The first time I came to the Rondane mountains — where we have a cabin — was about fifteen years ago.  My wife showed me a waterfall and  I took some pictures.  Then I lost them.  In my mind they got better and better; the best pictures I’ve ever taken, possibly.  Tragically lost.

Last Saturday, we went back.  To get there, you start at in this valley where some very friendly cows are grazing — the place is called Myeseter (a seter is a summer pasture in the mountains) —

and follow the stream.

After a couple of miles, the stream drops into a deeper valley.  The resulting waterfall (here from the far side of the valley) is called Myfallet:

Quite dramatic, but you have to get much closer.  You have to go to the bottom.  It’s  a hike, the same amount of effort as climbing up and down a slippery irregular firestair in the Empire State Building, probably.

There are wildflowers,

these are larkspur (wild delphiniums):

Half way down the undergrowth disappears and the gorge is revealed:

And then you come upon the falls that you’ve been hearing now for several kilometres:

At the bottom, you get covered in spray and the rocks are slippery.  It’s wonderful.  Very loud.  This is my favourite bit:

And there’s a rainbow where the sunshine is refracted through the spray.

Facing the waterfall is another waterfall, a tiny narrow trickle:

These can’t be compared with my first set of pictures; nor, sadly, with being at the waterfall itself.

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