The Journey Is the Destination: How Slow Travel Unintentionally Leads Us Away from Mass Tourism
Three weeks traveling through Denmark and Norway, without flying and often without a set plan. What began as a terran trip quickly became more than just a climate-friendly alternative. Encounters on the night train, spontaneous stops along the way, conversations on ferries, unexpected overnight stays, and hikes far from the well-known hotspots suddenly become the highlights of the trip. While many tourists crowd into the same places, you discover spots along the route that aren’t on anyone’s bucket list. Perhaps that’s precisely one of the greatest advantages of terran travel: Not only do you produce fewer emissions, but you almost automatically travel in a fairer, more local way—and get closer to the people.
Night Train Instead of the Airport
We set off from Zurich. We took the overnight train to Hamburg and from there continued on to Copenhagen. Right from the start, it became clear why slow travel is so different. On the overnight train, we got to know other travelers, had fascinating conversations, and realized once again: On a plane, you’re a passenger; on an overnight train, you become part of a small, temporary community.
Copenhagen: HomeExchange Instead of Airbnb
In Copenhagen, we used HomeExchange. The concept is simple: people swap their homes while they’re away. This means no additional vacation rentals are taken off the local housing market.
Copenhagen itself made an immediate impression on us. The city feels spacious, relaxed, and livable. Everywhere you look, there are places to swim, green spaces, and public areas where people can meet. While searching for sustainable outing ideas, we came across Visit Copenhagen’s sustainability guide, which highlights numerous initiatives and projects. There, we also discovered CopenHill, which is a waste-to-energy plant as well as a ski slope, a recreational area, and a climate project. On the roof, I skied on artificial turf while waste was being processed below. In addition, the facility is one of the few of its kind worldwide that is testing CO₂ capture on an industrial scale. Instead of hiding the infrastructure on the outskirts of the city, it has become part of city life.
Two Countries, One Ferry, and Many Stories
From Copenhagen, we took the ferry
on to Oslo. As we stood on deck, Sweden glided by on one side and Norway on the other. Once again, we had some wonderful encounters. A historian spent hours telling me about the history of Scandinavia. Staff from an NGO helped us spot orcas and other marine mammals. Although no orcas showed up that day, I did see tuna and seals.
What has only recently become a trend in Zurich–Wiedikon seems to have been a standard feature on this ferry for decades: bingo. We narrowly missed winning a free ferry ticket, but still went to sleep in our own cabin feeling very satisfied. The next morning, we woke up already in the Oslo Fjord. Island after island drifted by, the settlements grew denser, and finally we reached Oslo.
A Country That Turns Oil Into a Future
After a brief stop in Oslo, we took the bus on to Stavanger. Apparently, the semester was just starting, because the bus was full of students with huge pieces of luggage.
In Stavanger, you can’t help but encounter the history of Norwegian oil. The country has invested a large portion of its revenue from oil and natural gas into a sovereign wealth fund, which is now one of the largest in the world. The idea behind this is that future generations should also be able to benefit from these resources.
On the Road Along the Lysefjord
Then began the part of the trip we’d been especially looking forward to. We planned to hike around the Lysefjord for seven days. The region is best known for Preikestolen, which around 400,000 people climb each year. We decided, however, to take the longer route around the fjord.
But even the journey there turned into an adventure. We had misunderstood the bus schedule and realized that there were no buses running at all that Sunday. So we grabbed a piece of cardboard and tried our luck hitchhiking. Looking back, that was probably one of the best decisions of the entire trip.
Three different people gave us a ride. Two of them weren’t even heading in our direction. Instead of just getting from A to B, we had conversations about life in Norway, the region, and the people here. You rarely get to know a country better than from the passenger seat of a stranger’s car.
The DNT Huts: Trust as Infrastructure
We had already joined the Norwegian Hiking Association DNT (comparable to the Swiss Alpine Club (SAC)) while in Oslo. The DNT operates a vast network of mountain huts throughout Norway. Many of them operate on a trust-based system. As a member, you gain access and can stay overnight on your own, use any available food supplies, and settle your bill via an app. This system was essential for our hike because there were no stores along the way.
