As a late 30-something in search of adventure and on the cusp of fatherhood I value my annual motorbike trip with the lads.

For several years we've headed south to continental sunshine, but this year we decided to head north with the intention of seeing whether we could make it to the Arctic Circle in northern Norway.

The original plan was to head off in June and make for the legendary Midnight Sun and the Northern Lights, but two of us had better halves in late pregnancy so the trip was pulled forward to a much colder and wetter May.

As a freelance photographer, the prospect of glaciers, frozen lakes, igloos and polar bears was all consuming, but I needed to travel light and opted just to pack my D2X, a 17-55, a 4-gig CF card, spare battery and all important polarising filter.

On a packed BMW 1150gs, my friend Clint Randall, a staff photographer for the Western Daily Press, and I set off from Gloucester, rode 300 miles to Newcastle for the 27-hour ferry to Bergen in Norway. En route we joined the third intrepid explorer, James Velacott, a staffer for the Mirror, also riding an 1150gs.

In the ferry queue the omens were not good as Clint's aging BMW 80RT leaked petrol while the back wheel wobbled like a drunken Wurlitzer.

I've never spent more than a few hours on a ferry and 27 hours on a floating fun palace packed with lorry drivers and Norwegians heading home from shopping sprees in Newcastle was surreal. I'll never forget the three guitar-playing Norwegian cowboys serenading diners in the genuine plastic American steak house, or two teenagers playing violins on deck four.

An uneventful crossing and the excitement of seeing land was intoxicating. As we steamed north along the Norwegian shore, the view of snow-capped mountains and glacial coastline was overpowering, with its vivid colour and the smell of salt-tinged air.

Looking at a map of Norway, my first impression is that it looks like someone picked it up and dropped it from a great height fracturing the country's western coastline.

On arrival in pretty Bergen we checked into a pre-booked hostel and hit the town, but we got a punch in the wallet when the first round of three beers cost £25. Early to bed for us.

Bank holiday Monday and we found that the damage to Clint's BMW was extensive and there was no choice but to plead with insurers for a hire bike. A frustrating day sitting on the kerb was alleviated by occasional forays around Bergen's harbour photographing picture wooden architecture, until a bike was sourced.

We set off after 5pm, a couple of hundred miles behind schedule.

Ironically, Clint was issued a far better machine, a nearly-new BMW 650.

Sadly, more drama after three miles as my sleeping bag was apparently affixed to my bike only with Pritt Stick and fell off, hitting a passing Volvo and scaring a Norwegian pensioner. A couple of trips around Bergen's one-way system and we were on the move again.

Free at last and despite having left home three days ago the trip had only just started. With our backs to the Floyen Mountains, we rode through the twilight alongside the world's largest fjord, crossed snow-blown Tarmac, with drifts 15 to 20 feet high on either sides of the road and the temperatures bounced around the bottom of the thermometer.

Thankfully, four-and-a-half hours and 180 miles from Bergen, we made it to Sognal – checkpoint one.

On Tuesday we traversed the winding serpentine mountain roads, crossed azure tingled fjords and breathed in the fresh smell of Norway's farmers muck spreading.

We had been warned by fellow motorcyclists in the UK that the police would strictly enforce the 50mph nationwide speed limit. We heard tales of the Politi hiding in bushes trapping speeders and demanding credit card payments for on-the-spot fines.

So we rode cautiously, rarely toping 55mph, which meant there was more time to take in the scenery and think about pictures. There was a danger that every few miles a photo opportunity would present itself and indeed that's what happened.

Through my visor I'd see overpowering images such as traditional huts framed by a glacier and gushing mountain river, at ferry ports the wait would be an excuse to explore and find an interesting subject, or we'd pull over for a numb-bum break at a stunning lakeside retreat and click away in our own coffee table book world.

We spent the night in a Trondheim youth hostel, with rooms modelled on a Swedish sauna, and feasted on pasta cooked over an aging Camping Gaz stove I found in the tool shed at home. Early to bed, for the big Arctic Circle push tomorrow.

So far, the weather had been spectacular, with bright blue skies, warm air and no hint of rain – a motorcyclist's dream – and Wednesday was no different. We had 350 miles ahead and were aiming to arrive at around 5pm.

As we ate up the miles, the scenery changed often, with the green fields and orchards of the valley floor leading up to snowy passes before continuing alongside the river and tunnels. The sharp contrast of wearing sunglasses against the brightness, then plunging into a dark five-mile tunnel caused many a speed wobble and a near miss with an oncoming monster truck.

