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Back at the pitching dock at day’s end, a bottle of Norwegian akevitt the color of furniture polish appears. The captain pours healthy shots, then pours seconds we didn’t ask for.

"SkÅl!"

The shots burn like insecticide when they go down.

If the snowy mountains appreciate the toast, they take it stoically as they stand in the cooling evening light. We walk up the hillside to the van, put our backs to Norway, and head for the nearby Swedish border and its smaller, landlocked peaks.

More than once I look back for a glimpse of high mountains beside salt water, already wanting to return.

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