Heggeness to Sel:  126 kms

Lattitude: 61.8

High: 6 degrees

Low: -1

We started the day with a short walk. But could you believe it? As soon as we arrived it started snowing. But we’d planned to do this walk, so walk we did!

It was quite a novelty at first, the snow drifting down, all pretty and stuff, but then it started blowing straight at us, all freezing and stuff. I had forgotten to wear my buff, so my face felt like it was being blasted by an ice machine. I was convinced I was going to end up with a frost-bitten face. We walked faster, trying to keep warm, wondering how on earth we thought this was a good idea. We made it back to the car a little soaked (yes, snow is wet) and cranked up the heater.

After our ‘exercise’ we continued our drive north, climbing back into the mountains, fluffy snowflakes drifting down on Bertie. As we approached a mountain pass, a flashing sign lit up through the haze. Was it warning us to turn back? We looked at each other, shrugged, and pushed on.

We passed a few campervans, and even a caravan, driving down. If they could make it, so could we… right?

The drive was breathtaking. The mountains loomed ahead, cloaked in thick mist, their slopes covered in fresh snow. As we climbed higher, the snowfall fell heavier with each twist in the road. Walls of snow, easily two metres high, flanked us, and any hope of a scenic view vanished into a blur of grey and white.

Then the wind picked up, howling through the pass and sweeping snow across the road in swirling gusts. A thick patch had settled in our path, a ghostly barrier of ice and the road ahead hidden by a haze of white. Off to our right, a BMW sat abandoned in the snow, a warning of what could happen.

‘That’s it, I’m not going any further,’ I said. The snow was coming down up too fast, and that abandoned BMW wasn’t exactly inspiring confidence. Mike, ever the optimist, was keen to plough on, ‘It’s probably fine,’ he said, but the road ahead looked anything but.

I climbed out into the storm, snow stinging my face as I stepped onto the narrow road. The wind howled around me, flinging flakes sideways like shards of ice. I guided Mike as he attempted what felt like the world’s slowest and most stressful 20-point turn, nerves fraying with each careful inch. I kept a close eye on Berties wheels making sure they stayed firmly on the tarmac. I did not want to get stuck up here!

Every crunch of tyre against snow had me holding my breath, but we managed it. Facing the other way never felt so good.

Then came the next challenge, getting back into the car.

I yanked the door open, but when I tried to shut it, the wind slammed against it. No matter how hard I pulled, it wouldn’t budge. I clung to the handle with both hands, terrified the wind might rip it clean off the hinges if I let go.

‘Mike!’ I shouted over the roar. ‘I can’t shut it!’

He leaned across and grabbed my arm, pulling while I fought to wrestle the door closed. It may sound like I’m exaggerating, but I’m really not!

We headed back down the mountain in silence, just keen to get back to civilisation. By the time we reached the nearest town, the snow was falling even harder.

We made a beeline for the tourist information centre, hoping for answers, and maybe a little validation. The man behind the counter didn’t hesitate.

‘Yes, that pass is closed. Very bad weather.’ 

Mike and I exchanged a look. Just as well we turned around when we did, or we might’ve ended up like that poor BMW, frozen in time.

He pulled out a map and pointed to an alternative route. ‘You can take this road instead. Bit of a detour, about three hours.’

Not ideal, but considering the alternative involved being rescued out or sleeping in a snowbank, it sounded just fine.

As we stepped out of the tourist office, who should we see but the guy with the caravan we’d passed coming down the mountain earlier. He confirmed he’d turned around too.

Just then, a familiar little car came into view, barrelling toward the pass like it had something to prove. The Polski Fiat! We’d met those guys a couple of days ago and had been following their snowy escapades on Instagram ever since. Last we saw, their tiny Fiat was practically buried in snow and looked more like a snowmobile than a car.

They’re from Poland, and clearly built of sterner stuff. No hesitation, just full throttle, putt, putt, putting into the storm in all their 600cc 2-cylinder glory. We watched them disappear up the same mountain road we’d just bailed on, shaking our heads with a mix of admiration and concern.

‘Guess they’re a little hardcore,’ I said.

‘Or a little crazy,’ Mike replied.

They are both heading up to the Arctic, so we hope to see them again.

We sat in the van and had some lunch, followed by an afternoon nap. The sun came out, and we started to wonder if the road might open again. If we mucked around long enough, then just maybe…

A couple of hours later, we wandered over to the public toilets. The sign was still flashing: road closed. But when we came back out, it had stopped flashing. Had it just opened?

We checked the website and it was still marked as closed. Not very helpful. So we headed back to the tourist office to ask again.

This time, the news was different: the road closed signs had disappeared. It was open!

Although by this point, I was a little nervous about heading up there again. What I’d seen earlier had stuck with me. Icy roads, thick snowbanks, an abandoned car half-buried in white. It wasn’t exactly a pretty sight, and I think it gave me a touch of PTSD.

But the sun was still out, and the wind had dropped. We decided to give it a shot. Worst case, we could always do another twenty-point turn and come back down. We’d done it once, we could do it again.

But this time, the views were even more incredible. The mist had lifted, unveiling the mountains in their full glory. Instead of a hazy white blur, we could see clear down into the valley, layers of snow and rock stretching out far below. It felt like the mountain was showing us its best side.

But I didn’t fully relax until we started the downhill run and dropped below the snow line. As much as I love being in the middle of nowhere, with no one else around, this time it felt eerie.

The rest of the day was spent driving alongside rivers and beautiful turquoise lakes. We are low enough now that the snow has stopped and it’s just rain. The weather is supposed to be worse tomorrow so we are camping in a carpark near a small town, listening to the rhythmic patter of rain on Bertie’s roof.