January 13, 2026
I ski across the vast marshes toward the forested mountain landscape in eastern Muddus. The recent winter storm — with thawing temperatures followed by a cold spell — has created a hard surface that supports my long wooden skis and my sled. I float on top of the snow, in contrast to my previous journey in December, when I had to work hard for every meter.
I follow the faint contours of my previous ski track for five kilometers before turning east to follow a frozen river toward a small forest mountain.
I face a headwind out in the open. Together with light snowfall and –20°C temperatures, the task becomes more demanding.
I travel through a landscape of shapes: the spear-like altai spruces, the graceful birches, and the playful pines. In the snowfall, the landscape shifts in tones from gray to white. But now and then, a black dot stands out in the distance — a capercaillie or a black grouse resting in a tree.
It’s easy to think that the taiga is lifeless during midwinter, but here, far away from the city’s noise, life quietly goes on.
Around 2 p.m., the light fades and dusk settles. I’m looking for a good campsite and spot a clearing in the forest in the distance. It will do fine. I pack the snow with my skis and pitch the tent while large snowflakes fall from the dark gray sky. Here I am sheltered from the wind by tall spruce trees, and it becomes quiet again. I fall asleep to the faint sound of snowflakes landing on the tent.
~January 14, 2026
When I wake at 9 a.m, it’s still snowing outside. Today is a rest day. The recent cold spell with temperatures as low as –35°C and intensive creative work have taken their toll.
I light the stove to make a small breakfast and to dry the sleeping bag, then I head out into the snowfall.
I ski through the forest where I pitched the tent and emerge on the other side. Here the southerly wind blows strongly across the open marshland.
My skis don’t know which direction to go in the fresh snow. Suddenly, a capercaillie bursts from its hole in the snow, only ten meters ahead of me. It’s a spectacular sight. It had been hidden behind a small pine and had not seen me coming. Equally surprised, I imagine.
I ski another few hundred meters, and then I see something at the forest edge farther away. A couple of reindeer come into view. They stop and look at me before taking off, following the frozen river to the south.
~January 15, 2026
After a calm morning, I put on my skis and head toward the small forest mountain. I follow the river as it winds through the landscape, and behind a bend, a ridge with ancient pines appears. These are the ones I’ve come here for.
I continue and scout for a campsite for tomorrow. I find a suitable spot among a grove of old pines and spend half an hour packing the snow with my skis. It will freeze overnight, giving me a solid platform to pitch the tent the next day. In the meantime, I get visitors. Two Siberian jays pass by, one sits in a snow-covered spruce not far away and looks at me. Nice to see you — guardians of the taiga.
I continue a bit further, and after a while, I can see it up close for the first time: the small mountain. Not much of a mountain really, more of a hill, but from afar I can already make out the old trees that are supposed to be there.
I travel back along the same track. The moisture in the fresh snow forms ice under my skis. My journey slows. By dusk, I am back at the camp. The wind has calmed a little. It feels good to be in this more remote part of Muddus.
~
January 16, 2026
The morning begins with a cup of coffee. I light the stove, and a pleasant smell spreads as the flame heats the kettle, its surface darkened by years of soot and tar. The scent brings back memories of past journeys in the taiga, and I savor it — midwinter offers few scents of its own.
I pack my gear and leave for the next campsite. I follow the track from the day before. A thin layer of ice has formed overnight, and the skis glide effortlessly.
Upon arriving at the campsite, I take my time. This will be my home for a while, so no need to rush.
Once the tent is up, I sit in the entrance, drinking warm water from the thermos. I see something moving out on the marsh. A reindeer. Soon another appears. Then I realize it must be the two reindeer I saw a couple of days ago.
Before darkness falls, I take a short ski trip, just for the joy of it.
~January 18, 2026
A lonely Great Tit.
A Capercaillie.
Tired from all the impressions.
Every shape of the forest.
Every shade of light.
January 19, 2026
I head out before dawn. Above me, a starry sky. A faint northern light illuminates the horizon in the north, and I can barely make out a band of dawn light in the southeast, carrying a promise of a new day.
I stop and listen. It is completely silent. But now and then the silence is broken by a crackle in the forest. It is the trees speaking in the cold.
At dawn, the sky is colored in beautiful shades of orange and red. Mist drifts in and diffuses the light. I work with the camera. Finding a good composition is a challenge. So many shapes, so little time.
