March 23, 2026
I begin my journey into Sjaunja, into a landscape I have only caught glimpses of before. The weather has been mild in recent days, even at night. The snow carries poorly, and I struggle to move through it, my skis sinking deep. After a few hours of skiing in sunshine, a snow squall moves in from the west, and soon it is snowing heavily.
I find a place at the edge of the forest to pitch my tent. The snow is so soft that I have to work for a long time to build a platform for it. In the end, I can crawl inside and prepare a warm meal.
~March 24, 2026
I wake up to the voices of willow ptarmigans in a grove of birch trees not far from the tent. A solitary black grouse calls in the distance. The sun rises. A clear, cold morning. I head out on my skis. Two ravens fly overhead. A hawk owl sits in a spruce tree.
I watch the owl through my binoculars. In the morning light, the plumage takes on a warm glow in contrast to the blue sky.
The presence of these birds fills me with energy. The night’s freezing temperatures have formed a hard crust, and I enjoy skiing in the morning sun, gliding effortlessly on top of the snow. Freedom.
Later, I break camp and continue deeper into Sjaunja.
~March 25, 2026
After breakfast I set off up a forest pass that I hope will take me into the next valley. The journey goes better than I expected. The skis carry well, and I find a route between groves of spruce and birch.
Up on the pass, old gnarly pines appear, more weathered by wind than those lower in the terrain. They grow slowly at this altitude.
I descend into open marshland. I come across capercaillie droppings — likely the site of a lek that will begin in a couple of weeks. I find a good campsite and pitch the tent in shelter from the northwesterly wind. Snow and wind are expected tomorrow.
~March 26, 2026
Snowfall.
Rest day.
In the evening, the sky clears.
At dusk, a boreal owl calls from a hill nearby.
March 27, 2026
In the morning, a golden eagle glides above camp, sailing on the northwesterly wind. I light a small fire, and soon I have company. A Siberian jay calls cheerfully from a lichen-covered spruce.
More often than not, I am visited by this curious bird when I light a fire. I wonder if this is out of curiosity or a learned behaviour — perhaps even a long-standing relationship with humans: come, and you will be given something to eat in exchange for company.
After dinner, I lie in the tent and listen as dusk settles. The thin fabric of the tent makes me part of the soundscape. I listen for the owl on the hill.
~March 31, 2026
Mist lies over the marshland at dawn, while the moon sets over the treetops in the west. The drumming of a three-toed woodpecker echoes through the landscape.
The wind moves the mist across the marsh, pushing it gently. When it reaches a ridge or hill, it lingers there until the wind shifts again.
When the sun finally burns it away and the light becomes harsh, I ski into the forest. I move from an open landscape, where shadows are almost absent, into the intricate play of light among the trees. My eyes search constantly for small moments — light, shadow, form — shifting as the sun moves across the sky.
Eventually, the sun warms the snow until it begins to stick to my wooden skis. Soon, a decimeter of snow builds beneath each ski. It is time to return to camp. Slowly.
~April 2, 2026
I ski west into the forest from the campsite. The spring sun filters down through the trees on this crisp morning. A sense of discovery returns each time I enter the forest. Once in a while, giant pines appear — trees that seem almost impossible to do justice in a photograph. Once they were common in the taiga; now they stand like relics of another time.
I stop at one of them. The bark is torn open at the base by fire — a scar. I lean against it and close my eyes. I feel the immense pine move gently in the wind. It sways slowly, and I feel the movement through my body. A calm that is difficult to describe settles within me. There is something about standing there, at one with time.
April 3, 2026
Good Friday (Långfredag). Easter draws people into the landscape, but here the forest is empty of humans. The Siberian jay, the willow tit, and the capercaillie keep me company.
Toward evening, I hear a familiar call in the distance, and shortly after, two whooper swans fly right over me, continuing toward the setting sun. Their wingbeats cut through the silence. Spring is approaching.
