Dizzying heights on the Dalsnibba mountain pass

(Photos of the diary entry can be found at the end of the text).

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“What’s that?” I ask, pointing to a barrier behind which a narrow road winds steeply upwards. “I don’t know.” “We should take a look at that,” I say, getting into my irons. “Dalsnibba, it says on the sign. Unfortunately, the description is in Norwegian,” says Tanja, studying a notice board. “Why don’t you ask the driver there,” I say, pointing to the vehicle parked in front of the barrier. We learn that the toll mountain road leads to one of the most spectacular viewpoints in Norway. Although we are on our way to the famous Geirangerfjord and perhaps the most famous pass road, the Trollstigen, we decide to take a detour to the viewing platform. “Who knows what awaits us up there?” I say excitedly. After Tanja inserts our credit card into the machine, the barrier lifts. “It’s quite a climb,” says Tanja, a little intimidated by the black asphalt strip that winds steeply upwards as I steer the Terra into the first bend. “Great!” I say. “It’s really cool,” I say in the adventurer’s element. Then, not for the first time on our journey, we work our way up to the sky in many hairpin bends. “Anything coming?” I ask, swerving to the right. “All clear,” says my co-pilot, who takes the wheel from time to time. “We should take a photo of the Terra here,” I say a few bends further on. “You mean I should get out here?” “Yes, why not?” “What if a car comes towards us on a steep section like this?” “Well, then I’ll reverse to the next passing place.” “You can forget that. I never get out of the car here. It’s nonsense to take such a risk for a photo.” “What risk? Think about the difficult terrain we tackled with our Terra in Russia last year,” I reply. “A lot of things were broken and we were often afraid of falling into the abyss or off the abandoned old embankment. No, I’m not getting off here,” Tanja remains adamant. “Well then, don’t”, I say, shifting down into second gear to be able to take the next tight bend. As if we could fly, we soar more and more into the air like an eagle. The panoramic view over the Dalsnibba massif becomes increasingly spectacular. The first half-frozen glacial lakes are approaching, some of them nibbling at the road with their blue-green waters. It goes along a precipice edge, then over a kind of high plateau through a slight depression. “The viewing platform is up there,” I say, pointing to a few cars and two construction cranes. Like a creeping tiger, our Terra rolls the last few meters over the newly constructed asphalt surface, which is almost empty at this time. “In summers without coronavirus, you’re lucky to get a parking space here at all,” I say, as we look down and discover more parking spaces next to the pass road.

“Wow, what a gigantic panoramic view that is,” exclaims Tanja enthusiastically. We stand on the glass balustrade and look out over the snow-covered mountain massif that surrounds us. “Look, from that rocky outcrop you can see all the way to the Geirangerfjord,” I say enthusiastically. We leave the viewing platform and climb 30 or 40 meters down. Then we sit down on the rock with Ajaci and look down from the summit of Dalsnibba, from a height of almost 1500 meters, into the bay of the famous Geirangerfjord. “That’s where they come in, the big cruise ships,” says Tanja. “Yes, cruise ships are the most convenient way to visit this breathtaking mountain region. Guests often only stay here for a few hours before moving on to the next highlight. However, many visitors aren’t as lucky as we are, because rain, clouds and fog are as much a part of this region as sunshine is of Greece,” I chat in high spirits about the fabulous view. At our feet, a few hundred meters directly below us, the mountain road winds like a giant grey snake towards the Geirangerfjord. Because our weather app is already predicting the next rain front for tomorrow and we want to visit the equally famous Trollstigen today, we leave the Dalsnibba massif and wind our way back down the valley to the Geiranger Road, which we left two hours ago for the detour. “Shall I take a few photos?” asks Tanja after the first hairpin bend. “Good idea,” I say, pleased at her change of heart, brake, pull the handbrake and let Tanja out. “Stop!” rattles the instruction through the walkie-talkie’s small loudspeaker. Twenty years ago, when we crossed Australia on foot and with our camels from south to north and from the west coast to the east coast for three years, we had already realized how important such walkie-talkies are. They have been part of our equipment ever since. And now, while driving along a mountain pass, Tanja can tell me where to stop for the best photo. “A few more meters. Yes, that’s it,” I hear. Then I grab my handheld radio. “There’s a passing bay behind the next bend. I don’t think you can see it from your position. I’ll stop there and wait for you.” “Roger,” Tanja confirms and runs after him like a weasel in her jogging shoes…