In Darkness, Light

December 11, 2025

I set out early in the darkness on my wooden skis. The track I made the day before has drifted over during the night. It is heavy going — how will it be later? My head is filled with doubts, but I continue.

By the time I reach the end of the track, the faint daylight of midwinter has arrived, and I continue into deep snow. At times it is painfully slow, but now and then I ski across easier passages that offer a sense of hope.

I ski on with purpose. A few black grouse sit in the small pines on the marsh, and their presence feels reassuring. There is hardly anyone else here — only the inhabitants of the taiga.

At times I move no faster than one kilometer per hour. I’m tired. It will be a long day.

As I get close to the planned campsite, I ski out onto a small tarn — a decision I soon regret. Beneath the snow lies water, and before I know it, my skis are coated in a thick layer of ice.

I stumble back onto solid ground. I get rid of what I can with my ski poles, then begin scraping as fast as possible, trying to remove the ice before it freezes solid. After half an hour, I can finally continue — my fingers numb from the cold. In midwinter, even small decisions can have large consequences.

As I approach the small ridge where I plan to camp, I notice two large pine trees among the spruce forest. It looks like a good place to spend the night. I leave the sled on the marsh and ski up the ridge, find a suitable spot, and begin packing the snow with my skis.

I return to fetch the sled and the tent. Soon, camp is set, and I can crawl inside for some well-earned rest. I get the stove going. Dinner tastes better than usual today.

~

December 12, 2025

During the night, the sky clears and the temperature drops further. I head out into the midwinter dawn. It is so beautiful. The horizon in the southeast glows softly in orange, while the rest of the sky remains a deep blue. A thought keeps circling in my mind: Should I continue or not?

My ambition with this journey was to reach a small cabin situated in the heart of Muddus. The warmth and comforts of the cabin are tempting, but it is another ten kilometers away and the day is short. In good skiing conditions this would have been possible, but yesterday’s endeavor has made me doubt. I decide to try, and after a quick breakfast, I pack up camp.

Out on the marshland, progress is slow. The temperature has now dropped to −25 degrees Celsius, but I am sweating from the hard work of pulling the sled through snow far heavier than yesterday’s. The cold has made the snow firmer — not enough to carry my weight, but significantly heavier to drag the load through.

After a kilometer I stop. This won’t work. The forecast promises more snow, which will only make conditions worse. Turning back is the sensible thing.

Despite the disappointment, I enjoy the moment. It is magically beautiful. The sun rises halfway above the horizon and casts a soft pink glow over some of the treetops. I ski back in my own tracks. It grows colder.

I pitch the tent at my previous campsite and then head back out onto the marshland to see what the twilight might offer. Now it is −30, and everything slows: the camera, the tripod, even the artist.

Before crawling into the tent, I light a small fire. Its light and warmth lift my spirit. Things don’t always turn out as planned. Out here in the taiga, Mother Nature decides. All I can do is adapt.

~

December 16, 2025

It has been snowing for three days straight. I make short day trips from camp. It is dark — no light in sight.

~

December 17, 2025

It suddenly clears. Through the fog, the distinctive shape of Oarjemus Stubbá rises on the horizon. After days of darkness, I see colours: the soft pink pastels of the sky against the cooler tones of the land. The lack of colour over the past days has made me appreciate them even more. My eyes seem more sensitive to the light.

I barely have time to set up the camera and make a couple of exposures before the fog returns, embracing the landscape once more.

As darkness falls, I make a track for two kilometers to give me a good start tomorrow. It’s time to begin the slow journey back home.

~

December 18, 2025

I break camp at 6 a.m., long before dawn, and begin skiing in the track I made the day before. Slowly, day breaks, and the sky takes on a muted shade of red. I stop to take out the camera, but the thin mist that made the moment magical vanishes as quickly as it appeared. Instead, I begin to freeze, my clothes soaked with sweat after pulling the sled.

In the soft light of dawn, my now week-old track is barely visible after the snowfall. Being able to follow it makes the journey much easier. In several places, the inhabitants of the taiga have left their marks in mine. A hare has followed it for over a kilometer, its prints helping me trace the track as the light grows more diffused. Further on, a moose has followed the track, but unlike the hare, it has broken through all the way into the unfrozen marsh below.

By eleven, I have skied five kilometers. In a few hours it will be dark again, and snowfall is expected. I decide to make camp in good time.

I find a suitable spot on a small island in the marshland — a place accessible only in winter, when the ground is frozen. Altai spruce, birch, and an old pine become my neighbors, offering some shelter from the wind.

I pack the snow to create a solid base for the tent. While it freezes, I ski around and explore the surroundings. A few willow tits pass by. A capercaillie lifts from its shelter in the snow.

Just before darkness falls, I crawl into the tent. Many hours remain until dawn. I light the stove to dry my clothes and prepare dinner. Outside, snow falls steadily. I fall asleep to the gentle whisper of the wind through the treetops.

~

December 19, 2025

I wake early and light the stove to dry the moisture from the inner tent. Then I put a pot of snow on to prepare hot water for the thermos.

I head out. It is clear in the southeast, while clouds approach from the west. I ski out onto the marsh. Progress is slow — another ten centimeters of dense snow fell overnight. I work with the camera. The soft light is beautiful.

Soon, fog rolls in, and the landscape changes character. I decide to prepare a track for the following day. I leave my backpack and ski as lightly as I can across the wide-open marsh. Still, it is slow. A thin layer of ice forms under the skis, making progress even more difficult. When I reach a small, partially open stream, I turn and follow my track back to camp.

In the fog, solitary snow-covered trees emerge one after the other. There is something surreal about skiing through this landscape — it reminds me of the terrain higher up in the mountains. Silence is total — I hear only my own heartbeat.

~

December 20, 2025

I break camp early to get moving. During the night, another five centimeters of snow have fallen. The light is subdued, but after following yesterday’s track for a while, the sky clears, and a faint light filters down through the fog.

The light shifts constantly, though without dramatic changes. Midwinter’s palette is restrained — yet deeply beautiful.

Hoping to find a subject in this light, I struggle forward, but the sled slows me down. A solitary, snow-covered pine emerges through the fog some distance away. I hurry as best I can. As I get closer, I leave the sled and ski onward to find a composition. The light is still there. I set up the camera and tripod quickly, managing a few exposures before the magic fades.

I continue working with the camera for another hour or so, then resume my journey back home. Once yesterday’s track ends, progress slows to less than a kilometer per hour. The landscape feels endless.

This slow journey stands in stark contrast to modern society, where everything moves faster and faster. As so many times before during this project, I am transported back in time. I glimpse what life must once have been like — how harsh it was, and how crucial snow conditions were in winter for the people who called this place their home. They are gone now, yet when I close my eyes, I can still feel their presence.

Eventually, I reach the car, tired but with a smile on my frost-covered face. I will carry the lessons of the last ten days with me. It is time to go home for Christmas — warmth, food, and rest — yet a part of me remains in the soft midwinter light, in the timeless landscape that has given me new perspectives on life.