Text and Photos by Gjermund Gustavsen – Part 2 of 2 (Part 1 here)

Picking up where yesterday left off, I continue my unpredictable journey along Mjølkevegen.

I’m at the edge of the famous Jotunheimen – home of giants and trolls – as I unzip my makeshift cave. The sun greets me warmly, and unlike those mythical creatures, I do not turn to stone at first light. Quite the opposite—I’m alive and energized, sprawled in the soft heather while a herd of sheep walks past me. These fuzzy clouds on legs stand out against a sky that’s perfectly clear above.

If physical exercise is the key to good sleep, then I guess last night was something of a proof. Even though the last hill almost broke me, I feel surprisingly refreshed as I fire up the camping stove outside my tent. The hiss of gas blends with the crisp morning air, carrying the promise of fresh coffee and new adventure. Below me, the gravel road twists in both directions, still bearing the imprints of yesterday’s hard-won kilometres.

It’s been months since I last took on a serious ride. The tent was an untested gamble, the weather a roll of the dice, and my preparations anything but ideal. Yet here I am, immersed in the moment, enjoying the hell out of a beautiful morning. But the journey is only halfway done, and now it’s go time. Again.

Tourist hub

Riding through the hilly farmland, my bike and I are the only signs of modern life in what could easily pass for an 1800s landscape. My legs are holding up better than expected, and I’m confident my stiff neck will loosen up soon. A series of potholes is the final jolt needed to wake me fully, and the elevation meters remind me that, even though it’s Sunday, I’m now very much at work.

I thought Beitostølen was just around the corner, but it takes a solid 40 minutes of climbing and coasting before I finally roll in. The vibe shifts noticeably, and suddenly it’s all “tourist hub meets chic alpine resort,” with sports cars in the parking lots and people strolling around in patagucci vests. It snaps me out of my adventure mindset, and I quickly decide this isn’t a place I’ll linger for long.

I pop into the Sunday-open grocery store for a few essentials. On my way out, I walk straight into a group of cyclists deep in conversation about the trail conditions ahead. The word “marble” comes up when describing the gravel, and even though they’ve just ridden it, they seem almost envious that I’ll be experiencing it for the first time. Their excitement fuels my own, and I’m eager to get moving again.

The asphalt road ahead slopes upward, as expected, but it’s a stunning climb, with the dramatic Bitihorn towering above me, almost as if it’s pointing in the opposite direction—toward endless miles of grand mountain views.

As I’m about to pass Bygdin Hotel, I figure this place deserves a stop. Compared to the lodge of yesterday, it’s a bit of an upgrade. It checks all the boxes of a classic Norwegian “høyfjellshotell,” and the interior feels like a scene from a movie—just not a recent one. Even the cell phone reception seem to be from the old days, but who cares. I’m ordering waffles, and they’re a pleasant surprise: a far cry from yesterday’s microwaved pancakes.

I’m just over two hours in, but this Sunday already feels pretty complete.

The wrong turn

I’ve entered the national scenic route of Valdresflye—a long, straight hill leading up into the mountains, with open highlands stretching out on either side. Tall tree sticks line the road every two meters, ready to guide winter drivers through the blinding snow that will blanket this place in just a few months. I can’t help but imagine how drastically different it will look, buried under snow and ice. For now, though, I’m fortunate to have clear skies and good weather. As I approach the climb, I settle into a steady rhythm—maybe too steady, because by the time I reach the café at the summit, I realize I’ve missed my turn and climbed the wrong mountain.

It’s one of those inevitable cycling mishaps, and I know I need to shake it off and get back on the bike before my thoughts spiral. The silver lining? The café is actually a pretty nice spot—one I’d even bookmarked on Google Maps as a place to visit. So, in a way, it feels like a happy accident, though maybe that’s just me trying to justify the whole thing.

Back on the right course, I cruise down the hill and leave the asphalt behind before hitting a century-old gravel road that hugs a lake, rolling up and down through the undulating terrain. The gentle elevation changes feel manageable, and the kilometers fly by—until the road pitches up again, leading to a new summit covered in what must be the loosest gravel in the northern hemisphere. It’s nearly impossible to get solid traction, so I steer for the narrow strip between the gravel and the ditch, which proves handy when a truck suddenly appears behind me. A reminder that sketchy situations can pop up when you least expect them.

It’s been a lonely ride today as well, so when I meet couple who are approaching their 80s, I stop and chat. The woman beams with pride when I compliment her lack of electric help.

Onwards

As I crest the new mountaintop and leave the lake behind, the landscape shifts once more, unfolding into a classic Norwegian vidde—a vast, open plateau that is the next chapter in the story of Mjølkevegen. The ever-changing scenery keeps me engaged, each transition a kind of plot twist. All welcome distractions, making me forget just how many hours I’ve been grinding away.

Nearing the end

In moments of fatigue, I start to wonder if my decision to go solo without studying the route is catching up with me. It would be nice to have someone to chat with, draft behind, or simply know where the next meal is. But the landscape keeps me engaged, and I cling to the promise of a big descent into Vinstra—though it feels like it’s always just out of reach.

Entering the Peer Gynt Road, the climb is brutal, with gradients hitting 19%. I know I’m nearing the end, but I avoid checking the exact distance to stay in the moment. At this point, the route feels like it’s playing tricks on me. I think I should be descending by now, but new hills keep appearing, pushing my already strained mind.

Finally, the road tilts downward, and the last 10 kilometers fly by in a blur, taking less than 15 minutes. Exhausted and starving, I roll into Vinstra and head straight to the local pizza place to plan my way home. Just then, I spot a train arriving in minutes. It’s fully booked, and I can’t buy a ticket online, but I decide to chance it and sneak on board. What’s the worst that could happen?

Luckily, the conductor just charges me for a ticket, and that’s that. I grab two hot dogs and a beer, then settle into the kids’ playroom for the ride back, reflecting on a weekend that will take some time to digest.

For more information about Mjølkevegen and surrounding routes, see our National Cycle Route 5 page