; only on our way out we noticed a paid parking downstream. Well, we walked the trail from top — the waterfall was interesting by having a bypass constructed from a cascade of concrete boxes — our guess is that it could be fish ladders. Then we proceeded to a viewpoint at Høllesli — but then it stopped raining and Lysefjord could in its full beauty — with a lighthouse on an island, by which we rode two days earlier on the ferry. We pondered our maps a bit, where to go — and chose a small road along the south-eastern fjordbank.

Fish ladders on Jørpelandselva River.

Noon at Høllesli: view of Lysefjorden.

The road went on and on, becoming narrower, but we aimed to drive to the very end. We noticed a kayak rental place along the way and weighed whether it'd be worth trying. Soňa said that one needs a license for an ocean kayak, and must know to perform an Eskimo roll; that detracted us a bit. We had a snack at a no-parking turn-off and watched relatively brisk traffic in switchbacks on a hillside above us. This lured us to drive up and join them — a parking lot with a restroom awaited us on top — and, according Sid's GPS, various hiking trails. You probably think us stupid, but when we had researched places to visit along Lysefjord, internet kept pointing us to Preikestolen, Kjerag and Flørli, possibly the sightseeing cruises — but we discovered all less famous attractions more or less by chance.

Meanwhile we opted to walk a bit on a road that was supposed to take us to a small lake, telling ourselves that it was just the right thing for us — on level ground, along a dirt road (closed for cars). The road led to the obligatory creek with a waterfall, and past it stood a crossroads signpost. Left trail went up to Sollifjell, straight went to a loop back to a lake. A quite noisy French family was headed to Sollifjell, making us choose the flat route and silence.

Sollitjørn pond in mezzanine to Sollifjell.

The silence got severely disturbed by our cursing, when we began wading across the moor turning into a swamp or brook and back to moor again. We found ourselves in a gulch and had a choice to either turn back, or hike up to another crossroads under Sollifjell. We hoped that the crossroads would offer some views, but maintained our resolution to NOT HIKE UP ANY HILL. Thus we scrambled up a wooded ravine for another half hour, which was so steep that we could pick blueberries from the slope above us straight into our mouths. We met a young couple with a baby, who asked us whether descending here in the woods was hard — we assured them that except for the mud it was quite alright.

Sid takes a picture from the top of Sollifjellet — 1,850 ft over Lysefjord.

Sollifjellet reflects in Fossåna Creek.

Reaching the saddle crossroads, we found ourselves by a pond and — for a change — treading mud. We did not let it distract us and continued towards the fjord's edge — with the pond still in our way, but even so, a view opened to Lysefjord — including Preikestolen overflowing with people. We were congratulating ourselves how beautiful spot this was, still picturing that we would NOT HIKE UP ANY HILL. But, over time, multiple tourists came down the hill and every one of them was enthusiastic. So in the end we climbed up Sollifjellet. The top was in the Norwegian way not much marked, with paths diverging to avoid swamps, but then we stood on the edge from where one could see most of Lysefjorden. And we were alone there — no pushing crowds like on the Pulpit Rock. For our descent we chose the shorter way, which was even less comfortable than the slope up — it was steeper, swampier and rockier, and we slipped and jumped down and hoped to not to cripple ourselves somewhere. Still we're bound to declare this attraction THE prettiest place on Lysefjord — (relatively) accessible, crowdless and with awesome views. Later at our hotel we studied whether Sollifjell is truly absent from the list of recommended attractions — and we found it on some pages (now that we knew the name to look for) — but always toward the lists' end and more or less as a third-rated attraction — always behind those paid ones. Well.

We also needed to reserve accommodation for next days. Sid had been eyeing some hotel near Bergen airport, but we had procrastinated and now it was sold out. In a kind of pinch, we booked a room at Fjordslottet Hotell a little way out of Bergen. Our route to Bergen was a question — whether to go on ferries — or take six to eight hours detour through the mainland (thus driving around fjords). Soňa had spooked us saying that sometimes cars without prior reservation get to wait a long time for ferries — but we hoped that she had meant boats headed to European mainland, or perhaps small ferries in the less populated north, those that don't go frequently. Even our hotel receptionist assured us that we should not worry, that she goes to Bergen to visit family with no problems. I was rather curious to see how Norwegians manage to load HIGHWAY traffic on ferries.