Utsjoki captivated me. I’ve been there before, but this was my first time in the summer. Summer in the far north is just beginning. The leaves on the trees are small and a delicate light green. The roadside plants have just emerged from the ground, all fresh and fragile.

In Utsjoki, I camped by a small stream, the one I wrote about earlier. After leaving there, the road took me all the way to Nuorgam, the northernmost village in Finland, where I stopped at the same shore as I had during last autumn’s trip. I cooled off in the nearly 30°C heat by plunging into the icy waters of the Teno River. The mountains on the Norwegian side still had snow on their peaks, sending their frosty touch into the border river.

From Nuorgam, I soon returned to the village of Utsjoki. Along the way, I stopped at the village house, Giida, and bought a road permit for the route leading to Ailigas Fell. The permit fees help keep the road open and in good condition. The permit only cost €5 and is valid for the whole year. The traveler behind me at the register was just as surprised by the low price.

Ailigas rises toward the horizon just behind the village of Utsjoki, shaping the village’s landscape with its distinct silhouette. Bertta, the van, made it up the steep gravel road without complaint. It was raining, and the wind was fierce. There was no trace of the earlier heatwave. It’s no wonder they say the weather changes quickly in the fells.

I waited comfortably, reading a book in the warmth of the van, while the rain and wind calmed down. It took quite a while, but as evening approached, the other visitors in the parking lot disappeared, leaving me alone in the fell. By ten in the evening, the weather seemed to have settled. I packed up my camera gear and stepped out into the midnight sun.

At the base of the fell, Utsjoki was blanketed in fog, moving quietly and ghost-like over the few houses in the village. There wasn’t a single sound. Even the wind had completely stilled, amplifying the profound silence.

On the other side of the village, Norway’s peaks rose white above the lush Finnish greenery. The last rain clouds seemed to still be lashing the other side of the border, but they no longer obscured the view.

I walked with Papu through the night across the vast, open fell. In the shaded areas, there was still plenty of snow, melting into streams that trickled down through the rocky terrain. The brightness of the midnight sun, even without the sun directly in view, is beautiful. It’s as if the colors deepen as evening turns to night. There’s something magical and almost tangible about the light of the night.

I couldn’t bring myself to leave this landscape and go to sleep. I sat for long stretches in different spots on stones that have been here for centuries, if not thousands of years, standing out from the rocky field as if inviting me to admire the view from their vantage point. I watched the clouds drift across the horizon, thinking about how, for them or the birds flying overhead, the border between two countries is completely irrelevant. They can cross it hundreds of times in a day, unaware of our restrictions, checkpoints, and methods of keeping track of who comes and goes.

On my journey north from Inari, I bought a book from the Sámi Museum Siida called Vastatuuleen (“Against the Wind”), which delves into the lived history of the Sámi people and offers a window into the Sámi mindset. I quickly realized how little I know about the subject—almost nothing, really. I marveled at my lack of knowledge, especially about how long the Sámi have roamed these landscapes, herding reindeer. The pastures stretching all the way to the Arctic Ocean allowed them to follow the natural cycle of the seasons, keeping the grazing lands lush and sustainable. After the borders between nations closed, many things became more complicated, and over time, the Sámi have lost a large part of their grazing lands. As a result, the traditional, nature-based livelihood is now at risk. I haven’t been able to put the book down since I bought it. It expands my understanding and breaks down my preconceived notions.

Like the birds and clouds, people once moved freely here, following nature’s rhythms, without concern for the borders and restrictions drawn on a map.

In the morning, I woke up around six, with the wind rocking my van and rattling its sides. The sun was already shining brightly from a clear sky, hinting at another hot day. The wind carried a typical fell-like restlessness, but otherwise, the weather was beautiful and summery. I brewed some coffee and took a windy walk up to the summit. Papu stretched his legs slowly, still recovering from the long hike we had the night before.

I packed Bertta for the road and slowly made my way down the fell. The road permit safely stored in the van, I know I’ll be back here again later this year.