December 2009: At some point in life, I believe it’s important to learn about your ancestors and discover your roots. By doing so, you gain a deeper understanding of the places and lives of those who shaped you—both genetically and culturally. Preserving this knowledge allows it to be passed down to future generations before it is lost forever.
For many people around the world, especially in Europe and Asia, tracing ancestry back a thousand years or more is common. However, for most Americans, lineage can often only be traced back a few generations. One of my greatest travel aspirations was not only to uncover my ancestry but to visit the very places my ancestors once called home. I wanted to learn about their lives, the challenges they faced, and hopefully find inspiration in their stories.
This journey led me to Meråker, Norway, in search of my Norwegian heritage.
Location of Meraker, Norway
Probably choosing one of the worst times to visit Norway, my brother Jesse and I arrived during the week of New Year’s Eve—right in the heart of winter. The days were short, the cold was biting, and the snow was deep. To top it off, almost everything was closed for the holidays.
We had some ancestral information provided by our uncle and aunt, Deborah and Tom, from their visit to Meråker a few years earlier. However, nothing was concrete—no addresses, no phone numbers, just the name of the town where our ancestors had lived and a single lead: a guesthouse owned by the town historian, who might be able to help us.
With no prior arrangements, we set out for Meråker, a small mountain town near the Swedish border with a population of only a few thousand, hoping for the best.
We flew to Trondheim via Oslo, then caught a public bus to Meråker. The bus was mostly empty, and by the time we arrived, it was dark, blustery, and bitterly cold. Not a single soul was in sight.
The guesthouse we had planned to stay at was shuttered, with no sign of anyone inside. As far as we knew, there were no other hotels in town. Concerned for our well-being, the bus driver hesitated to leave us stranded in the freezing cold. Sensing our predicament, he called the owner of the guesthouse, Bjørn, who lived nearby and agreed to come meet us.
Bjørn, the town historian, turned out to be exactly the person we had hoped to find. When we explained our mission to learn about our Norwegian ancestry, he was delighted to help—on one condition: we had to sign our names in his genealogy book for the town of Meråker. Of course, we gladly did.
Though the guesthouse was closed for the season, Bjørn generously decided to reopen it just for us. After checking in and arranging to explore Meråker with him the following day, my brother and I set out to find dinner. We ended up at the only open restaurant in town, where we ate a mysterious dish—one that, judging by its texture, may have included moose eyeballs.
View of the mountain town of Meraker
For the next few days, Bjørn was incredibly generous to us. He took time out of his day—without asking for or accepting any compensation—to enthusiastically guide my brother and me around Meråker, sharing his deep knowledge of our heritage. There seemed to be little about the area’s history that he didn’t know.
On the morning of New Year’s Eve, Bjørn picked us up and took us to visit Hamran Farm, where my great-grandparents once lived. The small red building on the property, known as a burr, was the first structure built there. It originally belonged to the family of Beret Olsdatter, before she married Anton Sveum. The farm name, Hamran, came from Beret’s side of the family. After their marriage, she and Anton lived there while he worked in the nearby mining town of Gilså. Beret was from Meråker, while Anton came from the Sveum farm in the town of Dokka, in the parish of Nordsinni.
The farm itself was small—too small to sustain the number of people living there. Life was difficult, and wages were meager. It’s easy to see why Anton and Beret made the difficult decision to leave Norway and migrate to America in search of new opportunities and a better future.
Nestled in the hills on the outskirts of town, the old farmstead sat on rugged land that looked challenging to cultivate. When we arrived, Bjørn led us on foot through the deep snow to the burr, which now appeared to be used for storage. Soon after, the farm’s new owner—a Swedish man—came out to greet us. He didn’t speak English but was friendly and welcomed us to walk around the property.
Standing next to the structure where my great-grandparents once lived in Norway, with my brother by my side, was an indescribable feeling. It was one of those rare moments in travel where history, family, and personal connection all come together—an experience I will always cherish.
View of the small burr at Hamran Farm, once home to my great-grandmother Beret’s family before she married my great-grandfather, Anton.
Our next stop was the train depot, the very place where our great-grandparents departed Meråker, beginning their journey to Bergen—and ultimately, to America.
Meraker Train Depot Building
Small chapel where my great grand parents, Beret and Anton were married
Afterward, we visited the small Lutheran chapel in town where my great-grandparents were married. Unfortunately, the chapel was closed, as it only opens occasionally when the traveling minister is in town for weddings, baptisms, or funerals.
My brother and I in front of the chapel where our great grand parents were married
Day Trip to Sweden
Being so close to Sweden, the temptation to cross the border was too strong to resist. Bjørn kindly offered to drive us to Storlien, a mountain resort town just across the Swedish border, along a winding scenic road through the mountains.
Storlien is home to a historic train depot and, as we later learned, played a significant role during the Nazi occupation of Norway. Some of our relatives had helped smuggle Jewish refugees through these very mountains, using cross-country skis to guide them to safety in Sweden.
Cross-country skiing is deeply ingrained in Nordic culture. With Norway’s long winters, its people have learned to embrace the snow rather than endure it. During our time there, we often saw Norwegians skiing—not just for recreation but also as a practical means of transportation. People skied to run errands, carry groceries, or even pull children in sparkstøtting—a toboggan-like push sled unique to Norway.
