The cold air bites at any skin I’ve left exposed, stripping the warmth from my body and leaving me breathless. Arctic winter; there is something incredibly singular about it. Snow-covered landscapes engulfed by silence, wide open space everywhere I turn.
Before now, the wilderness had not called to me. In fact, it terrified me. It was so far out of my comfort zone, the mere thought made my heart race. My previous travels, more often than not, had taken me to the bustling cities of Southeast Asia or the familiar coastline of Cyprus, the home country of my grandparents. Whilst the cities and beaches will always have a place in my heart, I found myself craving something different.
December days in the Norwegian wilderness are short. The sun meekly peers over the horizon, waving a brief ‘hello’ before retreating to its slumber. I strap on my snowshoes, reminiscent of those used centuries ago, to distribute my weight over the snow and to move more easily through the deep powder. As I take my first step, around 7pm, I look to the inky skies. My eyes dart around taking in the unfamiliar setting, adjusting to the darkness. Only the crunch of snow underfoot disturbs the stillness of the polar night, each step echoing into the vast expanse.
It is a bizarre sensation, as if learning to walk again. I listen to my guide’s advice: shoe tips up, a wider stance and keep your knees relaxed. It takes a lot of concentration and internal berating to stop myself from trying to walk ‘normally’, almost tripping over my abnormally large ‘feet’ once or twice.
Every step feels deliberate. The rustling of my gear amplified by the quiet. The snow, illuminated by my headlamp, sparkles like a field of diamonds. There are no sounds of traffic, no distant hum of people, just us, the snow and the dark sky above. It is the type of quiet that makes you hyper-aware of every breath and every sound. I find my gaze drifting upwards, hoping for that coveted glimpse of the northern lights. Nothing yet.
We stop to catch our breath. Our guide lights a bonfire to warm us up. I feel exhausted, but exhilarated. This is my greatest challenge to date, testing my endurance and resilience. Any aches I’d felt before pale in comparison. My lungs yearn for warm air, unaccustomed to this bitter cold.
A much needed hot drink and snack refuels me, preparing me to carry on. With the bonfire extinguished the sky feels oddly darker than before, my headlamp barely piercing its veil. With aching legs, I continue to plough through the powdery snow. The welcome warmth of the fire is a distant memory as the cold starts to seep back in.
After hours of trekking, a wave of tiredness hits me, the cold stiffening of my joints a contrast to the burning in my muscles. My hope of seeing the northern lights diminishes with each step. My guide suddenly points to the horizon. A faint glimmer starts to appear. The Aurora Borealis is making itself known, growing brighter with each passing second. A wave of emotion passes through me. Standing there, in the middle of Arctic winter, surrounded by nothing, I feel small. A miniscule player in a world that is beautifully and purely innate. Yet in my insignificance, I am happy. Happy to just be present, to be there in the moment, to fulfil my role as a spectator of this spectacular display.
I realise this is my first real understanding of quiet beauty, of how still and beautiful the world can be, even in its coldest moments, weathering the harshest of climates. I have never been further from my daily life, or connected to nature in such a way that heals the mind and soul, leaving me longing to return.
The Norwegian wilderness – where I become content with my place in the world’s rhythm. In the space and the silence, I find the stillness I never knew I needed.
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