The cold morning sun of Pallas Fell

On Sunday morning, I turned the car out of my yard at half past six towards Muonio, towards the Pallas Fells. The drive from my home takes about an hour, so the pitch-black morning would brighten just right at the foot of the fell. That was the plan.

The snow cover has diminished and has stubbornly built up again several times over the past weeks. In my yard, there are only a few centimeters of snow, but it apparently hasn't had a chance to melt in the fells, where it has accumulated to nearly thirty centimeters. As I approach the Pallas Fells, the snowy summits rise on the horizon from afar behind the dark, bare forest.

The parking lot was empty, the windows of Pallashotelli were dark, and the landscape was eerily cold and blue when I arrived at the foot of the fell. While I enjoy shared moments, stories, and connections with other hikers, I find a different experience when I can immerse myself in the fell experience alone. I usually choose times for my nature moments when I know I can relish all the beauty primarily by myself, so an empty, dark parking lot was a pleasure to the eye.

This time, however, I acted against my principle of often saying that it doesn't matter where you're going, but rather the journey itself. The sun was about to rise on the other side of the fell, so I nearly ran up the slope to reach the summit with the first rays of light. In my mind spun a Sámi story I had read, where a good and evil shaman race to the top of the fell after the polar night to claim the first rays of the sun for themselves, thus determining the brightness or darkness of the following year. This time, in the race for the rays of light, there was only me and Papu, who was rapidly transforming into a mountain dog, his little paws scurrying up the snowy slope with surprising speed.

I've learned that the weather in the fells can change quickly, unpredictably, and uncontrollably. I learned during the summer that even in July, it can be cold at the top of the fell, and woolen clothes are not at all exaggerated, even if the temperature at the ground level is around twenty degrees. Still, I forget this in my excitement, just like now. A few meters before the summit, the wind sweeping over the fell intensified to the point where I had to hold my hat with both hands. I climbed to the top, leaning forward against the force of the wind. Once at the summit, I could barely stand still long enough to take a few photos of the sunrise. The wind was immense. It had nearly blown the summit clear of snow. The snowflakes rising from my footsteps vanished at an incredible speed on the other side of the fell, darting toward the surface of the lake below.

The landscape was breathtakingly beautiful yet wild.

In my thoughts, I had hoped to enjoy a cup of coffee and a peaceful morning at the summit with the rising sun, but the weather on the fell had other plans for me. I also had to change my route, which was originally supposed to continue along the elongated summit before looping around to the other side. Papu was in distress, sitting next to the largest rock he could find at the top, seemingly fearing he would soon be a follower of the flying snowflakes on their way to the cold lake surface below.

My numb fingers didn't dig out a coffee cup and blanket from my backpack; instead, they quickly fumbled to remove the lens cap from the camera, snapping a few photos with trembling hands in the chilling wind.

The wind calmed to a tolerable level as I walked back, settling into a familiar fell breeze as the summit disappeared behind me, bathed in golden sunlight. The shadowed spots between the fells take on an incredible array of hues in even the faintest rays of light.

Between two layers lies a reindeer enclosure, where a herd of reindeer collected from the fell has been gathered. Their jingling bells echoed in the wind as it turned favorably towards the passerby.

As I circled the enclosure and arrived at the gate, two children wrapped in thick reindeer fur hats rode in on a snowmobile with their father. We reached the gate at the same time, and the children admired Papu and its thick, fluttering coat in the wind. When asked, the man explained that the reindeer were awaiting the next day's sorting, during which their condition would be checked, the ones for slaughter selected, and this year's calves marked. The short-spoken reindeer herder and his furry-hatted children soon disappeared into the reindeer herd, so I continued my journey down the fell, with a coffee break in mind.

In the valley between two fells stands a cabin, a reindeer shelter, where the sturdy log frame provided some respite from the biting wind. I sat for a moment with a cup of coffee, enjoying the small warmth that I imagined the sun was granting to my cheeks. As the thermos bottle emptied, I heard the sound of a snowmobile approaching. The reindeer herder arrived with his children, explaining that they had come to the reindeer cabin for a moment to seek shelter from the cold. I was not the only one being tested by the fell wind.

Upon returning to the parking lot, the sun had already turned back toward the horizon's edge. The landscape hardly changed from the glowing shades of reddish gold at sunrise until the setting sun painted the same colors over it.

The light of the winter sun is brief but impossibly beautiful.

Wishing you light and warmth in your winter days from these fells.☀️

♥: Sanna