May 17, 2026
I set off carrying two backpacks — one on my back and one on my front. Before long I enter the old spruce forest, where bearded lichen hangs from the branches. The going is slow. In places the frozen ground still supports my weight; in others it gives way beneath my feet. I cross a few patches of snow lingering in sheltered places.
The heavy load forces me to slow down. I stop often to rest and explore. After a long winter, I’m eager to discover what has been hidden beneath the snow.
Rain begins to fall, and I take shelter beneath a spruce. I sit there for half an hour, waiting for it to pass.
By the time I reach the lake, the sun is shining. The calm water feels inviting. I inflate the packraft and paddle across to a familiar campsite. It will be home for the next few days.
~May 18, 2026
Shortly after midnight I look out from the tent, still wrapped in my sleeping bag. The lake lies perfectly still as a low mist drifts across the water. A thin layer of frost covers the ground.
I pack my camera and tripod, then paddle across to a nearby island for a better view of the morning light. Standing on its shore, I watch the landscape emerge. Eventually the sun rises above the hills to the northeast and reaches the lake.
The light meets the mist rising from the water, and for a moment everything seems to stand still. A shaft of sunlight finds its way through the narrow gap between two headlands. Beyond them, a ridge of old spruce rises from the shoreline. The land shimmers. Each tree stands silhouetted against the clear sky. The jagged horizon of the taiga.
On my way back I watch an osprey return to a nest in a flat-crowned pine, not far from my campsite.
Time for sleep.
~May 19, 2026
I set out to explore more of the lake, paddling west towards its outlet.
Along the way I pass the osprey’s nest. The birds keep a close watch on me, so I make a wide detour to avoid disturbing them, and they let me pass.
Further west the landscape changes. The lush spruce forest gives way to more open pine forest. At the western end of the lake I reach a small stream. In the shaded hollows beside the water, the last snow of the season still lingers.
I spend some time filming the flowing water before paddling back to camp for lunch.
~May 20, 2026
After a night of light rain, the sun breaks through in the morning. I paddle across the lake towards a stand of old spruce draped in bearded lichen.
Raindrops hang from every needle, sparkling in the light. I try to carry the wonder through the lens and into the camera.
Later I lie down on the soft moss. The damp ground cools me from below. The first mosquitoes of the season buzz around me. The bearded lichen sways gently in the breeze.
If it weren’t for breakfast waiting back at the tent, I could have stayed here all day.
May 21, 2026
The first birch leaves are beginning to emerge.
I find myself drawn deeper into the old spruce forest.
May 27, 2026
I set off in the morning. After a steep climb through dense forest, the trees begin to thin. I pass a few tarns before continuing across the marsh.
Eventually I reach a small river winding through the landscape. I stop for a short break before the cold northwesterly wind sends me on my way again.
I find a campsite beside a small lake, with a nearby creek providing fresh drinking water.
Later in the afternoon I walk into a stand of towering old spruce growing on the sheltered side of a small mountain. I enter another world. One of the last of its kind in Sweden.
The wind becomes little more than a whisper in the canopy above, and the light softens beneath the trees. The forest floor is covered in moss and bilberry, and here and there the first ferns are beginning to unfurl.
I come across a dead capercaillie hen — someone’s dinner.
Back at camp, I cook my own over a small fire.
~May 28, 2026
I leave camp early in the morning and cross the marsh before entering the enchanting world of the ancient spruce forest.
I continue uphill, passing a tarn before another stand of old spruce reveals itself. I gather birch bark and dead twigs, fill the kettle from a stream, and make coffee over a fire.
The forest is incredibly rich in detail — from the trees themselves to the forest floor.
As I continue, I come across enormous spruce logs. I’ve never seen spruce logs this large before. They lie scattered across the ground, forcing long detours around them. Older trunks have almost disappeared beneath thick moss.
May 29, 2026
The morning sun breaks through for only a few minutes before disappearing behind the clouds.
I sit down in a small clearing and listen to birdsong and the wind moving through the trees. A Siberian jay pays me a visit. After so many impressions over the past days, I slow down.
