None of its names, neither in German (Hohes Venn), French (Hautes Fagnes), Dutch (Hoge Venen) or English (High Fens) conjure up images of anything recognizable.

The first part—’tall’ or ‘high’—seemed promising enough. The second—’fens’—had as of yet not come up in conversation during the first 46 years of my existence. However, having consulted Wikipedia, my hopes of having discovered unknown alpine Belgium were shattered.

Though the highest point reaches a semi-respectable 693 meters, the slopes are gentle and the pinnacles and precipices notably absent. It is, in short, a highland plateau.

A fen, it turns out, is a type wetland. To rub my nose in my education’s many diverse deficiencies, Wikipedia added that it is one of the MAIN types. My botany professor would likely have shed a tear over the carcass of my ineptitude.

As it was, I decided to lay the blame for my shortcomings at the feet of linguistics. After all, it must be conceded that ‘minerotrof myr’, as it is named in Norwegian, is moderately different from ‘fen’.

But I digress…

A highland was something.

Upon reflection, a highland was indeed QUITE something.

Walking in Belgium, you see, is mostly a question of forests. Now, forests are indisputably beautiful. But for heathens like me, who grew up thinking of forests as nothing more than obstacles en-route to mountains, one forest looks much like another.

The Hautes Fagnes presents a great diversion for those who feel that they have had a good helping of tree-trunks, and presently wish to feast their eyes on open landscapes.

Many paths in the High Fens include extended sections of winding boardwalks that simultaneously keep you dry—and make for excellent motives.

The Hautes Fagnes is also one of the few places where you can be reasonably sure to find enough snow for skiing for a week or two in winter.

The High Fens are well-publicized and no secret. Yet, for me, they were a fresh discovery of the year, and have been a vital stimulant for sanity in an unusual time.

I was standing on the rock formation known as the ‘Little Bridge’ in Wadi Rum, posed for a classic tourist photo.

I am not in the habit of appearing in my photographs. However, on this occasion, I needed some scale to convey the dimension of the scene.

Now, I am no conventional ‘matchbox’ and the ‘Little Bridge’ would have looked less ‘little’ with anyone else standing on it, but needs must when it couldn’t be otherwise.

I felt uncomfortable.

Many would hasten to point out that they, too, would feel uncomfortable if they were dressed like me.

But that wasn’t it.

I was, then as I am now, oblivious to fashion. The conflicting visual aesthetic of my hat, shirt and trousers were in my mind offset by the unity they displayed in their complete unsuitability for my person.

Nor was it the height of the drop.

A fall, if it wouldn’t be too far down, which in this case it wasn’t, held the promise of a good anecdote. And if it would be too far…, well, then at least it would be a memorable passage.

The ‘Little Bridge’ was not the only rock bridge in Wadi Rum, nor was it the most majestic one. But, it was the one closest to the visitor centre, and therefore included as the first stop on nearly all tours of Wadi Rum.

Its absence was likely to be noted, should it no longer be there.

The very presence of a natural stone arch is testament to rock that whithers and erodes quickly. This stone arch was not so sturdy as to be unbreakable—one day it would.

I spoke a silent prayer under my breath that that day would be some time in the distant future. And, that if it was ordained to be on this day, to make it in the afternoon.

My fear, in summary, was the prospect of entering into Jordanian tourism history as the man who broke the Little Bridge—the man who took from the world, permanently and irreparably, one of the most visited attractions in Wadi Rum.

By divine intervention, defiance of physics or sheer luck, I do not know; but, to my knowledge, the bridge is still there.

The Melkevoll glacier at the far end of the Oldevatnet lake

The river from the valley of Bødalen pouring into the beautifully green Lodalsvatnet lake

Autumn colors by the Lodalsvatnet lake

A scene from the Oldedalen valley

Burning yellow forest on the hillside of the local witch-mountain, Vora, parallell to the Bloksberg in Germany

If you enjoyed the photos you can find both these and many others from similar landscapes in higher resolution (1024 x 768) in the gallery section of my web site.

All photos are taken by me, (Stein) Runar Bergheim, feel free to use them, credits would be appreciated.

Bilete teke ein sein kveldstime fredag 3. August 2007 på Håholmen ved Averøya.

10% helling betyr 10 meter nedstigning pr 100 meter fram. Det er bratt det!

Vegen er tettpakka med turisttrafikk – mange bubilar og tettpakka stasjonsvogner. Her ein trafikkork på toppen av trollstigen.

For dei som føretrekkjer å spasere er det ein sti med faste tau som fører opp til toppen

Nedre del av trollstigen – før det byrjar å bli skikkeleg bratt!!!

Bak eit lett dislagt Bergheimsvatn ligg fjellet Eggenipa som er det næraste vi kjem Sveitsiske Matterhorn mellom fjella i Gloppen. Tok biletet når eg køyrde forbi i dag tidleg – på veg frå Sandane til Sogndal.