I’ve started to look forward immensely to my muesli breakfasts. There’s something quite refreshing about them, compared to my usual oats. I sneak around outside and start to prepare the packet, and heat up some water for coffee.

I remember now that during the night I woke once to what I assumed was Antoine getting up to very loudly water the plants near my DuoMid for what seemed like an unnaturally long time. This is the first thing I question him about when I hear him shuffling around, but he denies it quite vociferously, with an indignant gallic harrumph. I’m sure I heard this though; perhaps we were visited at night by a very desperate reindeer. 

Today we’re aiming high, and hoping to be mostly above treeline. Yesterday’s slog through the wetlands was more than enough, and I remembered pointing out a very nice looking ridge from the top of Appistunturi. My plan is to mostly follow that towards Hammastunturi, so we stay out the mires and rock-strewn forests as much as possible.

There’s a quad bike trail following the river that leads to a reindeer station a couple of kilometres away, so we start the day following that to make the going speedy.

It’s not long before we find another dead lemming, feet up at the side of the trail. No dogs have passed this way recently, so that leaves death by exposure or some other predator. This lemming has a distinguishing feature that the others didn’t: a small bead of blood, glistening bright red on its mouth.

It’s not known why lemming populations decline after a few years to near extinction levels. (They don’t commit suicide though.) One theory relates their decline to the number of predators, but then why were these lemmings left uneaten? Recent studies suggest their demise is down to “the wrong type of snow” preventing them from scavenging for food in winter, but there’s been no snow yet, so that doesn’t entirely add up. Plus, “the wrong type of snow” sounds more like an excuse concocted by British Rail.

There’s another theory from 1969 that chimes nicely with the spot of blood on the Lemming’s lips though:

“The answer that is now emerging involves changes in the animals’ bloodstreams. Two California researchers, working independently, have identified a substance in the lemming blood that serves two purposes.

It acts as an “antifreeze,” enabling the lemmings to remain active throughout the winter in a climate that no other small mammal can tolerate without hibernating.

Yet it also acts as a population control, for it reportedly attacks the central nervous system, killing almost all members of a lemming population a certain time after a spell of warm weather. In that way the tundra is saved from total devastation and recovers to feed future generations of lemmings.”

I don’t know how much credence one should put in research from 1969, but it’s an attractive answer to one of the mysteries of Hammastunturi.

The couple of cold nights we’ve had seem to have triggered a dramatic overnight shift to autumn, as the berry leaves and trees are exploding into colour all around us. 

I stop regularly to try to capture the colours, but down here in the midst of it there’s almost too much going on. It’s hard to create a composition that isn’t too busy. I’m about to give up when a reindeer, just 10 meters away, decides to photobomb the shot. I try my best to include it in the scene, but it’s just another distraction.

Before long we reach the reindeer station — a loose collection of five or six old buildings the Sámi herders use during separations and other activities. 

Most of the huts are locked, but one is kept open as a kind of unofficial wilderness hut, I suspect. I think that’s very considerate of them. We take a look inside — it’s adequate for emergencies; some rolled up blankets hang from the roof, but the splayed out body of a decomposing lemming by the water bucket puts me off exploring any further.

After checking out the other buildings we follow the thinning quad bike tracks up to the top of Palopää. 

As we climb, we see the reindeer separation area and a handful of other huts off in the distance.

I wasn’t expecting much from Palopää, but it surprises me with some very nice views in all directions, such as back to the lake we stopped at yesterday (where we encountered the hunter).

…And ahead to the areas of marshland I hope we will be avoiding today. The route ahead seems pretty clear; up over the hills and around the distant lake.

On the map, however, I can see an area of indeterminate squelchiness between this hill and the next, but as there’s no option to avoid it, we’ll just have to hope for the best.

We stumble across a small stream and follow it down through a nice rock-strewn hillside, hopping back and forth across it to find the easiest path. We’re soon at the bottom, and can see that the area between the two hills is “a bit wet”. But I’m surprised to see a quad bike track snaking across the grasses, and figure if a heavy quad bike can make it across, it shouldn’t pose too much of a problem for a couple of ultralight hikers.

Sure enough, even though we roll up our trousers, the water’s only around 10 cm deep, which gives me hope for any similar patches of grassy marshland that we might encounter.

Next we have a quick trip up to the top of Korkiamorosto, a dwarf-birch topped hill that we’ll use to skirt around another lake before heading up to the open fells again.

It’s a nice gentle climb, and the ridge along the top meanders through sparse trees and spider webs. Very pretty.

We take the easiest route down, and again try to find a crossing through some wetlands. This time we’re not so lucky. What appears to be an obvious route ends up in a section of unpleasant-looking gloop, so we decide to backtrack and circle a bit higher around a seasonal stream.

By now I’m getting hungry. It’s almost noodle o’clock, but we decide to get up to the nice bits first. There’s an epic, Western feeling to the landscape, and we find ourselves performing an impromptu duet of the theme tune to Little House on the Prairie.

We aim off a little to head up into a treeless zone on the north side of Vanhapää, where we discover the hillside is covered in beautifully ripe bilberries and lingonberries. This is just what we need, so we rest for a few moments and enjoy nature’s bounty. 

We’re running a little low on water, and would ideally need to stop for lunch by a river or pond. Refreshed with berries, we decide to push on a little further over the first false peak of Jäkäläpää to a potentially nice spot — and it was a good decision. The wind has picked up on the tops, but the pond is on the lee side and out of the breeze.

Antoine tucks into his meat and cheese lunch while I prepare my well-deserved noodles. It’s a lovely calm spot, and we appreciate the rest.

As usual, the Fenix GPS track is way off, claiming we’ve walked 1.5 km. By now I’ve long given up trying to fix it, and put my trust in finding a solution once I get back home. Instead we’ll have to assess distance using the map and our level of tiredness. I think we’ve maybe done 9 km, but this little break has revitalised us. 

There’s only one more climb today, and it’s a gentle one to the summit of Jäkäläpää. On the way we get a view towards Hammastunturi, which we’ll traverse tomorrow as we start to head back. It still looks aways off, so we’ll have plenty more walking today.

Somehow, we accidentally stumble onto the summit when I go to explore what I think is an interesting ravine on the top. We’re treated to spectacular 360º views of Hammasjärvi lake and endless small hills fading into the distance.

We check in with our families in a rare moment of 4G coverage, then start to head down into the forest via the rocky south side. 

Suddenly, Antoine calls out excitedly, having made an unusual discovery.

There, in the midst of a rarely visited, steep hillside, he’s found a patch of chanterelles! At first I don’t believe him — in 15 years of living in Lapland, I never found chanterelles, and thought they were mostly found in the South. But he’s right, and we lament not having brought any butter, because they smell delicious.

I wish I was more of a mushroom expert. It confounds me how mushrooms appear in isolation like this. I can understand how they spread locally once established, but how does a chanterelle end up here, far away from any others? I suppose spores are just blown on the wind for hundreds of kilometers before falling to establish a new home. It’s a strange phenomenon.

We continue our descent through increasingly mountainous terrain. Large boulders block out paths, topped with the twisted shapes of dead spruce trees. It feels strange and ancient, and again a completely different landscape than expected.