Only halfway through the seven–day tour was there a campground with the only restaurant on the route. This made the supplies available at some of the huts all the more important.
Far from mass tourism
Over the course of four days, we encountered only a few people. It wasn’t until we reached the end of the fjord, where there was a campground, that things got a little busier again. There, we struck up friendships with other travelers whom we later met again in Bergen. Far away from everyday life, people often come together as a community surprisingly quickly. I shared a fish I’d caught myself, while others contributed fresh vegetables—something we hadn’t seen in days. A simple dinner turned into one of the highlights of the trip.
Of course, not everything was romantic. We got thoroughly soaked by rain at times. But that’s exactly when the DNT huts proved their worth. Unlike many Swiss mountain huts, they’re not just places to sleep, but places to spend time. They often have large sofa areas, books, and a warm stove. Sometimes we were the only guests and spent an entire evening there while the rain lashed against the windows outside.
On sunny days, on the other hand, we picked blueberries in incredible quantities. I probably covered my ten-year supply in a single day.
When the Silence Ends
On the last day of our hike, we approached Preikestolen. At first, we heard voices. Then there were more. Then more and more.
After a week spent almost entirely alone in nature, the place felt almost like another world. An endless stream of people came toward us. Drones buzzed overhead, selfie sticks jutted into the air, and the range of gear on display stretched from hiking boots to beach sandals.
The place remains spectacular. The view over the fjord is impressive and rightly world-famous. Nevertheless, the difference between travel and tourism became particularly apparent here. Many people were here for just a few hours. They visited exactly the spot that had been recommended to them by social media, travel guides, or tour operators.
Our week around the fjord, on the other hand, was marked by the many small moments that would never appear in a travel guide. By the people who gave us rides when we hitchhiked. By the evenings in the cabins. By landscapes we had all to ourselves for hours on end. That is one of the advantages of independent travel. Because the journey itself becomes part of the experience, individual sights lose some of their significance. The trip is no longer just a series of highlights. You become less dependent on the places that everyone else wants to visit as well.
Incidentally, there was no shortage of human warmth at Preikestolen either. Since there was once again no suitable bus running that day, an Indian couple traveling with their child spontaneously gave us a ride to the nearest campground.
Bergen and the Art of Ignoring the Rain
After the hike, we spent a few days in Bergen. The rainiest city in Europe certainly lived up to its reputation. What was surprising, however, was how little the people seemed to be bothered by it. It was summer. So it was summer. While we were out and about in several layers of clothing and with umbrellas, the locals were walking through the city in shorts, rubber boots, and high spirits. At the same time, a large open-air festival was taking place.
A fishing camp we never planned for
Later, we stumbled upon a small fishing lodge that rented out rooms during the off-season. Places like this are exactly what slow travel is all about. They’re rarely mentioned in guidebooks and would probably never be part of a package tour. Here, we found peace, nature, and a fjord right on our doorstep. We rented a small motorboat, headed out onto the water, and spent our days fishing, reading, and relaxing. Homemade bread and freshly caught fish suddenly felt like luxury enough.
Traveling Alone
After that, I continued traveling east on my own. The farther I went, the fewer tourists I encountered. I often rode the bus with schoolchildren. In fact, they were the main reason public transportation still existed at all in these remote regions.
Here, too, I was repeatedly met with an impressive willingness to help. Once, I almost missed my connecting bus. I ran after the vehicle, which had already started moving, and actually thought the situation was hopeless. But a woman driving a car witnessed the scene, made a U–turn, caught up with the bus, and informed the driver. Luckily. The bus only ran once a day. A few days later, I ran into the same bus driver again. He wanted to know what I’d been up to in the meantime. It’s exactly these kinds of encounters that often stay with you longer than any sightseeing spot.
When he asked, I told the bus driver about the salmon—the animal that had accompanied me time and again during this trip.
