This summer has been different compared to recent years. The spontaneous adventures and time spent in nature have been quite limited, and I feel a sharp sense of regret about it in the back of my mind. But then, I remind myself to think rationally.

This spring, I’ve fulfilled one of my biggest dreams. I’ve bought an old farmhouse and an old garden surrounded by nature. A place that truly feels like this is it. This dream has taken me all over the north, even as far as Norway, as I searched for a place to settle. We’ve called strangers and knocked on the doors of unfamiliar homes in pursuit of it. And now, here it is.

So maybe it doesn't matter that nature adventures have been a bit scarce for a while. Besides, there are plenty of nature adventures to be found right in my own yard. Not to mention, we’re trying to come up with ways to keep mice out of the house without killing them (feel free to suggest any working tips), and the whole yard is brimming with life.

A flock of swallows swarms the barn, turning from sweet to furious in an instant if you try to grab firewood from there. A fox strolls through the field and bounces in the middle of the wildflower meadow every evening. An eagle visits the nearby forest, making it a good idea to hold on to your hats (and Papu) when you’re out there.

So, there are more than enough nature adventures right here.

But. We did go on a proper adventure when the evening sun, just after midnight, painted its golden light on the walls of the cabin, and sleep was nowhere to be found.

That light calls for adventure.

Perhaps you know that I love trips to places I call "nowhere." Spots that aren’t on the “Most Popular Hiking Destinations in Northern Finland” lists or even on anyone’s radar. Not even mine until I arrive.

This was another one of those trips.

We didn’t have to go far. Unknown fells and forests stretch as far as the eye can see. E and I have had a fun summer goal of visiting all the fells we can see from our yard. There are still a few left, and this unnamed fell was one of them.

The forest is quiet in its depths. You probably know by now that’s one of my favorite things too. Complete silence. Here, the only sound breaking it is the soft crunch of our footsteps on the moss-covered slope. Even the birds have calmed down from their spring excitement and gone to roost. Under the trees, it’s dark and peaceful, but the sky above is as bright as day.

The climb up is quick but sweaty. I had brought a wool sweater, thinking it would protect me from the cold, but it turned out to be the perfect defense against the swarm of mosquitoes. They’ve only recently gotten active, and anyone who ventures into the forest after the day’s winds have died down is at their mercy.

But it doesn’t matter as long as you keep moving.

On the slope, Labrador tea and blueberry shoots are growing. If you know the scent of Labrador tea, it’s intoxicating. In the old days, I believe it was even used as some sort of intoxicant. I wouldn’t be surprised—it has a strong, inviting fragrance. I know mosquitoes hate it, so I break off a flowering branch and start swatting at the ones swarming around my head. A hopeless endeavor. Oh well, let them be.

At the top, the darkness of the forest gives way to the blue hues of evening and the deep red of the midnight sun resting on the other side of the fell. It’s around one or two in the morning, so the sun has already started its "rise." You can’t really tell—it just circles along the silhouette of the fells, day and night. Where its light doesn’t touch, the landscape is filled with the soft blue of the north.

On the other side, the next fell rises. In the nocturnal light, its face looks like a mystical monument. It ascends from a narrow, rocky ravine, reaching toward the sky, crowned by a row of dense, yet modestly tall pines. I wouldn’t be surprised if, in ancient times, it had been considered a sacred place. The energy it radiates seems to flow across the ravine to this side as well.

Speaking of sacred places, I think I’ve found ancient runic inscriptions, or at least some kind of sacred markings from an old tribe, on the side of a dead pine tree. I trace them with my finger, feeling a quiet reverence. It turns out they’re just tunnels carved by some kind of larvae. But when I look closely, I could swear I see images of the midnight sun, forest animals, and the whole tapestry of life. Sacred and ancient or not, they’re captivatingly beautiful and intriguing.

We walk for a while around the small, pathless summit of the fell, taking in its small and large wonders. Despite the stillness and peace, a swarm of eager mosquitoes buzzes around us like paparazzi around a high-profile celebrity. They prevent us from fully stopping to enjoy the place, but in a way, we’ve grown used to it. That’s just how northern summers are.

The sun is already pulling itself up over the next fell’s summit, brightening the horizon from the deep red of midnight back to pale yellow, signaling the start of a new day. When the previous one ended is always a bit unclear during the midnight sun, and that’s part of its magic.

On the way home, we stop by the shore of the lake and consider a midnight swim. But the surface is so perfectly undisturbed and calm, and the paparazzi-like mosquitoes still haven’t given up, so we decide against it.

I soak in this landscape like a thirsty insect drinks nectar. There’s something deeply calming and satisfying about it. Perhaps it’s the golden-red glow of the midnight sun or the heavy fatigue of a sleepless night, but in this moment, everything feels just right, and I need nothing more.