Nature teaches us not to become too attached. Everything is in a constant state of change. Change is the only certainty, especially in the ever-shifting landscape of the north, where the cycle of eight seasons never stops for a moment.

The river has finally shed its icy shackles. At the same time, I had to let go of one of my most important winter pathways. I walked on the ice almost every day, cut across to the forest on the opposite bank, followed the tracks of winter animals, rode a snowmobile for the first time in my life, and enjoyed half-day ski trips back and forth in the crisp cold air. Now the river is wild again, out of my reach.

Letting go isn’t easy, but it opens up new possibilities. When you release something, it makes room for the new. I’m still learning this myself, but I have the best teacher: nature. It doesn’t ask questions or wait; it’s raw in that regard. There’s no room for choice. You have to learn, move forward, embrace new times, and let go of the past.

The prolonged rain foretold the river's liberation, but the ice held on surprisingly long. The warm rain drummed on the cabin roof and eroded the surface of the ice, but it remained unmoved for another week.

Then, things started to change. The swiftest currents and small streams gave way first. The rapids bubbled, and floodwaters rose along the roads—this year, quite moderate, but suddenly there was water everywhere. Gradually, the power of the currents also wore down the ice on the main route. The first to melt was the bank on my side, where a strong river flowed from the marsh. The sun hasn’t been seen much in recent weeks, so its power didn’t play a significant role in this spectacle.

I couldn't wait for the ice to melt, so I drove a bit north over the weekend, upstream along the river to see how the swift rapids were biting into the surface of the ice. I stopped by a small rapid—right in the middle of nowhere, somewhere before Muonio.

It was a small stream, but the sound it made was anything but small. I spent the morning amidst its roaring waters, breathing deeply the slightly icy, moist air. I sat on the slippery river stones and lost myself in the rapids' whirlpools. The morning passed, and the afternoon arrived. I didn’t notice. As often before, I forgot the passage of time and the outside world. There was only one existing moment. The world’s easiest meditation.

Over the weekend, the ice on my shore finally gave way. The sun joined forces and sped up the melting of the ice. Winter finally surrendered to the power of spring. The water rose quickly, covering the plants on the bank. The drifting ice floes crash—well, more accurately, they hiss as they collide with each other. The soundscape is unfamiliar to me, yet calming. The flow of the water, the gentle whisper of the ice, and occasionally a big splash as larger floes crush the smaller ones beneath them.

The river has felt like a living creature in recent days, wriggling free from the ice. At my shore, the flow is gentle and light, but it now runs more swiftly than before. Although the channel is wide, the ice floes accumulate in small bends and shallow areas until a larger floe or a momentary increase in flow pushes them onward again. I stood for a moment on the riverbank with my camera. Unnoticed, the water rose and soaked my shoes, even though just a moment before, I had been standing on dry ground. This force cannot be stopped.

The numerous birds that suddenly appeared on the shore are holding their own concert day and night. They take a momentary break from their spring festivities, sitting on a drifting ice floe, gliding downstream with it, and then flying back, calling out. They dive underneath and weave through the currents of the ice, as if they’re having fun with the ice.

I have spent hours each morning and evening watching the endless march of the ice southward. Where are they going? I consider marking one of the ice floes and driving south to see. Would it make it there, or would it melt before drifting into the sea? Perhaps I’ll leave it as one of the mysteries of the north.

With a touch of melancholy, I let go of winter and its wonders. Of the river’s ice and the opportunities it offers. But I know that a new time is coming. Warm evenings by the open, calm river. Evening swims in the chilly water, which likely will never warm due to the current. The trail of wooden fishing boats on summer nights, leaving behind the scent of tar and the splash of oars.

And best of all, the ice will return. Next winter. And I will be here waiting for it.