The sauna at Hannukurun is an oasis for many hikers in the emptiness of the national park of Pallas-Yllästunturi in Western Lapland. It’s quite a trek from any direction, with the nearest road being over ten kilometers away at the shortest. Yet the sauna is almost always bustling with people. We ski in a group of five, along sunny spring snow, toward the warmth of the sauna in late March or early April.

Our little ski trip begins in Enontekiö, from the eastern side of the mountain range at Ketomella. We travel with forest skis and snowshoes, opting for the freedom of breaking our own trail rather than sticking to prepared paths and routes.

Even though the spring sun shines brightly in the sky, the snow hasn’t yet formed a solid crust, so we get to carve our own tracks into the untouched snow. Bringing up the rear is M, who is skiing with a pulk (sled), and our task is to create as wide and even a path as possible in the soft snow for the heavy sled, so that M isn’t completely worn out by the end of the skiing day while the rest of us enjoy the lightness of our small backpacks.

The snowpack is unpredictably spring-like. It cracks and shifts beneath us. The Lapland Rescue Service has issued avalanche warnings for the entire Tunturi-Lappi region. The shifting snow under the skier is the first warning sign of an unstable snow cover.

However, we aren’t moving in avalanche-prone terrain; instead, we’re mainly on flat ground and very gentle slopes, so there’s no danger of avalanches. But it seems there is a risk of human avalanches. Even small downhill stretches become impossible to ski down upright when the snow in one spot supports you, giving you a burst of speed, while in the next, it sinks you up to your knees. A "thump" is heard as a few skiers tumble down the slope directly into the welcoming embrace of the deep snow.

The snow is so soft and the pace so slow that we navigated all of this with the sweetest laughter and snow-covered faces. No one made it to the end on their feet; the snow got us all wet at least once.

We travel along the ridge south of Hietajärvi until we reach Ruotakuru. As the crow flies, the distance from Ruotakuru to Hannukurun is just over a kilometer, but the rocky and steep gorge area doesn’t allow anyone to pass through and must be circled. The entire area of Ruotakuru and the Jäniskuru that opens up behind it is protected, and movement is not allowed at any time of the year, so we dutifully take a long detour around the entire region. Honestly, even with climbing gear, this wouldn’t be a place to venture.

Upon arrival, our reserved cabin awaits in the bright evening sun. Judging by the tracks in the yard, it has seen quite a bit of activity. The cabin at Hannukurun has two separate sides, each accommodating 12 people for sleeping.

In the wilderness cabin, everyone knows the routines. Making the beds, melting and/or fetching water, preparing food, and lighting the stove.

Three of us set out to find a stream that, according to hearsay, remains unfrozen even in winter, located to the north of the cabin. Melting snow for five people is labor-intensive and slow, so the possibility of running water feels like a luxury in winter.

About an hour later, the group returns to the cabin. They didn’t find the stream, and one of them fell through the ice up to their knees while searching for running water. Oops.

Fortunately, this incident was mainly a humorous reminder that anything can happen. The cabin has a separate drying room with its own stove. If kept warm, clothes and shoes can dry completely overnight. In addition to visiting the ice hole, the group managed to bring back a few buckets of lake water. Of course, it still needs to be boiled and cooled before it’s drinkable, but it’s much quicker than getting water from snow.

The light lasts well into the evening. Generally, the cabin’s dim atmosphere remains bright and lively until late at night. It feels cozy to spread your belongings in a small corner and call it home, even if just for one night.

In the evening, we head to the sauna. After a day of skiing, the warm, gentle steam is most welcome. The sauna now attracts so many visitors that the Forestry Administration recommends using sauna shifts: on the hour, it’s the turn for men, women, and then mixed groups. Although there was a skiing group on the other side of the cabin and the parties from the nearby wilderness hut were also on their way to the sauna, there’s plenty of room for everyone seeking warmth in Hannukurun’s vast sauna and large stove. Somehow, the long skiing journey, the fresh air, and the distance melt away all disagreements among people, as there’s always a sense of understanding and unspoken camaraderie at the cabins and saunas.

The next day is sunny, and I could almost say it’s hot. The previous week brought snowfall, blizzards, and storms. The mornings have been around thirty degrees below zero. But now the sun warms the skier from an almost cloudless sky, and the fell wind is unusually quiet.

We each take turns coating our faces with sunscreen, as the dazzling snow is like a northern tanning bed. After the darkness of winter, our pale noses turn a little too red too quickly. The scent of our ski journey mixes with the winter snow, the warmth of the sun, and the surprisingly tropical coconut of the sunscreen.

As we leave the cabin, we decide to ski back along our own tracks for an easy journey. However, the call of the endless white wins out, and we leisurely take different routes back. We stop for lunch at the top of the fell, where the sun shines so brightly it hurts our eyes. The iconic silhouette of Pallastunturi gleams on the horizon like a glossy postcard.

The return journey is usually quieter than the outbound trip. Everyone has already shared and heard the important news. I focus on watching the tracks the snow has drawn on the ground and the shimmer of water from the streams that are already flowing free in places. A small white bird flutters under the snow-covered bank of the river and chirps shyly from there, already bursting with the promise of spring. The free flow of water sounds like it’s from another world. From summer pastures, perhaps, in the heart of the forest, where flowers are already blooming and the leaves of the trees rustle.

Soon.

From the top of the fell, we easily find skiable areas with a solid snowpack, allowing us to glide swiftly. The rest of the world feels so far away from here. The silence is broken only by the swoosh of our skis and the wistful chirping of the first spring birds.

On the last kilometers, we find the trail we made the previous day. Others have traveled it as well. Overnight, the packed snow has been used by squirrels and hares. Some tiny wanderer has left delicate bead-like tracks in our ski marks. It feels nice, as if we’ve helped the woodland creatures, even just a little, with our actions.

On the drive back, a sense of nostalgia settles in, as it often does at the end of a trip. I realize that this is likely the last ski trip of the spring, the last outing in these landscapes for a while, as the move to the new house is just a few weeks away. Most of this friend group, which has become like family, will also be changing scenery as spring comes to an end.

I try to uplift myself by thinking that life is easier when you understand that everything is temporary. That you shouldn’t hold on to anything. Letting go just as moments release their grip on the past.

Phew. It’s not easy. I understand the idea behind the thought, but I can’t seem to think of it that way alone. I get attached to moments, places, and people that have meant so much. I leave a piece of myself with them. That’s just how it is.

So, I left a piece of myself here in the deep snow of the fells, in the warmth of the spring sun, at the base of a weathered tree in the wind. If you find it, let it be. It’s there to remind me that this moment and place have been significant in my life.