Last week has been incredibly cold. The temperatures have dropped below thirty degrees almost every day, and in the mornings, it’s closer to forty degrees. Yet somehow, it feels nice. Or comforting.

Admittedly, putting on all those layers can be frustrating at times, but the cold is still beautiful. It makes the landscape and atmosphere feel special. Everything is still and frozen. It’s completely quiet. The only sounds in the forest are the creaking of the trees and the crunch of my felt slippers against the sparkling snow.

Skiing in -33 Degrees Celsius (-27 Degrees Fahrenheit)

The cold seeps in deep. The ventilation vent in the bathroom starts to freeze over, creating a blanket of snow in the chilly weather.The cold seeps in deep.

In -30 degrees Celsius (-22 degrees Fahrenheit), every other car refuses to start. I went to help a friend whose car wouldn’t turn over.

Last weekend, I went to Lommoltunturi with my snowshoes. I had packed my overnight gear, planning to spend the night at the Mustakero wilderness hut. The temperature was -28 degrees Celsius (-18 degrees Fahrenheit), and everything was so beautiful that it took my breath away. However, halfway through, I received a notification about a work shift for the next morning, so I had to turn the trip into a day hike. It didn’t bother me, though; I ended up skiing for fun with a full backpack and camera gear on top of Lommoltunturi.

Descending the fell with a backpack while using snowshoes—which are definitely not designed for downhill travel—was quite a circus. I found myself giggling on the slopes as I dug myself out of a meter of snow for the tenth time. It was a fun adventure!

I cannot recommend skiing down a fell with backcountry skiis in a meter of powder snow.

When I got home, I left my backpack unpacked. I plan to continue the same trip next weekend, aiming to reach the hut. I’ll write a separate post about it once I complete the journey as intended.

I've been working as a guide now and then. I was a bit skeptical about whether I would enjoy it, considering I'm quite introverted and love peace. The tourism industry hasn’t really interested me much; I value nature for itself more than as a money-making destination. However, the job has turned out to be really enjoyable. The people I work with are wonderful, and the work itself is varied, very active, and physical, yet still enjoyable. I can come home from an evening northern lights excursion at two in the morning feeling as bright as a lark. Or return from a day-long snowmobiling trip (still not my favorite, but it’s not terrible) feeling refreshed and full of life.

Working seasonal jobs is a bit strange for me, which makes it nice to do it occasionally. But I still marvel at the fact that I can spend a day sharing everything I know about nature with curious visitors, explaining Finland's magnificent natural phenomena and destinations, sitting by a campfire, or admiring the northern lights—and getting paid for all of it.

Those who have followed my stories for a while know that I have been trying to find a suitable house to buy in Lapland for almost two years now. It's quite a task, as there aren’t many available on the market here. The properties for sale are often cabins, and their prices have skyrocketed over the past year. Even small, run-down cabins can fetch over three hundred thousand euros. Just two years ago, a house in this village sold for 25,000 euros. Location is crucial, but it still feels unreasonable that the only available homes here are bought by some wealthy person from the south who rents them out at exorbitant rates.

At these latitudes, you need to use creative methods if you want to find a suitable place to live. Currently, I’m employing what might sound like a desperate strategy: touring interesting areas, marking all potential houses on a map, finding the owner's information (available online for a fee), and boldly calling to ask: “Hey, you have a lovely cabin—would you be interested in selling it?”

So far, the search has been unfruitful, aside from some amusing and slightly comical phone conversations. On the plus side, I’ve visited places I wouldn’t have gone otherwise. Some of these spots even have potential housing candidates. For some reason, I’ve fallen in love with old wooden and log houses, often abandoned, which would surely take a good ten years to renovate. We’ll see where this journey takes me.

Things in my hometown are calm, as always. You can already ski in some areas on the river ice. Once, I dared to cross the river, but I noticed that snowmobilers are still only traveling along the opposite bank, avoiding certain spots. From that, you can infer that the ice may not be thick enough everywhere yet. Here and there, there are still patches of open water, which can unexpectedly peek out in the middle of deep snow. It seems I should still be a bit cautious.

On a ski trip with a friend to a nearby lean-to. The firewood always has to be brought along, split between both of our backpacks.

Today, the frost has finally eased after a long time. In the morning, the wind picked up, heavy snow fell from the trees, and the air smelled like spring. It gave me a bittersweet and sad feeling. Is this really all there is to winter? Of course not; it will continue for the next five months. Fortunately.

By evening, the sky cleared, the stars twinkled, and the moon peeked out from behind the clouds. In their light, the path home shines as bright as during the day, and there’s no need for extra lights on the dog walk. You only notice the bright light shining from the cabin window when you stand outside. The cabin is barely visible on the road or the ice. I can be here in complete tranquility.

It’s wonderful.