We rode through Norway's wildest and most magnificent scenery, with deep ravines and waterfalls cascading down the side of steep, snow-capped mountains and farms clingingly dizzily to sheer slopes.

As we crossed into Nordland the pace quickened and the empty roads became private race tracks, with occasional heart-in-the-mouth moments – usually the result of a maniac overtaking, or the sudden onset of a fjord ferry port around a blind bend.

We were on the Arctic Highway, one of the world's great roads, running more than 900 miles from Mo i Rana to Kirkenes. Nearly the entire length of the highway is within the Arctic Circle and at its most northerly point the road gets to within 19.5 degrees of the North Pole.

Without warning, the scenary changes, from post-winter Norwegian Narnia to tundra – cold empty, lifeless and snowcovered. The temperature dropped markedly and my heated grips and vest barely kept my blood warm.

The moonlike landscape was monotonous and the last 50 miles were tortuous, like riding to the end of the world. It felt like we'd never make it. Then on the horizon a glint of sun on steel indicated 66 degrees 33 minutes north – the polar sirkel. We'd made it.

The visitor centre was half buried in snow and deserted. We wheelied and skidded through the slush, leapt off the bikes, hugged like lost brothers and wept like grown men shouldn't. Then of course we took dozens of pictures.

It was past 6pm but there was plenty of light and time to spark up the primus, make a cup of tea with Arctic ice and have a snowball fight in the waist-deep snow.

Lost in thought with a cup of PG, the silence was punctuated by the Arctic Express train blowing its whistle telling passengers they are (almost) on top of the world.

Exhausted, we rode joyfully to a closed campsite 10 miles south where we begged the owner to rent us a log cabin. There was no running water, save for the river, and no electricity – the kindly chap thought we were mad and refused to take any money.

Alone in the wilderness, our Ray Meers survivalist instincts met our Jamie Oliver kitchen skills. We plastered on mosquito repellent, lit a fire by the river with two sticks and filled our army mess tins with couscous and chilli and the billy cans with duty free vodka and orange. A toast to our success launched an evening telling campfire tales and playing iPod roulette under the eerie midnight twilight.

In the morning we washed in the freezing arctic waters, packed and planned a route to Kristiansand, the southernmost city in Norway. We had four days to explore Norway before the ferry home. First stop would be Trondheim and the Radisson SAS for a shower and night out in the cosmopolitan university city.

Emboldened by flushing pride we ignored the speed limit and really enjoyed the wide, empty northern roads. Relaxed, we spent more time stopping for pictures and resting by frozen lakes.

Raw images of ferries cutting through fjords, mirror-still lakes, frozen rivers, alien habitats and cultural icons quickly filled up my four-gig flash card.

Norway is a paradise for photographers, with its ruggedly beautiful countryside of mountains, fjords and glaciers. These stunning natural wonders give the country a frontier character that you don't see in Europe. It's not all frozen tundra; the temperate south includes rolling farmlands, enchanted forests and sunny beaches as well as the dramatic western fjords.

We experienced fantastic, if not unseasonably hot weather. I'm sure the page one headline in a Norwegian national tabloid screamed "Phew what a scorcher!" above its picture of scantily-clad Norwegians cooling off with a hose pipe.

If I return to the Land of the Midnight Sun I want to take in more of the low-key cities, unspoiled fishing villages and rich historic sites that include Viking ships and medieval churches. There were many pictures I missed because of time pressure and the need to press on and complete 300 or 400 miles a day.

On the journey south through Norway I had to stop in a split second as a moose lollopped on to the road a hundred yards in front of me. The moose stared menacingly while its offspring calmly strolled across the highway. The image of the moose staring against a backdrop of blue sky atop mountains will stay with me forever. The camera was out of reach.

For our last night in Norway we rode miles off the beaten track to find a lakeside campsite with a log cabin. We stumbled across a perfect location just as the sun was setting across a lake framed by mountains with the orange ball dropping above a conveniently moored sailing boat.

We elbowed each other for prime position on the bank and photographed a stunning scene that now graces my studio wall, measuring 48in by 32in.

The final ride into Kristiansand was disappointing thanks to concrete scenery and heavy, single lane traffic. Very boring. The city itself is a busy transient port that lacked charm, so we were grateful to board our ship and head across the North Sea.

Arriving back in Newcastle for the 300-mile ride home I was welcomed by thunder, rain and lightning. The brand new unused waterproofs I planned to take back to the shop were finally christened. What a way to end the trip of a lifetime that was both awe-inspiring and humbling.