It all began with the many circular nets of the salmon farms scattered across countless fjords. The farther I traveled, the more often I encountered this theme. People told me about the salmon’s impressive migrations, their economic importance to the region, but also about the challenges of salmon farming. I spoke with locals about sea lice, escaped farmed salmon, and the impact on wild populations. Others, in turn, spoke with pride about the rivers in their region and how strictly fishing is regulated.
“There’s something about salmon that makes people crazy here in Norway,” a railroad employee once told me—and it’s true. On some rivers, anglers line up as early as 5 a.m. to snag one of the coveted fishing permits, sometimes days or weeks in advance. Some of these permits are valid for only a few hours, but for many, the chance to catch a wild Atlantic salmon is worth the effort.
The more conversations I had and the more I read about it, the more fascinated I became by the subject. By then, I’d read so much that I could picture which rivers the salmon were currently waiting in, where they might be found, and why rain is sometimes more important to them than it is to people. And sure enough, at some point, I got lucky.
I was able to observe several salmon in a river. They were in deeper parts of the water and seemed to be waiting for higher water levels so they could continue their journey upstream to their spawning grounds. After all the stories I’d heard, that moment felt almost surreal. Suddenly, the fish I’d been reading and talking about for days were swimming right in front of me.
Perhaps that, too, was typical of this kind of travel. When you travel slowly, you have time to let yourself be carried along by whatever catches your interest. You follow a lead, talk to people, do some research, ask questions, and at some point realize that you’ve become passionate about something that wasn’t even part of the trip to begin with. In any case, the salmon wasn’t on any itinerary. And that’s exactly why it left such a strong impression on me.
Flåm and the Question of “True” Travel
Last week took me from Bergen to Myrdal—via public transportation, camping, DNT huts, fishing, and hiking.
After several days in the wilderness, I reached a small train station on the famous Flåm railway. In the evening, it was quiet and deserted. I pitched my tent and made coffee the next morning right next to the tracks. Then the train pulled in.
Within minutes, the place was packed with people, cameras, and selfie sticks. Some even took pictures of me and my makeshift coffee spot. Shortly afterward, it was all over. The contrast couldn’t have been greater.
The Flåm Railway is undoubtedly spectacular, and the landscape is exceptionally beautiful. Nevertheless, I found myself asking the same question I’d asked at Preikestolen: Why does tourism focus on just a few hotspots, even though there are thousands of other beautiful places in Norway?
Terrane’s travels often work differently. Not because we deliberately avoid every well-known attraction, but because the journey constantly opens up new possibilities. Suddenly, the unplanned stop becomes more important than the attraction itself. You get off somewhere because the place looks interesting. You stay longer because you’ve met an intriguing person. You discover a place that doesn’t appear on any list. The route itself becomes the real adventure, often far removed from mass tourism.
More Than Just a Trip Without a Plane
Finally, we took the ferry back to Copenhagen and traveled via Hamburg back to Zurich. It was surprisingly affordable, by the way: I paid just around 40 francs for a four-person cabin on the ferry because I booked early. For the night train or the Flåm Railway, however, it’s worth booking early, as prices can rise significantly in some cases.
On the way back, I realized that what I was taking home from this trip above all else was something unexpected. The historian on the ferry. The people who gave us rides when we hitchhiked. The dinners shared with other hikers. The bus driver who wanted to know what I’d experienced over the past few days. None of these memories were on a bucket list.
Perhaps that is precisely the true strength of slow travel. When you travel slowly, you’re not just traveling in a more climate-friendly way. You leave room for chance encounters—for people, stories, and places. And perhaps that’s also one of the most effective ways to avoid mass tourism—not by desperately avoiding well-known spots, but by paying close attention to the journey itself. Because when you take the route seriously, you almost automatically discover the many places along the way.
The route becomes the destination. And that’s often where the most beautiful stories begin.
Mathieu Gasser is a member of the board of Terran Switzerland and loves travelling with Terran because of the close connection with nature and the local people. He has already travelled with Terran to Morocco, Albania and Mongolia.