Each time we navigate our way across a section of upheaved strata, we find another surprise… a small canyon… a series of hanging ponds… a sudden cliff… It’s a fascinating area that gives some variation to the predominant forest, mire and fell-top landscapes we’ve experienced so far.

Crossing this area takes time and care. We have to squeeze through small gaps, or hang on trees held precariously to the rock. It’s tiring, but stimulating — much more fun to have to think how to get across each section.

Then, out of the blue we reach an impasse — a deep canyon that we can’t possibly climb down. The only option is to head upstream to find a crossing point.

What a beautiful spot, though! We refill our bottles and clamber up the other side, and into a long stretch of pine forest — the nice kind with soft ground underfoot, and plenty of airy space between the trees.

Now we have to rely on the compass, GPS, and sun to keep heading in the right direction towards Hammastunturi. With only trees to look at, we take a bearing every now and then, but all-too-often find ourselves drifting slightly off course. I think perhaps this is because every time you adjust to move around a tree or other obstacle, you never quite hit the same mark. Either that or we have an innate tendency to veer slightly left or right. Even keeping an eye on the sun leads to wandering off course, but with regular checks we keep our heading true.

It would seem that, according to our theory, we now stink of wild things, as the reindeer venture ever closer without noticing us.

As we near the foot of Hammastunturi, I notice odd tree stumps that appear to have been felled manually rather than naturally. There’s nothing on the map to indicate the presence of any habitation nearby, so I wonder why the trees were cut down. Soon, we find the remains of an old reindeer fence. There must have been an old reindeer station here many decades ago. At least one mystery solved, then. Strange that nothing appears on the map though.

We’re starting to get tired. There’s a wilderness hut at Hammastunturi, at least according to the app map I’m using. It doesn’t appear on the printed version. But it’s another couple of kilometres further, and I secretly hope we find a nice place by a stream that we should cross shortly.

When we reach it, I’m not disappointed. It’s a lovely small river, banked by orange-tinted Robert Smiths.

After crossing, I take a quick run up the steep bank by the river, theorizing that we won’t have been be the first people to have stumbled upon this spot. My suspicions are proven correct, as  I immediately find a small fireplace and log seat, as well as some nice flat ground that’s just begging to have a tent pitched on it.

We both agree we’ll stay here. It’s the perfect end to a good day.

We bustle around putting up our shelters. The midges and sleepy mosquitoes are back, but somehow less irritating today.

I see lots of dry wood around, and figure today would be a good day to fire up the inferno stove, as the next couple of days have rain forecast.

After dinner, I suggest we go check out the wilderness hut for an evening stroll. At first Antoine doesn’t seem, that keen, but he agrees to go anyway with the promise that there is also the luxury of a toilet there, which will save us digging holes for a change.

We use GPS to find the hut, as the forest is think enough to make me not want to spend the night wandering around aimlessly.

When we find it… well… let’s just say it’s probably not on the printed map for a reason. It seems that Metsahallitus (the Finnish forestry organisation responsible for wilderness areas) has abandoned it to nature’s way. It had a distinctly spooky air to it, and the interior was more than a little run down. Much like the reindeer herder’s hut from this morning, I would have stayed in it in an emergency, but I’m glad we didn’t plan on sleeping there. It’s a bit too ‘cabin in the woods’ for my liking.

Sadly, the promised toiled had also mysteriously vanished. I searched for it, but at the GPS coordinates I only found a tree stump. So, digging it is then.

That night, after another 20 km, I sleep well — but far too warm. I wrestle inside my bivy, trying to remove layer after layer just to keep cool enough, ending up in just my boxers. Quite a difference from the first night.

We’ve agreed to wake a little earlier today as we’re starting the day with the climb up Hammastunturi, and ending it most likely in rain. We figured that if we start early we might avoid walking in a downpour.

Early morning climbs are not Antoine’s forté, but we take it fairly easy via the gentlest slopes.

We don’t even have to get very high before the views start opening up, but I have a growing suspicion we should enjoy them while we can.

Hammastunturi has four peaks, giving it a broadly ‘molaresque’ appearance, hence its name (Hammas = tooth). The climb to the first peak gets abruptly steeper as we near the top. After that, it flattens into an undulating plateau.

Not that we can see much of the peaks at this point…

The higher we climb, the thicker the clouds. I was secretly quite excited about this. I like the sense of ruggedness that being in the clouds brings. You feel like you’re high up; there’s a sense of achievement.

Going from peak to peak isn’t particularly difficult. There’s just enough visibility to see the general direction we need to be heading.

The clouds enhance the barren, rugged, windswept terrain, and we feel as if we are in a truly different, eerie place. We find the highest of the peaks, and stage a summit photo, with Antoine making a valiant attempt at man legging.

After this, we find ourselves stumbling around in the clouds for a bit trying to figure out which way we are going. The twisty path to the top has completely messed with my sense of direction, and foolishly I don’t check the compass before dickheadedly marching off in the completely wrong direction. When we reach a small pond that should be on the other side of the summit I soon realise my mistake.

Once we get back on track, we enjoy the splendid views as we slowly descend.

Well, we’re not long in the clouds. Things begin to open up again soon enough, and we can start to plan the route ahead: around that nipple!

Our afternoon aim was to get up and over Väskistunturi by skirting Portinpää (the above-mentioned nipple), and down into a valley between the fells.

The descent is fairly straightforward, but the rain arrives to put a damper on things.

We stop for lunch (noodles — surprise!) in a nice woodland area by the river in the valley bottom. Just as we light our stoves the rain launches a full assault, and we decide it’s time to don the waterproofs.

After lunch, and another stream crossing, we’re on our way up again. 

It’s clear, once we get to the saddle below the top, that heading to the summit would be a waste of time. It was good to get to the top of Hammastunturi in the clouds, but there’s little point in exploring the hidden, lesser peak of Väskistunturi, so we continue onwards.

The rain shows no signs of abating, but it makes no difference. We’re again treated to a new variation in scenery, as we wander through a rock garden that has a distinct Gethsemane vibe; a mist-shrouded sense of betrayal pervades the air, and I feel that events of a world-shattering nature might have taken place here, far in the ancient past.

With Väskistunturi behind us, we’ve turned westwards, and start heading towards the suspension bridge. We won’t get there today though. My shoulders start to ache and I realise I didn’t tighten the hip belt on my pack after I last took it off. No wonder I’m feeling tired. Today was supposed to be a shorter day, but I have to admit I’m feeling the kilometers.

We decide to camp on one of three hills – Kaarreselkä, Mustanpirtinvaara, or Grönholmenvaara – before the Kultula museum area. Each of the finger-like hills is shaped by a river that rolls down towards the Ivalojoki river. They all have areas that might make for potential campsites, but I’m keen to get as far as possible to make our final day shorter.

We head directly towards the first river, aiming for a point where there are no marshes to hinder us. I splash through the stream hoping to revitalise my feet.

Onwards and upwards through more spruce forest we go, towards the next stream, the Kaareoja. It’s easy going, but my goodness, I am getting tired.

We arrive at our crossing point, and find plenty of wetlands to navigate through. There doesn’t seem to be an immediately obvious path. The area is full of Robert Smiths, small streams, rock-topped tufts, and the occasional birch, which I hope indicates something drier.

