Out on Utö...

Time for a little excursion!

This time; A trip out to the island of Utö for a little summer bicycling.


Now and then friends and family come to visit me in Stockholm, giving me an excuse to play tourguide. Invariably, we end up exploring places I myself have not yet visited so I always look forward to these occasions.
In late June my folks arrived to see what I was up to, and by coincidence, so did one of my sister's good friends, Danny. After taking them all around the city for a few days, we decided to escape the bustle of the city and venture out into the islands to seaward of Stockholm for a little of that classic Swedish summer.

Leaving at a comfortable mid-morning hour, we caught one of the Waxholmsbolget boats, Saxaren, and headed out for the island of Utö.

Utö, meaning 'out-island', is rather appropriately named. Well to the south and east of Stockholm, Utö lies fairly far offshore, a final ridge of glacier-scraped bedrock before the open expanses of the southern Baltic.

The journey out there from Stockholm takes about 4 hours by ferry, steaming southeast from Stockholm along the red line illustrated above, and then swinging southwest down the coast to Utö. Once we had staked out a spot on the crowded upper deck, the sunscreen was hauled out and everybody began slathering up in preparation for the coming hours of penetrating Nordic summer sun.

Although we had brought reading material for the long ferry ride, we hardly touched it. Like my father here, we spent most of the trip hanging on the rail admiring the stunning beauty of the Stockholm Archipelgo--a near fantasy land of little islands, bays, and channels.

The beginning of the trip was along the main shipping channel into Stockholm harbor, giving us a show of cruiseships, ferries, and yachts surging in and out as well as this lovely barkentine on her way into Stockholm.

Then we turned south through a very narrow passage--one of those ones when tree branches sweep both sides of the ship--...

...and made our way into the southern archipelago, pausing frequently to land or take on passengers from understated little ferry docks, and gliding past countless lovely little cottages nestled in this intensely green, Garden of Eden-like landscape.

Around every bend we met a more idyllic summer home ranging from sweet little huts tucked into the woods beside beautiful little nooks in the shoreline on up to this grand 19th Century mansion overlooking a protected sand beach cove with a mighty fine swimming rock.

A little further on, the mansions began to dwindle and give way to more fishing cabins and even a few dilapidated boatyards like this one; its covered marine railways where generations of fishing vessels and coastal trading sloops were hauled out and winched up the incline into the long boatsheds for maintenance.

Nearby, we sailed past one of its successors, now too, passing from profitability into semi-abandonment.

After that, we only saw tiny, humble summer cabins tucked into the gorgeous landscape wherever a semi-level spot could be found. Many were formerly the homes of fishermen and channel pilots who once populated these idyllic little islands.

Many of the 25,000 islands that dot this relatively small region are scarcely bigger than the houses and cottages that stand upon them. For those who settled these scruffy rocks, losing a boat could mean total isolation and genuine desperation--at least until the winter ice formed, uniting the islands and mainland for months at a time.

Amidst such contemplation, the announcement came that we were approaching our final stop; Utö--the end of the line. We hit the pier with a dull thud and the bow door flew open, unleashing a torrent of eager vacationers onto the island--most notably, us.

Utö is relatively long and thin and according to the maps and papers tacked up on an information board by the dock, it had plenty of neat coves, fields, and even a medieval pit mine to explore. But after 4 hours on the boat, the day was already half gone.


So as to make the most of the remaining hours before the return boat, we hit up the local bicycle rental shop--a red barn full of one-speed fat-tired bicycles that probably began their service about the time the glaciers receded.

Despite their apparent 'experience' in the rental world, they rode remarkably well. They were a real delight to zip around the island on, legs churning away as those fat, under-inflated tires bounced and bulged over the crackling gravel.

Pretty soon we hit the forest roads just outside the town at the ferry landing. It was great! They were that fabulous hard-packed kind of dirt road, the kind that is smooth and quiet--and virutally unmarred by potholes or shatter bumps. Precisely the kind of road that can make an afternoon bike ride even better than watching the sunrise, eating cookie-dough, and chasing pigeons all rolled together.

Then we whizzed past the mine. Scrreeeeech!!! Damned near gave myself a flat tire and a bloody nose. I had forgotten what riding with pedal-brakes was like. Whoooee, are they effective!



So this was the fabled iron mine the Swedes had begun excavating long before there was such a thing as a Swede. The Vikings had only just decided to settle down to legitimate trades when the first picks began ripping into this ground. Reportedly the pit mine was over 600 feet deep by the mid 1400s. Then I guess someone fell asleep at the pump.


