Fortune favors the bold

Everything went wrong from day one. Months of careful planning mean nothing when you start your journey by missing a train.

Afraid to get stuck in the mountains after dark, we did not stop to eat or rest. Pouring rain turned the narrow mountain path ahead of us into an indiscernible rocky mush.

Riding a bike ten inches away from the precipice requires a lot of focus and balance. Sharp turns, shaky wooden bridges, streams and waterfalls directly in our way clearly needed my undivided attention. Yet gluing my eyes to the road seemed impossible. The grim, severe scenery hummed with life. Dandelions that sprang out of the rocks were stubbornly reaching up to catch what little sun there was. Little red-and-black mice rapidly ran across our path with frightened squeaks. The moss on either side of the trail was five inches deep. I have to admit I stopped once and threw myself on it (just to find out if it felt as soft as it looked), not minding the wetness for one bit. As if was possible to get any wetter at that point.

Cycling mountain routes, as one might expect, was physically challenging. My neck, back and legs were rigid and sore. Inexplicably, the happiest moment of my life was born out of pain, fatigue, hunger and hypothermia. As we rode up and down, passing snowy peaks, waterfalls, rivers and lakes, our bodies fell into sync with the elements. It gave me an extra second to gape at the beauty before turning back to the road.

That journey was dangerous and stupid, and we should have known better. We should have known how much time we had before sunset, for one.

I wanted to have a memento to recall this exquisite mix of angst and euphoria later in life. What kind of a token could there be? I picked up a stone, one of many lying under the wheels. It was in no way notable - no extraordinary color or remarkable shape distinguished it from million others. It was small, white, cold and hard, its sharp shape fit comfortably in my palm.

It was supposed to be a weeklong cycling trip up in Norwegian mountains. We ended up cycling, hitchhiking, walking, taking a boat, a train, and even a catamaran to complete the route that was nothing like our original one. Well, improvisation is not a lost art after all. The rock sits on my shelf to this day, a trophy that makes me proudest. It is a reminder that a traveler must be brave, passionate and persistent, all at the same time.