A Perfect Day for a Maelstrøm
Bødo, Norway: an ugly town with awesome viewpoints
Bødo was not built for tourists, as was made clear by the ocean view from our hotel window. Spread our before us was a fish processing plant and a fuel depot. The town is the main transport hub of Norway’s north. The railway up from Olso ends at the harbor, so it’s the way-station for dried fish going south, and dry goods coming north. Frankly, as a destination for travellers, it seemed highly missable. But, it’s where the ferry from the Lofoten Islands lands. As Teresa (my beloved spouse) and I were driving from Lofoten south to Olso, we had to stop over, if only for one night.
But then we learned about the Saltstraumen Maelstrøm. Just 30 km down the road from Bødo one can witness the most powerful tidal current in the entire world. Saltstraumen is a narrow strait with a large fjord on one side and the Atlantic on the other. The tide has to flow in and out of the fjord though this single, 150-meter gap. The ocean gushes into the fjord up to 20 km/hour, creating chaotic turbulent whirlpools up to 10 meters/30 feet across. Then, as the tide turns and ebbs, the water reverses course and rushes out with equal force.
We rejiggered our plans to stay an extra night in Bødo, just to see it. This is one of the advantages of travelling as we do, as flaneurs without a fixed agenda. Now that we are mostly retired we have all the time in the world. I remember the years in which I was a slave to my calender. I consulted it each day, like some divine oracle that must be obeyed. Since we began our flaneuring year last October, I have pretty much stopped checking my calendar (and missed some important calls!). This flexibility allowed us to make time for the maelstrom.
It was a prefect day.
The weather was unusually sunny. While much of Europe has endured a summer of drought, Arctic Norway has been far wetter than usual, and sunny days have been rare. We’ve become accustomed to temperatures chilly enough for a sweater and coat, but found ourselves in short sleeves by the time we reached the maelstrom. The clear sky meant we could see the distant mountains all the way to the Svartisen Glacier, one of the largest in Europe, shining white in the distance.
We timed our arrival at the maelstrom for midway between high tide and low tide, when the water’s flow was strongest. Because tides vary so much from day to day, even peak flow was only going to be about 10 km/hour during our visit, but that was still plenty to witness the turbulence and whirlpools. (I’ve made this sound like it’s simple to figure out. But no, not even the hotel staff had a clue when was the best time to visit the maelstrom. Tables of tides were easy to find online but pretty useless. Only after a lot of searching did I find this helpful website which provodes the best times to visit each day).
We walked out onto the bridge that spanned the maelstrom, and gazed down. You could see the current cutting into the fjord like a knife, creating turbulent eddies all along the edges, swirling whilrpools forming and dissipating in ways that were difficult to capture on camera. It was sobering to remember than some 60 people have died in these treacherous tides in the past 60 years.
What I found most entrancing was the way the sunlight on the chaotic surface of the water changed color, creating contrasting patterns that when isolated, looked like abstract paintings. In some cases, they shimmered pink and green, reflecting like the Northern Lights off the waters. (My images, below, are not filtered).
From Saltstraumen we drove back to Bodø and then up the coast towards the other main tourist destination in the area, the historic trading post of Kjerringøy. Teresa said that, according to her guidebook, the 200-year old buildings were worth a visit. As we zipped along in our Polstar 2 EV, we could see from a rise in the road ahead, a wide fjord.
“Wait — there’s not a ferry crossing on this road is there?” said Teresa, a note of alarm in her voice.
Now, I had looked at the map before breakfast, so I knew indeed there was a short ferry crossing. And I also knew that Teresa had developed a loathing of ferries during our two months in Norway. Teresa is the most resilient, adaptable person I know. She can handle almost anything except waiting. In a line, in an elevator, stuck in traffic. Going through airport security is hell for her. And so, for my beloved, sitting in a car waiting in line for a ferry is a nightmare. Worse, on the crossing from Lotfoten to Bodø, just the previous day, the ferry was delayed for two full hours, with no explanation.
Since I knew the memory of this recent trauma was still fresh, I decided not to tell Teresa we were headed for another ferry until it was too late to turn around. While one might be justified in thinking this was bound to end in tears — first hers, then mine — because this was a perfect day, Teresa had only just begun to wail when we turned the final corner to the dock, and saw the line of cars driving onto the waiting ferry. We rolled right on board and the crew shut the gate behind us. Fifteen minutes later, we were on the far shore and back on the road. Hallelujah!
Kjerringøy was not all that exciting in itself — a cluster of a dozen wooden houses and warehouses in a sheltered little bay. But the story of its prominent role in Norway’s cod export trade was fascinating. Cod was — and still is — plentiful off the north coast of Lofoten, and the main livelihood for hundreds of fishermen. The catch was — and still is — dried on racks through the long winter months, until it turns into a hard, dry, virtually impermeable protein source that can travel long distances without rotting. Long before Bodø, Kjerringøy was the main drop off point where fishermen could get cash for cod, as well as all the other supplies they needed. The cod was then loaded on special cargo ships, which took the fish a thousand kilometers south to Bergen, and from there to feed the rest of Europe.
On the drive back to Bodø, just as I secretly feared, the ferry was moored on the far shore! It was not even moving. I checked my phone…it would not begin crossing toward us for 20 minutes! We would not board for 45! I feared a maelstrom of my own making!
“I’ll read,” said Teresa calmly. Now that our day’s flaneuring was done, she was remarkably chill about waiting in line.
Still, it seemed a black mark on our otherwise perfect day. I got out to take a walk in the warm air. Not far back along the road, I found a little path hidden behind the bushes that led down to a rocky viewpoint by the water’s edge. The fjord had a sandy bottom, and in the shallows the water turned an exquisite shade of turquoise. Someone had placed two metal chaise-lounge chairs on the rocks. Not just placed, they were bolted into the stone, presumably so that storms would not blow them away.
I went back to the car and got Teresa. We stretched out on the chaise-lounges, watching the sunlight play on the aqua-blue water while we waited for the ferry. We reminisced about our month in the Arctic, and the places we definitely want to see again. It is so much easier to let go when you believe you will be coming back.
It was a perfect end to a perfect day.
