I never imagined it would come to this. In just a few days, I’d climbed both Halti and Kebnekaise—unplanned, unprepared, and almost by chance. The weather had been on my side, as it often is when the wild places want to grant you a gift. It wasn’t until I reached the car in Nikkaluokta that the rain began to pour down, as if the heavens had waited for me to be safely out of the mountains. How typical, right?
Honestly, I’m drained after hiking 62 kilometers, every step feeling like a test, but there’s this bubbling sense of gratitude and happiness in me. Still, those moments of pure joy are like fleeting stars, burning brightly for a second before fading. It’s strange how quickly the joy shifts to something else. For that brief moment, I feel invincible, but then reality creeps in like a cold breeze, and I start questioning everything.
What’s the real significance of this? After all, what makes this accomplishment so special? There are hundreds of people who summit Kebnekaise every year. Heck, you can even take a boat to cut down on the hike or hop on a helicopter to the mountain station to make the journey easier. And in the end, everyone stands on the exact same summit I did. So, what’s the difference? To each their own, I guess. Not every journey has to be the toughest. If you’re looking for a true challenge, Kebnekaise’s eastern route—glaciers, rocks, and all—is where the real test lies (YDS Grade 4). But how many have stood on Halti, Kebnekaise, and Galdhøpiggen all within the same year, let alone in a matter of days?
The circle of comparison tightens, but then I catch myself. This isn’t a competition. Many people dream of conquering these peaks for years, yet sadly, not all will even attempt it, and even fewer will make it to the top.
I’m grateful for this journey, and although I’ve checked off my goals and even pushed beyond them, the “what ifs” start to whisper. What if I’m not done yet? What if there’s more out there waiting? A detour, perhaps? Galdhøpiggen still calls to me. I’m not ready to go home just yet. A wild idea forms: what if I could climb Halti, Kebnekaise, and Galdhøpiggen within a single week? The thought takes hold and doesn’t let go.
The thought starts to sink its claws into my mind, and I can’t shake it off. The weather’s turning, becoming unpredictable, but as I drive through the rain, I check the forecasts again. The timing for Kebnekaise couldn’t have been better, and it seems the gods of the wilderness are still on my side. Sunny weather is predicted near Galdhøpiggen in a few days. Of course, it could change, but I have to see what this card holds.
The reality, however, is that I’m as far up north as you can get. It’s 1300 kilometers to Stockholm, a long stretch, especially when Galdhøpiggen isn’t even remotely on the direct route home. But I’m willing to take the scenic detour.
Two days later, after hours of winding roads and endless landscape, I arrive in Lom, Norway. It’s not my first time here. Back in 2021, during my epic Norwegian road trip, I passed through Lom, heading from Bergen to Oslo. I remember driving up the mountain road, only for it to turn into a toll road, and by the time I realized I couldn’t go further, it was too late to continue. The next morning, I had to catch a flight from Oslo, and that was that.
But this time, I’m here with purpose. Galdhøpiggen—Northern Europe’s tallest peak—is calling me. Sure, it’s said to be less demanding than Kebnekaise, but it’s hard to shake the nervousness creeping up on me. The tallest mountain in the region? Not something you climb every day. I stop by a local supermarket to pick up snacks and drinks for the journey ahead. This is it.
There are several routes to the top, but I’ve chosen the most common one from Spiterstulen. It’s about a 30-kilometer drive from Lom to Spiterstulen, and the first half is on a paved road, which eventually turns narrow and winding with few passing spots. Every time I encounter another car, I’m lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time. The paved road eventually turns into a dirt road, and then, bam, I meet my first massive lorry. But once again, fortune is on my side as we pass each other without incident. Along the way, I see cows and sheep grazing lazily, and cross several wooden bridges over rivers that look deceptively calm but make my heart race as I drive across them.
But compared to the road to Goulasjärvi, this one isn’t so bad. When I reach the private toll road, I know there’s no turning back. Finally, I reach Spiterstulen Mountain Lodge, which sits proudly at 1111 meters above sea level. This historic lodge, established in 1844 as a mountain farm and later expanded in 1874 to accommodate tourists, now hosts around 220 guests. I later learn they even have an indoor pool. I regret not taking advantage of that luxury.
The parking lot is packed with cars and tents scattered across the glacier river. It’s not warm up here, and the sun has already hidden itself behind the mountains, leaving an eerie coolness in the air.