At first it doesn’t seem too difficult. We jump from tuft to tuft, and eventually reach a rock oasis with four trees that illustrate the gradual transition to autumn.

Beyond the trees we run into another set of tufts between rivulets, and here my tiredness leads me astray. I stumble from tuft to tuft, each one collapsing under my weight. I throw out my poles hoping to get solid purchase but they sink into the gloop and I only just manage to save myself from falling in. 

Just as I’m thinking I’ll be glad when this is over, it’s over, and we emerge onto drier, more solid ground.

We move a little further, cross a small tributary, climb up a hill, and, lo and behold, stumble into another old camp with a nicely improvised log bench and fire pit. After 22 quite tough kilometres, I’m done. This will do very nicely.

It’s not that surprising to stumble across previously used campsites. The choices we make when selecting a particular route are choices that other people in the past also made, and there’s a certain inevitability that people will take the path of least resistance, and thus end up in the same places. Nevertheless, I am often surprised to find exactly what is needed at a given place in a particular moment. There’s something uncanny about it.

I’ve worked in game design, and I find myself oddly reminded of wandering around in an open world video game, and finding some aspect of a landscape that has been put there for a reason. Stumbling across this campsite put me in mind of wandering around in Red Dead Redemption II; that feeling that there is a huge open world or wilderness to explore, but that at the same time everything has been put there for you to discover.

After a while, I even start to question the placement of mushrooms and deadfall, undergrowth patterns, the sudden appearance of birdsong. Is all this still here when we move on? How many eyes have seen this place, from this angle? Is it all a dream?

I improvise a washing line to dry our wet clothes, and just as I finish hanging the last sock, it starts raining again. Some things never change, even in the wilderness.

We don’t talk much this evening. I think we know we’re getting to the end of the trip, plus the rain makes us retreat into our shelters early.

I’ve been rationing out my whisky, and hope to leave enough for tomorrow night, but I savour a small tipple as rain patters on the tent walls and drips down to the ground. 

The flies are with us again, but the rain disperses them a little. I drift off to sleep, imagining I’m participating in some enormous simulation; but I can’t be. The more time I spend in places like this, the more a part of the world I become. Sights, sounds and smells… everything feels more present here.

It’s morning, and there’s no more muesli. 

I’m not that thrilled with the idea of porridge, so I go foraging for something to elevate it above the mediocre.

The bilberries here are large and plentiful, and make an extraordinarily welcome addition — although I have to say that the cinnamon roll flavoured oats are not at all bad.

It stopped raining in the early hours of the morning, which makes breakfast more pleasant. We supposedly don’t have so far to walk today, so we’re taking it easy. We’re in no hurry to return.

Today, we’ll head towards the Ivalojoki and back to the Kultula museum area, then along the 12 km trail to Pahaoja. It should be easy going, and now we’ve eaten almost everything, our packs are nice and light (mine, at least, weighs about 6.5 kg now). So we’re almost skipping along!

As we cross the next stream, Antoine gets all excited about something.

“Look! There’s a live one!!”

I look in the grass where he’s pointing, and sure enough, I see movement. I scramble to get my camera out before it scampers off.

Lemmings are notorious for being loudly aggressive towards people, but this little one just seems curious. It happily obliges as I snap a few shots, and even looks up when I ask it to!

It’s extremely cute, and I immediately feel sorry for it, thinking about all the dead ones we’ve seen. Can I really abandon it to such a terrible fate? So I carefully pick it up, pop it in my chest pocket, and now we have a pet lemming at home!

No, of course I don’t do that!!

That would be an extremely bad thing to do. Don’t steal lemmings, people!

We let it go on its way, along the secret little path its made by the river. It’s nice to think there is at least one running around out there. 

It’s not the only live animal we see today. As we walk past an island of rocks in the forest, a bird suddenly bursts out of them – it’s a metso, otherwise known as a capercaillie. I’ve only ever seen one once before, so this is a nice surprise.

Startled, we move onwards, skirting around a contour line towards the big river. It’s not long before we hear it down in the valley.

Now, all we have to do is follow the top of the hill until we intersect the path leading up from the museum area.

We don’t realise that the path we find is the one we’re looking for at first, but we soon start to see familiar landmarks, and remember the place where we saw the silent granny picking berries.

Antoine wants to make a bet about the bicycle, but I’m so confident that it will still be there I say there’s no point. I mean, it has to have been taken there as part of the museum set decoration, right?

We descend the steep hill down to the huts, eager to check the bike situation. 

Guess what?

It’s GONE!

OK. So this is a mystery.

I’m dumbfounded. It makes no sense.

We head inside the hut to make lunch and check the bed for any mysterious sleeping bodies.

There are none. We are alone. 

We light to stove to try to dry some of our gear, and heat up water for lunch. The mystery of the missing bike gives us much to discuss during my final noodle delight.

I first question Antoine on the veracity of his observation of a seeping person in the hut. Het tells me that it could have just been a sleeping bag, but it looked like it was shaped like a person.

We know that there is no bike path or, indeed, any path other than the 12 km that starts at the top of 550 steps over the suspension bridge.

We also know that the “granny bike” had a basket, comfy saddle, and fully-pumped tyres, but it was not a bike suitable for riding that 12 km trail.

The bike was left at the hut, indicating that its owner knew that he or she could not ride it up the steep hill into the wilderness, so some knowledge of the area can be inferred. These facts would seem to indicate that the bike’s owner is somewhat local.

Moving on to the granny herself. (I’m aware that it is an assumption to call the older lady a granny, but this is not an important factor in deciphering the truth.)

Granny was picking berries and/or mushrooms. The presence of the basket on the bike suggests that said berries and/or mushrooms could be conveyed using the basket.

One question perplexes me: Why would anyone come to this area to pick berries? The forests around Lapland are full of berries and mushrooms. You don’t need to come to some bizarre unreachable-other-than-by-12-km-trail wilderness area to pick them. There must be another reason for picking them here.

Assuming there wasn’t in fact anyone sleeping in the hut, it is likely that it was Granny’s sleeping bag that Antoine mistook for a sleeping person.

OR, the sleeping bag was another person, and accomplice to Granny in her berry-picking shenanigans.

This leaves alternative methods of reaching the huts.

Other than the trail there are only two alternatives for reaching the area: canoe, or helicopter.

We put aside the theory that Granny is an ace helicopter pilot, as there was no evidence of a helicopter anywhere near the huts.

The Ivalojoki river is, however, one of the most popular canoeing rivers in Finland. I even read it is regarded as the only “real” canoeing river, that offers enough challenge for experienced canoeists. Is it possible then that Granny and her bike came by canoe? It seems the most plausible explanation, but questions still remain.

Taking a tip from Sherlock Holmes, we eliminate the possibilities, and remember that what ever remains, however improbable, is the answer.

1. The sleeping bag and bike belonged to Grandma, who is an expert canoeist, having lived locally for decades. She put her bike in her canoe, and paddled off down river, skilfully manoeuvring past the rapids with her bike barely wobbling on its kickstand, to the huts. She stayed for an overnight getaway and some prime berry picking in a place infrequently visited by other local people, and not known to those pesky international berry-pickers. She later canoed further down the river, and cycled home with her bounty.
   Remaining questions: What did she do with the canoe?

