Chilled in Finland

A version of this article appeared in the Belfast Telegraph December 30, 2015

I DON'T know about you, but sometimes if I trip on a crack in the pavement I act like it's no big thing. I just break into a jog and don't stop until I'm in a new city with a new life, new job, new Facebook page.

So when I was forced to crawl on my knees to my cabin in the depths of a Finnish winter — just because I’d slipped on the ice and couldn’t get a grip with my ordinary shoes —you can guess how I felt. It was the first time I’d crawled on hands and knees to a hotel room while stone cold sober.

The drama unfolded after I’d taken a wrong turn at the Harriniva Resort near the remote town of Muonio in northern Finland, and slid on my bottom on an icy pathway. Standing upright at this point was out of the question because of the ice. The only way to proceed was on my knees. The distance wasn’t that great — a few metres or so — but in temperatures of minus 35 degrees everything takes longer, or is more difficult, or saps your energy.

We knew it was going to be cold — we were inside the Arctic Circle after all — but when the captain of our Finnair flight from Helsinki to Kittilä announced that it was -34 Celsius currently at our destination, with temperatures still dropping, there was a palpable intake of breath. “So it might reach minus 40 overnight,” he mused.

In the event our captain was crying wolf (Grey variety, presumably, common enough in these parts). The temperature fell a few degrees short. But it was cold enough for the local paper the Kittilä Lehti to make mention: ‘Pokassa mitattiin -37.9 astetta’ screamed the headlines, and although I can’t speak Finnish, the photograph of the frozen public sauna was instructive.

This was the kind of parky weather that means business. The Arctic air tears the breath from your lungs; even though you’re wearing thermal gear the icy cold clutches at your limbs. And yet, it’s invigorating — once you manage to get off your knees.

The Harriniva Resort is a complex of hotel rooms and cabins in deepest Lapland. The cabins all have a fine view of the river; if conditions are right, you can lie on your sofa, glass of wine in hand, and watch one of nature’s finest free shows, the Aurora Borealis.

The resort, as you'd imagine, does all winter activities. You can navigate through adjacent forests via snowmobile, snow-shoe, dog sled, ski (long-distance), sledge (short distance) — or trek along lakesides, past clumps of willow and birch in a half-light that allows every tree to glisten and sparkle. The Muonionjoki River, at the bottom of the resort, is ideal for ice-fishing — it also multi-tasks as an international border, so it’s an easy saunter across to Sweden.

Snowmobiling is one of the main sports; the evening jaunts are popular because of the Northern Lights. This winter, the Aurora Borealis has entered the liveliest phase of its 11-year cycle, so chances of a good show are fair. Our first glimpse was one evening as we headed back to our cabin — and it looked for all the world like someone drawing huge green velvet curtains across the sky. Then a crazed stagehand went mad with his spotlights. Nature at its most theatrical.

Predictably enough, travelling by snow mobile in the dark has its own set of challenges. You can sense this when the guide mentions that it’s very chilly out. You can take it as read that if a Finn says it’s cold outside, you should wrap up very well indeed.

Speeding through birch woodland, across frozen lakes, and down narrow trackways in these conditions, you know you’re at the extreme edge of things. OK, the extreme edge for softies, but nonetheless there’s a fine adrenalin rush.

Eventually we stopped in the middle of a frozen lake — with the North Star almost directly overhead; after all, the North Pole is just up the road.

Back on board the snowmobile, and unbelievably the temperature has dipped again. Close to minus 40. Although the handlebars are heated, you operate the accelerator with your (gloved) thumb. It gets cold. There’s probably a medical name for the numbness — Skidoo Thumb, perhaps.

By contrast, husky dogsledding is a relatively tranquil experience — or should be.

At night, as you lie tucked up in your cabin by the river, the baying of the huskies in the distance would have you believe they’re touching the lowest depths of sadness possible in this frozen wilderness. They sound as desolate as any wolf keening for its lost cubs.

But it’s all an act.

These dogs are great fun. You can visit them, and they’re friendly, nosy, noisy, playful, anxious to please. Regular dogs. But they live to be out in the forest, pulling a sledge.

Our six — all Alaskan huskies — were already harnessed up, and impatient to get on the road. Markos our guide issued instructions, then patted the two dogs closest to the sleigh, Nukia and Nova (“The ones with the most cop-on,” being his implication). This was the signal to go, so we began gliding out of the stockade, past the other 400 dogs or so housed in kennels. All were anxious to be given their time slot and orders for the day — they made this clear through, barking, howling and yelping.