Then we were off again, suipping along a little road that quickly bcame no more than a dirt track through the woods. The wind in our hair, the cobwebs in our faces, and the insects in our teeth... who could ask for anything more?

Then the dirt track came to an end on a rocky outcropping overlooking a mid-size bay with a spectacular view out across the open Baltic.

My father could not resist the temptation to test thwe water temperature--afterall, it was very inviting and there were people in bathing suits lounging all over the rocks.

His report: "It's whooped." The Howe code word for very cold. Alas, at the north end of the Baltic there was still snow and ice melting into the sea.

So we hopped back on the bikes and began heading southward down the island, zipping along past lovely farms and fields...

...some still decorated with May-poles. Now the May-pole in Sweden is a misnommer. Given the high northern latitude and the late arrival of spring and summer, the May-pole is not acutally raised until June in Sweden--usually for Midsommar, the 21st of June.


Peddling further, we came down along a gorgeous enclosed bay lined with the most intensely green flora you've ever imagined. At the end of it stoood a lovely little church, its spire reflecting lazily in the water.

Veering off the main road, we rolled up to the church and hopped off for a look around.

Like a typical Swedish Protestant church, it was simple and humbly designed, stout but tasteful, and painted in pastel colors.

There was no lavish goldleaf or murals inside. Just simple, plain walls and a ceiling of pine boards. Yet it certainly had its points of tourist allure; the altar from the middle 1400s, the votive ship model (a staple in Swedish churches--hanging in the back right--and a sign of Sweden's seafaring orientation), and the organ...

The welcome sign listed four significant dates for the church; when the church was built, when the altar was built, when the votice shipmodel was built, and when the organ was built. These are the key physical elements of a Swedish church.

Here, my father and Danny (foreground) look about. A few minutes later Danny and I were very irreverently turning over the chairs (visible on either side) to inspect them for a certain special mark, Ikea. Sure enough....

On our way out, I found my mother chuckling misheviously. She had encountered this sign on a side door and was more than a little amused that a church would advertise such bad habits. Having been imbedded in the Swedish language for so long, it took a moment to realize its English connotation. To me, it simply meant "Personnel Room." Cultural misunderstandings...

Back on the road again we proceeded further south, soaking up the warm summer sun and the fresh, sweet-smelling air of these lush green islands.

A carefree summer day's ride--though I don't look particularly carefree here. Holding the camera while riding was tempting fate and were this a video you would understand my expression, the bicycle wobbling and weaving about.

The hum of spokes, whirring bicycle chains and jokes and shouts...

I can't speak for my mother or anyone else, but I felt about eight years old for the whole ride. There is just some wonderful thing about riding an old bicycle on a country road that breeds that kind of feeling.

Especially in a place with virtually no automobile traffic. The road was ours, ours to ride...

It made us delightfully foolhardy, ripping down the little dirt tracks, whipping around the corners and trying not to pitch into the rosebushes...

And left us totally free to stop whenever we liked to poke about a farm or examine a patch of wild onions.

The whole island was just such unspoiled territory. No traffic, no noise, no plastic even. So refreshing! When I saw this place, I was about ready to just move in and stay.

In time we came down to a lovely little cove and set up for lunch. We had a good sitting rock where we could gaze out at the mess of islands scattered about in front of us and a pack of kids intrepidly venturing into the icy water to wrestle for control over their rubber raft.

But the afternoon was getting onward and the sun was beginning to sink (though it would not be dark until midnight) so we got back on the bikes and began heading back to the ferry dock.

Passing village and farm, we soaked up the landscape as much as we could, breathing in its sweet flavors and wishing we had brought tents to spend the night.

Having returned our bikes (and bought some fabulous icecream) we joined the cluster of other exhausted daytrippers and boarded the ferry for Stockholm.

The ferry rumbled along, creeping up the narrow channels as we wound our way from island to island, dock to dock toward home.

Massaging sore muscles from a day of riding, we sat back and relaxed again and watched dozens of Sweden's 1.5 million boats out cruising the archipelago--many under sail, zigzagging their way through the maze of islands toward a thousand idyllic anchorages. What an incredibly stunning place. There is nothing quite like it...

"[tone]....From Magellan i Sverige in Stockholm, Sweden, we ask that you please stand by for several immenent broadcasts. Tune in again soon to catch an exploration of maritime heritage sites and activites throughout Sweden, Denmark, and Norway. Please stay tuned."