Finding the Aurora Borealis in the Arctic: Part one
Excursion
As we come to our longest, darkest day in the Northern hemisphere, I am once again ruminating on the seismic shifts that have taken place since the last. Life has swung wildly away from all I thought I knew, and it’s all I could do to just to try and keep steady in the chaos whilst I’ve been working things out.
I believe that life is an evolution of cycles, big and small, daily and yearly, and even beyond that. It feels like I’ve been at the concentric point of many cycles all breaking and birthing at once, rippling and undulating into and out of life: some too fast to catch, others slowly, expansively, until I’m not sure where they begin and I end in the midst of it all.
Revelation.
This seems to be the theme for my winter solstices, and this year is no different. Since I’ve been writing on here, I’ve marked midwinter, and the revelations that have been brought by the revolutions in my life. I was on the cusp of the biggest yet, last year, but too tired and fragile after losing my dad to name it. I’ve been diligently working through it with the support of my therapist, so that here, a year later, I have accepted a new truth, and in doing so, found that elusive feeling of space I’ve forever been searching for.
It’s the strangest thing, amidst much upheaval: moving house (and all the challenges that brings), adjusting to life without my dad as some kind of ‘normal’, going on submission as an author for the first time, dreadful bouts of sickness, work stress… to find myself feeling an internal steadiness that’s never been there before. This latest revelation has, unbelievably, given me the ability to finally be still amidst chaos. A phenomenal gift, and one I was desperately in need of, for most of my life.
I realised there’s no better way to wave farewell to the dark, than to share this deeply personal story of catching the Aurora Borealis on a trip to Arctic Norway earlier this year, just as I was coming through this deepest revelation; so heavy, I was literally throwing myself into the light.
It’s taken me ten months to feel able to write about this jaw-dropping, bone-aching, heart-healing adventure in the Arctic, because I’ve needed to sit with the magic of it, and to let it just be mine for a while, before I share it. I’ve been feeling out that internal expansion, testing it’s strength, seeing if it holds. New things are fragile.
But it has held, and so, in the hope it might inspire you to chase your own light this winter, I’ve decided to share this incredible experience, to celebrate this solstice.
At the beginning of February this year, just a few weeks after my revelation precipitated, and in the raw midst of my Becoming, my husband and I decided to live our short lives with a wild fury, and booked a last-minute trip to Tromsø, hoping to fulfil my childhood dream of seeing the Northern Lights. I spent the week prior deep in rabbit-holes, researching where in the Arctic Circle to go, and how to have the best chances of seeing them. I quickly ruled out Finland, Iceland, and Sweden – all had their own magic to offer, but Norway made my gut ring a deep chime – and I always listen. Call it intuition, call it magic, or maybe it was the stories my dad told me about spending summer nights with his Norwegian friends, singing and playing guitars above the fjords, where his ship had docked below, some fifty years before. I just knew it was where we had to be. We booked four nights: Tromsø as our first and last, and a resort about an hour’s drive, for the middle two. Activities at the resort, including an Aurora-viewing night, and a van chase on our last night in Tromsø, just in case.
We burnt a hefty hole in our pockets stocking up on snow-boots, thermals, wool jumpers, hats, and gloves, and as our departure ticked closer, so my anticipation grew. We avidly watched the weather reports, a massive storm was due to hit just a couple of days before our arrival. We talked several times a day about whether we should bail, try again a bit later, though we’d lose money if we did.
Something deep inside was saying, Wait. Be patient.
Flying to the Arctic Circle is a joy that I cannot describe, and I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the pure-white land-masses rippling turquoise-blue and neon coral-pink in the light of the low sun beneath us. Every bit the picture from my childhood books, my dad’s deep, melodic voice ringing over my shoulder.
We arrived at Oslo airport for a quick changeover, chittering to each other like kids – we’re in Norway! After a short wait for our next departure, we were already standing waiting to board with the other passengers before it was announced that the layover pickup in Tromsø, on route to Alta, was no longer possible due to the storm. The chiming in my gut hardened, frozen with panic. Was my internal compass damaged?
After a couple of extremely fraught hours, which saw others turning back for home, we finally secured an early morning flight. We shared a pizza and crawled into bed, totally exhausted in the airport hotel, deeply sorry to not be in Tromsø to start our adventure, but entirely relieved to still be getting our chance.
We arrived at Tromsø airport the following morning to find twelve feet of freshly dumped snow on the roof, and still falling. The entire landscape was white. We quickly changed into our layers and snow boots to await our pick-up to the resort I’d chosen for the next two nights.
