If you want to understand Senja, wait for the weather to change. Up here at nearly seventy degrees north the sky does most of the work, and a single afternoon can deliver sun, hail, a rainbow and a bank of cloud that rolls down the mountainsides like spilled milk. The fjords on this part of the island are deep and dark, and the peaks above them wear a skirt of low cloud more often than not.
Riding the scenic road here is a lesson in patience and reward. The tarmac is narrow and usually damp somewhere, the corners are blind enough to keep you honest, and there are sheep in the verge and sometimes on the road itself. Then the cloud lifts, and the view opens across a fjord to a wall of rock plastered with snow, and you forget the damp in your gloves. Mornings are generally calmer than afternoons, when the wind picks up off the sea.
The seasons here are extreme, and that shapes everything. From late May to late July the sun stays above the horizon around the clock, and riders can cover a lot of ground at night in an astonishing low gold light. In deep winter the sun disappears altogether, and the northern lights dance over the same peaks. From September into spring the aurora is a real prospect on clear nights, though ice and snow make riding impractical, and the narrow roads are best left to local drivers with studded tyres.
The communities in this part of Senja live from the sea, with cod, herring and now salmon farming driving the economy. Many of the houses are bright wooden buildings with steep roofs, and fish drying racks stand empty or full depending on the season. Sea eagles patrol the coast.
Gryllefjord and Finnsnes are both more than thirty kilometres away, so this is not a spot where you pop out for something, and it is sensible to carry food and a flask with you. Bring gloves you can feel your fingers in, and a flask. The coffee tastes better at the viewpoints.