Familj på Fjäll

``And finally Winter, with its bitin', whinin' wind, and all the land will be mantled with snow.`` - Roy Bean

I could guess that the family was not headed to the ski slope because one of the children was pouting over the cross-country option. Taking the family out into the mountains, also known as the fjäll, is usually a much easier undertaking than the ski slope. It is fun for the entire family to enjoy. Everyone from age seventy-eight to seven can participate and still enjoy the day. The trick is that the parents have to sell the idea to the kids. This usually involves two things: taking the snowmobile for some portion of the journey, or promising waffles at the alpine waffle house, an hours tour above the cabin. On this particular day, the kids were promised both: snowmobile ride with dad, and waffles from Mormor.

Moving in the fjäll is easy when the weather is nice, but getting out the door is usually the hardest part of the day. With eight family members all working to get out of the door in the same small space in the mudroom, you can imagine the clutter.

“Where are my gloves, have you seen my hat, my shoes don’t fit, don’t forget to lock the door, is this your jacket or mine?”

Eventually everyone gets out of the door, and all we have to do is begin the short climb behind the house to access the fjäll above. In the posse we had the family Gustavsson, consisting of my aunt and uncle with their two children Anton and Jenny, my seventy-eight year old grandmother, my newly turned fifty-year-old mother, my father, and myself.

It can be incredibly blank high on the fjäll. You could try your hardest to put some depth into a photograph, but all you would get is a white landscape. Also, I just learned that white balance makes photos green: in the future you will get to see washed out white photos instead of washed out green ones. Janne with said background.

Dad and I took a different track up with Mormor who can tell a story at every rest. Her stories are much appreciated, because I can see that she lived within the story: that she was once part of the past. She speaks calmly and slowly in English or in Swedish, makes eye contact with her audience, moves her arms and points her poles slowly to show the landscape. Sometimes she closes her eyes and points her head toward the sun, angling her head upwards as she speaks of the past.

Traveling behind her, I could see how her body was conditioned to the movements of skis. She reacted with haste to every inconsistency in the track or misplaced push with her pole. I could not help but take photographs and video of her just to have proof that we were all there. Everything was completely new again, and that I had to capture each moment in order to guarantee that the moment existed.

Dad and Mormor breaking trail.

Dad and Mormor posing beneath Hamra Fjället.

The entire family met at the waffle house, which is nestled in a grove of birches that are slightly shielded from the arctic. It is a small cabin with a low ceiling and an aroma of Swedish waffles. There are taxidermy fjäll creatures on the walls, and tables with long wooden benches for sitting and traditional table clothes made with old cloth scraps.

Andersborg Våffel Stuga: The savior for many cranky ski days.

The family in front of the snowed-in Waffle House.

The family ordered a round of waffles, served in the traditional style with whipped cream and cloudberry preserve. The family laughed and giggled at the children who were overjoyed with the treat, although my excitement could hardly be contained as well.

This is what you get: a traditional crispy Swedish waffle with preserves and whipped cream.

The meal finished with the customary wipe down of the lunch table with the palm of mom's hand and everyone was outside again. After the skis go on, everyone returns to the cabin. The day was simple and the weather was good. Three generations of Larssons found themselves in the same mountains that they have been traveling in for fifty years. Through the lens of my new excitement over blogging, I saw everything as new and temporary. In reality, it was a tour we have frequented. It was the trip that we show to everyone who comes and visits us, a tour that has become ours.

The way home can take us through the trees sometimes. Our water comes from an aquifer that is connected to the drainage on the left.

It is however okay to have the forest all to yourself sometimes.

Janne below Hamra Fjället which is just above our house. This particular spot is the Faböval, which is an old Viking homestead.

The three mothers: Mom, Mormor, and Katarina, going down on their long skis.

Tänndalen

Pardon the long wait for new posts, but I have been rather busy since I have arrived in Tänndalen.

