When things fall on your head it's no longer a sign. It's day thirteen, a day when we tried very, very hard to get to ice. We got to it, but not on it. Today was 'move day', when we'd decided on a little nip up a relatively accessible route before heading over to Senja. But Heinrikkfossen was glittering. Okay, it wasn't glittering, but it faces north, starts pretty high, and looked lovely.
So up we stumbled. A vast amount of snow has gone on this slope. But it was still pretty deep in places, almost as deep as the moss.
Back on track for the day, we bundled into the car and started heading to Senja. Except I had a different plan. There are five ice lines not too far from Bardufoss, down the Iselvdalen valley, off Kirkesdalen. So, a few hours later we were at the end of a dirt track. I spoke to a farmer in his tractor, and although he spoke no English I could understand perfectly that he was telling me that the ice lines were falling down, it's hot, they are falling down, etc. We went for a 'look' (= Jules went for a look, I went for other reasons).