E 'water.
The water that moves us and moves even the sights and emotions.
Water silent as snow, pouring like a stream, a high tide as intrusive, as powerful as a storm, still as ice.
water but today I think, twenty-five in June, I'm riding to the north that I have in my head for a lifetime, to the North Cape, to Nordkapp. Now I see the finished sheets of snow on the hills that surround me in this plateau about 400 meters to joining Alta Skaidi, any two names that mean for me the first stop on a bike trip, in Norway's arctic circle. Here the snow is the predominant expression of the water, even when the snow does not exist: the miles are in the main roads, marked with placards held more than five feet from the ground by flexible sticks - stones milestones would be invisible for many months here - the wells of the power line is indicated by the long yellow sticks, and the rare tourist signs are often protected by a wooden roof.
From time to time you see the sticks banded black and yellow, those who are required to indicate the height of the snow, who if they are in the sea, fjords, indicating the level of the tides. Ultimately it is the same, the water is there, the water is not there. Yes, it's the same thing, the water moves the views and moves too. It 's just that the time change: for the tides there are eight-hour intervals, governed by the moon, the snow while its presence and absence can be adjusted over the months, ruled by the sun.
Snow, is infectious. Even in winter this stretch of road is flooded and closed by snow for months. After each intersection - the crossroads are also rare, sometimes one hundred kilometers do not see - the beginning of each road is a barrier, a kind of level crossing and a traffic light, but in addition there is the railway, there are no intersections, there is the possible blocking of traffic due to snow and ice. On the other hand there are invisible paths, those who ride snowmobiles in the winter, marked by signs and the cutting of trees (where trees are).
Everything is extreme here. The amount of water, its temperature, even in summer is near zero. The landscape changes suddenly, the climate is governed by the whims of winds and clouds that run fast over my head.
trees left me, and I find myself among mosses and lichens, including carpets and soft bright grass. As you travel, snow plaque you see more insistently, even if the temperature is about ten degrees. I stop, I say. There is a creek that divides the two hills, a waterfall, a turf, and then snow at my feet. I wash my hands before eating snow.
There is no one, the phone has no signal now for several hours. I am alone, in tremilanovecento miles from home, this gives me joy, shreds of happiness, even if I do not understand exactly why. It's seven o'clock in the evening, I still have to travel thirty kilometers, and I know that the sun, still high on the horizon, today not fade.