Our journey north took an entire day, and when we arrived my mother was already here. There are a lot of tasks that have to be completed when arriving to the cabin. Most of the tasks involve some method of cleaning the cabin. If you needed to know anything about my family, you would need to know that they clean voraciously. Everything seems dirty. The mothers of the house spent two whole days cleaning, organizing, re-cleaning, and re-organizing, in order to mark our arrival.

The clean and organized behaviors demonstrated by my family have unfortunately not been passed down to me. My level of attention to details is far lower than that of my family. I do however have to be thankful for their diligence. The structure of our cabin is over one hundred years old, the floor was a floor for horses in a barn seventy years ago, and the furniture collection and decorations consists of traditional Swedish antiques (or just family heirlooms): this place would not be in the amazing condition it is in now if it were not for the attention to detail that my family posses.

Overall, returning to the cabin where I have spent much my childhood has been incredible. I have learned that the lens through which I have experienced Swedish culture and has been through this cabin. It has a distinct smell that I have learned not to forget. It seems to sit on a pedestal that faces south into the sun, and is surrounded by a guesthouse and a woodshed. My grandfather built all of the structures. The cabin is an old horse barn from the 1700's that my grandfather took apart and put back together again one hundred miles away from its original home. It was a massive undertaking considering that he had to build and repair the road before he could even begin dragging the wood up to his land. After he dragged every timber up on a tractor, he had to put the whole thing back together again. Everything he did seemed to be hard, compared to the effort we have to put forth to get anything accomplished in modern times.

Our Stuga from the front.

The guest house (Hebbre). It is impossible to have a bad nights sleep in this little house. It is now my father's temporary office.

The first couple of days here were marked by some of the coldest weather we have ever had up here during February. The average for our first five days was –13C. With just a little bit of wind, that temperature is excruciating. Most of our time was spent relaxing inside and taking the occasional journey into the frigid cold to have some fun. The cousins were absolutely stir crazy to get outside, and once they finally got outside they were so excited that they could hardly feel when when their cheeks froze.

Among the activities in the cold included the construction of a luge in the backyard, digging the snowmobile out and getting it stuck again, and shoveling paths to get into the house. Shoveling the snow up here is challenging considering the immense amount of sugar snow in the snowpack. The snowpack is easily half to three quarters sugar snow (or a well-developed layer of basal facets), and every step into it sends you up to your hips. On the other hand, struggling with the luge was a little bit more fun.

On one of the days in the cold I came home to see that the cousins had built a wide ski slope/luge. It was large enough to warrant cutting down a couple of trees along the sides. This luge was a serious ordeal. Getting onto the sled and going down this thing was downright dangerous. The first turn of this sucker is a right leaning turn at the bottom of a small bump. The turn was made more challenging with the close proximity of a couple of trees that were bone breakers. The bottom of the run had the option of a jump that behaved like a wall, or a gentle slope into three feet of powder.

Jenny and I going down the Luge.

The last couple days in the cabin have delayed my blogging because I was struck with a serious stomach illness, but after one role of toilet paper, two pairs of underwear, and two showers later, I seem to be doing all right. I woke up last night with fever hallucinations and I convinced myself that I could not ask for help because I was sure that I was crazy enough to be sent to the hospital. After twenty minutes of desperately convincing myself that I was not paralyzed and that my brain was not turning into a black hole, I finally fell asleep.

The next couple of days will see the departure of my family, including Mormor, aunt Katarina, Janne, Jenny, and Anton. I hate seeing the family leave the cabin, but everyone has to go back to work. Next week is week nine, which is Stockholm’s week off. Our friends Bjorn, Inger, and their son Isidor will come up and stay with us. Our friends Bosse and Birgitta will be up here with their two kids as well staying at their cabin down the road. Next week will involve much of the same: fika with friends and family, special dinners every night, and day tours into the nearby mountains.

Skoler i Sverige

Today I payed a visit to Jenny and Anton's school. I have to say that it truly felt like a first day of school. I was nervous that the children would ask crazy questions, or that I would break some well known Swedish rule without knowing it.

