Man-Eating Mosquitoes

By the beginning of July (2013), I had forgotten the early days of the trip. The doubts, the melancholy of leaving Berlin, the breakup with Claire – all of that was hundred of kilometers behind me. I was in a meditative mindset, listening to Keith Jarrett’s song “Endless” as my legs churned round and round. There were fewer and fewer cars, fewer towns and stores. The day grew longer, the farther north I rode. There was only fresh air and sunlight.

I can’t find any better word to describe the sunlight than “golden”. Everything it touched had a crisp look. Golden flakes of sun danced on the leaves, the grass, the water, the bursting flowers. Camping at night, there were stars and the sounds of insects. I rode past the native Sami people and their earthen homes.

Peace. I found a peace in the north of Sweden I hadn’t had in many, many years. Then I crossed the Arctic Circle and the mosquitoes in the forrest swarmed me. Before looking for a camping spot, I’d have to first (on the road, which they sprayed with anti-mosquito gunk) put on my long-sleeved rain gear plus gloves, long pants, and pull my hood as tightly as possible around my face so that only one eyeball, at the absolute most, was poking out. When I pushed my bike into the forest to find a place to camp for the night, the mosquitoes would swarm, thick. I’d set up my tent and get inside as quickly as possible and still then I’d have to spend the next 20 minutes crushing mosquitoes which had snuck inside. The next morning was the same drill, only in reverse.

I was only a few days from the Nordkapp. Funny, the closer I came, the farther I wished I still had to go.

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