2. The same as (1), but the canoeing was carried out by her canoeing expert wilderness guide son/daughter, who carried on down river, and made arrangements to pick her up the next day on a repeat run.
   Remaining questions: if the canoeing son/daughter had the canoe, they would also have had means of transporting said canoe, and therefore why did Granny need the bike at all?

3. Granny walked there and stayed overnight just like everyone else. The bike is provided as a service to visitors to travel the short distance between huts. 
   Remaining questions: Well, why? And where was it when we returned?

4. The sleeping bag contained the body of an unknown cyclist, who sustained serious injuries attempting to carry a bike down 550 steps, and was subsequently airlifted out by Jan-Michael Vincent while we were hiking. We missed all the action.
   Remaining questions: Why was nothing about this incident written in the guest book?

5. Granny was a ghost, and the bike a spectral manifestation. 150 years ago she worked in the bakery but died when a mutant yeast strain resulted in a particularly aggressive loaf of bread. She now haunts the local hills, staring in silence at hikers as they pass by.
   Remaining questions: None, really.

With that mystery effectively solved (!), we can move on. I want to pop down to the riverside to see if there are any nice views, or canoes loaded with bicycles. And indeed there are (views, not bicycles).

It’s amazing how much the trees have changed colour in the last few days. Even under the grey skies, there’s a vibrancy to the landscape.

As I turn to leave, one solved mystery gives way to another as I spot two abandoned pike lying on a rock.

I don’t have any answers for this. I mean, you wouldn’t leave two large fish to rot on a rock, would you? But there was no-one else around, not even a ghostly apparition. I have to assume (with hope) that the fisher went off to fish elsewhere, but I couldn’t see anyone.

Having devoted enough time to unfathomable questions, we decide to make a move and head up the steps.

As we climb, I feel the first spit-spots of another raincloud, and I think we both feel tired as we doggedly struggle to the top. We pass a few Finns on their way to the huts, some carrying backpacks, some also with fishing gear. We exchange pleasantries, but it’s not the weather to hang around chatting. 

The spots of rain change into drizzle, and the drizzle to a more sustained downpour as I make one last call home to confirm that we are still alive.

I’m enjoying the trail much more this time. After the slow progress through untamed wilderness, the trail feels like a pedestrian superhighway that we can nip along, stopping every now and then to admire the colours and scenes that I largely missed on the way in.

It seems as if the ruska has entered some kind of psychedelic phase in some places, as pink and orange hues do battle with greens and reds. It’s almost too colourful for the camera, which can’t decide on a normal white balance anymore.

The 12 kilometres flow past, and before we know it we’re back at the Sotajoki river and Pahaoja gold-digging wilderness hut. Here, too, the landscape has been transformed into glorious technicolor.

I don’t want to camp in the same place twice, so we find a spot for the tents on the other side of the river this time. Our friends the midges return in force this time, to the point of maddening frustration. It’s been another 20.5 km, and it would be nice to rest without minuscule insects crawling all over you, under your watch strap, into your socks. There’s no escape near the tents, so we head to the riverside to wash our aching feet.

Antoine suggests eating in the hut just to get away from the flies, and I agree. It’s a smart idea, so we gather up the cooking gear and head for cover. 

Sadly there’s no wood left in the woodshed — something which receives mush sarcastic criticism and commentary in the guestbook. Honestly, what kind of over-privileged world do we live in? That people complain if enough free wood isn’t provided for them in the free wilderness hut that accommodates them for free. 

To make matters worse, I’m astonished when Antoine and I go in search of wet wood to cut and burn (admittedly with a little effort), we discover that some idiots have taken up floorboards from the restored woodshed and burned them in the fire! The tell-tale old-fashioned nails are still in the fireplace.

Civilization, huh? Well, never mind.

We pour our remaining whisky, and I’m happy to get a good kuksa—full as a reward for a jolly good hike.

We’ve done very well, I feel. It hasn’t been too tiring, and I feel I could easily stay out another couple of nights if I had any food left. By morning, though, I’ve eaten every single morsel of food, and I feel more than satisfied.

In fact, I feel replenished.

In the early morning lights as we begin the long drive home, we can see a little more of the landscape by the dirt track. Beside the road, just beyond the trees, we see lots of little caravans located near small craters. It takes us a while to realise these are all modern-day gold prospectors. The classic “gold pans” on their doors and mail posts give it away. 

It strikes me as odd that people still cling to the hope of finding a lasting legacy of gold. Dreams of untold wealth can be very persuasive, I suppose, even against all evidence to the contrary.

I’m fascinated by this lifestyle, much as I was with the lifestyle of the hunter we met in the wilderness. What must it be like to spend months, years even, digging and panning for that glimmer of hope? There’s something similar in fishing or hunting, too — the hope of landing a big fish, catching big game. The dream of finding something life-changing.

Then again, is it any different to seeking out that one special photograph that wins all the prizes (or, these days, garners the most likes). I suppose in some way we all seek some validating pot of gold at the end of some rainbow, never knowing if it’s really there, or if it will satisfy us.

Perhaps, ultimately, we don’t even want to find — or even know — what we’re looking for, because if we do find it, what then? 

If we have the answers, what’s left to wonder about?

Where’s the mystery in that?

      

Related Stories

• The Mysteries of Hammastunturi - Part 1
• A Tale of Two Summers
• Off the beaten track

 

After thirteen hours on the road, we’re finally nearing our destination – the Pahaoja trail head and entry point to Hammastunturi Wilderness Area – and it is getting cold. We’ve lost about 1ºC every 100 km, starting at 15ºC in Helsinki, and slipping down to a chilly 2ºC when we finally pull into the parking area.

It’s bracing to get out of the car; the cold pricks at our skin for the first time since last winter. I’m here with my old friend Antoine – this will be our third “real” adventure, following Muotkatunturi and the Three Borders. It’s been interesting to see Antoine’s backpacking experience  develop over the years. He’s excited now to have a lot of new lighter equipment to try out, and we’ve agreed that we’ll carry our own gear this time – no sharing of shelters – so he can see how (or of) everything works. 

Our breath hangs in the pools of light from the car as we change into our hiking cloths, set our poles, and hoist on the backpacks. We’re loaded up for five days in the wilderness, but travelling light. His pack weighs 14kg, while my trusty Huckepack comes in at 9.8kg, which I’m pretty happy with.

It’s 9:30pm, and nearly dark, but that’s OK. We planned to just walk 1km tonight down to the Sotajoki river, and camp somewhere near the Pahaoja Wilderness Hut. We’re already far away from everything – the final stretch of road was a potholed sand track through the heart of Lapland’s historical gold-digging country. But more on that later.

Right now, we’re only concerned with not falling over in the dark and putting up our shelters. We poke our heads in the hut and hear intense snoring. Not to worry, we have no intention of hutting it this trip, and quietly slip away. 

We find a nice spot for the tents next to the river; I love to fall asleep with the sound of the water running by. Antoine was wondering in the car if we’ll see any Northern Lights this time. It’s a little early in the year, but yesterday I did see someone post a photo with some weak aurora from somewhere up here. And lo and behold, as we sit sipping a well-earned, and very tasty chocolate bourbon stout, we see a feint glow in the sky. At first it isn’t much, but to our delight after half an hour we’re treated to a full colour display. 