I arrived at the school late as usual and all of the children had gone inside. Kids in Sweden usually get several recesses a day, and Anton was going to wait for me until 10 AM outside his school on his first recess of the day. Earlier, at breakfast, his mother Katarina could tell that I was nervous and told me that she promised Anton would be waiting for me outside. As I arrived however, there was nobody there. All of the kids were on their way in and I was left outside alone. I had no idea where Anton's classroom was and I certainly did not want to go wandering aimlessly around the foreign school.

I chose one of the buildings and entered with caution. Luckily I was met by the principle who floored me with her beauty. This woman was probably in her sixties and had the bluest eyes I have ever seen. They were so blue that I had absolutely no problem maintaining my gaze on them. I may have even scared her since I was almost squinting to get further into them.

We introduced ourselves and chatted for a brief moment and I think she even offered me a job after I had told her that I was now living in Sweden with my family. I could feel myself starting to get silly as I was talking to her, but fortunately our conversation was cut short by Anton's teacher. She swooped me up and pulled me into the mud room in front of the classroom.

You see, schools in Sweden are practical. Because children are messy, they take their shoes and outside clothes off before they enter the classroom. It is in this room that the teacher Mary-Ann prepared me for my entrance. I was met with applause and questions the second I entered the classroom. I then proceeded to talk about America in front of the children and I gave them some background about myself.

After the lecture I was met with many questions that did not pertain to much. Most of the questions where actually the children talking about how they knew someone who had been to Spain or Africa. I tried to nicely explain that Spain and Africa are on the other side of the Atlantic and that they should try to ask questions rather than tell stories, since I did not really care about their friends who may have travelled somewhere and seen some type of animal or eat some type of food.

After hearing several stories from the children I was invited to join my cousin for lunch. Lunch in Sweden is far superior to that of America. In Sweden, all schools are required to feed every child lunch every single day. On top of that, the schools are required to provide vegetarian options along with options that are required for specific health conditions. The meals always have enough vegetables, bread, and butter for the students. The kids and teachers get to eat with real silverware, real glasses, and real plates: none of this paper plate bullshit. Now the most important part of all of this is that it is all paid for out of the taxes within the nation and the community.

Sophie, Simon, and Anton enjoying Swedish meatballs with steamed potatoes.

As you can imagine, a young adult can make a good impression on seven year olds. There were students begging me to sit at their tables and play with them outside. I have never felt so wanted in my life. I actually felt sad about letting so many of the children down.

After food, I had to leave to avoid breaking too many hearts. On my way out the kids had taken my kick sled (sled with skates that rides on the snow like a push scooter). They where all running around with it begging for rides and asking me if it was fun. I took an opportunity to snap a photo of the kids, who treated the event like they had never had their photo taken before.

The crowd outside the door as I was leaving.

I left from one school to go the next. I returned home to my aunt's house to hang out with Jenny, who was home sick. She was however not sitting around and watching TV. Jenny was busy doing her homework for the next week and studying for her math and English exams. Jenny is after all ten years old and is studying English at an alarming rate. It does help that she has an American cousin and an American uncle, but she works very hard to get things right and takes great care of her learning experience. I was speaking to her in English when she was studying and she could almost hold a normal conversation with me!

Jenny taking her English exam at home. I was the proctor.

As you can see, school in Sweden is different than in America. Swedes get more play time, good food, work hard, and learn early! I went to school here a long time ago, and it has had a profound effect on my upbringing: it seems that Americans could learn a lot from the Swedish education system.

Time to chop some wood!

Mini Vasaloppet

The Vasaloppet is a 90 kilmometer race conducted every year in Sweden in honor of King Gustav Vasa who saved his kingdom by skiing north to his people in order to build an army that could defeat the Catholic unionists in the capitol. It is the longest cross-country ski race in the world and thousands participate in it each year.

Completing the Vasaloppet is an amazing feat that requires a lifetime of training. My young cousin Anton recently completed a race that was 0.5% the distance of the Loppet, and I was there to see the whole thing!

