The road was dusty and worryingly full of potholes. The van smelled of dry sand, and I thought it was coming through the air vents, but it turned out that the back door had come slightly ajar from bouncing over the frost-heaved potholes. The entire rear of the van was coated in a fine layer of dust. Well, I’d have time to clean it later. Right now, I wanted to get into the wilderness.

I spent nearly a week along the shores of Lake Inari and in Nellim, on small roads that sometimes just ended abruptly. My phone pinged, receiving a message that read, "Welcome to Russia." My phone and internet service cut out completely. I backtracked a few kilometers off those small roads, returning to where I was sure of whose land I was on and how to get out of there.

The past week has been stiflingly hot. Still, I wanted to go hiking—somewhere in the peace of the wilderness, even onto trackless open plains. To just move, use my muscles to propel myself forward, and carry everything I needed to live on my back.

The dusty, pothole-ridden road ended at a gate at the base of a hill. "Reindeer, close the gate." The road was dotted with large stones lifted by the spring streams. I wondered if I should have found room for a spare tire after all. The Tsarmitunturi wilderness would begin at the end of this rocky road, so I carried on with intact tires all the way to the edge of the wilderness.

During the day, the temperature rose well above thirty degrees. Hiking in such heat wouldn’t have been pleasant, or even smart. I took a long nap and drank a large mug of coffee in the early evening. I’ve stayed up for the fells before.

I started my hike at an oddly precise moment—exactly at midnight. That was the last time I looked at a clock until I returned to the van. From then on, I could live according to the sunlight.

I’ve never been alone in the wilderness before, and I’m not going to lie—it was a bit nerve-wracking at first. What if I get lost? What if something happens, and I can’t even call for help with no signal out here? But I quickly let go of those worries. Some primal, country or forest sense took over, and I concluded that I would absolutely be fine. After all, our species has lived, even thrived, in similar conditions for thousands of years. My thoughts wandered far down that path.

One woman can certainly manage a few nights alone in the wilderness.

The night was breathtakingly beautiful. I stood there, speechless, by the wild, splashing streams, beside the silvered branches of a centuries-old fallen pine, captivated by the song of the wilderness birds tuning their melodies in the golden glow of the northern summer night.

I found my campsite by a lake so clear that I could see tree trunks submerged meters away from the shore. I took a sip of its clarity from my kuksa (a traditional Nordic wooden cup), not because I was particularly thirsty. Countless wilderness streams flow under a traveler's feet, calling with their murmuring to quench even the slightest thirst. Rather, I drank to celebrate the end of the night and the discovery of a good place to stay.

I slept as long into the day as I could, but the oppressive heat pulled me out of the tent's comfort sooner than I would have liked. After a leisurely breakfast, I moved my sleeping spot into the shade of a pine, grabbed a book, and continued dozing. The journey would continue only when the sun finally relented, at least a little, in the evening’s cool.

The sun circled the lake, and I moved my resting spot along with the retreating shadows of the trees. Persistent horseflies ruined an otherwise relaxing siesta atmosphere. I tried to wrap myself in a sheet and cap to escape them. Papu, ever resourceful, curled up under my shirt and dozed off in the nearest shade, also worn out by the heat. The cool lake water provided both of us a brief respite from the flies and the scorching sun.

The time didn’t matter, but I started packing up my camp as the sun began to brush the peaks of the hills across the lake. Its intensity had waned slightly. Even the slightest coolness of the night refreshed my spirit, and the excitement of climbing into the fells quickened my packing.

I walked through knee-high tufts of cottongrass, crossed several sweetly babbling streams, and the dry lichen crunched under my boots in the old pine forests. Birds of many species came to inspect the nearby branches, curious to see who was traveling through their land. I wondered if all forests would look this idyllic if we never touched them. Probably.

The streams served as good markers along the way. From the sound of their gurgling, I knew from a distance that I was heading in the right direction. Most were easy to cross, even Papu managed to wade through them on his own. Once, I encountered a deeper channel and, in the heat, briefly considered swimming across. But I remembered my friend’s advice—a seasoned wilderness woman—"Don’t take unnecessary risks, especially when crossing rivers." Regrettably, I had to detour a few kilometers to find a shallower spot and ended up wading through boggy patches, but my friend was right. Avoiding unnecessary risks, especially when traveling alone, is always the wiser choice.

I ascended the fell slowly, one step at a time. There was no need to hurry—after all, the sun shines around the clock.

The day's heat lingered over the distant hilltops as a blue haze amidst all the golden light. A Siberian jay came to check out my snacks, but apparently, the wilderness offers it plenty, as my offerings weren’t of interest.

I reached the summit, by my loose estimation, around three in the morning. The sun's golden glow was at its deepest, and so was the mosquitoes' affection for nighttime wanderers. I could only lie down on the fell's mossy ground for a moment before I had to jump up, waving my arms in a futile attempt to fend them off.

At the summit, I realized the essence of the wilderness—and at the same time, the gap in my own lack of planning. Where should I go now? What should I do next? The whole area was open to me, with no trail markers or predetermined destinations. So, what then?

I explored several streamsides and little ponds beyond the fells, hoping to find a spot for the night. But the long-lasting heat had shrunk them smaller than what was marked on the map, making them unsuitable as campsites. I knew the next day would be spent mostly resting and cooling myself down, and I didn’t want to spend it in a boggy lowland, sharing a plot with the kings of the marsh—the mosquitoes. They would win that game, no doubt.

The night was well underway, but sleep didn’t come. I wandered to the far side of the fells and returned through a deep ravine, somewhat aimlessly zigzagging. Still, no perfect campsite appeared. I found myself longing for the beautiful wilderness lake from the night before, with its natural sandy beach and the cool relief of the water. Of course! Why not just return to the same spot? It didn’t make much sense, really—I had spent the entire night hiking through the fells with a full pack, only to set up camp in the same place again. But when you’re alone, decision-making is pretty straightforward.

I arrived back at the lake in the early morning, took a refreshing dip in its familiar, cool waters, and, feeling clean, wrapped myself up for sleep. Back in the same spot as before, but now richer with the experience of the fells and the night’s wandering.

The day passed once again in a dance of dodging the sun and horseflies. While waiting for sleep, I read an entire book from cover to cover and spent time watching loon chicks learning to fly. By the evening, the noisy splashing on the water had transformed into graceful circling in the air. I felt incredibly fortunate to have the time and opportunity to witness birds learning to fly.

I waited for the sun to shift to the far side of the lake, casting shadows over the familiar fell, before packing my life back into my backpack and setting off again. There's something primitively satisfying about fitting everything you need into 65 liters and carrying it wherever your nose points. I could probably manage with even less, but for the good mood that chocolate and a good book bring, I’m happy to carry a slightly heavier load and slow my pace. I come to the wilderness to enjoy it, not to rush through it.

The sun was already on the rise when I returned to the van, which had faithfully waited where I left it. A small cry of joy might have escaped my lips when I saw it—not because I hadn’t enjoyed the wilderness, but because returning home is always a pleasure. And right now, Bertta is my home.

When you hike alone, you have plenty of time to think. I’ve been told that I think too much, and that it’s not always a good thing. Maybe that’s true, but when thoughts have enough space and time, they eventually run out. That’s one of the reasons I often venture out alone. I find peace from my thoughts when I let them come and go at their own pace. Sometimes there are many, sometimes fewer. They might offer peace after a moment of meditation, or they might require a three-night journey into the wilderness. But, as always, I found peace—from my thoughts and from many other things too.