Skiing was also a part of my own family’s history. My great-grandmother, Inna Hegsted, once cross-country skied all the way from the Steinkjer area to Sweden. Even after emigrating to America, she held onto a painted plate from Sweden as a keepsake, a small but meaningful reminder of her journey.
Road to Storlien
Swedish Mountains on the road to Storlien
Storlien Train Station
Bjorn, my brother and I at the Storlien Train Station
Meeting Our Distant Norwegian Relatives
After visiting Sweden, Bjørn took us back to Meråker to meet our relatives from the Sveum side of our family—the Reppes. They had no idea we were coming, and on the afternoon of New Year’s Eve, we arrived unexpectedly at their doorstep with Bjørn.
Despite being complete strangers showing up unannounced on one of the biggest holidays of the year, they warmly welcomed us. Without hesitation, they invited us in for dinner and drinks, and we ended up staying the night at their home. Like Bjørn, they went out of their way over the next few days to accommodate us, share family history, and make us feel at home. They were incredible hosts!
That night, we rang in the New Year with our newfound relatives by lighting fireworks in their backyard, drinking homemade beer, and sampling Norwegian aquavit, a strong traditional liquor. After midnight, we joined a local New Year’s Eve party in Meråker with a crowd of college-aged kids. I don’t even remember if we got any sleep that night—but it was a celebration we’ll never forget.
My Brother and I with the Reppes
Billy Reppe showing my brother the family tree
Billy showed my brother exactly where we fit into the family tree. He had a book filled with photos and a meticulously organized lineage tracing our family back dozens of generations. Seeing our place in such an extensive history was both humbling and fascinating.
One of the most surprising and heartwarming things about the Reppe household was how familiar it felt. Their home was decorated with the same Christmas ornaments that my Norwegian grandma and mom have always used. Norwegian Christmas trolls were everywhere—just like the ones I grew up seeing during the holidays.
Trolls are a huge part of Norwegian folklore, and Billy explained the legend of Nisse, the mischievous Christmas troll. According to tradition, Nisse demands an offering of milk and cookies—if ignored, he will cause trouble in the house or even steal children. It was fun to hear this story firsthand in Norway, especially since it was one I had grown up with but never fully appreciated until now.
Christmas Troll
Christmas Troll
Lefse sweet bread
More Christms Trolls
Troll
Norwegian Santa
Billy’s mom was our closest relative among the Reppes. She had also met my aunt and uncle during their previous visit to Norway, making the connection even more meaningful. It was incredible to meet someone so closely tied to our family history and to hear stories that linked our past generations together.
My Brother and I with Grandma Reppe
Jesse and I drinking aquivit
Lighting off fireworks at midninght
At a Meroker party
Steinkjer & Trondheim
After our time in Meråker, our newfound relative, Cato Reppe—the youngest of the Reppes—took us to Trondheim, a stunning city on a fjord. He and his wife graciously hosted us for the night, even insisting that my brother and I take their bed while they slept on the couch. Their kindness and hospitality were beyond anything we could have expected.
That evening, they took us out into the city for dinner and drinks, where we met some of their friends and continued learning more about Norwegian history, particularly from the Trondheim region. It was a fantastic night of good food, great company, and deeper cultural connections.
The next day, Cato drove us to Steinkjer to explore more of our family history.
In Steinkjer, we visited Mære Kirke, a historic church with traditional Viking-inspired stave characteristics and Viking gargoyles. This church once belonged to our great-great-grandfather, David Hegsted, who lived in Steinkjer with his wife, Inga. David and Inga were the parents of my grandmother, Stella. Mære Kirke is also possibly the burial site of Nicolina, Inga’s mother.
That night, we stayed at the Tingvold Park Hotel in Steinkjer, which, to our surprise, had a Viking burial ground right behind it—another reminder of just how deep the history runs in this part of Norway.
Traditional Stave Norwegian Church/Maere kirk church Steinkjer
Old Tombstones
Winter Fjords
Viking Burial Ground with Stonehenge like Stones/Tingvold Park Hotel
We attempted to drive out to see some ancient Viking rock carvings of reindeer, but the road was unplowed, and the snow was far too deep. Determined to reach them, we pressed on—only to find ourselves dangerously close to getting stuck in the middle of nowhere. Realizing the risk, we eventually had to turn back, leaving the carvings buried beneath the winter snow for another visit.
Final Stop in Norway, Bergen
I left my brother in Trondheim, where he stayed for a few more days before continuing his travels into Eastern Europe. From there, I flew to Bergen for a one-night stay near the Hanseatic Museum and the old traditional fishing village along the coast.
Bergen was a particularly meaningful stop for me. It was from this very city that the parents of both my grandmother and grandfather departed for America, traveling by boat through the Great Lakes to Duluth, Minnesota. Standing in Bergen, I tried to imagine how they must have felt in the early 1900s as they left their homeland behind. Were they scared? Excited? Did they fully grasp the magnitude of their decision and how it would shape the lives of their future descendants?
Like my great-grandparents, I too departed for America from Bergen. But unlike them, my journey home took mere hours by airplane—an unimaginable contrast to the long and uncertain voyage they once endured.
Bergen where my relatives left to come to America by boat.