Text and Photos by Gjermund Gustavsen – Part 1 of 2.

My solo journey through the highs and lows of Norway’s iconic gravel route

It began in the least adventurous of places: the office on a Friday afternoon. Restless after a long recovery from pneumonia, I found myself daydreaming about past rides. Over three months of inactivity had left me yearning for something big – something epic that I hadn’t done before.

I set my sights on Mjølkevegen, the famous gravel route of over 230 km. To challenge myself, I figured I’d go solo, camp outside and bring all the necessary gear on my bike. No luxury of credit card bikepacking this time.

My planning was deliberately minimal. The more I thought about going over the mountains alone, the more reasons I found not to do it. So instead of overthinking it, I just packed my gear and went. Early the next morning, I was on the train with a loaded bike: sleeping gear, clothes, tools, and enough sugar to fuel a child’s birthday party.

Ready, set, Gol

I barely made it off the train at Gol, wrestling with the knot that tied my bike to the train rack. Not a single pedal stroke had been made, and I was already working up a sweat. Solid start, Gjermund.

Rolling through the ghost town vibes of Gol, I hit the climb that would serve as my official welcome to Mjølkevegen. The train muffin hadn’t settled in my stomach, yet here I was, hauling my 25kg truck up to Golsfjellet. After months off the saddle and now faced with the heaviest setup I’d ever ridden, I wasn’t sure how this would play out. But so far, so good—thanks to that trusty combination of low cadence and high power. The sun was shining, and the anticipation of adventure made it tickle in all the right places.

As the climb continued, the road shifted from smooth asphalt to gravel, occasionally transitioning into rocky, rugged trails. I passed through dense forests, glistening lakes that mirrored the landscape, and postcard-perfect Norwegian farmland. New views kept unfolding at every turn, offering a worthy reward for the hard work.

Despite its reputation as a tourist hub since the 1930s, Golsfjellet was unusually quiet for a Saturday noon. The cabins and farms along the route looked like they should have been teeming with life, but instead, I was left to enjoy the solitude. After two hours of riding, I spotted my first fellow cyclist—a man in his sixties on an e-bike. He looked at me and apologized for “cheating”. Maybe not the flattery I was hoping for, but I’ll take what I can.

Somewhere between the two and three hour mark, the landscape opened up. Beautiful highland in all directions, glorious peaks on the horizon, ‘champagne gravel’ beneath my tires, and for the first time on this trip, a real sense of speed. If a runner’s high could be translated to cycling, this was probably it.

Then the most obvious thought hit me: those distant mountains weren’t just part of the scenery—they were my climbs for later. And just like that, I was brought back down to earth.

Lunch time

Gomobu. Despite the odd, Japanese-sounding name, it’s as Norwegian as a mountain lodge gets. Dark wooden exterior with white-trimmed windows, a turf-covered roof, the iconic angled skigard fence, and families in high-end sports gear. I pull over and take a seat at the outside patio.

The way-too-strong blackcurrant syrup in my bidons, combined with a candy diet that’s borderline embarrassing for a grown man, has me craving something savory. So I order a burger and a plain glass of water. They arrive in five minutes—an impressive yet slightly concerning speed. Can this really be good? Turns out, it’s exactly what I need. The comically oversized fries add a bit of unexpected entertainment to the meal.

No time for a siesta afterwards. I finish up and hop back on the bike, eager to get back in the rhytm. The landscape has become winding and hilly, making it hard to see what lies ahead. Suddenly, an old carriage road appears, and it’s the most gnarly bit so far. Rough and littered with big rocks, muddy pools, and the occasional root. My tired legs and stiff shoulders fade from mind as I do what any grown-up kid would: play around in the obstacle course.

“Guess it’s the milkshake route now,” I chuckle, wondering if anyone else would find that amusing. Maybe it’s a sign of enjoying my own company—or possibly losing it altogether. Two kilometers later, the rough patch finally ends, and I emerge with one wet shoe. A fair trade for a little thrill.

Mountains and microwaved pancakes

It sure can be lonely, this hobby of mine. Hours blend into one another as I reflect on the distance I’ve covered. It feels like I’m tracing the path of some lone hero from a Norwegian fairytale—and perhaps I am. So when the lodge of Syndinstøga emerges from the hills, I half expect to find an eight-headed troll lurking inside.

No trolls, though. Not even a soul at first. A ring of the bell eventually summons a friendly Eastern European guy, who brings me a plate of microwaved pancakes. After a long day in the saddle, I’m in no position to be picky.

This place too has that quintessential “Norwegian lodge” vibe: a long counter leading up to the cash register, wooden everything, and a sturdy fireplace. Completely unnecessary today, given the warm weather and sunshine on the terrace. Staying indoors feels borderline criminal for a northerner like me, but even a break from the sun feels welcome at this point.

For a place that loosely translates into «The living room of vices», Syndinstøga didn’t quite live up to its name. It did however give me exactly what I needed, a little food and a break.

As I head back out, I realize I’m about to descend the mountain—time for some fun. I grip the handlebars, relax my shoulders, and prepare to savor that perfect mix of concentration and adrenaline. A feeling I’m certain would sell for a fortune if bottled. The descent, though just 10 minutes, feels like the world’s longest amusement park thrill. I dodge a herd of cows leisurely crossing the road and pass a mother giving her toddler the ride of his life in the backseat.

Rolling into the quiet village of Ryfoss, I’m greeted by dialect-heavy road signs that confuse even me, a fellow countryman. Rogn Camping beckons with the promise of accommodation up the road, but I’m not ready to call it a night just yet. After all, what comes down must eventually go up—such is the law of bikepacking.

Up up up

By the time I’ve dragged myself and the bike up to Slettefjellskiosken, I’m pretty beat. The small kiosk should have closed five minutes ago, but the kind lady let me be her final customer of the day. A quick chat and a cinnamon bun, and I’m off again.

As we glanced at the map together, she warned me about the rough climb ahead. I hadn’t paid much attention, convinced the worst was behind me. Turns out, she was right. The mountain still had more in store for me.

They say pain is the first thing you forget, and they must be right—I’d clearly forgotten this kind of struggle. Me, my loaded bike, and a climb that feels endless. No switchbacks to offer relief, just a brutal, straight ascent made worse by the loose gravel under my tires. Every trick I know is deployed: helmet off to cool down, an earbud in for distraction, eyes fixed on my bike computer—then anywhere but the computer—trying to appreciate the view that I’d probably love if I wasn’t so drained.

After countless false summits and what feels like an eternity, I finally realize I’ve made it. This is the top! I roll into an empty parking lot, save for a lone campervan, and my prize awaits: a stunning view of the Jotunheimen mountain range, bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun. My legs are drained, but my spirit is soaring.

A Swiss bikepacker arrives from the opposite direction and suggests I camp lower down, where it’s a bit warmer. I didn’t listen to the lady back at the kiosk, so maybe this time I should trust the advice. As I begin the descent, I keep an eye out for a spot to rest for the night.

Fifteen minutes later – and over ten hours since I left Gol – I find the perfect place: a flat, heather-covered plateau, offering a sweeping view of the mountains. Tent pitched, stove lit, and dinner on the way. What a day.

Continue the journey in Part 2 here

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