Wind, Fire, and a Small Island

One lake, two boats, four kids and a dog. A short overnight trip — familiar route, familiar people — where almost nothing happened, and that was exactly the point.

Before the Wind

About an hour and a half from Oslo, the last part of the road is gated. We stopped briefly, paid the small toll, and continued driving for another fifteen minutes — narrow gravel, patches of snow in the ditches, still some ice in the shadows.

The lake lay quiet when we arrived. Unusually low, drawn back by regulation. The shoreline showed the difference — tree roots exposed, a line of pale rock where water used to be. Here and there, pockets of snow held on in the shade.

This was a familiar trip. We’ve done versions of it before — same group, same rhythm. Two dads, four kids, one dog. One canoe, two packrafts. The kind of company that doesn’t need much explaining.

The older ones took the packrafts and managed just fine. For a while we tied them behind the canoe, letting them drift as we paddled. No urgency. Just making distance.

The lake offered little sound. Occasionally a raven, or the clunk of paddle against aluminum. Most of the campsites we passed were still empty, but not all. We nodded to another group setting up camp early and moved on, deeper into the lake.

The Island

We didn’t plan on an island, but it was there — dry, flat enough, and empty. You could walk across it in twenty seconds. The whole island was wooded, mostly with open pine forest — soft underfoot, and easy to walk through. One clearing faced west, into the evening sun, and that’s where we set up camp. Wind came from the east, so we’d have shelter through the night.

There was a rough fire ring, some dry wood nearby, and space for three tents if you weren’t picky.

We let the kids set up their own. They’ve seen it done enough times now. Stakes driven into thin soil, guy lines between low shrubs. Not textbook, but effective. Meanwhile, we unpacked food and fished out the stove.

The sky opened briefly around sunset. Blue between the grey. A few fish jumped in the bay just north of the island, where the water lay still and shallow.

We cast lines for an hour, maybe two. Different lures, slower retrieve. Nothing. The two oldest took the canoe and trolled slowly around the island, hopeful. They reported a few bites — possibly real, possibly optimistic. Either way, they came back empty-handed, but content.

We’ve caught fish here before. This time the lake kept its silence.

Cold Light

Dinner was warm, if unremarkable. Sausages, flatbread, a quick pot of cocoa. By then the temperature had dropped. Not freezing, but close. We gathered wood while there was still light and built a fire in the ring. Dry enough to catch easily, and windless enough to enjoy.

The kids managed it without much help. They kept it going for hours, feeding small branches in measured bursts, keeping the coals hot and alive. It gave the evening a center — something to gather around without needing talk.

Meanwhile, we sat a little apart and quietly solved the world’s problems — one beer and a square of chocolate at a time.

The dog curled beside one of the tents, ears flicking occasionally at night birds.

We turned in early. It had been a short day in distance, but not in effort.

The Morning

The wind had picked up during the night, steady from the east. Tents rustled, and the trees on the island swayed in long, slow movements.

We didn’t rush. Just shifted the camp slightly to catch the morning sun, let the tents dry a little. Breakfast stretched out — bread, cheese, and the best coffee there is: simple boiled coffee, black and hot. The kids took their time. So did we.

Eventually we packed down. The kids helped strike camp without fuss. No complaints, no delays.

The Crossing

The paddle back was faster. With wind at our backs, the canoe moved easily. The two older kids stayed in their packrafts, riding the tailwind with wide grins and soaked sleeves. The younger ones and the dog were in the canoe, quiet and tucked low against the gusts.

The only sounds were paddle strokes and wind across the surface.

It felt further going in than coming out — a common trick of time.

Traditions Hold

We’ve done this route in rain, in heat, with younger kids and more gear. Each time is slightly different. But the rhythm holds: start early, camp somewhere quiet, return before lunch the next day.

The kids remember. They talk about other years, other tents, other fish. There’s comfort in that — the kind that builds slowly over time, when the same places are returned to again and again.

This was one of the better camps. Not because of the weather or the catch, but because of the fire, the wind, and the way everyone knew what to do without needing to ask.

About This Route

This route is mapped.
A few copies are available for those interested.

Only a few will know where it is.
Thank you for keeping it that way.
Please keep it whispering.