After an hour’s drive through banks of compacted ice, snow-topped pine trees and picture-book cabins against steel-grey fjords, we arrived in the utter stillness and silence of the fjord-side resort, to a picture of quintessential Nordic beauty. Our apartment, one of several adjoining red cabins, complete with pointed roof and balcony over the fjord, was cosy and immediately felt like home. We hurried over and opened the balcony doors to take giant steps into two-feet deep, fresh, powdery snow; our laughter peeling across the steely water, giant, fat white snowflakes clinging to our Fairisles.
My dad’s favourite songs greeted us when we arrived at the resort restaurant for lunch, ringing out over the duration of our meal, feeling like a big fat hello, I remember this place, you’ve made it.
Afterwards, we went up to the activity station, donning thick blue thermal suits for our first excursion. The most seasoned snowmobiler or dog-sledder couldn’t match my excitement as I readied for a trek up the hill through the forest to meet the resort’s resident Arctic Reindeer herd, loaned to them by the local Sámi herder. Such wonderful creatures, things of magic and mysticism in our world.
The walk up was something from a dream, only pine forest and snow, in any direction you looked. I hung back, walking slowly, feeling out the footsteps that have trekked this ground for thousands of years before my own. It’s not hard in this untouched and bracing beauty, to imagine what it felt like to be here back then, how life must have been absolute survival against the aching cold, no snowsuit to see you through.
The reindeer waited keenly, eyeing us, as we approached with our guide and the other couple who came with us. The reindeer meld with the snow, of course. They came over, ready for their feed, and I was astonished to find a young reindeer nuzzling eagerly at my arm. I reached out my hand and stroked his feather-soft, pure-white head before I’ve even thought about whether this it was okay. Our guide said it’s no problem, so off I go, crouching and chatting to them, tickling their heads and chins, telling them how happy I am to be here.
An hour later, we were huddled in our cosy Lavvu, big, soft flakes of snow curling blue through the hole at the top, only to fizzle and pop out of existence above the licking flames. Our guide made us coffee – the Sámi way – which he brewed in a pot, stuffing the spout with fresh pine needles, both to filter the grit and flavour the liquid. It’s divine. He showed us traditional clothing and cooking items, and we sipped our hot drinks from kuksa cups, the reindeer furs on the benches keeping our legs and bums warm. Only a small patch at the bottom of my back, against the skin of the Lavvu, felt slightly cold. I try to imagine sleeping in here sans snowsuit, and it makes me shiver.
Our guide demonstrated how to light a fire with feathered curls of birch bark, and a kupilska firesteel, lighting an impressive blaze each time. A hooded figure poked his head through our tent opening, the tip of a rifle above his reindeer-skinned shoulder, and our guide looked a little alarmed. The man, very old, but wiry and lithe, stepped in, calling to him and gesturing. Our Italian-English-Norwegian speaking guide manages to determine that he’s speaking Sámi – he is the herd-owner’s uncle, here to see a sick reindeer. Our guide leaves with him, and after a few minutes, I follow them into the blue light.
I watch as he deftly checks the animal, before they come back through the gate. On my approach, I ask the guide to help me to translate. We can only really use our gestures, but I find the piercing blue eyes under the thick, well-worn hood, and I feel the connection. I gesture to the reindeer, to feeding and stroking them, to the area around us, and I hold my hands over my heart, letting my expression show him what it means to me to be here. He searches my eyes, then a grin spreads wide as it translates. I point at myself, say my name, then point at him, tilt my head. He points at himself, grinning, “Isak-tur”. I repeat it, and my gesture of hand-on-heart. He looks at me, reading me, grins again. Then he tugs at the ancient loop of rope crossing his body, “lasso?” he points at me.
I am flushed with exhaustion and excitement from looping and throwing the lasso, just as he’s shown me, at a not-so-near fence post; when my husband and the other couple come out into the blue to see where we’ve gone. A layer of thick snow had bedded into the guide’s hair in the time it took us to get our lessons, which he generously and joyfully delivered. The dark had closed in when we said goodbye, and we waved him off by the red glow of our headlamps, into the shadowed trees to trek the many miles back to his herd and home; an arduous task even with his snowshoes. Our guide was beside himself with the encounter, the rarest chance, he says, to meet this ancient herder, still using the old ways, which he can barely believe.
On the way back to the resort, we passed the sled-dogs, calm, freshly back from a run. They really do look like wolves, with their piercing blue eyes and pointed ears. They listen intently when you talk to them.
Back at the resort, we burned marks onto antler fragments for our duodji, a traditional Sámi craft, to complete the day’s education. I opted for symbols of the moon and the divine feminine, imbuing what energy I had buzzing through me into the bone, as I sent out my gratitude for the day that’s been, and for the night that’s still to come.
Keep your eyes peeled for part two tomorrow! xx
it’s so nice to see joy flowing into your writing! I can feel your big grin as you describe your adventures 😁