This is what training consists of in Sweden. Wear as many layers as you can, go uphill, and ski at elevation (800ft).

Anton and his traning partner: his older sister Jenny.

Young children skiing in Sweden is as common as playing soccer or football in the States. I have seen kids skiing out in the mountains with their parents enough times to think that the invention of fika (tea time) was to ensure that the kids would continue skiing along with the adults, like holding a carrot in front of a mule.

Anton on the other hand did not need any extra motivation to compete in his first ski race. For two days he had been firing himself up to compete in the big race by running in place, running up and down the stairs, practicing his game face, and waxing his skis with car wax (not an acceptable alternative to ski wax). On race day he was dressed in a tight wool sweater and some nylon pants. He wanted to look fast and perform without overheating. He had himself a pair of hand-me-down purple lace up ski boots and small white skis. His poles were taped together from repeated roughhousing.

All the kids lined up to begin the race with characteristic Swedish obedience. The race judge was standing at the front of the start line checking attendance. He caught my attention because he kept asking for the same name repeatedly.

“Gustavson? Gustavson? Anton Gustavson...”

He was asking for my seven year old cousin Anton, and if I had to guess he was busy fighting with his mother over the thickness of his gloves and how they would affect his performance in the race.

The kids lining up for the start of the race.

Anton moved to the back of the line and raised his ski pole with a greedy little smile to show the judge that he had arrived. His tongue was sticking through his teeth and he was pushing his abdomen outward toward the judge. His hat slid over his face covering his eyes: obviously a result of fighting with his mother as she pulled off his warm jacket.

The back of the line, behind all of the smallest children, was where he was waiting for the start. His competition stood at the front of the line. At the start line, there stood a small well-built boy in a one piece who had a devilish look in his eyes. I saw the kid warming up before the race with long strides and aggressive pushing from his poles. His legs would stretch outward to receive the most glide from his skis. The kid looked good, certainly better and more efficient than Anton, who had a shorter stride despite his height advantage.

The race seemed to start suddenly since I was only paying attention to my unorganized cousin. The fast kid in the front sped off with his long strides to get a ten meter head start from the rest of the pack. Behind him were all of the younger children who ski slowly and carefully since their coordination has not established itself within their ski legs. Anton moved at a snails pace in the back of the pack. He had no idea that he was allowed to pass the younger children. After moving for five meters he stopped because his mother kindly let him know that he could pass the young skiers. He took the opportunity to pass immediately and rushed past me and my camera. His face was blank and cold, his cheeks barely beginning to blush.

The start of the race.

He moved past the camera, planting his poles in the deep snow on the side of the track. After several meters, he fell into the soft snow, plunging his left leg into a hole. At this point the fast kid was sixty meters ahead of the entire pack, including Anton who was barely getting around the peloton.

After rising from the snow, Anton steamed ahead of the pack. I scrambled to catch him at the next point and got there just in time to see that the fast kid was maintaining his lead. The skiers passed quickly and I missed the photo opportunity. I chose to run to the next viewing area at the four-hundred meter mark.

I prepared the camera with enough time to catch the fast kid from afar. Anton still lagged behind at sixty meters but there was a small downhill section. The fast kid slowed in the turn at the bottom of the downhill where the fatigue on his face began to show. It seemed that he planned on sprinting the five hundred meter race, and after hearing the raised intensity in the crowd, began to regret his decision. Anton was closing the gap.

Anton passed the camera with long strides, copying the fast kid's form. The gap between the two narrowed to twenty meters as they approached the last one hundred meters of the race. From this point it was a straight shot to the finish.

The fast kid felt Anton behind when he closed to five meters. The fast kid quickened and replaced his good form with a that of running with skis on. Just as Anton's breath began warming the back of the fast kid's neck, the speedster fell backwards, flailing with his poles in the air. The two racers got hung up as the fast kid sprawled on the track. At first it seemed that Anton was going to help him up, but he was only struggling to get around the fast kid.

