Lights in the Night: Part Four

Above the Arctic Circle

Page number 82 in my journal used to say zilch. Except for one small sentence at the bottom of the page, scribbled and smeared: “Show me Your lights.” I remember writing this sentence – a quiet prayer aboard an all night train to Kiruna, Sweden. A silent, one-way conversation with Him, or Her, or You, or the Spanish girl below me who kept passing me glasses of rum and coke all night long. Consumed with so much possibility – so much excitement to see the Northern Lights – that I nearly had to tie my legs to the sleeper couchette in order to keep from jumping straight onto the tracks and shouting it to the sky myself, words pushed and pleaded through hands cupped around an oval mouth.

“Can I get a pair of snake eyes!” More than a request, it’s like a crescendo exclamation, slow then fast, and you throw it out there only after shaking the dice in your little hand cave just long enough to help you think that your touch and your words will make some sort of difference. This is what our prayers are anyway, right? A gamble on a felt table, a howl into the night, a hope that what falls on the flop bodes well for the turn and better for the river. “C’mon Ace of Hearts!”

I am writing to report, and very happy to say, that page 82 is now complete. And so are pages 83, 84-87, and 88. Full of unexpected answers to an open-handed gamble and a blank page prayer.

**********

“Do you like chocolate, Christine?” Sara asks as she peeps her head into my bedroom. The sun pierces through the curtains that barely shade the room’s large picture window. It’s 9am and my eyes are crossed, but this is an easy question.

“Do I like chocolate?” I almost scoff. It’d be like asking me, “Christine, would you like to build a home out of, bathe in, or otherwise consume industrial quantities of chocolat noir, coffee (espresso, please), and/or red wine?” Umm… hello?! “Yes!”

“Good! Then today we have chocolate for breakfast,” she says. Like, today let’s play hooky and forget about homework, and Power Point, and office chit chat. Sara is an angel in mom clothes. She places a small tray in front of me with six different truffles arranged perfectly around a cup of coffee.

“I walked to the store this morning, while you were asleep,” she says, “and I hand picked some different pieces for you. The chocolates are made here in Kiruna, by an Austrian immigrant, with berries and other flavors from the north.” She points to one on the left. “This one is very special. I hope you’ll like it. It is filled with one of Sweden’s most famous and delicious fruits – the wild cloud berry.”

Popping the truffle in my mouth is the solidified version of Juan Ponce de Leon’s fountain of youth – an everlasting, orange-yellow sweetness. It’s so special that you can’t hold it in; you have to open your mouth like “ahhh…” even before you’re done chewing. Take a sip of coffee. Add this to my life habit list: eat more chocolate for breakfast.

I could just as easily be standing outside this bedroom’s picture window, shivering from cold, watching myself – watching someone else – enjoy this moment. But the kindness the Westerberg family has lavished on a stranger keeps me warm and holds me inside.

Sara knows that I know. And she returns my silent expression of gratitude with a smile. Oh heavens, that smile. It’s not even nighttime, no stars in sight, but in this moment I catch my first glimpse. There it is. Right there across the curve of her lips, bright from inside, deep and heartfelt – a most perfect aurora borealis.

**********

There’s a special place by the Torne River – made of the river – in the Sami Village, Jukkasjärvi. The Ice Hotel is one of Kiruna’s most amazing gifts to the world. A 5-star igloo. The original Absolut Ice Bar. Twenty minutes outside of town. €340 to €600 nightly rate. Built from ice, and snow, and nothing else. Opens in January, closes in April (because it melts of course). And I arrive just in time. Just as some of the hotel’s custom-designed rooms begin to show signs of springtime. Dripping faucets from the ceiling freeze to hanging icicles at night.

Twenty years ago, the Jukkas Company (now Ice Hotel, Inc.) began pulling together artists from different countries to design and build a series of masterpiece suites. The only catch? Water – and all of its corresponding states – is the only building material permitted on the premises. Every summer, Ice Hotel receives applications from hundreds of architects and accepts only the best. They come together and start construction in early December, once the Torne has frozen thick. They pull ice from the river in huge, shack-size blocks. And they construct one of the coolest (literally) properties on the planet. They build a church. They build a bar. They build a palace fit for the Ice Queen herself.

And then it melts. Every May, the Ice Hotel flows back into the Torne. Recycles itself and leaves no trace behind. Something like an arctic sandcastle washed away by waves of sun. This is the 19^th time they’ve built the place and it changes every year. Lucky number 19! Hit me again. Today I’m going for Black Jack.

Angelica Patomella is a Kiruna native and bartends full-time at the Ice Hotel. She’s a friend of a friend of a friend (see the pattern?) who has offered to get me into the Ice Suites for a free tour. Show me her favorite rooms (a special just-for-me sneak peek), and spend the day teaching me about Kiruna, and Jukkasjärvi, and her life above the Arctic Circle.

