Koen usein tarvetta olla yksin. Kaukana kaikesta ja kaikista. En paetakseni miltään tai keltään, vaan latautuakseni. Vahvasti introvertiksi luontuva luonteeni erityisherkkyyden lisällä kaipaa täyttä hiljaisuutta ja ei-mitään ympärilleen latautuakseen ja levätäkseen.

The wilderness is the perfect place for that.

Especially a wilderness that isn’t on anyone’s radar. A place that hasn’t been featured in Helsingin Sanomat articles, and as far as I know, no one has spent a year trekking there or pulling off any stunts. As the wonderful and like-minded Jonna Saari wrote about the Pulju wilderness and Puljutunturi, she perfectly captures the reasons why I, too, love Pulju wilderness so much:

Not dramatic, not grand, and not famous—and that's exactly why it’s so wonderful.

I drive along the wilderness road, passing two small villages that call themselves wilderness villages—Lompolo and Pulju—both disappearing in the blink of an eye. Isn’t wilderness village such a lovely title?

A little secret. We actively inquired about houses in the small but absolutely charming village of Lompolo. No, this isn’t the well-known fell village of Äkäslompolo, but its own small village in the far reaches of Kittilä, surrounded by wilderness. A truly wonderful place, full of helpful and kind-hearted people. Although we didn’t find a house there, it left a warm and gentle impression, and I drive by sending warm thoughts to all those who helped us in our house search.

I park the car at perhaps the only place you could call a parking spot—a sandy pull-off where most of the willows and plants have been flattened over the years by cars resting there. I’ve been here before, a year ago on a similar recharging trip, searching for creativity.

Now the weather is clearer than it was a year ago. Not beautiful, not bursting with autumn colors, not crisp from frost. Cold, wet, and modestly brownish-gray. For some reason, the Pulju wilderness wants to present itself to me in this attire. Stripped of all splendor. As if to ensure no one would think it was showing off or being coy.

To me, this is still the most beautiful thing. The emptiness and the palpable silence, so deep that even my own breath seems to break it unlawfully. A peace that settles deep in the soul, found only where there is nothing.

I love the English word "nothingness." It perfectly encapsulates that which is full of nothing. Nothingness encompasses everything, while at the same time, it lacks absolutely everything—time, place, other people, human touch, sounds, movement, lights.

Here, if anywhere, you recharge, find calm, and ground yourself.

On the way, I saw hunting parties with their dogs and bright orange clothing. I know moose hunting season has started. Even though I hear and see no one, I still feel a bit tense about the hunters and their guns. As a precaution, I mark the dogs with orange work gloves I found in the car, just in case they were to run off. I wouldn’t want anyone mistaking them for forest animals.

My fear of hunters becomes somewhat comical as I watch the two dogs trudging along with the big, bright gloves hanging on their backs. Well, at least they’re visible from afar!

I climb up the slope of the hill, where a wonderfully natural trail has been worn, revealing the ancient bedrock hidden beneath the shrubs. Higher up, you can easily see far into the edges of the wilderness, where the hills and fells fade into a sky-blue horizon, stretching who knows how far.

Something about the wilderness has captivated me since the summer before last, when I impulsively visited the Tsarmitunturi wilderness, and later, with friends, the Tuntsa wilderness. Their unbroken peace and the near certainty that you’ll walk alone here is something primitively wonderful.

My traveling companions are the ancient pines, tired and resting for their final slumber, and the deadwood trees, standing guard behind the sky’s dome, whose whispers of old secrets can be heard by the few who pass through this deep silence. If you touch the bark of one of these ancient trees, I swear you’re touching something magical and timeless. Like touching the skin of a dragon from old legends.

I arrive at the shore of a small pond after what feels like a long journey in time, though not in kilometers. On the horizon, the sun casts its tired rays behind the silhouette of Puljutunturi, setting into the clouds. I had thought about going all the way there, but I change my mind.

In the wilderness, that’s more than allowed.

Instead, I sit for a long time by the pond, watching the play of the reeds and the water’s surface in the last rays of light. The wind is biting cold, though October has yet to offer more than the occasional dusting of snow in fleeting clouds.

Along the way, my thoughts of daily life, projects, and household tasks have already been stripped away. The wind, reminiscent of winter’s gusts, takes the last of them with it, carrying them somewhere behind the fell. Let them go, and safe travels.

By the pond, there’s a small lean-to and fire pit. It’s not by any means the newest or fanciest from Metsähallitus, but all the more charming and fitting for the wilderness. That’s the point of the wilderness—there are no restrooms, huts, or marked trails.

I gather firewood from the surroundings (it’s allowed in the wilderness, and there’s no firewood service here anyway) and dream of the warmth of a fire while the wilderness wind whips the shrubs and throws wet leaves around me.

Everything is damp, and I can’t get the fire to light. I try more than a dozen times, but it just won’t catch. For some reason, though, it doesn’t frustrate me as I might have expected.

Again and again, I patiently rearrange the wet wood and dwarf birch leaves into new piles, using all my creativity to coax them into flames. Occasionally, it works, but only for a brief moment before fizzling out, cheerfully puffing smoke into the fading wilderness evening.

So be it. I open the thermos and pour hot tea straight down my throat for a bit of warmth. At the same time, the sun paints the horizon behind Puljutunturi. Somewhere out there, where all my worries, daily tasks, and persistent thoughts disappeared earlier.

By the time I return to the car, it’s already dark. You might think the wilderness darkness would be an all-encompassing, pitch-black gloom, but that’s not the case. I can walk down from the fell without a flashlight. My eyes gradually adjust to the descending darkness, undisturbed by artificial light.

It’s only when I turn on the cozy light inside the car that I can no longer see much outside. But at this point, it doesn’t matter, and the light feels warm and inviting. Despite my hopes, there are no stars or moon visible, and as I brush my teeth somewhere behind a dark bush, I feel wet snowflakes landing on my shoulders. As if to gently tell me it’s time to crawl into the warmth of my sleeping bag. They continue to softly tap the metal roof of the car as I snuggle under two sleeping bags with the dogs, turn off the lights, and let the peace of the wilderness lull me to sleep.