Anton passed the flattened fast kid and took the lead with only two hundred meters to the finish line. However, it was not over yet, because the fast kid got up and began to demolish the small gap Anton had over him. The speedster in second was clearly going to pass Anton, the new leader. Anton remained consistent and strong but there was no way he would be able to move quicker than the passing skier. Just when it seemed that the lead would again switch, the fast kid plunged face first into the hard packed snow. The fast kid struggled to get up as Anton regained an even larger lead, and finish first.

I talked to Anton after the race, and he did not have much to say. All he said was, “I went skiing. I won!"

Anton at the end of the race.

Anton with his sister and roughousing partner Jenny. Jenny was also my camera gal.

Arrival

After a long wait to return to Sweden, mother and I have finally arrived. It has now been two years since I have begun planning my return here.

I have been welcomed by many good friends and family. Everyone is excited to see me, but might only be acting polite (unlikely). My family here might possibly be the best anyone could have. They are all some of the best friends and companions anyone could ask for. Each member has done there best to make me feel comfortable here, and they are all excited to show me around. It is truly an honor to have loved ones in my life!

The arrival in Stockhom was simple. My grandmother, or Mormor (mother' mother), picked mom and I up at the airport with her partner Hans. We spent the day at Hans' apartment and were treated to his special personality. The grandparents are retired and live marvelous lives with simple pleasures.

I found some city cracks in Stockholm and this one was a mega offwidth that looked enticing. It was 5.5'' wide and 45' tall. I think I will have to wait until the warm season to climb this one.

Hans repairing my shoe in his craft room,and thoroughly enjoying it!

The next two days were spent with our friends Björn and Inger in Stockholm propper. Björn and Inger are artists of the highest quality and exploring their work with them was enlightening. Björn creates some of the most impressive landscape paintings I have ever seen. He is also a nature writer so we had far too much to talk about. We partied all night long with these two Stockholmers: a magical introduction to the country. Check out his artwork at (www.björnwessman.nu)

After the Stockholm visit mom and I went our separate ways. I welcomed our separation, because I could not tolerate another night of sharing a bed with her and her snoring. I went To a city called Öredro where Mormor lives, and mom went to a city called Söderhamn where her brother John lives.

My grandmother giving her best 'Sound of Music' pose at age 15! I know so much of Mormor's life, that this photo seems like it was taken yesterday. There is almost no separation between the past and now.

The two women in my life: Mom and Mormor in Hans' apartment.

My purpose in Örebro is to see the part of the family my mother is not visiting with. It is here that I am now, visiting with my mother's sister Katarina and her partner Janne. They have two kids Jenny and Anton, who are underbart (amazing). Katarina and Janne live in a town South of Örebro in a small farming town call Storamellösa. It is incredible here. There are farms everywhere with small red or yellow houses.

Familj Gustavsson/Larsson ice fishing in the sun. From the top left to bottom right: Katarina, Janne, Anton, och Jenny.

Jenny and Anton on the Släng Kelke (throw sled).

While there are many things I could share with everyone, there are some things I will never be able to capture. This was a rather quick and boring update of what I have been doing, but it should provide some context. Please stay tuned to hear more about the people I love, the things I have learned, and land that seems to tease me with its beauty.

On a day tour today I cam across this trailer park. This is the epitome of what a 'dirtbag' is. These people use the trailer park as a wintertime and summertime vacation home. They have curtains, sun rooms, greenhouses, and no toilet, all within a small trailer: high quality life at a low price. By the way, the high for the day was 21 degrees fahrenheit.

Leaving New York

I left New York many times in my life. It seems that every time I leave New York, I leave for a 'better' place. I have spent some time thinking about this and almost hoping that it was not true. I love new York, I have loved growing up here, and I have enjoyed the company of all of my friends here.

The Wilcoxens have left New York many times for Sweden, and it has always been for vacation. I remember the excitement I used to have when we were going to leave the cold East Coast for skiing and playing in Scandanavia, but I can never remember being excited to return. I do however remember always being excited to come home to New York while I was at University. What is the difference?