I’m too tired to make a great effort at aurora photography, but I manage to prop the camera on a rock and get off a few shots.

When the lights go out, we head for bed. I’m a little worried that I’ll be cold, but I came well prepared. The weather forecast for the week ahead ranges from 2ºC at night to 16ºC in the afternoons, with rain and wind thrown in for good measure. I figured it would be better to pack for the cold than for the warm, so I wrap myself in multiple hats, layer on the layers, and slip into my GoLite Three Season Quilt (still going strong after all these years) which I’ve put in a bivy bag for additional protection from the cold. I tuck myself in, and hope for the best.

It’s morning, and I wake, cosy in my warm cocoon. I slept very well – I’m surprised that at no point was I cold. Not even a cold nose. This is a huge relief, as I now know I’ll at least be warm for the rest of the trip. And as an added bonus, fortunately at this time of year there are no mosquitos to annoy me (which is partially the reason for me not bringing a more extensive inner for the DuoMid).

I wake before Antoine and check out the surroundings. Finally I can see where we are – and discover there is a slight frost on the leaves and tent walls.

I explore the surroundings of the hut. Hammastunturi was at the core of the Lapland Gold Rush during the 1870s. It was here, to the Sotajoki and Ivalojoki River that people trekked for hundreds of kilometers to work for wealthy prospectors. At first, it was thought that the area would become the California of Finland, but it didn’t come too much. Only a few kilograms of gold were found, but I suppose you only need an ounce of gold for a nugget of hope.

Anyway, the wilderness hut here, along with the other buildings and machinery scattered around, were all part of the Sotajoki gold-digging efforts, so it’s a place with an unusual history, located in the middle of nowhere.

After a delicious breakfast, we make use of the facilities before heading off. (I’m disappointed to find an advert for a respected certain German ultralight backpacking brand stuck in the toilet. Tsk tsk, I think. The wilderness is no place for advertisements.) The first 12km follows the old gold trail that the workers took to the Ivalo RIver. It is the only trail we will see for the rest of the week, but it’s necessary as it takes us to a suspension bridge over the river, which would otherwise be impossible to cross (at least without a canoe or packraft). It’s an easy trail, leading through pine and birch forests, but not a particularly thrilling one. The 12 kilometers start to feel a bit of a drag before the good stuff starts. Nice, but nor really what I was hoping for. At one point we hear a dog barking, and a girl wearing noise-cancelling headphones speeds past, led by the dog, on her way to the Ivalojoki cabin. A little later, I almost tread on the cold corpse of a lemming.

Not much further along, we find another one.

We stop for a moment to wonder what happened. Did they die as a result of the cold night? Did the girl’s dog get them and leave a string of dead lemmings along the trail? Or was something more sinister afoot?

This is the first of several mysteries that will trouble us during the days ahead; strange occurrences that defy logic and reason. Surely these creatures with their furry coats would be capable of burrowing beneath the ground and hibernating for the winter? Why would they give up and die, and so close to the trail? So many unanswered questions… But we must move on. There is “good stuff’ ahead. We know this, because a little further along the trail there is a good lookout point from Patatunturi over the fells of Hammastunturi, where we will be heading once we cross the river.

From the viewpoint, we can see the ridge connecting Kehäpää, Pietarlauttanen, and Kivipää, our destination this afternoon. The grey granite open fells rise above the tree-line of the surrounding forests, baring themselves to the sky. This is what I’m looking for: several days walking across the tunturi (quick Finnish lesson: tunturi = fell), enjoying the views of vast open wilderness. The COVID-19 situation hasn’t restricted us from exploring the outdoors, fortunately, but still, I’ve been craving the open spaces and solitude for a long time. This is going to be a well-deserved break.

I use this opportunity to make a quick call home – there’s no cell phone coverage in the wildernesses, apart from spotty occasional reception on the hilltops, and I didn’t get a chance to let the family know we’d arrived safely last night. 

After that, I check my watch to see how far we’ve come, and am dismayed to see it only says 2 km. WTF? We’ve walked at least 6 km? How can it get it so wrong? Is Hammastunturi playing tricks on us?

No, I suspect it is down to a bad software update on my Fenix. After a few moments swearing at the dangers of Garmin’s incompetence in a wilderness situation where accuracy might actually be needed, we head onwards. 

The trail leads us down some steps to a small river, and I refill my bottle with fresh, clear, Lapland water. There’s another 4 km to the Ivalojoki, and this passes by slowly. The weather seems to be turning against us, too. I feel the first spots of rain.

Before long, we reach the edge of the canyon that leads down the the river. We follow a tip from Jouni Laaksonen’s rather good book on Finnish hiking, and check out a nice view along the river

We tread carefully down the 550 or so wet steps leading down to the suspension bridge. I’m excited that we will be heading off trail soon, and eager to get moving, but we both feel the need for lunch before we head off into the unknown (ooh-ooh, ooh-ohh).

After crossing the bridge, we explore the Kultula museum area - a collection of old gold mining operations buildings that have been renovated. There is an old office building and bakery that would have served the workers. There are also two converted wilderness huts.

It’s interesting to see and feel the history of the place, and to have walked in the footsteps of history along the gold trail. We check out the wilderness hut, and Antoine finds another sleeping body, so we decide to leave them along. 

I find it a little odd that someone would be sleeping at 11:30am (I mean, seriously?), but whatever. We set up our stoves near the campfire area and I eat my noodles in the rain.

The mystery of the sleeping person in the hut is compounded somewhat by our discovery of a bicycle – with fully pumped tyres, a comfy saddle, a basket and a pump – leaning against the hut. It’s not a mountain bike, but more of what you might call a Granny Bike or city bike. Its presence here is, frankly, incomprehensible. There are no trails leading along the river, let along bike paths. The only way to get a bike there is to carry it down the 550 steps, and back up again when you leave. The 12km trail is in no way suitable for a bike of this type, rutted as it is with rocks and roots, and there is little or no use for a bike in the area where the huts are located.

It makes no sense whatsoever.

But we have no time to ponder the mystery of the granny bike. Time to move on – and up! 

I know from the map that there is a small trail leading up the steep hill behind the huts. It doesn’t go far, maybe a few hundred meters, but it is enough to help us up the hill before we start bushwhacking our way through the forest.

Miraculously, just as I think we’re away from everyone, we bump into a lady picking berries or mushrooms. I say hello as we pass, but she just stares at us. It occurs to us later that this lady is possibly the owner of the mystery bicycle. I mean, it still doesn’t make any sense, but it’s one possible explanation. The bike was very much the bike of an elderly berry picker. I can imagine her taking her berries down and plopping them in the basket before riding home. What I can’t imagine is her hauling said bike laden with berries up 550 steps and juddering along 12km of root-riddled singletrack. But Finnish women are tough. Anything is possible. And I have no other explanation.

Once we lose the trail, it’s time for the map and compass to come out as we head upwards towards a small hill where I hope we can get a better idea of our surroundings. Navigating through thick woodland is not my idea of a good time, so I’m keen to get to more open territory.

Soon, I seen a more open area and we clamber up the rocks to take a look.

