Nittedal's Gunpowder Factory

In the forest next to the river about half a mile from where I’m staying, for 93 years, from 1883 to 1976, there was a gunpowder factory. At some point in my first weeks here, my host told me that for a long time people didn’t go to that part of the forest because of what had happened.

“There was an explosion,” she said. “People were very upset about it.”

For whatever reason, my power of questioning fails me at that moment. I forget to ask how long ago it happened, what precisely happened, what exploded, if anyone was injured, if it blew up the whole town, what exactly the damage was, why the people were so upset as to shun a section of the forest, and was my host one of those people. Was it radioactive gunpowder?

“But now they have done something with the forest,” she says, as an afterthought. “It’s very good.”

For time heals some wounds, they say, or, at the least, it allows people to make a sort of outdoor gunpowder factory museum off to either side of the nicely graveled walking trails. It allows them to make nicely graveled walking trails through the part of the forest that used to be a gunpowder factory.

My breath pushes smoke into the air as I walk down the path. Off to my right, marked by a tilted wooden beam with a blue arrow painted on it, lies a collection of rusted wheels and gears in an unenthusiastic half circle. At the top of the circle is a sign standing like a podium without a preacher.

I go stare at it. It’s written in Norwegian and doesn’t have the one Norwegian word I’ve mastered (which happens to be Takk and means Thank You). I take a picture and then turn to stare at the rusted, discarded parts. Why can’t we leave no trace? Dry grass has withered itself around one axel pole, has interwoven long fingers between the thick spokes of what might have been some kind of fan. Damp leaves, now crisp with frost, have turned purple and brown on top of the dry grass. Given enough time, I think, all this humanmade debris will be covered up by the longsuffering, erasing hand of nature. That thought comforts me.

There’s a kind of beauty, though, in the rusted parts, in the abandonment. Although only 42 years neglected, I feel like I’ve come to some ancient ruin, nearly all forgotten and nearly gladly so.

Once in its life, the gunpowder factory had had 120 different buildings spread out over this forest area. One sign, which later I translate from Norwegian to English using an online (and not entirely accurate) tool, states that it’s basically impossible to know how many people worked onsite over the years because there was a huge turnover rate due to miserly ownership, the seasonal nature of the work, constant labor restructuring, explosions, fires, and deaths.

On May 7 of 1919, an explosion rocked the riverside factory. Fire spread from building to building. Seven men died. When the smoke cleared, the company rebuilt the buildings at a greater distance from each other to prevent such widespread destruction. The signs say nothing about what they did regarding the seven men.

And yet, a bit further on, stands a plaque to those seven men and the ten others who died over the factory’s lifetime. Nittedal has not forgotten them. Their names, their ages, and the date they died are listed one after the other in chronological order. One twenty-five year old man in 1888, four youths of fifteen and sixteen (two girls, two boys) in 1906, a thirty-six year old man in 1912, the seven men in 1919 ranging in age from 26 to 57, one fifty-four year old man in 1967, and two men, 34 and 56 years old, in 1976.

Their memorial has a short-walled garden behind and encircling stones around to mark it. It’s some conciliation to death to be remembered, isn’t it? Is it?

One plaque states that in the gunpowder warehouse matches and metal were forbidden. Of course, they were. Any spark, no matter what its source, was a matter of life or death. At the end of that plaque is a quote from one of the workers. He said, “A spark is the last thing you'll see, and so, you become an angel.”

It doesn’t say which worker, who he said it to, or why. It doesn’t say if his name is one of the names listed on the memorial.

After paying some silent tribute, I turn and leave the angels behind me.

Around the bend, where the river spills down over giant stepping-stone rocks, is the crumbling remains of the power plant built in 1904.

When the light turns golden and casts a gold-pink hue into the water, the old power plant pulsates as if with magic. The building itself could be alive. A witch could live there. A domiciled troll. The Three Billy Goats Gruff. An introverted, solitary princess. A reclusive, forest-loving bard.
Standing with my elbows on the bridge’s railing, I get caught up in the fairytales rather than tangled up in the facts of hydroelectric power and dams that the nearby signs are explaining (in Norwegian). Later, in the midst of talk of dams and power, my handy online translator spits out this jewel: One of the reasons why the herb farm was added to the trout fishing was that there was good access to hydroelectric power. In the beginning there was an impeller in the eleven, the foundation for this is seen on the other side. And I wonder how and when exactly herb farms and trout fishing got introduced into my gunpowder factory history lesson and what the heck an impeller was doing in the eleven. How dare it?

I leave the bridge and the power plant and head across the trail.

There’s an old rusted vat like a hot water heater standing in a corner of a building that no longer exists as if it grew right out of the hill it backs into. Here’s a pile of rusted parts, an old light, wheels and cogs, fittings, and joinings, outlets and vent hoods. There’s a crumbled brick wall with tree roots and moss grown like a canopy over it.

As the years went by, after explosive accident after accident, the factory officials increased the safety measures. They must have done okay, for from 1919 until 1967 (as far as the memorial plaque confirms), there were no fatal accident. Not until Wilhelm Veseth was killed in an explosion in the smelter house in 1967. After his death, the company fully automated the production so that the machines could run without any human present. Even so, even with their precautions, as a final plaque says, in 1976, “something went wrong. An explosion occurred and two men died.” This was the final straw for the gunpowder factory. They closed production. The town stayed angry for years. The forest grew taller. The grass faded from green to dried out gold, from green to gold again and again. The once shiny and oiled machinery turned rusty under the Norwegian rain and snow.

As I walk beyond the site, leaving rust, ruin, and death behind, I wish I could say the gunpowder factory closed down because the need for gunpowder had become obsolete. But I can’t. Scraping a little frost off the ledge of a wood shed, I take a seat and reach into my bag to pull out the hot tea I’ve brought along with me. Easing off my gloves, I wrap my hands around the glass jar and let the warmth soothe the chill out of my fingers. The river rushes on just below me, singing out an enthusiastic lullaby. A woman and her dog pass by. The clouds move overhead. The earth keeps circling the sun. I take in a breath and smile. The forest doesn’t hold on to loss. It dies every winter itself and then blossoms when spring finally comes again.