Tag: barefoot shoes

#throwback – June 8, 2024

In paradise, I wake up to a bird concert right in my windowsill. A sweet little bird is singing its heart out. The silence is gone, but the alternative is just as beautiful. I wash my face with water from the lake. Just beneath the surface, a little crayfish is enjoying the warm rays of the sun.

As beautiful as the day began, it didn’t stay that way. Soon it turned cloudy and drizzly. The route was incredibly tough and I made slow progress. I walked the entire day but only managed to cover 15 kilometers. Those last few hundred meters were killing me. I had seen on the app that the shelter couldn’t be far, and when I turned a corner, there it was. I let out a primal scream—absurdly loud and dramatic. A man came running out of the hut, startled. He thought I had fallen and asked if I was okay. Yes, yes, I’m fine—I’m just so happy to have arrived. I was mortified, thinking I was alone.

He introduced himself as David John from Stockholm. He gave me a warm welcome; he had already built up the fire. Although the huts are supposed to be open to anyone as long as there’s space, I still asked if he minded me staying. I really had no energy left to continue. He had no problem with it, and unlike my previous experiences, he wasn’t surprised to have company. Apparently that’s more common on weekends. We exchanged insights about hiking routes and countries we’d visited. It was cool to see that he also walked in barefoot shoes. Like me, he had great experiences with this way of walking and no longer had knee problems. He was the first person I’d seen barefoot in Sweden—which made sense, he said, because it’s still in its (barefoot) infancy here.

David John ate his freeze-dried hiker’s food straight from the bag, while I had fresh vegetables and meat. He was a bit jealous and said it smelled amazing. We shared my chocolate over a cup of tea, and by half past eight he was already asleep. I followed his lead, though I couldn’t fall asleep right away. But after some reading, I drifted into a deep sleep.

May 15, 2024

I wake up early, but I’m snoozing so comfortably in my little castle. The sun is shining on my tent, the temperature is quickly rising, and my laundry is already dry again. When I get up to pee, I see a deer walking by.

I don’t set off until around noon. I wonder why I’m so hung up on my slow starts. Then, suddenly—a shift! I clearly don’t have a 9-to-5 mentality, but rather a 12-to-9 one! Same hours in the end, and who cares anyway? It doesn’t get dark until 11 p.m. I laugh at myself. Silly. Somehow, that shift in thinking helps. So, from now on: a 12-to-9 mindset.

While walking along a country road, I spot a man cycling toward me in the distance. That’s rare enough already, but I also see he has quite large breasts bouncing around. He’s only wearing shorts, sneakers, and socks. He brakes right in front of me and says, “I saw you yesterday too—have you walked all that way?” He’s friendly, clearly older, but still spry and curious. He asks a million questions and shares tips on places I should visit. Then his phone rings: “Oops, my wife—gotta go or I’ll be in trouble!” And off he goes. I chuckle and continue walking.

My thoughts won’t leave me alone. I’m not in the moment; I’m stuck in the future. How will I get new shoes later? The ones I have aren’t great—turns out they’re too small. I’m determined to wear barefoot shoes, but they’re almost impossible to find in stores. It’s not urgent since I have a backup pair, but still… And will I even manage with the hiking cart in Norway, with all those mountains? Should I send my laptop home to save weight and only bring a keyboard? It’s weird—this kind of overthinking hasn’t been typical for me in recent years, but here I am, stuck in my head. On the other hand, I do find it fascinating to observe all this in myself.

At a lake, I spot a massive picnic table—big enough for 12 people—with a fleece and a small box on it. I figure I can just sit for a quick break. Then a hefty, panting man storms over from his fishing spot. His belly hangs over his swim trunks and he looks like he might collapse from those thin legs. He starts yelling in Swedish. I tell him I don’t understand, but he doesn’t speak English and just keeps going. I catch something about “min fru” (my wife), and I gather she must be nearby. Fine, I’ll move. I get tourist-hotel vibes—you know, those folks who put towels on sunbeds at dawn. They can have the table. I don’t stay long anyway, because I’ve just met Sweden’s version of “the loud, trashy crowd.” Moments later, belly-man is joined by two women, one of whom looks exactly like Ma Flodder—minus the cigar. They shout, yell into their phones, and toss wrappers on the ground—something I hadn’t seen yet in Sweden. I quickly make coffee, eat a sandwich, and head back into the peace and quiet.

The incident is quickly redeemed by a visit to a beautiful, very old church—Dörarp Kyrka. For once, the door isn’t locked. The oldest walls date back to the Middle Ages. It’s wonderfully cool inside, and I sit for a while in the wooden pews, soaking in the serene atmosphere. I think about my children—what beautiful people they’ve become and how grounded they are. I feel happy and grateful.

Then I come across a roadside memorial for Clifford Lee Burton. I didn’t know who he was, but I learn he was one of the world’s greatest heavy metal bassists and part of the legendary band Metallica. In 1986, after a concert, their tour bus crashed on this very road en route to Copenhagen. Clifford was thrown from the bus and died. Fans from all over the world still visit this place. It’s a powerful tribute and surreal to find here, on a sleepy country road where nothing seems to happen.

I start looking for a place to sleep. I check the Komoot app and spot a beach not far off route. Sounds promising, though the path to it is a bit tricky—I hope I won’t have to turn back. But no, what a reward, what a spot! I feel like Robinson Crusoe on a deserted island. At first there’s a small boat with a family onboard, but they soon leave. I dip my feet in the water—still too cold to swim. Now I’m all alone again, and oh, the richness of it. A beautiful beach, my tent on a bed of moss, only the sounds of nature around me, and a stunning sunset. No more words needed.