The sun set on Lulea today at half past two. Ingemar took me down to the frozen river, thickly coated with a meter of ice and topped with fresh, frothy snow, the kind of snow that feels like winter clouds hovering low, ankle-hugging and cozied up for a long, dark sleep. The days are both wide and low in northern Sweden this time of year. A rich brew of night arrives at four, its upright air steeped in cold caution. The elements rule supreme - better to check the ubiquitous thermometers stuck on the windows, better yet not to break a sweat - clothes layering having risen to an art form in these parts.
We set out for the mountains, made our way through mile aftermile of blanked boughs, a symphony of light from land to sky. Every now and again we passed clearings of diamond-white, sparkling like fallen rainbows, shattered into uncountable pastel pieces. A local herd of reindeer had evidently been alerted to welcome all passers-by, and slowly crossed our path of asphalt and ice. One seemed to say, his deep, marbly eyes locked with mine, "It's alright here. This is our natural habitat. We don't mind the cold." And in an instant, I didn't either.
Non-Swedes hold the notion of the north as a place caved in darkness, bleak months of hard liquor and even harder waiting for the light to return. In reality, there's plenty of crisp sunshine to go around. November is the only month to fear - dark ground can't reflect a single ray, and it is difficult to tell a tree from a person. And yet, on a snowboard carving powder down to a sunset-pierced valley, the measured world - and its time-stained cares - is quickly put to right. Be still my melting Arctic heart, cradling the sweet ache of such magnificence and simplicity, whilst the last rays of so called 'day' drip onto the blue mountains ahead.
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