I could just leave the title as the only text, as it sums up everything so well. But since writing is such a joy, let me tell you a bit more.

It's at least -28 degrees Celsius. At some point, it's not worth checking the thermometer anymore—cold is cold, a few degrees more or less don't make a difference. Throw on three layers of wool sweaters, pull on your fur hat, and off we go.

The pulk is borrowed from a friend so we can test out what it’s like to trek with it after a long time. You get acquainted with it after a while. It just needs some time and kilometers to get familiar with, much like with a living being. Journeying together creates a bond.

I get to decide where we’re heading. My inner circle already knows where this leads and, without any complaints, they accept what might not always be the most popular choice of destination. I’m taking us to my favorite spot, one that keeps calling me back again and again.

To nowhere.

Nowhere isn’t just one place. It can be any place where others don’t usually go. Or at least very few. Somewhere that doesn’t necessarily have trail markers or well-maintained huts. It doesn’t have to be some extreme wilderness—it could be the forest right off the backyard or the hill rising beside the village. A spot that looks intriguing on the map but isn’t visited by others and lacks infrastructure. That’s the kind of adventure.

Tällä kertaa ei-mihinkään vievä retkemme suuntautui laajalle suoalueelle hieman kauemmas kotikylältä. Sulan maan aikaan sitä halkoo kyllä pitkospuut ja niiden päässä pieni laavu, mutta ne ovat auttamattoman huonossa kunnossa. Tarkoitan, että ne ovat veden alla. Laavulle pääsee, jos ottaa retken uintikannalta.

Olen päätynyt siihen, että tämän paikan laavu on mysteerilaavu. Ehkä jopa kirottu. Jotkut paikat ovat, uskokaa tai älkää. Se ei halua, että pääsen sen luokse. Olen käynyt täällä neljästi tätä ennen, joka kerta matkalla kyseiselle laavulle, mutta kertaakaan en ole sinne asti päässyt. Aina erinäisistä syistä olen joutunut kääntymään takaisin. Kerran pitkospuut tosiaan päättyivät suoraan suolampeen, kerran oli niin sakea sumu, etten ollut enää yhtään varma, missä päin oli mikäkin ja oli pakko kääntyä pois. Talvella on ollut niin syvä lumi, että olen päässyt kilometrin, kaksi ennen kuin olen hikihatussa päätynyt lähtemään kotiin.

Kirottu laavu, uskokaa pois.

Tällä kertaa ei ollut sumua ja hankikin kantoi metsäsuksia ja liukulumikenkiä erinomaisen hyvin. Kylmyys on kova, mutta se nyt ei varsinaisesti haittaa. Liikkuessa sitä ei edes huomaa ja paikallaanollessa ahkioon mahtuu luksuksena porontalja ja toppatakkeja.

Matkaan, siis.

When you journey to "nowhere," you have to be flexible with the usual hiking norms. For instance, the idea of moving forward without obstacles becomes a distant dream. Since no one else treads these paths, nature quickly reclaims its territory.

Heavy snow has bent countless trees directly onto our route, creating a beautiful, Moominvalley-like enchanted forest, but one that's incredibly difficult to navigate—especially with long skis and a pulk. At first, I try to ease the trees' burden by shaking off the heavy snow weighing them down, but eventually, I have to focus on not getting buried myself. The trees, relieved by the shaking, drop their massive load right where I'm standing, as I attempt to help. Fine. Maybe the northern trees are resilient enough to manage without my assistance.

We ski forward at a crawling pace for the first few kilometers, snow-covered and poking at the trees with our ski poles.

The lake glimpsing through on the left frees both us and the trees from our struggles. We cut straight across its frozen surface, and suddenly it feels like we can breathe a little easier, surrounded by open space, with the sky glowing in the beautiful hues of biting cold.

Even though it’s freezing, we move slowly, taking time to admire the scenery and chat. My companions patiently wait in the biting cold as I constantly fiddle with the camera. They even endure being part of the shots and listen, perhaps a bit exasperated, to my endless directions: "Wait a second - ski forward - no, not that far - just a bit more..."

Good company is indeed the most important thing to bring along on a winter adventure. ❤️

We ski towards the cursed lean-to—let’s call it that for now since I can’t remember its real name. The beginning of the journey seems promising. We even come across a sign, half-sunken into the swamp, vaguely pointing in that direction. The text is unreadable, but we trust it once said something about leading to the lean-to. Maybe.

