A Norwegian brush with death has wounded these pages and confirmed a Norse legend.

It is nothing short of a miracle that I am able to write this for you this evening. I biked across the bridge after work to visit the Arctic Cathedral and take the cable car up the mountain to see Tromsø from on high. I know the Norwegians will have no trouble believing any of this, but for my Canadian (and other foriegn) readers, believe me as I tell it like it happened.

I arrived at the other side of the bridge and took this shot back at Tromsø from in front of the Arctic Cathedral. The bike ride across the bridge was smooth, and the weather was a scorching 13 degrees.

Maybe it was the heat, maybe it was something about the aura in the Cathedral. But I had a feeling that something most unusual was about to happen. The stained glass window itself contained a message. In the image, the Hand of God extends down from heaven, radiating three rays of light: the Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Jesus, the Son, hovers in the middle ray. To His left is Adam looking up to heaven; to his right is Eve, also looking up, but finding her view obscured by the apple. Beneath the three of them, the town of Tromsø is visible in the stained-glass mountains.

I turned and discovered another more Norse vision: a pipe organ shaped like a Viking ship. There was something wrong here - I could feel it - and I was about to turn back and head home to have dinner with Espen and Kenneth. I'd come this far, though, and forewarned or not, I was going to at least take a look at the cable car.

Were my eyes deceiving me, or were there people paragliding up on the mountain? Like Eve, I couldn't resist temptation, and so I cycled up to the cable car at the base of the mountain, paid my 60 kroner, and hopped in.

The view from the top was tremendous! The snow, still melting this high in the mountain, was perfect for packing snowballs. Paragliders lept from these heights and soared up and down while circling over Tromsø below.

I spoke with the gentleman in the next set of pictures just before he took off for a paragliding session. He's visiting Tromsø from Oslo on business and enjoys gliding while he's here. Apparently it takes four solid weekends to learn how to paraglide, and then you're addicted for life. When suspended in calm air, a paraglider descends at a rate of about one meter every second. As long as the sun's up and causing at least an equal (and thus opposite) updraft, you can hover at a constant height or climb. Warmer, rising pockets of air can be easily found for a boost up to over 4,000 meters in the air. A good ride can, and often does, last for hours.

He suggested I might want to learn to paraglide while I'm in Tromsø, or at least fly tandem with a friend of his who offers rides. With that, he bid me farewell...

...and flew off into the skies above Tromsø.

I was left alone on top of the mountain, and I turned towards the city with hopes for creating another 'panorama collage' shot. I found a shaded lookout in front of a natural cave and planned to take five shots that would capture the entire island I've been calling home.

The first three shots went off without a hitch, but as I pushed the button to take the fourth shot, the camera didn't respond. I pushed it again; still nothing. I lowered the CoolPix to diagnose the problem, and discovered that the batteries had run out.

"Kafarsken!" I cried at the top of my lungs, and I shook my head at my own stupidity.

At my expletive, with agility that belied its lumbering form, a creature lept from the shadows of the cave behind me and struck me to the ground. The camera flew from my hand, and I rolled over to see for the first time this fur-covered behemoth. With its tremendous nose, rotten-fish stench and now a great roar, my assailant made Darth Maul look about as scary as Hello Kitty.

He looked at me. I looked at him. He sized up me. I sized up him.

My mind raced over what Mona had taught me of Norse legend; surely this was one of the trolls she had told me about that live in these mountains. But she had also taught me their weakness; what was it?

Of course! Keep the troll talking until daylight. But in June, this is the land of the midnight sun! Surely this troll was taking a great risk venturing into the shadows outside of his cave. If Mona was right, I had to keep him talking.

"How's it goin', eh?" I tried.

I'm not all that much a judge of roars, but I'd have to guess that the sound he made meant something along the lines of, "I don't know english, filthy foreigner."

My next effort: "Du vil hamstret Mack-øl?" Do you want to hamster some Mack Ale?

Boy, was that the wrong move. I can just see Espen, Kenneth, Bjørnar and all the Norsk who know the ropes shaking their heads. How could I possibly bring up FOOD at a time like this?

The troll leapt towards me, and in an instant I was running for the light. In a desperate (and foolhardy) attempt to keep these pages being published, I snatched the digital camera off the ground as I barreled out of there. The troll swung a rug-covered arm at me and missed me by all of a foot.

What he didn't miss, though, was the CoolPix 900.

I clung to it from one end, and with his grip on the other end he gave it a mighty tear. I cringed as the camera cracked in half about its joint, and in fear for my life I let the camera go and made a dash for the sun.

It was the troll's turn to make a mistake. Suddenly and painfully aware that there was no Mack Øl to be found in the Coolpix, he turned me into his dinner plans. He charged towards me, bellowing again, and I turned around just in time to see realization, then shock, and then panic flash over his face.

With a final roar he glared at the sun, dropped the digital camera in two pieces and turned to stone.

I am lucky to be alive. Sadly, I will have to write to you without the benefit of pictures for the next couple of weeks. At least for now this won't be a problem - there are many things I have been thinking of writing that don't depend on photographs. And my father (who is grateful to hear I haven't expired like the milk Espen is growing in our kitchen) is helping me look into getting this crazy operation back online.

But for now, I don't even have a picture of the troll to show you. All I have for you is my shocking story, and this last, magnificent panoramic shot of Tromsø I recovered from the mangled camera. (0.9 MB)