I continue through a denser grove of trees and south onto a large open marsh. The sun rises above the low horizon in the south, casting it’s first rays over the landscape. I ski into the sunrise. A bird sweeps in backlight a hundred meters ahead and settles in a snow-heavy spruce. A Hawk Owl. It sits there for a while before disappearing into the forest.
As I ski further south, I see a capercaillie sitting and resting in a pine on the marsh. The landscape glows gently in the low January sun.
I feel tired. On the way back to the camp, I hear something. What was that? I stop and listen. Then I hear it again. A short trilling sound. It is the Hawk Owl sitting in a spruce a few hundred meters away. Are you singing for me? The short melody raises my spirit. I try to whistle back but cannot, my lips are too cold. I ski back to the camp with renewed energy.
~January 20, 2026
After breakfast, I ski toward the small mountain.
On this little mountain, giant pines grow. I leave the marsh and ascend into a hall of ancient trees. It feels like entering another world. A sanctuary. Around me rise trees over 500 years old, and a few of the fallen giants may even be a thousand. It transports me back in time, a reminder of how the boreal forest once stood.
January 21, 2026
The morning begins with both coffee and tea. Today, fog covers the land. I ski along my track, used overnight by both reindeer and moose.
There is something special about spending time in a place. I come to know the landscape more intimately. Today I’m heading back to the old pines on the small mountain, eager to immerse myself among them again.
They rise majestically above me, their tones restrained, shifting from light to dark gray in the overcast light. The dim light and the old trees do something to me — they bring a sense of calm, and a quiet melancholy.
~January 22, 2026
Gloomy light. Gray sky. A few mediocre attempts with the camera.
I light a small fire. Its warm glow breaks the dullness. Its crackle breaks the silence.
~January 23, 2026
The weather clears during the night, and the stars shimmer in the sky. It feels good to see them again. I head out while it is still dark, drawn by the starry sky and the silence.
I ski through dawn and arrive at the place where I last met the Hawk Owl. Are you still here? I scan the treetops. And there it sits, some hundred meters away. I move closer. It is cold. The Hawk Owl perches undisturbed in a snow-covered spruce. Sometimes it looks at me, but seems unbothered. I feel humbled by how it withstands the cold, while I am dressed in layers upon layers of clothing and still struggling to keep my fingers and toes warm. After half an hour together, I leave my friend in peace.
By afternoon, the mist that has covered the landscape during the day lifts, and the twilight atmosphere is magical. The light is soft, and over the next two hours the sky shifts through the full palette of midwinter. From turquoise to deep blue. From pink to deep purple.
As darkness falls, I see the northern lights dance over the old forest, waving intensely above the treetops.
I find it hard to sleep, my mind trying to digest all of today’s impressions.
January 24, 2026
I wake with frost hanging like stalactites from the roof of the tent. During the night, the temperature dropped below -30°C. I turn and twist a little in the sleeping bag before it’s time to get going.
I ski toward the Hawk Owl’s forest. Today my friend does not show. Maybe it is too cold.
The sun rises over the expanses. I make a few attempts with the camera, but my feet are getting cold — especially the right one, where a seam in the ski boot has failed and a lump of ice has formed. I keep moving to get warm.
Far on the horizon in the west, high mountains rise — a land I’ve spent years of my life in. Now distant, they shimmer in the cold air.
I feel increasingly tired but keep skiing to stay warm. At dusk, I crawl into the sleeping bag. Tired, and humbled by the cold. Another day in the taiga is over.
~January 26, 2026
Fox tracks.
Old pines.
At dusk, I hear the Hawk Owl’s song echo through the forest.
Then silence again.
January 27, 2026
I break camp at 5 a.m. I ski through darkness, and slowly the light of dawn emerges behind me.
I ski north, but it is tempting to turn and ski back into the light. The sky where I’m headed is darker. A snowfall is approaching.
The clouds move in over me, and when they meet the rising sun, the sky ignites in red.
The show lasts a few minutes before it starts snowing. In the snowfall, the colours fade — the world becomes white.
~January 29, 2026
After a journey through an endless landscape, enjoying the gentle warmth of the late January sun, I ski through dusk. The temperature drops below -30°C once again.
As I’m about to leave the marsh and enter the forest, something catches the corner of my eye. Something moves toward me — a shadow against the fading sky, familiar yet otherworldly. The Hawk Owl glides silently just above my head. I stop and rest on my ski poles. Words fail to describe what I have just experienced. A sense of reverence for this land rushes through me.
I continue into the moonlit night, the northern lights dancing gracefully across the infinite sky above me.
