Aurora Anxiety

Thursday March 22, 2012

I was on a five-hour bus ride to the village of Inari. The sun had now well set so the rural forests that were so pretty in daylight now started looking dark and creepy. The windy roads cutting through the eerie landscape seemed too icy and snowy for a beastly coach to manoeuvre through. But Finnish drivers are skilled and the endless scenery of pine trees whizzed past in a manic blur. I kept looking out the window to check the night sky was clear. Yes, Venus was shining like a distant lighthouse.

I only had two nights remaining on my aurora chasing tour of Lapland; and with the weather forecast predicting snow for the next day I knew tonight was my last chance to see the Northern Lights.

A weak aurora similar in intensity to what I saw before arriving in Inari.
[photo courtesy of Yumiko]

Lapland is the remote region north of the Arctic Circle in Finland. I had come to the area a week earlier to fulfil a lifelong ambition: View the aurora borealis in all its glory. I did see a weak version of the lights on the fourth night. But rather than satisfy my craving the entrée only whet the appetite for a more spectacular main course.

The aurora (solar activity) forecast was “moderate” for the evening. There was not a single cloud in the sky. All the favourable conditions were coming together. As I sat on the bus staring at Venus my heart was beating out of my chest at the prospect of a wonderful display.

Finally we arrived in Inari just after 10pm and the bus growled to a stop right in front of my hotel. There were just two passengers alighting – a female Japanese tourist and me. She looked in a particular hurry to get off the bus. “Thank you, kiitos!” she yelped as she ran off into the hotel like her life depended on it. “The poor woman, she must be desperate to go to the bathroom”, I thought.

I checked into the hotel and settled in my room. A refreshing shower was just what I needed after the long bus ride. Afterwards I opened my computer to check the aurora forecast web page, and saw that solar activity had picked up substantially. “This is my night!” I excitedly exclaimed to myself.

Trembling with anticipation I dressed to go outside – no trivial procedure for a walk in subzero temperatures. At 11:10pm I made it out to the balcony of the hotel. It was in a marvellous location facing northwards, where there was just the vast Lake Inari providing a thick blanket of nothingness all the way to the horizon: The perfect setting to spot aurora activity without the distraction of street and building lights.

On the freezing balcony a different Japanese woman, Yumiko, was already enjoying the crisp night air. She asked me “Did you see the aurora tonight?”

I thought that perhaps her English was less than perfect and she meant to ask whether I had come out to see the aurora. “I’ve just come out to see it. Was there something earlier?” I enquired innocently.

“There was a very bright show that finished just a few minutes ago. You didn’t see it? When did you get to Inari?” Yumiko replied, without realising her words were like daggers to me.

“I arrived an hour ago and have been busy checking in and looking at the aurora forecasts in my room” I said, thinking at the same time “This is not happening”.

Then our conversation was interrupted – the Japanese woman from the bus entered the balcony. Yumiko pointed, “She was on the same bus as you but ran off to catch the aurora. It was so bright she could see it from the bus.”

My heart sank. I had come all the way round the world from Australia and missed the bright Northern Lights by just minutes. No – not just minutes but by circumstance. I felt let down, and had no one to blame but myself. All I had to do was simply look north after getting off the bus.

The bright aurora that I missed. You can see the red fringe.
[photo courtesy of Yumiko]

Yumiko informed me that the eruption began at about 9pm and was in full swing by 10pm, when the bus arrived. I had apparently been in my room while one of the greatest natural phenomena on earth was unfolding outside. She showed me photographs she had taken that night and they were just like the awe-inspiring ones you see in books. The aurora was so bright and dynamic that there were flashes of neon red mixed in with the usual green – a highly unusual and prized sight.

Yumiko had come to Inari five years earlier for her first aurora-spotting trip, and enjoyed it so much that she returned to the same hotel in 2012. Even with all her aurora experience Yumiko rated that night as the second best Northern Lights display that she had seen. And there was absolutely nothing wrong with her English, as that is what she teaches to high school students in Osaka.

