The polar night has begun in my home national park, Pallas-Yllästunturi National Park. Every year, I make a trip to the fells to greet its arrival. This year, I did the same, with E and Rover the dog joining me.

The journey was filled with blue twilight and December snow. Some might even call it a winter wonderland. Few were out on a Sunday, and even the main roads were quiet. Only the moon watched over the snowy forest and guided us to the base of Pallastunturi.

The road to Pallashotelli is still unplowed, and I had to drive the van carefully to stay on the right side of the snowbank. The tourist season hasn’t fully started yet, although a few British tourists in elf hats and travel company overalls are wandering around the hotel yard. Buses are bringing foreign travelers to spend Christmas at the hotel, which is reserved exclusively for the company’s guests. It’s a shame—I had planned to reward us with burgers from the hotel restaurant after the ski trip.

Well, in these landscapes, burgers easily fall to the back of the line, and the disappointment disappears in an instant.

The wind is blowing on the fell, as it almost always does. 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 Pallastunturi’s Pyhäkero.

The landscape still slumbers in the blue of the morning, even though it’s almost noon. The snow-covered spruces, blanketed by the storm, look alternately like living figures and twisted signposts, each pointing in a different direction.

Despite the wind, it’s very peaceful. Still. As if a sleeping people were slumbering on the fell’s slope, peacefully waiting through the polar night for brighter days. Only foolish humans bundle themselves in wool and heavy clothing and struggle upward through the snow on the mountainside.

But we like it.

The freezing snowstorm turns any hair escaping from the hood white and sticks my eyelashes together unless I scrape the frost off now and then. Otherwise, I feel good—warm and smiling. Everything is so beautiful.

I don’t need more Christmas spirit than this. Away with the flashing lights, shiny baubles, and jingling bells. This, to me, is what Christmas is about—winter, peace, and a little bit 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 as we climb the steep slope. My fell-skiing stamina has faded a bit since last winter. Luckily, it doesn’t matter—there’s never any rush on these trips.

At the top of the fell, it’s even bluer, if that’s possible. The moon peeks over the neighboring fell, occasionally hidden behind the summit’s veil of mist. The only thing reminding us that the sun should be shining at this time is the golden glow on the eastern horizon.

It’s as if someone painted a few golden strokes across the sky, used a brush dipped in a reddish hue, and then decided to stick to only shades of blue. Whatever the case, the scene is as beautiful as a painting.

At the top of the fell, we set up camp at the base of a rock—or what we believe to be a rock, but under a meter of snow, it could easily be something else. The small snow mound offers some shelter from the wind as we sit on our skis and pour cups of hot coffee.

While we dig out our sandwiches from the backpack, the coffee has already frozen in the cup. Not just cooled—frozen. We tap the surface with a ski to break the ice and take a sip anyway. The cucumber on the sandwiches is also frostbitten, but that was to be expected. Still, food is food, and it always tastes great outside—especially on a winter fell summit.

On a ski trip, or in winter in general, breaks, no matter how good the snacks, never last long. Along with the food, the hikers freeze too. But the atmosphere never does.

We start skiing down the slope. You might think it’s easier to ski down than to climb up, but with sliding snowshoes, that’s not the case. Whether the issue lies with our skiing skills or the skis themselves, I don’t know, but the descent is pure comedy.

Just when you think you’ve nailed a smooth run, a soft snow pile or a rock peeking through the snow suddenly appears, and down you go into the snow’s embrace. Humpsista—just like that.

Let me know if you need any adjustments!

I think this is fun. Wildly fun. I tumbled into every snowdrift and laughed. Someone with better skiing skills zoomed by on fell skis, looking impressive, and reached the hotel yard dry and snow-free. Some people just know how to do it.

No, it wasn’t E. E struggled with Rover, who continued to kindly offer help but not in the right direction. In the end, E took off the skis and walked most of the way down. Everyone has their own style.

But oh, how much fun we had. By the time we reached the hotel yard, we were red-cheeked, frosty, and covered in snow, but happy. We stopped at the hotel to ask if we could still get a cup of something hot and warm up in the restaurant, even though we weren’t British tourists. A friendly staff member poured us coffee and hot chocolate and let us take a donut from the buffet table.

As long as we don’t tell anyone...

The light during kaamos is magical. It’s light, but it doesn’t really illuminate. As if it’s there by accident. It doesn’t dazzle or show off, but its presence is so beautiful it takes your breath away. Above all, it’s anything but darkness.

The kaamos in Pallas lasts about a month. In early January, the sun rises above the horizon for the first time and starts a new era. I’ve gone to Pallas every year at the end of kaamos, and I plan to continue this tradition this year too. Until then, you can read my post from last year about the return of light to Pallas here.