The evening is warm and calm — a first hint of summer. The sun sinks behind the forested hill to the west as a black-throated loon glides silently across the far end of the lake.
~May 30, 2026
I wake to the gentle sound of the season’s first rain falling on the tent. Around camp the birches have now burst into leaf, and the air is filled with the sweet scent of spring.
May 31, 2026
During the night, mist settles over the land. By morning I walk up through the old spruce forest, past the small clearing and beneath trees draped in bearded lichen. Eventually I reach a rocky outcrop overlooking the landscape — or at least the hundred metres or so visible through the fog.
Some of the spruces have begun to set cones, glowing deep red against the muted greens. I follow a moose trail down towards a lake where a pair of geese rest.
The birches are now fully leafed out, their fresh green almost luminous. I make note of a few scenes I’d like to return to in autumn, when the colours have settled into quieter tones.
~June 1, 2026
A crisp morning. The forest is damp. Light filters through the canopy.
I’m trying to understand how the light behaves here. It is completely different from the open mountain landscape. There I can usually anticipate where the light will appear. Here it feels almost impossible.
This forest will take time.
Further on I come across a fallen spruce. Looking more closely, I find two species of fungi growing on the trunk: Fomitopsis rosea (rosenticka) and Cystostereum murrayi (doftskinn), both characteristic of old-growth spruce forest.
June 5–6, 2026
It rains through most of the day, but by evening the clouds begin to part.
The sun returns, and the forest comes alive. Fish rise in the small river. Birds call from every direction. Mosquitoes.
The air is heavy with moisture after the rain, and mist begins to form in the open. I stay awake throughout the night, watching the sky change colour as the light fades, then returns.
Shortly after sunrise, clouds move in and I make my way back to camp for a few hours of much-needed sleep.
~June 9, 2026
I sleep in this morning. The past few days have caught up with me. So has the pollen drifting through the heavy air.
Later I set out for a shorter walk, following the faint path I’ve walked so many times now through the forest.
Warm air. Mosquitoes.
I stop on a small rise beside a tarn. Wherever I look, I see old spruce forest.
By evening the air has cooled enough to light a fire, and I cook dinner in the shade of a pine.
~June 11, 2026
I wake to rain and a cold morning. The temperature has dropped to five degrees. Once again, I head into the spruce forest, and every day I discover something new.
I follow a moose trail up to a rocky ledge where I can look out across the landscape. The rain grows heavier.
I work with the camera as best I can. Keeping it dry while living in a tent through weather like this is a challenge. I make my way back down through the forest. Fresh spruce shoots glow bright green against the older needles.
Then the sun breaks through. The image in the viewfinder suddenly turns hazy. Condensation has formed on the rear element of the lens. I hurry back to camp and leave the camera in the sun. After half an hour the condensation is gone.
What a relief.
Towards evening thunder rolls in. Lightning strikes less than a kilometre away. The forest and the bedrock beneath my feet seem to shake.
The storm moves on.
At sunset, the light turns to gold, fading as dusk settles.
June 12, 2026
In the early hours I cook a hot meal before heading out into the summer night. By dawn the temperature has fallen below freezing. The marsh is covered in frost.
I spend the first hours of the morning in the open landscape before making my way into the forest as the sun rises.
Water droplets cling to every needle, catching the light. I climb to the small clearing. The light is exactly as I’d hoped.
It filters through the trees, setting the forest shimmering. I work with the camera, trying my best to do the scene justice. Whether I’ve managed to convey what I experienced, I don’t yet know.
I crawl back into the tent just as the mosquitoes begin to wake up.
~June 13, 2026
I break camp late in the afternoon and wade across the small river. Wandering over the marshland, I leave the old spruce forest behind. The sun sinks below the horizon of trees. At midnight, the sky burns red in the northeast.
I seal every opening in my clothing, pull a bug net over my face, and sit down on a fallen log to rest for a while. A cuckoo calls from somewhere in the distance.
In a few hours I’ll be back at the car. Back in civilisation. But for now I’m still here — between the old forest and the new. At the edge of time.