More of the bright aurora that I missed in Inari. Yay!
[photo courtesy of Yumiko] 

Hoping for a second show I stayed up until the early morning. But there would be no encore. Mother Nature had taught me a stern lesson that she will not be tamed to fit anyone’s schedule. As I shivered in the dark wilderness of Finland kicking myself over my awful luck, I felt humbly small in a very large universe. Life is short – don’t spend it in your hotel room.

The Thing

Sunday March 18, 2012

In January when I mentioned that I was visiting Finnish Lapland my Swedish colleague Martin suggested I get to the treble border point of Norway, Sweden, and Finland (and no, not in an angry "Tony, why don't you p*** off to the end of the earth" way).

I was supportive of the idea but when I asked Martin if there was anything to see at that location his answer in his inimitable Scandinavian accent was "There is a thing there."

Right. How informative. A thing.

I asked again: A building, a statue, a cannon? "Tony, trust me. There is a thing there."

Two months later I arrived at the village of Kilpisjarvi in Lapland. It is the far north-west corner of Finland - and looks and feels like the end of the earth. As well as seeking the northern lights I came here determined to see what Martin was talking about.

Kilpisjarvi: The vast lake I had to walk on.

Being well within the Arctic Circle there was still plenty of snow in March. I knew the treble border was about 12km from the lodge I was staying at. Since I had no experience of driving snowmobiles nor cross-country skiing I asked the staff if walking was an option.

Fortunately walking was possible, albeit treading the snowmobile paths. Unfortunately the thick snow meant it would be a six hour round trip.

Yikes. I had completed six hour walks in Australia in fine temperate weather... but six hours of trudging through snow? I had not even walked twenty consecutive minutes in snow before.

But I had come all this way and minor inconveniences as lack of experience in the deadly local conditions was not going to stop me. The day after I set out with a hired pair of snowshoes.

I wasn't wearing the snowshoes but carrying them as a contingency, should I encounter particularly soft snow. For those that don't know snowshoes look like small skis or snowboards and help you stay afloat on top of deep soft snow.

My damned snowshoes.

Earlier on the trip in Kemi, in the middle of the town, I strayed off the footpath slightly and landed in thigh-deep snow. For those Australians not accustomed to snow: Imagine dipping both your legs in a huge pool of 7-Eleven Slurpee. It took me several minutes in wet jeans to wade eight metres back to the footpath. So here in the wilderness sinking and drowning in soft powder sounded like a terrible way to die, hence my backup equipment.

I started the walk at midday, knowing sunset was around 6:40pm. The weather was glorious at Kilpisjarvi - the sun was out with hardly a cloud in sight - which was why I was keen to take off, despite the late start.

But an hour in I was starting to wonder what I had gotten myself into.

Disturbingly there were no footprints on the trail. Apparently everyone else was cross-country skiing or snowmobiling. My legs felt fine but my arms were aching from carrying a load of water, food, and two snowshoes. And walking on soft snow was no picnic either - it was as strength sapping as running on the beach, but ten times worse. I was expending much energy to gain very little ground.

Hang in there, just 10km to go!

As I was walking on the frozen lake I occasionally looked back to see the warm lodge getting smaller and smaller - it was a sombre thought that every step I took was another I would have to take on my return trip.

I peered into the distance where a couple of cross-country skiers were gliding effortlessly across the lake. Hmmmm, maybe I should have tried that?

In the middle of the lake a group of snowmobiles whizzed past me, all having a great time with the Arctic wind in their hair. One of them stopped and the Nordic man asked where I was going. I told him the treble border marker, bid him good afternoon, and he took off.

About 100m in front of me the group suddenly stopped. What's going on here? The man who asked my destination then circled back to me and declared "Come on, I will give you a lift."

Sweden on the left, Norway in the background, and Finland to the right.

This was my lucky day! I tried my best to contain my giddy delight, and expressed my gratitude in the most expressive yet simplest English I could manage.

