It's 6am and I'm in Sogndal, waiting for the bus to take me to Skjolden. Exhaustion is finally setting in - I've probably only had 2-3 hours of fitful sleep since my journey started on Tuesday. I always have a hard time sleeping in an upright position (especially if it's an airline or bus seat). The bus was nearly empty last night so I could stretch out a little bit on the 7-hour ride from Oslo, but real sleep has still managed to evade me thus far. That's ok; I'd hate to miss any of this scenery. This area has to be one of the prettiest spots in the universe. It always feels like I'm "coming home" when I approach Skjolden. Maybe it's because the terrain reminds me in part of Maine (except, I must admit, on a grander scale), which, at least for the moment, is my home... although whether that's because of geographical and cultural reasons or simply because of the fact that it's where my family lives, I'm not sure.

Whatever the case, I'm left with the inexplicable feeling once again that Skjolden is meant for me - or maybe vice-versa. I feel as though I belong (in some small way, for some short time) here; the mountains and fjords speak to my soul, the waterfalls enchant my eyes, the rushing river that flows through Skjolden is calling me... but to what? To here, to this place? Or to another, even more beautiful place waiting for me someday, of which this paradise on earth is but a hollow echo? I'm not sure. Does it even matter? I'm here, I'm happy, and I can't wait to finish this part of the journey and arrive "home."