Going on vacation is always exciting. The explanation for my excitement over returning to NY from college becomes clear when you realize that I was always coming to New York as a vacation from school. Clearly, home has taken on new roles since I have begun my secondary education.

Home is something different now. New York has become the place where my memories are. Home has become the visit with friends: the reminder of another life.

As I leave for yet another time, I do not feel the same excitement. Home is also the place of my parents, and their good friends. It is the place where I have been introduced to drinking champagne while watching the Super Bowl, the place where my new life and old life meet, and the reminder that there is a place that belongs to me. I have enjoyed myself for my brief stay here, and I cannot wait until the next visit in June!

Watching the Super Bowl with Robert, Dad, and Kevin. Mom is blocking the TV and taking the photo.

The stuff that I am taking with me to Sweden.

The Beginning

Welcome friends and family. Thank you for your interest in viewing my travels. I will do my best to stay in touch with all of you, and the blog is really just another way to do that.

First of all, there will need to be an update. For the past several months I have been a student at Colorado State University until I graduated in December. It was over the last semester of University that I decided I would avoid anything academic or employment oriented. I believe it is time for me to take a little vacation from school and work. I am not shutting a door, merely not gazing at the doorway.

The whole idea started in October when my buddy George and I began thinking about what we might do after school. We were for the most part completely oblivious to using options considered as work or school. While work and more school may be fruitful and fun, we both decided it was not for us. Early on in the process I knew that I had to travel back to Sweden where my mother is from. It was an easy decision considering I had not visited in five years: the longest hiatus from the place that I have ever experienced.

It was shortly after my complete commitment to Sweden that George and I began climbing in Indian Creek, Utah. Indian Creek is a magical place and it captured our imaginations. Whilst in the Creek we would climb with friends who had been on the road for months traveling from popular climbing crags in search of a good time. It was the inspiration from our disheveled mentors that inspired us to go on our own journey. It was decided after one of our trips that we had to become dirtbags.

JW and GF sporting their creekstaches in Indian Creek, UT.

A dirtbag, a representative of a lifestyle replacing that of normal working life, is to be my new career. My initial impression of dirtbags was negative of course due to my bourgeois upbringing, but this would all change. Our pals at the crags were great people from impressive walks of life. On our initial trips we met lawyers, teachers on sabbatical, college graduates, doctors, surgeons, engineers, and a lot of Europeans. They were all decent people in search of living a life of quality. After those trips, we learned that the equity placed on the dirtbag lifestyle was far higher than that of any ordinary citizen working and living within the cities and towns of the country.

Unfortunately, this story is beginning to shape up as another one of those ‘come to nature’ types. At this point I have to inform you that the recollections of my travels will not be a boring story of transcendental nature walking or how life on the road is most peaceful and serene. This is my promise, and this is my disclaimer! This blog is about Me, my family, my pals, and the stuff we have all done.

Another day at the crag

I have sidetracked. While the dirtbag life is fun and glorious, it is after all winter, and climbing is a summer sport. So George and I graduated and went our separate ways for the cold season. He has gone to his home in Silverton, Colorado where he spends his days skiing in waist deep powder, and I will be traveling to Sweden to be with my family. We will both be waiting out the winter in our respective happy places.

Sweden will be my home for the next several months. It is going to be a nostalgic experience, with time spent with my family and friends just south of the Arctic Circle. The first portion of this blog will cover the experiences of my family while we are on vacation in Sweden.

My trip to Sweden is the beginning of my dirtbagging. I am nervous because I have begun to develop the urge to work and slave over projects. I am however committed to learn from this lifestyle I have chosen. For the endless questions I get about when I plan on getting or a job or how I plan to pay for all of this, my answer is as follows: I have never been a bum, and I will never become a bum! Thanks for reading.

Feel free to stay tuned over the next couple of months for some pictures and accounts of our lives. Be well.