“The ski poles swished, and the skis sang the joy of life, while strange lights drew shooting stars across the landscape of my soul, illuminating even its darkest corners.”
A.E. Järvinen

The past few weeks, the sun has been shining. Like it’s the last day, I feel like writing. Its light is brighter than bright. Almost blinding. It’s surprising how well a person can adapt to the darkness and lack of light in winter. When light and its brightness are reintroduced, it feels like something entirely new. Humans are adaptable creatures.

It wasn’t long ago that the kaamos ended, about a month ago. In just over a month, there will be more daylight here in the north than in the south. If someone describes the north and Lapland as a dark place, fears the kaamos, and claims that’s the reason they wouldn’t want to live here, they’ve got it all wrong. There is light—it changes form with the seasons, but it’s always there.

The river's ice is finally solid. It has been for a while, as the snow-covered surface bears the tracks of snowmobiles. After seeing those, I finally feel confident enough to explore the ice beyond just a step away from the shoreline, though still ready to leap into the snowy bank at the slightest crack.

I've been cautious for good reason; the ice cover on a flowing river is never overly reliable. Beneath its calm, thick blanket of snow, the ice can be dangerously thin in places. Small streams flowing from the marshes into the river persist even during the coldest temperatures, keeping the ice deceptively weak, even after the hardest freezes.

After watching the snowmobiles for the third week and being reassured that none of them had plunged into a black hole of open water peeking through the snow, I decided to explore the new landscape created by the ice. A change in perspective makes even familiar surroundings look and feel different. I packed my camera and some snacks into my cold-stiffened leather backpack. I grabbed the old wooden poles and skis, which had been waiting by the cabin wall for use after a bit of repair.

The steps leading down to the shore have disappeared beneath nearly a meter of snow. But going down is always possible. With a few steps and good balance, you can slide down to the shore in a snowboarder’s style, even without a board. I put on my skis on the path I've packed down during my daily walks by the shore. The sun shines brightly from behind the dark silhouette of the forest on the opposite bank, full of the fresh energy of the new year.

The skis glide smoothly over the snow, hardened by the snowmobiles. The minor discomforts of poles that are a bit too long or a wool sweater that’s slightly too warm and causes a light sweat are quickly forgotten as I silently glide across the bright snow. The snowmobilers are spending their afternoon in the warmth of their cabins, wherever they may be. It's nice that they’re leaving space for a skier who cherishes solitude, allowing me to walk in silence.

There’s no rush. I realize I haven’t seen a single person today. And I doubt I will.

Papu collected frost on its fur but didn’t seem cold. It ran lightly across the snow hardened by snowmobiles, ears flapping in the northern wind. If it met itself a year ago, it probably wouldn’t recognize who it’s become. As a city dog, it barely bothered to trudge around the block, but now it runs through deep snow for kilometers. Its thick coat has gained a healthy shine and an extra warm layer against the fell winds. Its eyes are as bright as a puppy’s.

I think the same applies to me. If I met myself a year ago, I wouldn’t recognize who I’ve become. And I probably wouldn’t want to. They say that if you look at yourself a year ago and aren’t embarrassed or ashamed by what you see, you haven’t grown enough. At least I’ve grown and learned.

Now and then, I still find it amusing to think that I actually live here. I’m not on vacation, I’m not visiting anyone. This river, along which my home sits. This village, with its few houses passing by in the corner of my eye, is truly my home village. Its two hundred or so residents are my neighbors. I wonder how long this thought will continue to remind me. Perhaps it will never disappear. After all, it’s good to remember where you came from and where your own choices have taken you. You can pat yourself on the back for making the right choices and be thankful for everything that made it possible.

The snowmobile tracks continue far to the north. It would be fun to ski and see how far they go. Has someone really driven all the way to Muonio, maybe even to Käsivarsi? Maybe someday. Today, I turned my skis back toward home shortly after the overly cheerful sun dipped below the horizon on the Swedish side and handed over the sky to the familiar winter hues of blue and purple, which painted the sky with broad brushstrokes.

I had to look twice into the forest before I found my cabin. It blends wonderfully into the darkness of the trees and doesn’t reveal my location to those traveling on the ice.

From the snowmobile trail that cuts through the center of the river, almost every riverside house has its own ski track branching off—mine included. I handed my light ski trail back to the snowmobilers' runway—though I didn’t see or hear a single one during my trip—and turned my skis toward the deep snow and the warm cabin waiting beyond it.

I can’t help but repeat myself, but I’m so happy to live here.