Finding the Aurora Borealis in the Arctic: Part Two
Chase
My bones only have a brief few hours of respite after dinner, before we’re donning the suits and heading out into the snowy night for another walk up the hill, this time to the viewing camp, up quite a way past the lavvu, and around onto a wide, frozen lake backed by more snow-covered hills. Instead of repeating our intimate, silent trip from earlier, this one is with about twenty others, chatting hopefully, scattering glistening beams across the snow as we climb.
The clouds from today have cleared, I can see bright, sparkling stars above us. I shout the constellation names to my husband as I spot them, each one signalling that we are not in vain, we must keep believing.
After about twenty minutes, a haunting howl drifts around us: the sled-dogs have been set-off by something and are keening into the night. The sound is deeply eerie, and every bit the sound of wolves. We’re lagging behind; my exhausted legs fighting with this steep, snowy incline for the second time in just a few hours, whilst the red headlamps criss-cross way ahead over the distant slope. The chilling howls keep us company all the way to the camp.
A camera has been set up on a platform where a fire has been lit, surrounded by more reindeer-skinned benches. There’s another little tented area with another fire, tables, and hot chocolate and biscuits. We’re prepared to wait a while.
We get chatting as we sit by the fire, trying to stave off the cold that’s slowly seeping through our gloves, only to speak to another Scottish couple – one of whom is a seafarer who grew up in our hometown, my dad’s before mine. This is their third trip to catch the lights, they aren’t hopeful, and they leave tomorrow.
We go out and take photos of the stars, and I sing Wild Mountain Thyme to the night. It’s been three hours, and they say if they haven’t appeared by midnight, the usually don’t. Shortly after, when we’re heating our bones by the fire again, a cry outside calls us from our stupor, and we all rush out.
Something is wisping overhead, milky-white, fizzling. We hold our breaths, this must be the start of something.
Slowly, surely, the white intensifies to green, and the separate ‘folds’ come faster and closer together. Within minutes, the dancing ladies are stretched out across the lake, flowing from north-south. It feels like a kiss from beyond – I can understand how these shifting lights were (and in some cases still are) revered as the dead returning. They are friendly, aweing. We wait long past midnight, catching a second, better wind.
I am made.
This moment – if this is all I get of it, this will last me a lifetime.
We trudge slowly, filled with wonder, keeping some distance behind the other few people who stayed on, all of us trickling back to the resort. There is no moon, only stars light the way, and we switch off our headlamps, delighted to be able to see well enough in the starlit snow.
We sit in our cabin with tea, look at a couple of photos which turned out surprisingly okay, and chat all the way into bed, falling asleep mid-conversation.
The next day we rest and watch some tv, read, watch the snow fall. The blue hour wraps itself around the cabin and I can’t tear my eyes away from it. They are not long released from polar night here, and the sun’s low angle under the horizon casts a deep, glassy cobalt blue across the snowy mountains, the sea, the snow-lined trees.
We’re supposed to be enjoying a sauna and hot-tub in the evening, but they were damaged in the storm. So we enjoy a languorous meal instead, striking conversation with the couple next to us – we chat for a couple of hours, hearing about the culture and how Tromsø has changed due to tourism. Much like Edinburgh, it’s vital for the economy, but it homogenises what was once independent and diverse, and pushes living costs up considerably for locals.
No Aurora tonight, so we make the most of a night of relaxation, deciding to keep our booking for the following evening’s six-hour van chase from Tromsø.
In the morning, we are sad to leave but excited for the day’s adventuring in Tromsø. We pass deer eating seaweed down at the shore, the only foodstuff the snow and ice doesn’t cover. Our driver stops, pointing at a large, brown creature, wading through deep snow in a field in front of the fjord – a moose! He tells us it’s lucky to see them, and we snap a photo. Twenty minutes later, he stops again, and shows us where an even larger moose, much closer, is snaking through the snow towards a fence that borders woodland. I can’t believe the grace of the thing. He opens the bus door, cups his hands round his mouth, and produces a sound I cannot describe, to call the moose. It listens, curious. He tells us it’s rare to see not one but two moose in one day, and he’s never seen one this close. We embrace the moment, feeling so lucky to have experienced so much in such little time.
Tromsø is exactly as it is depicted – but even smaller than I imagined. Painted wood buildings, all different colours, shapes and heights, line the square, and our jaws drop when we walk over to the harbour, where enormous, looming mountains line the icy fjord, crossed by a bridge that is met by the towering Arctic Cathedral. The weather was forecast to be snowy, but instead a clear, bright sky stretches for miles in every direction, so we decide to cable-car up Fjellheisen mountain to the ski resort at the top.