It’s her first day off in lord knows how long and here she is, picking me up, taking me to lunch (you guessed it! The most delicious salmon and reindeer meat buffet – free of charge for Ice Hotel employees and their guests), and introducing me to her little chihuahua, Gucci.

“I’m just happy to be able to help you with this project you’re working on,” she says as I crunch down into the passenger seat of her 1970’s Saab. Project is an interesting way to put it, but I guess that’s sort of what it is. Some might call throwing yourself across an ocean on a blue pill whim something closer to an overdose, but naming it a project sounds much more civilized. I’ll make that my story. And stick to it.

Inside the Ice Hotel, I don’t know where to begin. The lobby is a great and long hall. And a beautiful receptionist, clothed in reindeer fur and capes and white says hello and come on in. But it’s more like fly on up because it’s a whole other world. Full of ice columns that look like glass and five huge ice chandeliers that twinkle like crystals (of course they have to run waterproof wiring throughout the structure. What’s an igloo without electricity?).

And then passageways that lead you here and there. I’m afraid to step too hard for fear I’ll break it or make the snow ceiling cave (impossible actually, this thing is frozen solid). But it’s all so alien. Maybe I can find Kryptonite here, locked up in a secret room.

The ice glows blue, then green. Colors of the ocean made transparent then opaque with snow pushed into the otherwise clear and shiny surfaces. And the effect it has on me is silent. The walls pull my speech into their cold embrace. And the hotel quiets me. And then I’m in a Japanese architect’s room (made to look like a mine explosion) and then I’m in a Bulgarian architect’s room (made to look like all of the walls are covered with the underside of giant fungi – get it? Mush-Room?).

The Ice Hotel is a giant treasure chest (to catch a whiff of gold, please see footnote J). “Before the season’s out,” Angelica begins to confess, “I will stay in the Mush-Room. It’s my favorite. It just makes me feel so soft and cushioned when I’m in there,” she says. As if she were telling me about her first crush or her latest kiss.

Though the Ice Hotel offers “normal” accommodation as well (what’s normal when you’re on top of the world anyway? Up is down and down is up), guests who want to sleep in an Ice Room will have to snug into a sleeping bag made for -40°C on top of reindeer pelts thrown across a bed of ice. Inevitably some guests will become overwhelmed by the experience and wake up in the heated section of the building, on top of one of the available sleeping cots. Others will get too drunk at the Ice Bar and end up puking in their Ice Suite (you don’t want to know how much the cleaning charge for that is… imagine scraping vomit from a snow floor!).

And then we turn a corner and I’m in the most amazing suite. It’s a split-level room. The first level is an ice maze. You weave in and out and around the corners and just when you think it’s going to end, it keeps going. And then you reach a door that takes you up a ramp of snow. And the ramp of snow leads you to the bed that spreads on top of the maze. Like catching a moment’s rest only after a hard day’s work.

I’m lost in the maze. And I actually start to panic rather quickly inside the thin passages, surrounded by thick walls of ice. Angelica calls for me to keep coming. “Just keep walking!” she says. And I’m following her but she’s turning corners and then I lose her again.

“I can’t see you,” I shout ahead, toward the last break where I swear I saw the back of her red jacket.

“Don’t worry!” she shouts in reply. “Just follow the Lights!”

Follow them and keep going…

And in a flash, I catch another glimpse – right in the middle of this tight ice maze. When I least expect to experience the force of their beauty, the Lights glow bright around Angelica’s frame. “Thank you,” I say, “for helping me to see You now.”

**********

I see them again when Anders comes home from his fishing trip with a bucket full of arctic salmon on ice. He teaches me to dress those little guys, chop their heads off, pull the bones out, salt them just right, and tsss! Fry them until they’re warm inside. “Dinner!” Anders says as he points to the long, pink filets in the pan. Oil pop, hop, poppin’.

And the Lights’ wavy brightness appears again as Sara and I enjoy watching Bad Company while sipping on a Famous Grouse. We clamp fruit chew candies between our teeth and pull the whisky through for an added touch of sweetness.

And a final time when the Westerbergs take me back to the train station. “We sure have enjoyed having you stay with us,” they say. They send me on my way with the pair of Sami mittens I’d been using to snow mobile and dog sled, packed snug into my bag. “It’s just a shame that you never got to see the Lights you were looking for,” Sara says with her hand between my shoulder blades.

“Oh, it’s okay,” I say. Because the truth is that I totally did.

 

 

 

Footnote J: Inside the Ice Chapel, Dutch architects have carved a message into the wall, just before the first pew. Their hope for your experience:

Step into a mysterious entryway of organic formations and luxurious overgrowth, which leads to a welcoming, peaceful space that offers security and clarity.