A three hour hike one way all of a sudden became a ten minute ride. My face was numb from the cold air and my arms were sore from holding onto the snowmobile safety handles, but this was a sensational turn of events. As the magnificent lake scenery rolled past I kept thinking "How could I have possibly walked all this way?" I would have been stranded in the dark and been eaten by wolves. Nice doggies!

In no time we were at the tri-nation border. And there it was - The Thing, in all its glory.

I now understood why Martin described it as that. It is a block of concrete not shaped to look like ANYTHING, painted in yellow. It is almost abstract in its lack of utility. The only destiny this object had since its creation was to be the border marker between three countries at the end of the earth.

The Thing, me, and the Norwegian snowmobile man (photo from the Swedish side).

The Thing from the Finnish side.

As we rested at the marker I discovered that the group was an extended Norwegian family. My generous driver's daughter, her husband, and their kids were on the other snowmobiles. They were on a camping trip in the area and were out for a joyride on their machines, and made the short detour to the border point especially for me. Apparently they took pity on the foreigner plodding like a turtle on the snow.

The Thing from the Norwegian side.

The man's daughter told me about a fantastic show of the northern lights the night before, which I had excruciatingly missed. That's the way to do it, I thought. If you want to see the lights you have to be out camping so you can keep an eye on the sky constantly.

The family asked if I was touring alone. Upon learning that I was they reminisced about silly tourists from warm countries - one Italian bloke a few years ago walked from where we were all the way to Norway to a 1400m mountain seen in the horizon. I think they said he died, or had to be rescued - their English trailed off at that part of the conversation. I didn't press for details.

The group gave me a lift halfway back on the return trail before going off to have fun on their snowmobiles on the Swedish side of the lake. The remaining 1.5 hour walk back to the Lodge again emphasised how fortunate I was not to have to hike the entire return journey.

I arrived back satisfied that I met Martin's Challenge. Here's to you back in Sydney, Martin! [raises glass]

Chasing a dream

Sunday March 18, 2012

Having grown up in a warm country almost every mundane “cold weather” phenomenon fascinates me. I still get a huge thrill seeing snow, for example. However one natural occurrence exclusively seen in cold countries has captured my imagination above all else – the aurora.

Aurora Borealis, or the Northern Lights as it is also known in the English speaking world, is a magical shimmering light show seen in the night sky in regions close to the north pole. It is caused by solar winds being deflected by the earth’s magnetic field.

Although there is the “Southern Lights” – the Aurora Australis – Australia is not located sufficiently south for it to be seen easily. The aurora would certainly be never be seen in my home town of Sydney, where we are so far away from the south pole that a typical winter day is a gentle 17 degrees Celsius (63 degrees Fahrenheit).

Ever since I was a boy I craved the aurora. They’re swathes of green curtains fluttering in the dark night sky, as if the Gods were making their beds? How can such an amazing marvel exist? Descriptions and photos of it seemed otherworldly. It defied belief. In fact it all sounded so wondrous it felt fictional – as if someone was making it all up as a joke on gullible fools.

That little boy was determined that as soon as he had the means he would travel to the ends of the world to seek out the Northern Lights.

Kilpisjarvi, Finland - even the village web site says it's the middle of nowhere!

Twenty years later I’m writing this from the far north of Finland. I’ve travelled all the way round to the other side of the globe to be in the village of Kilpisjarvi, just 10km from the point where Finland, Norway and Sweden meet. It’s sixty-nine degrees north, about 400km within the Arctic Circle. From research I know 2012 is the best in a dozen years to see the aurora, and that March and September are the most suitable months of the year. I cannot be in a better position.

Despite all this preparation, exasperatingly, seeing the Northern Lights depends overwhelmingly on luck. For one the weather has to be fine, as clouds will obscure any light show. And of course one cannot practically stay up all night looking up at the sky in freezing temperatures – the success of the aurora hunter is dependent on the lights occurring while the watcher is awake and outside.

I have done all I can. The boy is here. Please let it come.