The rain has decided to make a good go of it, but in the distance I see some potential for clearer weather. I can also see the ridge we saw from the other side of the valley, and we discuss the best way to get across to it.

It doesn’t look too problematic, although I see from the map that the lower-lying areas hide some forest wetlands that I’d rather avoid. We head off into the dwarf birch, and weave our way around the wetlands until we start climbing toward the ridge.

The rain is really trying to get us wet now, but we persevere through thinning trees. Slowly, we’re able to see more and more of our surroundings. We look back at the route we’ve taken, and see the mean looking weather that harassed us.

But up ahead, the clouds break over the open felltops. I think we’re through the worst of it.

As the clouds break, we’re treated to a spectacular rainbow that lifts our spirits.

The other end of the arc is still mired in darkness, but the dappled light that paints the hilltops offers us promise. Perhaps, somewhere down there at the end of the rainbow there really is a pot – or at least a nugget – of gold. We don’t need it though – all the gold we desire is up in the sky and burning a hold in the clouds. The further and higher we go, the clearer it gets, and those fantastic tunturi views open up before us.

I’m not a big one for “summiting”. Photographically speaking, they offer the least interesting compositions; much better to be a little lower and have the summit in the picture, than stand on top. But there’s something so be said for heading up high – or at least relatively high. At around 500 m, these fells are no skyscrapers.  But then there’s context, and the context here is the high-latitude, high-alpine environment, so 500 m feels a lot higher than it is, compared to, say, the Alps. 

I send Antoine up ahead for a dramatic mountain man photo, then follow him up to take a good look around myself.

It’s an impressive vista. I feel, not for the first nor last time, grateful for these wilderness areas in Finland. There is a heightened awareness in these places of being spectacularly alone. I look out for kilometer after kilometer, knowing that it is highly unlikely that anyone else is there. It’s just us and the reindeer now.

It’s getting late now. About 6 pm. That’s “wilderness late” when the sun sets at 8:50pm. We look at the map to figure out where we might camp. 

Up past Kivipää there are some lakes, one on the east side, and a couple north-west. But I’m feeling a little tired, and they’d add another 4 km or so. 

I’ve been trying out an app for assisted GPS location, and take a look for some greater detail. The printed map I have sorely lacks detail for such an area (I really don’t understand the point of this; a decent scale map is needed). I don’t, if at all possible, want to walk 4 km to a lake to camp and find only unpitchable waterlogged wetlands, and then have to hike another 5 km around the hill to the next water source. 

Zooming into the downloaded map, I notice a couple of small ponds on top of the tunturi, and I suggest we check those out on the way. Perhaps they’ll be large enough to meet our extensive demands for water for one night.

It’s closer too, just a couple of kilometers, and the weather has completely changed now too sunny. 

It’s easy going over the smooth rocky hiltops, and as we close in on the Kivipää pools we find small flowing streams between them – always a good sign as it indicates they are spring fed.

The location is quite idyllic. It’s rare to find a place like this on top of the tunturi, and even rare to have calm weather. The wind by now has dropped completely, and the pools, when we find them, are mirror calm.

It’s an easy decision: we’ll camp here for the night. There’s just enough soft ground to pitch the pyramids, the water is clean and clear, and the views are out of this world.

We pitch the shelters with the doors open to make the most of the wide open vistas. The sun is setting behind us, but in the morning we’ll get the sunrise to wake us.

It’s a lovely evening, and the perfect end to the day. We’ve walked 26 km (although my “trusty” Garmin Fenix insists it’s 10). We relax with a small kuksa of whisky, as is required at the end of a good day’s walking.

After dinner, we take a little walk around, exploring the top of the fell to get a sneak peek at tomorrow’s route. The twilight is moody and evocative.

With the sun now gone, we wait, hoping for another display of aurora, but apart from a thin white arc across the sky, we see nothing as spectacular as the night before. 

As we sit chatting, Antoine notices two bands of light appear on the horizon, far away over the hills. “What’s that?” he asks.

“Hmm. I don’t know… Maybe it’s Ivalo Airport?” In Rovaniemi, at least, the runway would light up when planes came in to land, so I thought perhaps this was the same as it was vaguely in the direction of Ivalo. 

I grab the camera to take a closer look, and after a second or two I realise…

It’s the Moon!

What kind of luck were we having? To get northern lights on the first night, and a full moonrise on the second, cast in a saturated orange light, like an eerie fire on the fells. Fantastic!

I slept well again that night. It wasn’t as cold, but the wind picked up in the early hours and woke me by flapping the DuoMid walls. By morning we’re enjoying a decent 8 m/s breeze that makes lighting my alcohol stove a near impossibility. With no natural windbreaks, the thin walls of the TiTri don’t provide enough protection to stop the flame from blowing out all the time. Luckily Antoine had his JetBoil, so I didn’t need to faff around with Esbit. All I need is coffee anyway, as I’m on museli breakfasts this time.

Even with the wind, it’s still a beautiful morning. There’s mist drifting through the valleys where the wind is obviously calmer, and the air cooler.

Once packed, we make out way to the top of Kivipää to check the map and visualise the route. I can see that there’s a lot of mire and wetness in the valley we need to cross today, It’s inevitable that we’ll get mired (ho-ho) in it, but we try to plan a route that avoids as much as possible.

In the landscape below us, the clear yellow patches are the areas to avoid, while the dark, reddish, mostly treeless areas should, in theory, be fairly easy to traverse. But there’s one strip of yellow that runs behind the next hill that we’ll need to figure out a way around. We’ll just have to see what’s hiding behind the hill.

The way down follows a charming little stream, and I make a mental note that this would be a perfect place to camp if I ever return here. There are plenty of flat pitching sites, and the water looks refreshing. One pond even tempts me for a swim, but I fear the water will be terribly cold, and chicken out.

It isn’t long before the stream flattens out and transforms into wetlands. The trademark Robert Smith tufted tussocks that fill the valleys here make unstable stepping stones, and each time I feel a little guilty for standing on his head. Sometimes they hold firm, but others fold under our weight sending us toppling sideways, relying on our poles to save us from faceplanting the black goo that runs between them. I’m glad I have my LT4 poles with me – I almost didn’t bring them, but in this terrain they prove invaluable.

Almost as soon as I think that, one pole gets stuck in the goop, and snaps as I try to wrench it free. It’s nothing some duct tape can’t temporarily fix, but I’ll need to consider getting a replacement. They’ve been good to me, but the adjustment mechanism has proven to be a weak design over the years. But more of that in a later gear analysis post.

A bird of prey soars above – a Rough-legged Hawk – checking us out, it seems, as it flies directly overhead, probably scouting for a tasty Lemming.

We’re trying to get across the the saddle between the twin peaks of Hentun Matin pää, as a means of getting to two lakes, Kiertusjärvi and Appisjärvi. But as I suspected, the lowlands below the peaks are a maze of marsh, mire, and wetland. We’re forced to keep adjusting out course northwards until we eventually find a route across.

Suddenly a flock of Snow Grouse burst from the ground. They always leave it to the last moment, and you never have any idea they are there until they surprise you by launching en masse from their camouflage. It all happens too quickly to get a photo, which is a shame – they’re nice birds.

