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Sognefjord, often claimed to be the world’s longest and deepest fjord, winds for some 200 kilometres from the Norwegian coast, past towns like Balestrand and Sogndal and countless tiny hamlets served only by boat. To north and south, it reaches branching arms into Fjearland, Naeroy and Aurland, before finally twisting to an end through the gnarled fingers of the Luster and Ardal fjords. Though the sea reaches its limit at Ovre Ardal, its canyon continues for a further 40 kilometres, transformed into Norway’s deepest and most impressive valley system, for the glaciers that carved it gathered their relentless forces far to the north, in the centre of the Jotunheimen.

In his book, ‘Under Storen’ (Beneath the Giant), Jan Schwarzott describes Utladalen as a cathedral. The metaphor is apt, for it displays a Gothic symmetry. The main valley is a full kilometre deep, with numerous hanging valleys leading like transepts to left and right of the nave: Stolsmaradalen, Midtmaradalen, Fleskedalen, Uradalen and others. Spires and flying buttresses rise to more than 2000 metres on both sides: Stolsnostind, Falketind and Uranostind to the east and the Alpine peaks of the Hurrungane to the west, dominated by the giant itself, Store Skagastolstind.

Utladalen can be entered or travelled only on foot. Tracks follow contours above the line of the 800-year-old forest. Visitors venturing to the valley floor do so to their cost, for the river has a lethal swiftness, and trees grow to a jungle density into which travellers have disappeared without trace.

Skogadalsboen mountain hut stands at the junctions of several tracks, and is an ideal base from which to launch excursions onto the surrounding mountains. Like most Norwegian huts, it combines economy with the warmest of atmospheres and a high degree of comfort, and provides meals that would not be bettered in a hotel. It also sells a non-alcoholic, home-brewed beer which is the most thirst-quenching drink I have ever tasted. The nearest road is a five-hour walk away.

I left Turtagro under a threatening, grey sky. The track began mildly enough, along the horizontal floor of Helgedalen, but soon established its true style of uphill grind, over snow patch and glaciated rock towards the Kaiser Pass.

Trekking from hut to hut, or ski-ing in winter, is a major sport in Norway, and the tracks are well marked. Few, however, seem to climb the hills, so that one has to find ones own way to almost any summit. Simlenosa, 1766 metres high, stands guard over the pass, and though only a foothill of the Hurrungane, should not be taken lightly.

I hid my rucksack off the track and set off up the slopes. The lower, snow-covered reaches were of gentle gradient, but the climb quickly became a steep, meandering scramble over and around rocky walls and boulder fields until, after about 300 metres, it relented toward the summit. I hoped to gain a view of the Hurrungane from here, but a shower blew in to wash it away. This eased a little, but left a haze around the peaks. I quickly descended and resumed the track, downhill now, to reach Skogadalsboen in plenty of time for the evening meal.

Gjertvasstind is the most accessible of the Hurrungane peaks from Skogadalsboen. At 2351 metres, only 52 short of the giant, it is the ninth highest in Norway.

Right at the start, I took the wrong turning, and missed the makeshift bridge over the river that ran down from the Kaiser Pass. I was almost half-way to the pass before I solved the crossing, then found myself immediately climbing the steepest of grass slopes. This gave way to a ridge which, though easier angled, as a whole, was an uneven succession of boulders, glaciated slabs and snow patches. The snow was of a consistency that made step kicking easy in the short term, but tiring as the patches grew into fields.

The morning had begun warm and hazily sunny. Now, altitude brought coolness, a greying sky and rain. The distant summit vanished into the cloud. Then another problem arose.

The snowfield in front of me curved upward for 100 metres, from the almost horizontal to the not-too-short-of vertical. It rose into a narrow tongue licking the base of a 20-metre rock wall that appeared to block all further progress. It looked ridiculous, yet a few small cairns beckoned from the far side of the snow.

I moved tentatively over to the first cairn and searched for the next. It was there, a little higher, with another higher still. A series of cairns plotted an intricate, though not difficult scramble through the barrier, so that I soon pulled over onto a broad shoulder above.

