Friday, I'm eating breakfast at home by the glow of the fireplace. E is browsing the computer and asks, "Shall we go to Kilpisjärvi for the weekend?" I resist for a moment, as I usually do—I'm slow to warm up to spontaneous ideas that aren't my own—but I can't think of any real reason not to go.

An hour later, the car is packed, and we're heading north.

Even though Kilpisjärvi feels far from everything, it turns out it's "only" a little over a three-hour drive from us. Nowadays, that’s nothing—once it would have felt like an eternity. Distances seem to shrink year by year, and almost any trip under 400 km is relatively short now.

At the highest point in Muonio, a thin yellow sliver recognizable as the sun briefly appears on the horizon. The polar night has just ended at these latitudes, but the true spring sun is still a bit of a wait.

A moment later, even that light disappears, and the full moon claims the landscape.

In the bright light of the full moon, we arrive at the quiet village of Kilpisjärvi in the afternoon twilight. Well, the moon is so bright that it illuminates the area better than the few street lamps along the village road.

We drop our belongings at the accommodation and head toward the fells with snowshoes in hand. It’s cold—extremely cold. The temperature is well below -30°C, and I put on every piece of clothing I hurriedly packed. It’ll have to be enough since there aren’t any other options.

The moon is so bright it’s almost blinding. I had hoped for a deep, starry sky so I could practice more night sky photography, but the moonlight turns the sky blue and bright. The stars are barely visible, fading into the background.

We walk along the path leading to Tsahkaljärvi and toss our snowshoes at the base of the first birch tree we see on the slope. They’re more of a hindrance here, as the path is well-trodden and easy to walk with just boots. Frost covers everything that isn’t hidden beneath clothing. It’s not cold while moving, but we can’t stop for long. Practicing night sky photography wouldn’t have worked in this freezing cold.

The royal monument of Kilpisjärvi, Saana fell, peacefully slumbers under its winter blanket of snow. The moonlight doesn’t seem to disturb its sleep, but it does sparkle mysteriously on its slopes. You’ve heard the tale of the giants Saana and Malla, who were frozen long ago on the shores of Kilpisjärvi while fleeing the wicked Pältsa from Sweden, haven’t you? Whether it’s the frosty haze or the twinkle of the stars, Saana seems to move ever so slightly, as if in time with the calm rhythm of breathing.

The line between story and reality is often blurred. If it even exists.

Our evening walk is short, but somehow we spent almost three hours on it. Time disappears when you’re not keeping track of it. We return to the village, frosty like little elves. My friend Laura lives in the village and has invited us for evening tea. With about a hundred people living in Kilpisjärvi, visiting is a rare treat.

In the morning, the cold has eased by half. The light begins to emerge around ten, and by then we’re already on our way to Leutsuvaara with snowshoes. Many people stop there during road trips since it’s the highest point on Finland’s highways, but the slope rises even higher from the parking lot, showing the entire village of Kilpisjärvi and the lake, stretching all the way to Sweden—on clear days.

Just yesterday, we learned from Laura and her partner that the weather in Kilpisjärvi can change in five minutes. We start the climb with a full moon shining bright in the polar night sky, but soon the wind picks up, and the view disappears into a blue tundra wind.

But no matter. There’s both little snow and a lot of snow. Without snowshoes, we’d be wading waist-deep through the wind-packed drifts, although in some places, the rocks on the fell are as bare as they are in summer. A single mountain birch has set its roots high on the slope, swaying gently in the wind.

The wind doesn’t treat us as kindly, and we have to pull every cord and fasten every button on our coats to keep it from biting into our skin. Still, for some reason, this kind of weather and environment feels like mine. Maybe I’m related to that birch, which isn’t fazed by the fury of the wind. Winter, frost, snow, and ice on top of the fell make me smile, even though I can’t hear what E is trying to say. Sometimes my snowshoes get caught in the snow, and I tumble face-first into the drifts. But still. If anything feels like life, this does.

We sit for a moment, sheltered from the wind behind a boulder, and open a thermos of warm tea. I can swear that even the most expensive celebratory drinks can’t compare to the taste of a hot drink enjoyed on top of a fell.

We turn back down the slope of the fell. The dog speeds down the steepest sections in a frenzy. I think it's feeling a bit cold, though it usually shouldn’t. Maybe even the Kilpisjärvi wind is too much for it.

On the way home, the car’s heating stops working completely. We laugh that after spending a couple of days in extreme cold and fell winds, the coldest part is still on the drive home. We stop a few times to exercise and warm ourselves up, since warm clothes don’t help much when sitting still.

To top off the evening, the car breaks down fifty kilometers from home. It just dies and gives up. The radio and lights still work, but otherwise, we’re left on the side of the quiet Kilpisjärvi road in the dark evening.

Luckily, in the north, things get taken care of, and those in need often get help faster than you’d think. A friend immediately heads out to pick us up, and a tow truck retrieves the car later, taking it a hundred kilometers to our nearest repair shop.