Skuleskogen sits on the fastest-rising coast on Earth, and everything the sea left behind here is now uphill and inland. The ice sheet pressed this ground down, and since it melted the land has risen 286 metres and is still climbing about a centimetre a year. Above the Tärnätt lakes a grey field of wave-rounded cobbles spills down the slope, with ridges through it marking old storm lines. It is a beach, sorted by surf that once broke exactly there, and the lakes below it are 170 metres up. The coast path ends at two low rocky holms that used to be islands; the rising ground has tied them to the shore with sand, and you walk across dry.
The park's other landmark is a split. Slåttdalsskrevan runs clean and vertical straight through Slåttdalsberget, cold air pooling at its foot and ferns gripping the walls. The floor is closed after rockfall, so you look in from the rim and from each end. The park is stitched with smaller fissures too: leaning blocks and corridors barely shoulder-wide, none of them signed. Lower down, boardwalks carry you through dark, humid spruce where pale strands of beard lichen hang from the branches, some four metres long. That lichen lives only where forest has been left uncut a very long time, and it has gone from most of Sweden's managed woodland. Higher up you break out onto open rock heath — pink granite, crooked old pines, crusts of lichen — with the Bothnian Sea beyond the treetops. This was the wild ground between the districts north and south of it, and travellers went through quickly, because robbers were said to be waiting. Bronze Age people built their burial cairns at the waterline, where a boat would see them, and those cairns now stand in forest that did not exist when they were raised.