On the days that seem like they’ll never end, I revisit the private prayer nook in the church. Carved into the wall. It’s just big enough to let your shoulders pass through. Little block bench, take a seat. The ice envelops you and cuts you off from the rest of the world. Silence breeds deep breaths and a moment of Arctic solitude.

**********

One of my favorite Ice Suites is called “Whirling Stairs.” It’s a room full of topsy-turvy staircases. Some point to the bed, others connect the floor to the ceiling. One staircase has fallen onto its side. The room is disorienting (where’s the elevator, please?) and then I read the architect’s message to visitors:

The steps that you take in "Whirling Stairs" may not always lead up, but, just like a walk on the stairs of life, you will eventually get to where you need to be.

In that case, I think I’ll just keep climbing…

**********

I can see You now. I knew You were here. The Ice Suite titled “Sur Real Stage,” shows me the greatest treasure of all. A giant, man-sized monarch butterfly made of ice. It’s wings spread across the bed of reindeer pelts, and almost move for me, almost blow me away.

“How’d you get here?” I ask the sculpture. “How’d you find me?” All the way from Monterrey. You’ve made quite the journey, little one.

The English architect describes his work:

In “Sur Real Stage” dreams intertwine with reality, and you won't know where you got on or how to get off…

Hold on tight, precious butterfly, and fly with me through the night.

Lights in the Night: Part Three

Above the Arctic Circle

Ivan the Terrible is flaring his upper lip and I can see his fangs from ten meters away. We’re on a path in the woods and the sun has just made its last shining puff for the night. Ivan is bigger than all the others and capitalizes his size advantage to begin viciously attacking his teammates. Now he has his neighbor by the neck and won’t let go. He gnaws mercilessly and writhes his shoulders deeper into the bite in order to assert his dominance – and I’m sitting here watching every minute of it.

These huskies are born and bred to pull sleds. Within the first six or seven days after birth, a good musher (or driver) is already holding and speaking to the pup in front of its mother in order to gradually and wholly assume the role of master in the dog’s 15 year (average) life. While they are young, the dogs train only in the warmest months. Working during the spring and summer allows them to build their strength until they reach the 12-month mark when they are fully able to handle pulling a sled in the arctic cold.

The 11 dogs harnessed in front of me tonight are perfect. They are beautifully proportioned, made of pure, conditioned muscle and bone, and protected by thick, full coats of fur. They are connected by a fairly complicated rope-to-carabiner system that forms them into an elongated amoeba. One in the front, then five cascaded pairs.

The lead and the dog closest to the sled must be the strongest, but not necessarily the largest. They are the ones that use their muscles most efficiently and behave most obediently according to the driver’s commands. And they need to be smarter than the rest of the team with inherent leadership skills, because sometimes the other dogs actually follow them more than the driver. Ivan the Terrible is the largest dog on the team tonight, and also one of the strongest, but he is most certainly not the lead. He’s too brutish and too horny.

“Horny?” I ask the sled driver, not sure whether I’ve misheard or maybe it’s his accent, or…

“Yes, horny,” he laughs. Torban is a full-time dog breeder and sled driver from Germany. He’s tall and thin, roughly 35 to 40 years old, and forms his speech through gaunt and weathered cheekbones. The relationship he has with his dogs is full of heart and calculations – a most perfect love affair built on passion, trust, obedience, and responsible decisions.

“All of my best leads have a bad case of kennel cough right now,” Torban explains. “Twelve dogs of the 35 that I own have serious infections. Normally females make the best leads, so I put this one on the job tonight. But she’s in heat, and it’s making the male dogs on the team get crazy and misbehave.”

Now I get it. I’ve met plenty of Ivan the Terribles in my life. They usually imagine women are in heat after only a few beers, and generally manage to cause the same biting confusion this dog creates amongst the team tonight.

“He just needs to run,” Torban assures me (is this what I’m supposed to say from now on? Go take a lap and then we can talk?).

“That’s what these dogs love to do. Work is play for them,” he says. And with the quick release of a short, one-syllable command in a special language used just for sled dogs, Torban gets them into gear. The dogs start pulling, and burn a burst of calories from the 1.5 pounds of raw meat they consume everyday. The first heave to get the sled into motion is the most difficult. The huskies really have to dig in, but then, once the sled gets gliding, they sprint together as a single-celled unit. The barks that pierced the woods just a half second ago subside immediately and the huskies focus on the task at hand. The dogs won’t settle – they are in fact anxious – until you get them running, and then everything disappears.

All sound is muted. The dogs’ paws pound and patter silently across the snow. The trees and short quick breezes absorb any note of our presence and it’s just me, and the night sky, and the tundra, and the occasional sound of the wooden sled coming down hard after hitting a mogul. Sometimes the rough drops rack my bones and teeth against each other but I don’t feel it because I am drawn completely toward everything else.

