The Polar night season has begun in our home national park, Pallas-Yllästunturi National Park. Every year, I make a trip to the fells to greet its arrival, and this year was no exception. This time, I was joined by E and our dog, Rover.

The journey was bathed in blue twilight and the snowy scenery of December. Some might even call it a winter wonderland. Few people were out on this Sunday, and even the main roads were quiet. Only the moon watched over the snowy forest as we made our way, guiding us to the foot of Pallastunturi.

The road to the Pallas Hotel hasn’t been plowed yet, so driving the van requires careful focus to stay on the right side of the snowbanks. The tourist season hasn’t fully kicked off yet, although a few British tourists are wandering around the hotel’s yard, wearing elf hats and travel company overalls. Buses are bringing foreign visitors to spend Christmas at the hotel, which is reserved exclusively for the company’s guests. A shame—I had planned to reward us with burgers from the hotel’s restaurant after our ski trip.

Oh well, in these surroundings, burgers quickly fall to the bottom of the list, and any disappointment disappears in an instant.

It’s windy on the fell, as it almost always is. We fasten our snowshoes and pull our hoods tightly to protect our ears from the biting snowstorm in the parking lot, heading straight toward the summit of Pyhäkero on Pallastunturi.

The landscape still sleeps in the morning’s blue light, even though it’s almost noon. The spruces, covered in a white blanket from the storm, look like living figures one moment and twisted signposts the next, each pointing in a different direction.

Despite the wind, it’s very peaceful. Calm. As if a sleeping people were slumbering on the fell’s slopes, quietly resting through the polar night, patiently waiting for brighter days. Only foolish humans wrap themselves in wool and winter gear, trudging through the snow up the mountainside.

But we like it.

The freezing snowstorm turns the hair escaping from our hoods white and glues our eyelashes together unless we scrape off the frost every now and then. Otherwise, we feel good—warm and smiling. Everything is so beautiful.

I don’t need more Christmas spirit than this. Flashing lights, shiny baubles, and jingling bells can be done away with. This is, in my opinion, what Christmas is all about—winter, peace, and a touch of magic.

We ski up the slope in the quiet of our hoods. E gets a little help from Rover—though not always in the direction we’d like to go. I take breaks while climbing the steep hill; my fell-skiing stamina has waned a bit since last winter. Luckily, it doesn’t matter—on these trips, there’s never any rush.

At the top of the fell, it’s even bluer, if that’s somehow possible. The moon peeks over the neighboring fell, sometimes slipping behind the mist on the summit. The only reminder that the sun should be shining at this time is the golden glow on the eastern horizon.

It’s as if someone had taken a golden brush and painted a few strokes across the sky, dipped it briefly in a reddish hue, then decided to stick solely to shades of blue. However it was done, the resulting landscape is as beautiful as a painting.

At the top of the fell, we set up camp by the base of a rock. Or, at least, we think it’s a rock—under a meter of snow, it could easily be something else. The small snow mound offers a bit of shelter from the wind as we sit on our skis and pour hot drinks into our cups.

By the time we’ve dug out our sandwiches from the backpack, the coffee has already frozen in the cup. Not cooled—frozen. We tap the surface to break the ice against the edge of a ski and take a sip anyway. The cucumber on the sandwiches is also frosty. We probably could have expected that, but no matter. Food is food, and it always tastes good outdoors—especially on a wintery fell top.

On a ski trip, or really in winter in general, breaks don’t last long, no matter how good the snacks are. Along with the food, the skiers themselves freeze pretty quickly. But the spirit never does.

We begin our descent down the slope. You’d think it would be easier to go down than to climb up, but with backcountry skies, that’s not the case. Whether it’s our skiing skills or the skis themselves, I’m not sure, but the downhill ride turns into pure comedy.

Just when you start to feel proud of a successful run, a soft snowdrift or a rock poking out from beneath the snow suddenly appears, and before you know it, the skier is embraced by the snow. Whoops, there you go.

I find this hilarious. Ridiculously fun. I tumbled into every snowbank, laughing all the way. Someone zoomed past us on proper touring skis, with far better downhill skills, looking impressive and arriving at the hotel parking lot without a speck of snow on them. Some people really know how to ski.

No, that wasn’t E. E was struggling with Rover, who was still generously offering some pulling assistance—just not in the right direction. In the end, E took off the skis entirely and walked most of the way down. Everyone has their own style.

But oh, how much fun we had. At the hotel, we arrived with red cheeks, covered in snow and frost, but thoroughly happy. We decided to ask at the hotel if we could still grab a hot drink and dry off in the warm restaurant, even though we weren’t British tourists. A friendly staff member poured us coffee and hot chocolate and even let us take a donut from the buffet table.

As long as we don’t tell anyone...

The light during the polar night is magical. It’s light, yet it doesn’t truly illuminate. It’s as if it exists by accident. It doesn’t dazzle or boast, but its presence is so beautiful it takes your breath away. Above all, it is anything but darkness.

The polar night in Pallas lasts about a month. In early January, the sun will rise above the horizon for the first time and begin a new cycle. I’ve visited Pallas each year when the polar night ends. I plan to continue that tradition this year as well. Until then, you can read my post from last year when the light returned to Pallas, here.