Once on the saddle, we make a quick visual check of the next part of our wetland adventure. There’s more of the same, but it doesn’t look quite so bad. My feet are wet anyway by this point, so it doesn’t really make any difference. 

We thrash our way through dwarf birch woods again, avoiding the rocks that lie just beneath the surface, making the terrain difficult to walk over. It’s slow going – but I’m pretty sure we’ve walked more than the 1.5 km my stupid Garmin tells me we’ve walked. My legs tell me it’s more like 6 km, and I start to feel the need for noodles. 

We agree that we’ll stop for lunch by the second lake, a convenient place to rest before heading across more mire and up onto Appistunturi. 

Finally, after much thrashing, weaving, and dodging, we make it to Kiertusjärvi, the first lake.

I’ve noticed that most lakes in Finland have circumnavigating trails that typically don’t appear on maps. It’s hardly surprising. Show people a lake and they’ll walk around it. Walk around it enough time over the millennia and you’ll make a trail. We find one such trail around Kiertusjärvi and make use of it to quickly find our way to Appisjärvi. This is a much larger lake, complete with its own island, and, we find, it even has a nice little beach that looks like a perfect place for lunch.

First, however, we must cross the stream that flows out of it. It’s a pretty little thing, and rather than spend an age searching for stepping stones to cross the deeper  section, we decide to cross it “manually”. Antoine takes his boots off (to be honest, with the amount of holes in them, I have to wonder why), while I perform the “wet foot method”.

I’d actually been looking forward to doing the for the last kilometer or so. The water is deliciously cold, and soothes my hot and aching feet. Lovely!

Once across (actually, I go back and do it again for photographic documentation purposes first) we make our way to the beach and start to prepare lunch.

Just as I’m about to tip the noodles into my pot, out of the blue we hear a voice.

“Hello!”

What??? I look up, and yes, there’s a guy in camo gear and his dog walking toward us! The chances of us bumping into another person out here are incredibly small, but to find out that he was my long-lost Romanian cousin from my first marriage was beyond inexplicable!

And, of course, completely untrue.

He’s a young Finnish guy from Ivalo, out hunting Elk and waterfowl. But anyway, what are the chances of bumping into anyone out here? Pretty much nil, but here he is. We chat for a while. He’s clearly as surprised as we are to meet anyone, and probably more surprised to find them to be an Englishman and a Frenchman. He seems an interesting chap, and I admit I’m a little jealous of his lifestyle, spending weeks at a time roaming the wilderness, hunting. My only problem is I don’t eat meat, so hunting is a bit of a problem for me, but I can see the attraction, and I’ve aways thought that if you are going to eat animals, you should at least catch them, kill them, and prepare them yourself. (I could start ranting here about factory farming, but I’ll save you the horror stories for another time).

Our young friend continues on his way, and I wish him good hunting. His dog, a very well trained (and surprisingly small) German Shepherd runs off alongside him, and I feel a pang of loss for old Rufus. 

But bubbling noodles soon snap me out of it.

The lake looks clean and enticing, Antoine strips and walks in. He settles for a dunk and a wash, and soon afterwards I decide I could use the refreshment also. The water is freezing cold and shallow, so a swim is out of the question, but a quick, bracing full-body splash freshens the body and sharpens the mind. 

From the lake, we begin a slow ascent to the saddle of Pistoolivaara (Pistol Hill? The mind boggles as to the story behind that one). Guess what? We’re soon squelching our way through a hanging bog, seeking out the driest possible path. This takes us via a very circuitous route between islands of trees, and slowly upwards to a distant stand of birch. It’s a little tiresome to be led so out of the way. Every time we think we’re getting there, another problematically wet area would surprise us, and force us to go around again. But eventually, we find drier ground.

On Pistol Hill I hear a strange singing. Delicate cheep-cheeps between the branches. I can’t see it easily, but a small movement reveals it to be a bird.

Perhaps a Tree Pipit? I don’t know.

Enough birdwatching. We have a climb ahead of us. Today has been a bit too much down in the marshes. I’ve been missing the views from the tunturi, so I’m happy to be heading upwards again.

I’m not sure Antoine was so happy about it, but he wasn’t far behind.

The top of Appistunturi is quite barren and windswept. We duck down behind the summit cairn to get out the wind and scoff a couple of snack bars. It seems we won’t be camping up high tonight, so what are our options?

We check the map. There are a couple of ponds ahead, a few dozen meters below the top an a secondary peak. That’s possible, and would afford us some nice views. Beyond that, there’s a river down at the bottom that would work as plan B. 

I scope out the terrain with my camera – the ponds look a little exposed, but I favour staying high for the scenery. We agree to head over there and see what we find.

The landscape changes as we descend into more alpine-like terrain. Granite shelfs tumble down, creating a rugged escarpment. There’s something tough that comes, I suppose, from the exposure to relentless winds. When we find the small ponds, they are clear and rocky, formed in the arms of granite ledges. The whole area is strewn across several shelves at varying heights, each draining into the next. It’s quite dramatic, and would be a cool place to spend the night, were it not for the wind. 

We search back and forth some more, hoping to find a sheltered spot, but there’s really nothing that isn’t exposed to the prevailing winds, and the rocky terrain would it problematic to pitch. 

A bunch of reindeer approach from below. They seem less bothered by us now, and Antoine reminds me of our suspicion that we smell more ‘natural’ to them after  a could of days trudging through the wilderness. It’s certainly noticeable that they come closer than before.

With no promising pitching spots, we give up and head down to the river that runs to along the north-east flank of the hill. I’m a little disappointed; the views are subdued and interspersed with dwarf birch, but you can’t be too picky.  We’ve walked 20 km today, but it feels like more. We’ve walked enough. It’s a pretty enough place, there’s no wind, and the river is kind of twee.

But there’s another catch. The temperatures are no longer anywhere near cold – in fact at around 16ºC I start to feel uncomfortably warm. And with warm temperatures and no breeze comes another problem.

Normally, I’d say that around this time of year you don’t need to worry about mosquitoes and other little annoyances, but almost as soon as we had taken our packs off, we were unexpectedly inundated: not with mosquitoes – there were a few, but they had mostly forgotten their raison d’etre (that is, to suck, literally) – but with polttiaiset, tiny little gnat-like buggers that crawl under your sleeves, collars and socks, tickling as they go. Then they lurk, unseen, in the tiny hidden crevices, before going on a late-night biting spree which you only a day later as you scratch yourself until you bleed. My yellow DuoMid seemed to attract them as the inner apex was covered with them.

Ah, the joys of Lapland.

I thought maybe they’re just hanging around near the river, and looked for another place to move the shelter a little higher up the hill. For a moment it seemed as if we were blissfully alone, but as we sat eating dinner to assess my potential new spot, they quickly joined us.

At this point I’m too tired anyway to be bothered with taking down the tent and re-pitching it, so I decide I’ll grin and bear it. Fortunately, my Katabatic Birstlecone bivy bag has a bug net, so I know I won’t be bothered that much – I’m just not keen on the net being near my face.

As I crawl in the bivy bag, I notice that there are less flies anyway. Maybe the cold has scared them off. There are a couple of mosquitoes still clinging to the inside wall, but they won’t bother me.

The sound of the gurgling river drowns out Antoine’s snoring and soothes away all other minor irritations.