We cross a stream, oddly still unfrozen at this time of year and in these temperatures. Judging by the tracks, several otter families have been making good use of it. I imagine finding open water in the heart of the coldest winter is a rare treasure around here. The gentle gurgling of the stream is the only sound, apart from the soft swish of our skis. Far away are the highways and snowmobile trails whose noises otherwise carry surprisingly far in the winter stillness.

That’s one of the best parts about heading into the middle of nowhere: the silence.

Perhaps the prediction is fulfilling itself, but once again, we don't make it to the lean-to. Not this time either. As we leave the ice and re-enter the forest, we're greeted by yet another winter wonderland of snow-laden trees. Out on the lake, the winter sun peeks through a golden veil of clouds, with a backdrop of fell ranges resting in the blue horizon. Ahead of us lies kilometers of impassable snowy forest.

Hmm.

One of the best things about having good company on a trip and not sticking to designated routes is that everything can change in an instant. We didn’t make it to the lean-to today. Oh well. Let’s go somewhere else. The ice is so beautiful, let’s just stay here and maybe circle the whole lake.

We ski out of the snow-blocked forest and return to the ice. Some of us more easily than others. It quickly reminds me that pulling a sled isn’t exactly graceful, especially in deep snow and uphill climbs. But we manage. The sled is packed well, so it doesn’t matter much if it tips over into the snowbank. Same goes for the skier.

Since we didn’t make it to the lean-to, but brought our own firewood and snacks, we take a break in our own way. Without anyone deciding the rest spot for us, we get to choose it ourselves—and carefully. Surely, whoever builds a lean-to considers where the view would be nice, where the wind won’t bite too harshly, and how deep the bench should be for comfortable seating.

When we find the perfect spot—by the edge of the forest to shield us from the wind, facing the fells for a lovely view, and off the ice for a softer snowbank to sit on—we build our own lean-to. Out of snow.

Well, maybe it can't quite be called a lean-to. A bench and fire pit, perhaps, just barely. But we build it anyway. Reindeer hide on top of the bench, firewood in a deep snow pit (since the snow will melt underneath it), and a cozy nook for our feet in the snow. We even leave a small table space for our snacks and thermos.

I'd say this beats any standard rest spot hands down. Probably because we made it ourselves.

Although I initially raved about the impressive pile of wool sweaters and down jackets we brought along, up here, you never truly escape the cold. It's easier when you accept that in advance. Cold doesn't mean harm. It doesn’t hurt you. In fact, it keeps your mind sharp and your body moving, if nothing else.

Breaks have to be short, even though you'd love to sit by the fire, admiring the snow-dusted fells basking in the winter sun for a bit longer. But when your cinnamon bun freezes to your hand and the last bit of coffee turns into ice at the bottom of your cup, all you can do is gulp it down quickly and get moving again.

Every winter hiker has a few dance moves in their back pocket to fight off the cold. After a couple of cups of coffee and a real brush with the chill, dancing takes on a whole new sense of freedom, and how it looks doesn’t matter at all. As long as it gets the blood flowing and the laughter rolling, that’s the ABC of staying warm. Well, that and those wool sweaters, too.

Our trip ended up being very different from what we originally thought. Or I’m not quite sure if we even thought about it that much in advance. If we did think about it, what was on our minds was the time spent together, the beauty of winter, and being outdoors. Not the miles traveled or the routes collected like trophies, nor any goal-oriented exertion.

It sometimes frustrates me how hiking (especially winter hiking) is portrayed in the media, with its wondrous images of rock music, expensive gear, knife or weapon wielding, and extreme sports-style performances, where the hiker barely survives. Yes, there’s no playing around with winter and cold, and it’s good to know at least a little about what you’re doing before heading out for a week in the wilderness in winter. But there are many other options that get overlooked.

Still, I believe in people and common sense. They say that frost drives the pig home. Perhaps it drives the winter hiker home, too. It’s wise to ensure that home (or another shelter) is relatively close by when the frost bites. After that, you come away a bit wiser.

I feel great happiness in moments and trips like these. There’s nothing extraordinary about them, nor does anything remarkable happen, but perhaps that’s exactly why. Loved ones around me, the untouched and unbroken peace of nature, and the cold touch of winter. It touches something deep within. It’s no wonder they say happiness is made up of small pieces. Each person must gather their own. Here are my pieces.

What are yours?