From here, there was more snow and less rock, so progress became very tiring. With the cold of altitude, the showers turned wintry.

After what seemed an eternity of effort, I stood on a narrow whale-back of snow, smothered in cloud. Then the cloud thinned to the south of me, exposing the summit cairn on a rocky platform jutting from under the snow. The ascent had taken me seven hours.

Cliffs in excess of 1000 metres fell onto the Maradals glacier, with the spectacular, tooth-like peaks of Mannen and Kjerringa beyond. Mist continued to blow around the slightly higher peaks of Styggedalstind and Skagastolstind to the west, leaving them only just discernable across the chasm that opened out a few metres from the cairn. Then after half-a-minute, the view was swallowed again.

The snow, which had been so tiring to climb, now became the means of a fast, sliding descent. Just above the barrier, I met another climber who was heading upwards into the mist. His three companions had stopped below the wall, and were waiting there for his return. I wished him luck and we parted.

Four hours after leaving the summit, I reached the hut, with ten minutes to spare before the second sitting for dinner, which I washed down with a very welcome half-litre of the home-brew.

The next day had to be easier. At a leisurely pace, I followed the track southward that trimmed the higher reaches of the Utladalen forest, rising gently for about two miles.

For many years, even as recently as the 1930’s, Utladalen was famous for bear hunting. Over the centuries, up to 1500 bears were killed there. The tiny hut of Vormeli, lying deep in the valley about one-and-a-half miles south of Skogadalsboen, was, a century ago, the home of a hunting family. As a bear pelt could be sold for the equivalent of an average year’s pay, this family became one of the wealthiest in Norway, deeming it well worthwhile spending long winters in snowbound isolation.

I broke away eastward from the track and climbed steeply for about 300 metres to the summit of Friken. Though this is one of the smallest peaks of Utladalen, the view from the top is out of all proportion to its low altitude of 1503 metres. To the east was Uranostind, with the sharply pointed Stolsnostind to the south-east. The western view extended across Utladalen to the glaciers and peaks of the Hurrungane.

Most of these mountains were first climbed by the British climber, W. C. Slingsby, who opened his account here in 1872, returning year after year to become a legend throughout the Jotunheimen.

The following day, I set off east of the hut, then after a mile, began up the extremely steep northern face of the Uranosa ridge. By now, I was feeling very fit, and found the 500-metre climb much easier than I expected. The ridge itself was quite broad, and sloped very gently upward for two miles, culminating in a final steep section to the summit at 1900 metres. The ridge narrowed and dropped away, before climbing again to Uranostind, swathed in cloud. To the east, the mountain fell precipitously to the Skogadals glacier, beyond which stood the long, serrated summit of Saga.

My last day in Utladalen was, in terms of weather, the best. I had, however, an appointment with a snowy Glittertind, Norway’s second summit, and chose this as the day of farewell.

I left Skogadalsboen in wonderful sunshine, and a clarity of air that picked out every wrinkle and rock on the hillsides. My destination was Krossbu, about eight or nine grinding, uphill miles to the north. The first miles passed through the sweaty confines of the forest, then the fresher, though still enclosed upper reaches of Utladalen. The river crashed noisily through a narrow gorge below the track.

As I gained height, I again reached the snowline and a group of small lakes, which spilled into the river, the tjorns, from which the word ‘tarn’ is derived. Many Lake District words can be found here in embryo. Foss, for example, has evolved into force, a waterfall. The Vikings clearly carried words such as beck, dale, ghyll, fell and rigg to us, and all are found in Utladalen.

As I reached the watershed at a height of 1400 metres, I looked across a steadily descending mile toward Krossbu and the Sognefjell highway. To my right lay the moraines and lower tongues of the Smorstabb glacier.

I glanced back into Utladalen, and up to the snowy peaks of the Hurrungane, shining in the sun and sharply etched against the sky. Then I turned and stepped through the doorway, leaving the Jotunheimen cathedral behind me.

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