I have found good friends in the north. We call our community the Lapland Family. We met by chance three years ago, out here in the middle of nowhere.

We live as close as five kilometers apart, with some of us a few dozen kilometers away. So, practically neighbors. Life here is easier together. I enjoy spending time alone, but I’ve especially noticed how much support, help, and security even a small sense of community can bring. There’s always a need for extra hands to carry firewood or someone to take care of the dogs during longer trips. On dark, long evenings, it’s wonderfully nice to gather for a movie night or to relax together in the sauna.

I’ve written about us and finding friends here in the north before. If you’d like to read more about how I’ve met people while living up here, you can find more here.

Last weekend, we went on an autumn foliage hike on the small trails of Muonio with our Lapland Family. We had planned a weekend-long trek into the wilderness, but half of the family was sick, and various other things came up along the way, so we shortened the trip.

Especially during the autumn foliage season, the most popular trails can be packed with tourists, which we tried to avoid by choosing a place where we could spend time just among ourselves. Luckily, there are plenty of such places.

We spent the relatively short hike, under five kilometers, slowly trudging uphill, catching up with each other, and picking mushrooms along the way.

The red-golden glow of autumn foliage disappeared momentarily in the best mushroom-picking spots of the pine forests, but atop the hill, it returned to its full splendor.

Someone mentioned that this year’s autumn foliage isn’t much to speak of. That a fungal disease in the deciduous trees is causing the leaves to turn brown quickly, and that autumn’s brilliance would be lost. I don’t notice any difference from previous years— to me, the golden birches shine in the landscape like streetlights in the city.

After a couple of hours of slow strolling, with a few blueberry tasting breaks and moments to admire the scenery, we arrived at our destination, the Juuvanrova wilderness hut. It’s located in a beautifully scenic spot at the top of the hill, by a small pond.

We had chosen the location well—there was no one else in sight. We lit a campfire and made some delicious food, perfect for a short hike. Even dessert was prepared with fresh apples and vanilla sauce.

This could be called slow hiking. Whether it's the right term, I’m not sure, but to me, spending time outdoors with friends and wonderful people is something uniquely special. When no one is in a hurry. When all that exists are moments far away in nature, untouched by the noise, worries, or everyday matters of the world. You can physically feel how time stops and fades away. No one checks the clock, because it doesn’t matter.

While others were preparing the food, I walked to the other side of the pond. The mirror-like surface of the water and the autumn colors created a magical atmosphere around the wilderness hut. The curling smoke from the fire, its orange-glowing flames, and the quiet chatter felt like something straight out of a storybook that had come to life. A place like this couldn’t possibly exist.

But thankfully, it does.

On the way back, I made a magical discovery beneath a small juniper: chanterelles. They rarely grow in the rugged forests of the north, but somehow they had put down roots in this spot. I carefully gathered them into the hem of my sweater and, back by the fire, wrapped them in a paper bag. A living proof of the existence of the storybook landscape.

The hike ended as slowly as it had begun. We washed the dishes, packed up our things, gently woke the dogs who had been napping in the warmth of the sun, and headed back.

Despite the shortened trip, we all felt more peaceful and at ease.