Our Final European Chapter

Departing Norway

For several weeks we had been thinking of how to wrap up Europe, and especially Norway which we were getting quite comfortable with, and get ready for the next leg of our trip. Little did we suspect the stories we still had left to experience before leaving Europe! Unfortunately most of those stories revolved around Spot, our senior Volkswagen, Westfalia camper.

The Coil

I suppose Lærdal is where the final chapter really began. After visiting the glacier and fiord country up north, Kim and I were headed south, then west, to the port city of Bergen for a last few days in Norway before picking up and heading south out of the country. We had selected a route that would take us through Lærdal, allowing us to visit Marijke's friends there, Pim and Sonja, one of the oldest stave churches in the country, and to then drive up and over the local mountains and on to Bergen.

[First though a little aside about Spot. After getting ripped off in Oslo, Spot no longer needed a key to start her up, but rather a screw driver. Unfortunately we only had a stubby Swiss army knife that slipped occasionally and generally wasn't ideal, but it worked. Also, every five or so times the ignition wouldn't turn forcing one to remove the screwdriver and restart. Periodically too, even that didn't work and only a push start or tow would get Spot's engine running -- something we had to do about two dozen times before selling the old dog.]

After visiting the marvelous church, Kim was driving back to the Lærdal campsite (John snapping photos as always), when Spot quietly died and slowly coasted to a stop. Traveling on fumes, we powwowed with the local farmer. His English was poor, but sufficient to clarify that he had NO petrol, either with or without lead. As I started hitching into town though, he came plodding down the driveway with a few liters of the golden liquid that he apparently had decided to release from his strategic oil reserves. Unfortunately it had little effect and we then called the tow truck.

In 45 minutes we were ensconced at the garage and the mechanics had ascertained the likely cause of the failure to run as a broken ignition. Although the prognosis changed frequently over the next three days, little else did. We sat marooned at our campsite, where the tow truck unceremoniously dumped us after it became clear that the problem was more than just a faulty ignition.

Given that a Volkswagen Westfalia only has a dozen or so moving parts and its ignition system only four parts, it took a disappointingly long three days before the coil was replaced, for free, with a older version salvaged from the local junk yard. Of course the repair ended up costing some $800.00 (a third of Spot's purchase price!) because they had also replaced the fancy electronic guts of the distributor for $300.00 -- even though the new unit appeared to have no effect on the problem.

Having thrown money at the problem, we finally headed over the hill to Flåm, then on to Voss, then Bergen. After this little episode, Spot never again ran so well and actually kept getting worse and worse gas mileage and even started stalling at stop signs -- unless one revved the engine slightly. Given the occasional need to push start Spot this led to what an outside, impartial observer (i.e., those in the neighboring cars) would surely say were perplexing, generally heroic, often humorous attempts to prevent a stall.

Bergen was a delight, with continued good weather, a scenic harbor place with beautiful historic buildings, and a youthful, vibrant populace. To avoid taxing Spot further and another theft of the camper, we took busses in to town -- and invariably missed the last one back, resulting in a long taxi ride home to the campground.

Driving back along the sounds to Voss and then Flåm again was unremarkable -- thus great by our soon to be altered standards. Flåm is at sea level, as is Oslo where we would catch a ferry to Denmark, but between is the Hardangervidda, a rugged, ancient plateau some 2,000 - 3,000 meters high.

On the long, steep roadway up, John told Spot that this was her last severe pitch -- make this and we'd be back to flat cruising for the remainder of our days together. It must of been then that Spot decided to make her move.

It was shortly afterwards that we picked up a couple of sweet, spirited travelers who had decided to take the "shorter" overland route between Aurland and (Flåm?) and had left woefully unprepared. With a poor tourist map of the region that only did a good job spelling out the names of the major villages in the region, they set out with a few days of food for adventure. That they found, and when we picked them up almost a week later, they were eager to leave the hills behind. Having abandoned their route fairly early on and traveling primarily on what they had gleaned from the Norwegian-only speaking shepherds in the hills, they eagerly consulted our maps to locate their position and destination.

By the time they ascertained their coordinates, we had already passed a climbed well above their destination on the steep road. We turned around (undoubtedly to Spot's great relief) and dropped them off. When we started back up the same pitch we had only recently surmounted, Spot must have had an internal struggle then balked.

Unbeknownst to us, about this time a bit of Spot's resolve slipped and a wee little bolt snapped. It just happened to be connected to be connected to another of Spot's few moving parts, the clutch.

The Ferry

Rushing now to make the ferry, eager not to turn off the engine for fear of having to push start it, and running increasingly rough, we were determined not to stop frequently, and sailed on to Oslo stopping only once to get gas.

We even passed up the opportunity to spend a few more days with our Tromso friends, Ellen and Marit, at their family's summer cabins. Still, at the few road junctions, John noticed the gear shifter not really working well. Not wanting to stop and explore the new situation, he focused only on getting Spot to Oslo's exit door. Repairs would be cheaper anywhere but Norway, and the closer we got to Spot's German home, the cheaper and easier they would get.

Since Kim was ready to drop off Spot at the nearest dumpster by this point ("We shouldn't spend five more cents on this blasted heap of steel"), John was sort of trying to hide the true extent of our delema from his dear love. Still Kim was becoming attuned to our desperate situation and we were both eager to make the ferry.

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