Before I know it, I’ve slipped away into sleep.

      

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• The Mysteries of Hammastunturi - Part 2
• A Tale of Two Summers
• Off the beaten track

 

Looking back over a year – even relatively normal years – it always seems impossible that so much could have happened. Scrolling through image libraries reveals events that somehow slipped out of mind. “Oh, yeah, we did that, didn’t we?!” But this year, the events of last summer seem a lifetime ago.

Last year I was mostly preoccupied making a new film about climate change and endangered birds. We travelled a lot to film in Austria, Germany, and Italy, following the Northern Bald Ibis from its birth to being hand-raised by humans.

Weird-looking birds, but the more time we spent with them, the more we got to know their individual characters. The birds were critically endangered for many years, but a conservation project stepped in to help them re-learn their migration routes, so they could move from Germany to warmer wintering grounds in Italy, and have a chance at reestablishing wild colonies.

It was an exciting project to follow and film. We got to film in a lot of new and unusual situations, including flying with the birds in a microlight.

The human foster parents live with the birds full-time so that the birds imprint on them , and will follow them when they fly in the small aircraft. They then lead them over the alps to Italy, and once there they are able to return on their own having learned the route. The next year, the birds make the journey alone.

Most of the filming was done by our DOP, but I took the change to take a flight after the filming was complete. It was one of the most hair-raising experiences of my life – and I don’t have much hair. Sitting under a delicate wing and held in by a seatbelt as the microlight banked at insane angles to rise and turn was stomach churning, but thrilling.

During some of the other trips I got to make some small excursions into the mountains around Salzburg. It was great to be among the peaks again, even if only for a brief moment. There’s a huge temptation to return for more one day…

When filming was wrapped, we had a week to spare before another event, and as we were near Switzerland, we took the chance to visit relatives. We’d been promising to visit for 20 years and never got around to it, because, well, it’s Switzerland ($$$). But this time things worked out.

Minna’s cousins have set up one of Europes biggest climbing centres near Zurich, and were keen to show it off. I’d always wanted to try climbing, but never got around to that either. To be honest I thought I wouldn’t enjoy it much – all that upping and downing, when I’m more into walking and moving onwards – but I was pleasantly surprised at how much fun it was.

That’s me up the at top!

After that, and much Bircher Müseli, we got a chance to go to the mountains again. André, our host, drove us out to a nice hike. He’s getting on in years (in his late 80s I think) but he still likes to hike whenever he can. These days he sticks to the easier walks, and send us off on a ridge walk in Stoos.

There were predictably spectacular views.

And after that, on our surprise grand tour of Europe, we headed to Samos to show one of our earlier films in an exhibition about the Meditterranean.

I mean, I love Greece. I know it’s a bit of a British cliché, but if I could go there every year I would. I just love the islands. Great food, warm water, throw in some art and I’m happy.

Back home, we threw ourselves into months of editing and working with our composer on the soundtrack for the new film. (Oh,I almost forgot an additional quick visit to London and Margate for another festival.) With just a few days to spare before the premiere, I made a overnight trip to Lapland to finalise the edit and reacquaint myself with some familiar landmarks.

The premiere was a success, but the Tampere Film Festival after that was even more successful. To Teach a Bird to Fly won one of Finland’s biggest film prizes, and was nominated to go on to compete in the European Audience Awards.

Well done us! See, this is what I get up to when I’m not able to go backpacking. Now you know.

And then everything changed.

Suddenly, like a sci-fi film, in words it feels weird to type, the world was stopped by a global pandemic. All the talk about how it would be impossible to avert climate change by reducing international travel and reducing production was proven wrong almost overnight. It was possible… people just don’t really want to do it unless there are direct and measurable effects on their immediate health. Funny that.

So the world became a little bit smaller. Most of us retreated into our homes, and led more sheltered lives. Some countries had it worse than others (we’ll leave the discussion of the politics of those worse affected countries for another time). Some people were found to be better at adhering to the rules and guidelines than others. But all in all, I think there was a period of reflection.

(See what I did there?)

On top of all that, our beloved Springer Spaniel, Rufus, reached the end of his trail. He’d been getting markedly older over the last couple of years, with increased ill health, and a decreased appetite for walks. With his eyesight, hearing, and ultimately legs failing, we knew we couldn’t let him go on any longer. We’d been putting off the decision to let him go for probably too long, and then one weekend it became clear that he’d had enough.

I’ve written elsewhere about the silence that followed, and it’s still with us. There’s an emptiness down by my side where a dog used to be. But he was a good boy. The best.

Thankfully, lockdown in Finland wasn’t as strict as in some countries. We were still able to get out riding, kayaking, and hiking with reasonable limitations.

I turned 50 and treated myself to a new road bike in lieu of any kind of party (not that I’m much of a party animal), and as usual sea kayaking around Helsinki offered plenty of opportunities for socially distant activities.

As things calmed down, the country tentatively opened up again just in time for summer. All things being euqal, this was pretty lucky. The first wave of COVID-19 restrictions hit during the time of year when you want to stay inside anyway. Luckily the summer respite allowed us to spend some time in a summer cottage and on car camping tours down to Hanko (Finland’s southernmost point on the mainland) and around Lake Saimaa.

I even bought a new family tent for the purpose, going with an ever reliable Vango tunnel tent. No reason to go ultralight here - I was more focused on usable vestibules for rainy days and darkened sleeping areas for the midnight sun. The one I chose was pretty good, although one wall did have a kind of “sail effect” in high winds.

As for “proper backpacking”, in the last couple of days before school started, I took Enni off to Nuuksio again for a couple of nights. We agreed to increase the nights out by one per year, so by the time she’s 13 or 14 we’ll be up to a week for some longer stuff. (I know, I know… some of you go on 300km hikes with your 4 year olds. Sorry, I’m not you.)

We headed to a remoteish campsite at Vääräjärvi for the first night. There was one guy there in a hammock – hammocks are a big thing here now – but nobody else. The water was warm and I was able to introduce Enni to the joys of “wilderness” lake swimming. Even after the temperatures dropped during the night to 10ºC, the water was still 18ºC in the morning, and just begging for us to take a morning swim. It was delicious.

After packing we made the next extreme trek – a whole 5km! – to another campsite on Urjo lake. It may have been a short walk, but it was exciting, with leaps across raging rivers and scullying along cliff edges adding to the adventure.

The campsite was a little nearer to a road about 1km away, and therefor a little busier. At one point a bunch of teenagers arrived, and I dreaded a repeat experience of a previous night in another part of the park, with drunken shouting and bad music, but I was pleasantly surprised by good behaviour, respectful silence, and no music. It wasn’t as nice as the first night, but it was still very pleasant.

Heading back to the car was even shorter, but we’d enjoyed some nice time together, and I think Enni is really taking to the hiking/backpacking experience now. It’s very different to how it was a couple of years ago. There’s less fear of the unfamiliar. I look forward to some bigger adventures in a few years with her.

Being outside whetted my appetite for a longer trip of my own. Plans are being made for a week in Lapland at the start of September… I just have to hope that I can get it in before we enter a full-blown phase two lockdown, which I sadly suspect is somwhat inevitable. But until then, I’ll keep making plans, and looking forward to the next adventure.

      

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