The nervous energy I felt earlier fades as I step onto the ground here. This place is mesmerizing, and I can feel a palpable sense of purpose in the air. People are busy pitching their tents, preparing their meals, and getting ready for tomorrow’s adventure. I pay for my camping spot at the lodge, then haul my gear across the river Vis. I find a quiet spot near the river, away from the crowds, and set up my tent. It’s going to be a cold night, but I’m eager for what tomorrow holds. Not long after, I fall into a deep sleep, the sound of the rushing river and bleating sheep not disturbing me at all.
I wake up later than I intended, but that’s okay. I wanted to wait for the sun to come out and warm things up. Crawling out of my tent, I realize it’s already well into the morning. The chill from the night still clings to me, so I adjust my layers. The summit’s going to be windy and frigid, so I bundle up. I’m ready. I’m exactly where I need to be.
Looking up, I spot other climbers already making their ascent. The sense of being part of something bigger than myself hits me—the energy of a shared goal is infectious.
The trail starts just west of the campsite, winding through a small grove before it climbs steadily up the slope. Somewhere in my mind, I slip into competition mode and push myself harder, overtaking people along the way. The trail is popular, and the path is worn down with hundreds of footsteps. But soon, I realize I’ve overdone it—I’m overheating and sweating, my pack loaded with unnecessary layers. But I keep telling myself the summit will be much colder.
As I ascend, the landscape changes, the valley below growing smaller and smaller. It’s hard to ignore how many people are on this path, their presence a constant reminder of how well-traveled this trail is. At around 1800 meters, the trail becomes less steep, and I see a peak ahead. Could that be the summit? I doubt it. It’s too soon. But then, I recall there are two peaks before Galdhøpiggen—the first being Svellnosi at 2272 meters.
As I get closer to Svellnosi, the terrain shifts. The drop on my right is steep, and the trail becomes more intimidating. I remind myself that if there were snow, this could be a dangerous spot without the right gear, but I’m well-prepared.
The higher I climb, the scarier the drop on the left becomes. And then, I spot it—the next summit, Keilhaus at 2355 meters. After passing this peak, the trail dips before following the ridge toward the Piggbreen glacier. There’s only a few patches of snow, but the final stretch to the summit is pure exhilaration. My heart races, and I know I’m close.
When I finally stand at the summit, I’m flooded with emotion. Galdhøpiggen—the highest point in Norway—is beneath me. I pause, overwhelmed by the 360-degree view, soaking in the beauty of the moment. This is what it’s all about.
The summit is surprisingly crowded, but it’s hard to feel disappointed. It’s a clear day, after all, and this is Galdhøpiggen. I take a moment to savor the experience, to reflect on how surreal it feels to stand at the highest point in Norway, in Scandinavia. I climb to the very top, just to make sure I’m truly there, remembering how many dream of standing where I am now—but only a few take the steps to make it happen.
As I stand at the peak, two guys come sliding down the snow, laughing and making the most of the conditions. I briefly think about joining them, but then reconsider. This place, while beautiful, is dangerous. An ambulance helicopter flies overhead, reminding me that even small mistakes here can lead to serious consequences.
After soaking it all in, I begin my descent. The path down is just as steep as the way up, and I’m reminded that it’s never as easy as it seems. The descent didn’t offer much new to share, as I retraced the same path, only bypassing the summit of Svellnosi and instead walking along the upper ridge of the glacier. The slope was treacherously icy—one wrong move, or an avalanche could easily have been the end. Thankfully, I made it through, though I wasn’t alone; others were taking the same risk. Still, my gut told me it wasn’t the wisest choice.
Several hours later, I’m back at the campsite, having completed the 12-kilometer round trip. I set down my gear and clean up. The showers at the lodge are less than ideal. Had I known about the indoor pool, I would’ve opted for that instead. But as I stand in the shower, something catches my eye—a live electric cable too close to the running water. For a brief moment, I freeze. It’s a little shocking, but I cut my shower short, thankful for the experience but eager to move on.
As I pack up and head to my car, I reflect on what I’ve achieved. Halti, Kebnekaise, and now Galdhøpiggen. Three peaks. But this trip has been about more than the climbs—it’s been about the journey, the detours, and the moments that make you feel truly alive.
I drive away, knowing that the road ahead is long, but I’ve reached the end of one chapter and the beginning of another. The mountains fade in my rearview mirror, but the adventure stays with me.