The view over the white valley is breath-taking, candy-striped pastel light kissing every inch of the sky. We painstakingly trudge up the mountain, staring out over various snowy peaks. It’s like being in a dreamscape. We make snow-angels, take photos, and talk about our chances for tonight. The sun is already below the horizon on our way back down, where we disembark and walk through snow-covered suburbia, wondering at how easily life in the snow is managed here. It's marvellous, cold, dry stuff, not wet and sticky like the snow at home.
We thaw out over dinner at the hotel, watching the stars appear in the sky – at least it’s staying clear.
When the time comes, we cross the street in front of our hotel and meet our chase group – just us and four other couples, there are far bigger tour groups, so we’re happy to head off in our luxurious van which feels relatively intimate. Our guide tells us about the Aurora, and how it was historically perceived as dead spirits come back to walk the earth with us. Aurora means dawn, or the coming of the light.
Never have I ever felt so ready to meet a new dawn.
We’re heading for a lake outside of Dåfjord, an hour and a quarter from Tromsø – and at the tip of the islands, the next landmass north being Svalbard. Our guide tells us that we can light a fire and drink hot chocolate as we wait for the lights, saying we will see them – the KP has jumped to 4, which means there’s strong solar activity. We’re chatting to our fellow passengers when the van pulls into a layby, our guide is agitated with excitement – it’s here, it’s only 7pm and it’s here – we need to get out now so we don’t miss it.
Some reach for their snowsuits but we immediately jump out of the van, onto a wide, snowy layby overlooking a valley that stretches across the road. A bright, undulating, heavy green and pink curtain curls and ripples directly above our heads and we shout in surprise, hearing the same cries emitting from our fellow voyagers. Our guide is staring up in awe, a huge grin across his face. “This is amazing, guys – really good – we’ve not had Aurora like this for weeks!” My heart sings to see the same joy in my heart reflected on his face – and he does this every night. I wouldn’t get tired, either.
The way the green light shimmers, falls, stutters and curls is impossible to describe. We are speechless, awed, humbled by its beauty and it’s unfamiliarity. I cry openly, this moment has been a lifetime for me. For the first time in my life I am breathing, with both lungs, the oxygen only for me.
It’s astonishing how a stream of electrons and protons can feel like such a greeting.
As it intensifies we scream and shout like children, there is no other way to respond.
We don’t even waste a minute going back for our snowsuits. We happily, gleefully freeze our bones to bear witness to the best Aurora of the whole winter exploding above a snow-drenched valley, arctic wind stinging every inch of exposed skin, but we don’t care and we dance among the stars and the shimmering curtains anyway, whooping our joy as she turns into a spectacular display of bright, icy-pink ribbons that illuminate our awed faces and the landscape around us.
We’re from Brisbane, Texas, Amsterdam, London, Edinburgh, but we’re the same and under one sky. We make snow angels with our bodies, we lie across the snow and let it envelope us, the entire sky pressed against our skin, and when it lulls we huddle round the fire with hot cocoa, sitting on reindeer skins for warmth. I sing again this time for the group, feeling charged by the quick bond we’ve forged, and the lights charge over us once more. After four hours of freezing wind, I am numb and filled with wonder. We drive a short distance to capture the green-tinged dome above the frozen lake, and once again I give my paltry thanks to this otherworldly experience of lifetimes.
The guide comes to ask me if I wanted to see them particularly badly – there are others here who have tried before with no luck – and I tell him it’s been one of the greatest wishes of my heart, and something I extended my gratitude for the moment we knew we were coming. He looks at me intently, his eyes the same piercing blue as the herder’s, and asks, “did you do magic to bring them here?”. His intuition is uncanny, his expression easy and wide-open. I tell him I lean heavily on instinct, intuition, gratitude, and on words. Sung, uttered, written. I wrote about the trip before we came, calling it into being. He fingers the pendant hanging form the leather cord around his neck. “This is my magic, it’s yew. It protects from dark and welcomes the light.” I smile at him, say it must have worked. He says, “yeah, but tonight is one of the best I’ve seen in twelve years – top five. I think maybe there’s extra magic here, I am glad you do your magic before you come.” He nods vigorously.
I wander off a way with my husband, and we lie in the snow under the stars.
I sing again, quiet, a voice of deepest, most humbled gratitude.
In this deepest, darkest, Arctic night, a heart is remade.
Sending you love and light over this deepest part of winter. I hope this brings comfort as you tilt once more towards the light x