It's Saturday, and the clock reads three. The house is dirty, the dog smells, and it needs a wash. The work for the following week awaits its organizer, and the late-night revelry from the previous evening’s Kekri celebrations calls for a good night's sleep or at least a long afternoon nap and a peaceful evening on the couch. But my mind longs for elsewhere. On the road, to let off some steam, just to get away. Even for a little while. I close my eyes to the other responsibilities, grab the backpack that has been half-packed for a week from the corner, open my phone to check the map, and tap the Pulju wilderness as my destination. It happened to catch my eye first; it’s just a couple of hours' drive—it's quite close. It’s well known that the destination doesn’t matter much. As long as I can go.

The weather is frankly terrible. I imagined I would be able to take some photos. Inspiration often strikes while on the road, somewhere other than in my own backyard. The drizzling rain and strong wind aren’t very enticing for photography, but I throw the camera bag in the back of the van anyway. You never know. The thought of the candles and a good book packed inside is more appealing (by the way, it’s Suon villi laulu—very good!). I haven’t spent much time in the van since summer. It’s nice to immerse myself in the cozy walls of my van home on the dark October evenings.

I drive past Levi, and the road turns into a small, bumpy dirt road after the resort. Well, these are familiar feelings from summer adventures. The suspension of the van is surprisingly good. The windshield wipers throw the mud accumulating from the wilderness back roads to the side as much as they can. The view is misty, and I’m not sure if it’s because of the dirty windshield or the enveloping fog. After September’s beautiful autumn glow, the stormy winds of one day dropped all the leaves from the trees and wiped the golden color from the landscape. Now, the wilderness opening up in the cold rain and fog is anything but beautiful.

I still see it as beautiful, even if it doesn’t want to be.

The map leads to the base of Puljutunturi. There is no massive parking lot, or signs like near national parks or nature trails. In fact, there is nothing at all. Barely a small pull-off where I wouldn’t want to spend the night, even though no one has come along the wilderness road. I drive a little further and find what looks like a turnaround for a plow truck or the beginning of an old forest road. I turn the van around there, check that the bed is approximately level (I noticed in summer how uncomfortable it is to sleep if it tilts one way or the other), and turn off the engine. A deep silence—the silence of the wilderness—takes over everything.

I habitually start unpacking my things, open the sleeping bag, put the food items in their places, and make a bed for Papu in the back of the van. In the same spot as in summer. He immediately lies down there comfortably. The clock is barely past midday.

What to do next?

Boredom is a wonderful feeling. Nowadays, we try so hard—completely unnecessarily—to avoid it. Boredom is a source of creativity. Creativity requires empty space and time. Often a lot of time. A significant part of my well-being comes from having space and time. I feel good when there is also some boredom in between. When time passes slowly, dragging on. When it feels uncomfortable to just be with oneself and one’s thoughts.

That’s when something magical often happens. Thoughts take flight. Like when you were a child, and there was nothing to do, the best games and ideas were born. The thoughts and ideas of that child have not vanished within us. They are there, waiting for space and time. Boredom is the key to that world.

I walked slowly back and forth along the wilderness road. I wasn’t going anywhere; I was just moving myself so I wouldn’t have to sit still. To be honest, I didn’t feel like going anywhere. Puljutunturi rose beside me; I knew it was there, but I couldn’t see it through the fog. I threw the thought into the air of whether I might go for an evening walk there. The thought dissipated and disappeared with the wind. The fog fell, slowly soaking my hair and my too-thin sneakers. The low, dark trees along the road swayed against the pale gray sky like in a shadow theater.

I walked along the edge of the forest toward the fell, even though I knew I wouldn’t reach it today. The dark, wet forest was anything but inviting, but there was something mysterious about it. I knew I was the only person here. It sparked my imagination and inspiration. I rushed to grab the camera from the car.

I set it up, somewhat aimlessly, because the idea is more important than the execution, and I usually become impatient with everything that stands in the way of my idea.

I don’t really even know what I’m doing. I’m just playing. I’m experimenting and failing. Sometimes it’s fun, most of the time it’s frustrating. Sometimes I accomplish nothing, and sometimes I surprise myself with what inspiration brings. What emerges from within when you give it a chance. It’s a fascinating thought that often I don’t even know what it is.

At some point, I notice that my turquoise sneakers stand out too much against the dark forest in the photos. I take them and my socks off. The ground is wet and painfully cold. My vision involved vague running through the forest, now without shoes. Cold leaves stick to my feet; I barely feel anything. I try to capture a feeling, not so much the landscape. I want to tell a story, not facts or numbers. That can only happen when there is boredom. When there is time and space. When the rest of the world is forgotten.

The wilderness is the perfect place for that.

I am tired, soaking wet, and numb, barefoot in the darkening forest of the wilderness on the threshold of night. None of that matters; I feel truly alive. I don’t even know why. I didn’t pay much attention to what I accomplished or whether any of the photos were what I was looking for. What felt most important was that I got to be here. I got to express myself. It’s like a hunger that needs to be satisfied; otherwise, nothing else in life matters.

I return to the car and lift Papu onto his bed. It’s also wet, but he looks content nonetheless. I light the candles I brought with me and close the door to the October wilderness behind me. The wilderness wind stays humming in the curves of the metal shell, whistling its lonely melodies in the otherwise quiet evening. I burrow into the depths of my sleeping bag and open a book. Now I can immerse myself in its world, having first taken a moment to immerse myself in my own.