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A trip report shared by Långholmen Kajak – the Swedish part of Northkayak.
Route: Svinesund (Norwegian border) – the mouth of the Torne River (Finnish border)
Distance: 2,890 km
Paddling days: 110, spread over just over ten summers
Daily distance: usually 30–40 km
I leave the calm, safe waters of the Falsterbo Canal and come out into the southern Baltic Sea. People in an oncoming motorboat shout something I cannot hear. Right outside the piers I am met by high, at times breathtaking swells – an earlier storm has left a heavy old sea behind.
I pick up speed over the wave crests to keep my balance, brace with the paddle as I slide down into the next trough, and at the same time try to look ahead so that I do not get caught in the long, hard-to-spot fishing nets that are so common along this coast, or capsize on a treacherous sandbar. It has started to rain and darkness is falling when, after a couple of hours, I reach the outskirts of Trelleborg. I land soaking wet in a bay, hide the kayak in a reed bed, find a hostel and get the last free bed. The tent is with my paddling partner – we lost each other through a misunderstanding back in the canal, so I assume he too is on dry land.
My paddling partner Jan Lönn and I are on a long-distance trip along Sweden's long coastline, paddling one stretch every summer. We started under the Svinesund Bridge at the Norwegian border in calm, sunny weather – a perfect start to a coastal journey that would take just over ten years, or more precisely 110 days, and cover 2,890 kilometres: a journey through both time and space. We avoid the busiest weeks of summer, and we avoid the shipping lanes in the most popular archipelagos.
The big ferry harbours are a real danger to paddlers. Ships, and waves rebounding from piers and stone quays, can be hard to handle. Otherwise we are remarkably alone and undisturbed along the long coast. We carry food and a tent and only need to visit "civilisation" to refill drinking water – or to enjoy a cosy harbour restaurant, often with seafood on the menu.
Bohuslän and Halland, each with a completely different coastal character, are easy-going stretches. Outside the peak season the coast feels almost deserted. We avoid the crowds, and wind and weather are rarely anything but pleasant company. We also steer clear of the worst tourist traps, so the budget holds up the whole way. Only the approach to Gothenburg gets a little dramatic: the wind suddenly picks up from fresh to near gale before we reach shelter behind Älvsborg Fortress.
In Gothenburg's southern archipelago we get to know the seals. They are curious, sometimes come very close, and feel like travelling companions. The rocky shores give way to soft green meadows as we come down into Halland, and finding a camp spot with a sea view is easy. We pass the busy harbours of Helsingborg and Malmö with some trepidation. The pillars of the Öresund Bridge show that the current is flowing north, towards the shallow, brackish Kattegat.
Skåne's east coast is one long beach. In the twilight, with a fresh offshore breeze, I nearly capsize in the cold water during the six-kilometre crossing to Hanö in Blekinge, and we get a telling-off from the people in the small harbour. Jan and I decide to paddle separately from then on, as our appetites for risk are completely different. From Karlskrona onwards, Stig Johansson becomes my paddling partner instead.
At the border to Småland we round a headland and paddle almost straight into a white-tailed eagle, just as surprised as we are. The deserted beaches along Kalmarsund turn out to be popular with naturists, and more than once we embarrass ourselves by going ashore before we realise it.
On a sunny day in May we pass the nuclear power plant at Oskarshamn. Security works: a car with guards follows us along the shore as we struggle past in a cold headwind, and I have actually become a little seasick. We are almost disappointed when they realise we are completely harmless and drive off.
Sankta Anna – what a wonderful name – has a character all its own: a maze of skerries and small islands, where navigation is sometimes a challenge. The low tops of the skerries are called kupor, "domes", which suits the scale of the area well. We have learned that in the outer archipelago, freestanding dome tents are the way to go – then camping on the smooth rock slabs right by the water is no problem, and the morning swim happens more or less voluntarily right outside the tent.
Stockholm's vast archipelago, with everything from green, friendly islands to rugged rocks and skerries, shows the same thing as the west coast: away from the busy shipping lanes and crowded natural harbours, calm and quiet prevail, and we are mostly completely alone. We are grateful to Skärgårdsstiftelsen (the Archipelago Foundation), which has kept large areas undeveloped and open for everyone to enjoy.
Once we pass the northern pier at Öregrund, Norrland begins in practice. All boat traffic stops as if by magic. The beaches are empty, the houses few, and above all the coast becomes rocky and hard to land on. In return, the people we meet become friendlier and more talkative the further north we go.
The Norrland coast is looong. The usual south-westerly winds – a tailwind for us – seem to have decided to come from the north every time we set off. A headwind easily drains the energy of even the keenest sea paddler, and islands to shelter behind are few and far between. Somehow we still keep our usual pace of 30–40 kilometres a day.
Sea kayaking can seem monotonous, a little like mountain hiking: vast expanses, an open horizon and fresh wind, with plenty of room for meditative thoughts – although the paddler is probably more exposed to the elements than the hiker. Once your shoulders and stomach muscles have got used to it, and you have found the right seating position, the days pass far too quickly.
The High Coast, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, lives up to its name. We are more or less blown into the small, remote harbour of Berghamn, surrounded by high hills and with a cauldron of waves and currents at the entrance – and are rewarded with the village's annual party, with dancing, food, drinks and good company. Further north we pass the skerry Dynglasset, where we surprise a work colleague at his summer cottage; he quickly recovers and feeds us. The Västerbotten coast a little further north turns out to be the most monotonous in the country, with large boulders and dense forest mile after mile. The bright spots are the cosy restaurant in Ratan and a sudden tailwind.
The Norrbotten archipelago, on the other hand, is a real gem as the finale of our coastal odyssey. The islands are made of sand, so we usually camp among sparse beach grass next to a large sandy beach that we have all to ourselves.
East of Kalix, most names on the map suddenly turn Finnish – we are approaching the bilingual Torne Valley. A waterspout with thunder and hail passes while we visit the distinctive Haparanda Sandskär National Park far out in the Gulf of Bothnia; on the mainland an old customs house burns down and roofs are blown off.
Finally, into a headwind, we paddle up to boundary marker no. 59 at the mouth of the Torne River, Sweden's easternmost point on the mainland, and bang our fists on it. Then we face a new problem: finding the next challenge, now that the long journey is actually over.
A coastal journey like this calls for a seaworthy kayak with room for tent, food and water, a light paddle and clothing for cold water. See our sea kayaks and inflatable kayaks – which you can take by train or plane to the start of each stretch – as well as dry suits and kayak accessories. For more inspiration, read touring by kayak in Sweden and favourite kayaking spots in Sweden.
