It’s that time of year when life returns to the forest.
I find myself somewhere between winter and spring.
Between skis and paddle.
Between protected forests and those left unprotected.
It has been a winter with less snow than usual. Once again, I head to Muddus National Park to see if I can get one last ski journey this season. Here, slightly higher in the terrain, the snow still lingers, but the marshes are soaking it from below. Nights are expected to stay below freezing for the next few days, so I decide to try.
I set out early in the morning, and the cold night has turned the snow hard as cement. The skis rasp loudly against it — no chance of moving quietly in these conditions. Far in the distance, I catch sight of a wolverine disappearing into the forest. It had heard me coming.
I spend a few days by the outlet of a lake. There, the ice has already given way, and the river has begun to open. The sound of flowing water is welcome after winter’s silence.
At dawn, black grouse gather far out on the lake ice, calling to attract a mate. As the sun rises, the voices of common crane and whooper swan fill in to complete the soundscape of early spring.
~Back home again. I head out at dawn to my home forest — a nature reserve surrounded by production forest. An island of biodiversity in an ocean of monocultures. In Swedish, we call both by the same word: skog.
One has been shaped by nature over thousands of years, since the last ice age. The other has been reshaped by man in the last century.
A red-throated loon circles above me in the twilight. It lands on the small tarn just twenty meters away. A few minutes pass, then a second one arrives. The timing is good — the ice only left the tarn a couple of days ago. They will nest here, just as they did last year.
A delicate creek makes its way through the forest. Its sound is meditative. Following it, I come to a clearing where capercaillie are lekking. Each year they return to the same site to mate — a sure sign of spring in the boreal forest.
~I inflate my packraft. The lake has only recently opened up, and I launch with excitement. I’m in a landscape new to me — an unprotected old-growth forest at the foot of a mountain in northern Jämtland. I cherish the feeling of being on the water after months of skiing through a frozen landscape. In the evening, I pitch my tent on an island, on a soft bed of heather and crowberry.
The next morning I wake at 2 AM to the song of a mistle thrush. It’s been a cold night, and a thin layer of new ice has formed near the shore. I break through it with the raft as I paddle out into dawn. A low mist dances around me on the water’s surface.
At noon, I leave the water and walk into a dense spruce forest. The air is moist, and the forest floor thick with moss. Entering this forest feels like stepping into something sacred.
As I wander, a thought returns: will these trees still be here next year — for the next generation?
The following morning I wake to a clear sky. The air is crisp and cold. The lake lies still as glass; the stars glimmer above. From the far end, a black-throated loon calls across the water. I watch the sun rise over the land as the forest slowly awakens.
I make my morning coffee over a small fire of gathered driftwood. It tastes better than ever.
