Staring up towards the summit we could barely make out the trail of red markers as they snaked up the steep slope and into the clouds that were funnelling up through the gulley.

Ahead of us we could only see rocks – even the hardiest of shrubs had given up trying to grow several hundred metres below us. The only thing that seemed to flourish up here were the mosses, which covered many of the stones, making them as slippery as glass.

The rain started three-quarters of the way up Vierramvare. Undeterred, we quickly changed into our wet weather gear, still optimistic that the clouds would part to reveal the spectacular peaks and valleys all around us.

As we approached the very top of Vierramvare we found dozens of small piles of stones that had been built by previous climbers to mark the mountain’s summit. Jutting up like broken teeth, they only added to the eerie atmosphere of this desolate place. Crossing the peak we came to the part of the western trail that can easily break a climber’s resolve. Having already climbed 1,711 metres, we now had to descend 300 metres into the Kaffedalen and then back up another 600 vertical metres to the summit itself.

Picking our way down the side of the mountain required less energy, but was considerably more dangerous, as a single slip could result in a long fall into the gorge below. Traversing through the ankle-deep snow covering the floor of the Kaffedalen, we came to a stop at the base of Kebnekaise itself. We knew that only 600 vertical metres remained until we reached the summit. What we didn’t know was that the mountain wasn’t going to be beaten without a fight.

Around 200 metres into our ascent the chilly raindrops turned instantly into hail. Driven by strong winds they pelted our exposed faces until our skin felt raw. As we huddled behind a large rock for shelter, we discussed for the first time that day something we had both been brooding about over the past couple of hours – whether we had enough equipment to last a night on the mountain should the weather get any worse. We both already knew the answer, so resolved to carry on to the mountain cabin, known as the toppstuga, where we could at least take temporary shelter and have some much-needed food.

Another 100 metres up and the ice turned into snow. Although it still clouded our visibility, the softer snow provided a welcome break from the pummelling the hail had given us. 

While scanning the skyline for a break in the clouds, we suddenly caught a glimpse of the wooden hut perched on the side of Kebnekaise. Within seconds it was gone, swallowed up once again by the clouds. But with a renewed sense of optimism we headed in the direction of the hut, and within minutes tramped wearily up the wooden steps and opened the door to Sweden’s highest building.

Built in 1983 to replace the crumbling cabin which still remains just 200 metres away, Kebnekaise’s toppstuga provides climbers with a bolthole from the changeable mountain weather and a place to gather energy before the final push to the summit. A couple of simple wooden beds and thick woollen blankets are provided for those unlucky climbers who are forced to stay up the mountain for the night. Beside the beds stands the table, on top of which rests a copy of the New Testament and a travel chess set.

Olly and I had no intention of either sleeping here or playing chess. We both felt we had come too far to give up now. It is a bullish attitude typical of novice climbers who don’t know when to turn around and has almost certainly proved fatal in the past. It was only when we arrived back exhausted but safe to the base-camp several hours later that we discovered several people following up the mountain after us had turned back at the toppstuga, and some of the guided tours had not even made it that far before returning to base-camp.

We changed our soaking wet clothes and boiled up some water to cook our freeze-dried food. Feeling much better we peered out of the cabin’s only window and waited for a change in the weather.

Inside the cabin the air was freezing. We knew we couldn’t afford to wait long if we wanted to keep our core body temperature stable.

A few minutes later the snow slowly dissipated. We took this as a signal to dash for the top. We practically skipped over the stones until we came up to the glacial top of Kebnekaise.

Rising up into the white clouds above it was difficult to see where this gigantic snow cone ended. We felt our way around to the western ridge, where we found a narrow trail barely wide enough to walk up leading upwards. The fresh snow that lined the trail gave us much-needed traction. 

Cautiously we inched our way up, crawling much of the way on our hands and knees. At last the cone levelled out, and despite not being able to see a single landmark through the clouds we knew we’d finally made it to the top of Sweden’s highest mountain.

We didn’t jump for joy – just one metre to our left was a fatal drop into the Rabots glacier and one metre to our right a deadly slide 500 metres down into the Björlings glacier.

However, we did hug each other, now bonded by an experience that taught us that beauty and danger are never far behind you when you’re climbing mountains.

The following are the previous articles Darren wrote for the magazine:

• Living In Sweden ~ A Pint-size Guide To Stockholm
• Finding Love In Sweden - Tales From Sweden