Last weekend was spent trekking through deep snow in Pyhä-Luosto National Park in Eastern Lapland with my friend and namesake, Sanna. I first met Sanna last fall on the other side of a wilderness river crossing in Savukoski. After walking a few kilometers in Itäkaira, at the river crossing point, there stood a fair-haired woman in a blue anorak on the opposite shore, watching me as I carefully crossed the river. I’ve written about that adventure before, and you can read about it here.

Do you know that feeling when you meet someone for the first time, but it feels like you've known them forever? That’s how I felt with my namesake. We became friends instantly.

We met at the base of Luostotunturi in the parking lot, where we packed the gear we needed for one night into the sled and backpack. From the car’s trunk, we pulled out sliding snowshoes, which allow for light and comfortable movement, even in deeper snow. We had reserved the Yrjölä reservation cabin for the night. The ski distance from the parking lot was just over six kilometers, but it went by so easily that we ended up making a few extra loops through the deep snow, thanks to the great snowshoes. The sun peeked through the trees for the first time this year. We imagined it warming our pale cheeks in the midst of the snow-covered trees. The snow rustled beneath our feet. The pines creaked from the cold and their age. Otherwise, the silence was seamless.

We reached the yellow Yrjölä cabin early in the afternoon. For a moment, the old city-dweller's thought of a long evening with nothing to do crossed my mind. But as I fumbled with the frost-covered lock with my cold fingers and stepped into the cabin, the thought quickly vanished. The cabin was completely frozen. The windows were frosted over, making them opaque, and there was no sign of the fell view that Sanna had promised. The seasoned adventurers, both named Sanna, got straight to work: gathering and chopping wood, lighting the cabin’s stove, breaking the ice on the nearby stream, and bringing water inside. Occasionally, we went outside to warm up—yes, to warm up outside. We estimated that the temperature inside the cabin was at least five degrees colder than outside, where the January weather was perfect with a light frost. As I emptied the ashes from the stove, the metal ash shovel froze to my hand.

In the evening, after seven hours of heating the cabin and doing a few extra kilometers of skiing while we waited, the cabin finally started to feel warm. Warm enough that I could take off one of the three wool sweaters I had been wearing until then. Sanna kept her promise about the view of the fells from the cabin window. The windows didn’t thaw, but Sanna scraped a landscape-sized hole in the frost with a metal kitchen spatula, just like using an ice scraper on a car. Yep, Sanna is a funny person.

The cabin also has a sauna, which opens with the same key as the cabin through a creaky door with a moose antler handle. This time, though, so much effort and firewood were spent just heating the cabin that the sauna remained untouched, waiting for another visit. However, I’ve heard rumors of its gentle steam and soothing warmth. I’ll definitely have to ski back to Yrjölä’s sauna again later this winter.

In winter, no paths or ski trails lead to the cabin. A snowmobile route passes nearby, but during the off-season, the light layer of snow on its surface told us it hadn’t been used for several days. The familiar, bright, and clear starry sky spread out over the silent cabin as darkness fell. Only the occasional dim sparks shooting from the chimney competed with the stars for light. Nature sighed at the end of the day. Somewhere, a snow-weary spruce dropped its snowy cap into the drift with a soft thump.

The tranquility of nature is indescribably soothing.

The day dawned slowly, in typical cabin style. The fire, rekindled in the stove during the early morning, had thoroughly warmed the sleepers in the loft, and upon waking, the sleeping bag, not to mention the merino wool base layer, was entirely unnecessary. You could tiptoe downstairs barefoot, just like at home.

Photo by: Sanna Juutilainen

There’s no rush, no need to check the time. Time is measured by the slowly increasing light outside, behind the windows that are now almost free of frost.

Packing up and cleaning the cabin take their own time. Buckets of water, pulled from the icy stream with the help of an axe, are emptied. The wooden floor, scratched by the many boots and hiking shoes that have passed through, is carefully swept to make it suitable for the next guests' wool socks. The spent candles from the evening are replaced with new ones, if we brought any—often, we do. It’s heartwarming to think of the moments of rest and peace awaiting the next travelers.

The still-cold door is closed, and the key is carefully tucked away in my pocket, waiting for the return trip to the nature center. The skis are strapped on, the sled is packed full again, and the backpack is tightened snugly on my back.

The journey continues under the watchful gaze of the fells, beneath snow-covered trees, across the pristine aapa bog, where ancient pines stretch their still branches like fingers toward the sun’s rays. The skis gently glide over the powdery snow. Cheerful and relaxed conversation, along with the sound of skis, makes the journey pass more quickly under the sunlight.

Thank you, my dear friend Sanna, for the adventure, for the warm words, the cleansing bursts of laughter, and for sharing the same worldview, values, and joy for life. Thank you, Pyhä-Luosto National Park and the wonderful nature.

And thank you for reading my adventure story.🤗

♥: Sanna