I was standing at the back of the sleigh, acting as brakeman, basically jamming snow hooks down with my feet — the dogs did most of the steering.

By this time we were almost out of the compound, the huskies loping past lamp-posts with huge mounds of frozen urine at their base (canine, I assume), and out into the great pine forest.  Now we were speeding along snowy trails, across frozen marshes, and through ancient birch forests. The gentle hissing and clacking of the sledge runners on frozen snow was the only sound punctuating this silent, white wilderness. The huskies had settled into an easy canter — when I was too heavy on the brake, Nukia, he of the cop-on, would throw a disapproving glance over his shoulder.

A few kilometres up the trail we stopped. Markos wanted to know if all was well. It certainly was. Really couldn’t have been better. The glistening beauty of the birch forest, the sparkling snow, a sky streaked with pastel colours. Happy dogs, happy people.

I gave Markos the thumbs up. Suddenly, the huskies jerked forward; equally suddenly I fell face down into the snow. I attempted to grab the brake pedal to stop the huskies taking off into the forest. I was dragged along before being forced to let go. My face, chest and knees were now getting well acquainted with Finnish ice.

Partner, however, was in worse straits. She was now shooting driverless down the woodland path towards the tundra, towed by six happy, unencumbered dogs. She effortlessly changed from Finnish sledging to a form of sledging normally associated with the Australian cricket team. But Markos, in pursuit, apprehended the dogs and soon calmed everyone down — dogs, driver, passenger. That’s the Finns for you; laid-back, unfailingly can-do types. Nothing, including a stampeding dog sled, was much of a problem. Markos? He was quickly re-christened Finn MacCool.

On our way again, although no thumbs-up this time, sledding deeper into the Pallas-Yllästunturi National Park — 1000 square kilometres of primeval forest, lakeland and frozen marsh; in other words, perfect conditions for a six dog open sleigh.

The husky team tore across the muskeg, or marshland, through birch and willow scrubland — and barely gave a glance at enormous, intriguing footprints in the powdery snow. The top of the food chain (with the exception of Homo sapiens) in Lapland, is the brown bear. Managing to combine aggressive glamour and cuddliness together in one elegant package, Ursus arctos is a common enough passer-by. This probably wasn't one. Thankfully. Enough adventure already. The tracks in the snow, Markos told us, were more likely to be elk. We nodded, comfortable with that. The other, multifarious, footprints included hare — those great clown feet are hard to disguise, even in the Arctic — as well as caribou, pine marten and fox.

Of course you don’t need to do any of the intrepid stuff. People come to Finland specifically for the saunas – wisps of smoke wafting from among the trees means someone is firing up the stove, usually with birch and juniper. The drill at Harriniva is to sauna, cover yourself in snow, then back into the sauna. Oh, and naked as well. 

But you might just want to content yourself with a walk along the frozen riverside — through wintry scenes that might have made Breugel contemplate a move to Finland — then quietly relax in the heat of the sauna, and contemplate that it’s the only Finnish word in the English language. But one worth waiting for.

Above 66 degrees latitude north, it’s not just cold at this time of the year — it’s also dark. But the Finns don’t seem bothered. Most people think of Arctic winter as completely dark. In fact, it’s light from around 10am until 3pm, and with a moon and all that snow about, night-time activities are perfectly feasible. Most evenings saw me having a few toboggan runs on Harriniva’s sledging route. 

There are scary tales of Arctic explorers coming home from their travels with their toes in a jar as a souvenir. You’re unlikely to have to bring your own preserved appendages back from Finland – indeed should you want to buy a memento, the Harriniva Hotel shop is well stocked with everything from reindeer skins to jaunty Finnish flags.

As it happens, we didn’t buy any souvenirs. But we took home startling memories, a few bumps and bruises, the odd scratch on the face.

I’d definitely give Lapland the thumbs-up — but after dismounting safely from the dogsled.

Mal Rogers travelled with The White Circle 00 44 1670 785 044, www.thewhitecircle.com

The Harriniva Winter Adventure costs from £1,745 per person (two sharing) and includes flights (London), transfers, six nights’ full-board accommodation, warm clothing, guides and all activities including a reindeer safari, snowmobiling and an overnight husky safari. Add on a night at the Torassieppi Winter Village (igloos) for £80 pp. Departs January-March.