Lapland in November.

It must be dark, gray, and bleak.

Well, guess again.

We set off on a hike to Riisitunturi on a November Friday, defying all expectations—and perhaps a few laws of nature—in bright sunshine. The sunshine doesn't last many hours, but in this time of year, every bit of it feels like a win. A sunny day in November is like Christmas in the middle of summer. Pure celebration.

On Riisitunturi, the trees are already wearing their thick coats of snow, swaying gently in the light fell wind under the sun's rays, as if they were relaxing at a spa. The trail to the summit is familiar and easy. Judging by the footprints, it has been well-trodden every day. This time, as is often the case, we have the trail and the fell entirely to ourselves.

Being on the fell feels familiar, like coming home to a second place. There's something freeing about standing at the top of the fell, where the eye can see farther than the mind's map can comprehend. It's as if a part of me is released here, soaring beneath the vast sky.

The view from the top of Riisitunturi stretches almost all the way to our home. The frosted white ice of Lake Kitka creates a beautiful canvas, with other distant fell and hill ranges visible behind it.

Photo by: E ❤️

Here at the top of the Riisitunturi, there’s usually a lot of hikers and sometimes it gets quite crowded . Everyone wants to take photos from the top, although I’ve come to the conclusion that the most scenic and photogenic spots are often somewhere other than the very peak of the fell. Strangely, the human mind tends to assume that the highest point must be the most beautiful. As if superlatives naturally belong together. Or maybe I just prefer the views that not everyone else sees. The human mind is funny that way.

We take a coffee break near the top, under a small, resilient tree, which looks like a sugar-coated candy cane beneath its snowy veil. The sun brightens the landscape and condenses it into just two colors: blue and white. Quite patriotic.

As I mentioned, the November sun doesn't linger long for hikers, and soon it has already sunk behind a veil of clouds and the horizon. Nonetheless, we continue our journey to the other side of the fell. Next to Riisitunturi lies its little sibling, Pikku Riisitunturi. Typically, when trekking from one fell to another, you first have to make a sweaty descent down before climbing back up the next fell's slope. However, these two are so closely fused together that there’s only a slight dip before you’re already atop astavaPikku Riisitunturi. On this trail, hikers are treated to easy ascents and gentle paths.

Between the two Riisitunturi fells lies Ikkunalampi, (it is a little pond) which is probably one of the most photographed spots around here. I’m not surprised. This aptly named tiny pond rests in a small dip, offering a view of Lake Kitkajärvi and its rolling hills on the opposite shore. In the thawing season, the pond reflects the entire landscape—like a window—and is incredibly beautiful.

Unfortunately, when we visited here during the thaw, this, like many other beautiful places, has been trampled around the edges. The soft and delicate tundra and wetland plants along the pond have been flattened. If the camera is aimed just right, the view can appear muddy and trampled by people. But that’s not exactly publishable material, as we all know. I continue to wonder how many people and lovers of beautiful landscapes the tundra can endure as tourism and hiking continue to grow. Plants in such harsh conditions recover slowly, yet more and more feet tread here. There’s something in that equation that feels off.

Fortunately, in winter, the snow protects the entire nature like a shield, allowing hikers to place their steps wherever they wish. I might actually recommend everyone to visit the fells in winter—not only for the sake of nature conservation but also because it is incredibly beautiful here during that season.

On the ice of ikkunalampi. Photo by: E ❤️

We intended to hike the route that circles both Riisitunturis and the Riisisuo located behind them. However, the clock—meaning daylight in this case—shows that we decide to detour to the lean-to behind Pikku Riisitunturi to have our lunch and then head back. In winter and during dark seasons, it’s wise for hiking plans to be flexible and adaptable according to the daylight available.

We had politely brought our own firewood, like the locals usually do, so we felt justified in having a fire at the wicket, even though we didn’t really need one. The demand for firewood on popular trails is massive, and I’ve come to the conclusion that I won’t light a fire with public wood unless I’m freezing or my food absolutely needs cooking over a flame. It seems strange that funds intended for the conservation of national parks are excessively used to haul loads of firewood to the top of them, just so we can roast a sausage or two.

Yes, we humans can be quite silly sometimes.

The evening begins to fade into twilight here at this latitude as early as three o’clock in the afternoon, so it’s wise not to linger too long unless you want to trek back in the light of a headlamp. Enjoying hot coffee by the fire gives us the energy to ascend the snowy hills and slopes once more.

The moon peeks through the snow-laden trees as we crunch our way back, first to the top of Pikku Riisitunturi and then back down the slopes of Riisitunturi to the parking lot. The landscape is as beautiful as a painting, even though the sun has already left us.

November is not known for being people’s favorite month, and I’m no exception. It drains our energy with its darkness and leaves us trudging through the end-of-year rush and all sorts of worries alone. Even the anticipation of Christmas doesn’t really begin this month.

But the tundra wilderness is beautiful, calming, and relaxing even in November. The rest of the world becomes trapped once again in the confines of a parked car and a phone set to airplane mode.

What remains is the winter beauty of the fells, the blue twilight, and the silence.