And when the dogs need to turn right or left, Torban yells “Gee!” then “Haw!” In less than a second all 11 dogs follow the command at the exact same time and pull us in the right direction. It’s as automated as a turn signal on a car and makes me wonder if the huskies aren’t actually people dressed in dog costumes – it’s that quick, and that obedient.

“I’m out almost every night,” Torban says as we pull further into the wilderness, “but I haven’t seen the lights in weeks.” He tells me that it’s definitely worth traveling to the top of the world to catch a glimpse of their belly dance in the sky, but that hardly anyone has seen them recently. “It’s been a bad year to catch them,” he says and I say that I seem to have heard that before.

The way he says it, though, sticks to my chest as I recline against the back of the sled. I am sitting on top of a reindeer pelt. When I stick my fingers into it, down toward the skin, the fur comes up to my middle knuckle.  Everything rises and falls all around me, into my lungs then out again. It’s been a bad year to catch them. Catch what? What is it that I’m so eager to find? So eager to receive. Catch this like a baseball. Catch that like a joke. Catch this like your sweater on a hook, and it sends you reeling around to face the other way.

The breaths I take while riding behind the dogs tonight are full of the purest oxygen on the planet. And the night’s dome redefines my retina’s understanding of the color midnight blue. The intensity of this place is overwhelming because it feels like the sky is sitting right on top of me. It’s not as heavy as you’d think, though. I carry it easily on this sled with me, in my pocket, and under my gloves. I take the air in slowly and deeply, checking to make sure that the stars don’t get caught in my teeth. And I recognize the sanctity of my stillness, despite gliding across the snow in full motion.

By the time we reach a Sami teepee to take a rest in the middle of nowhere (address please? Third tree from the left), I need to use the restroom. Torban asks me if I really have to go and wants to know if it can wait until we get back to the kennel a couple of hours and a few miles back.

“Why?” I ask. Aware that de-gearing in the cold will present it’s own set of uncomfortable challenges.

“Wolverines,” Torban responds. “They’re one of the few species that kill for pleasure. And they don’t care if you’re a human or a sled dog.” I laugh because I think he’s joking, but when he doesn’t even smile in return I realize he’s not. “We’ve had a few problems with them recently – though not this close to the trail. If you really have to go, stay close to the dogs. I’ll prepare us some coffee over the fire.”

Is this for real? They’ve had some “problems” with flesh eating monsters lately? And if I just pee my pants? Because going inside the tent unfortunately isn’t an option. I could ask Torban to watch for wolverines while I relieve myself in front of him and the dogs, but that’d just be weird. The only other option I have is to end this paragraph here, leave it to your judgment, and hope you’ll still decide to be my friend in the end.

Anyway, the Sami tent. We start a fire inside and heat up some sandwiches until they’re filled with smoke. And the coffee is a muddy mix of campfire and thick, grainy liquid. The dogs are harnessed to trees outside, and for the first time tonight they are silent and restful. I step outside to greet them.

After seeing the way they chomp at the bit to run and go and move like wild animals because they are wild animals, I’m a little afraid to pet them, but Torban says it’s ok. And so I lay down with them. On top of the snow, and they’re on top of me. They lick my face and I’m a toddler with pretend friends everywhere. It’s playtime! And then I look up, scanning the entire horizon for any sign of an aurora borealis.

I’d love to tell you that I find the lights right now – it’d be so perfect – but I don’t. Chasing after uncertainty teaches me that perfection most accurately rests in the eyes of the expectant. And I’ll be best off when I can learn to expect nothing and find perfection everywhere. Torban ducks through the tent flap as he comes outside. He sits down and I wonder how he got here, all the way from Germany, and what this is about, and…

“I had to get out of my cubicle and I felt the call,” he answers before I can even fully ask. It’s something, I think, that he knew about me before we even got to the details. “I’ve been breeding and racing sled dogs for 15 years,” he says. “I don’t make good money, but…”

“But you’re happy?” I interject.

“Sometimes,” he says. “But more than that, I’ve found my family. I live with these dogs. They mean everything to me. They know when I’m in a good mood and when I’ve had a fight. They love me and protect me and I do the same for them.”

Torban tells me about one time a couple of months ago when he was out on a team building mission with a group from the British Army. Snow came in from nowhere, and from everywhere, blowing up and down and sideways, and it blinded all seven teams. Each person was driving their own sled with five or six dogs depending on their weight. (Even when you have your own team, though, the dogs will only follow commands from the head musher. The rest of the time, they’re actually just following the sled ahead of them.) And the team building wilderness adventure was cut short, and they had to set up camp for days, and the dogs were the only reason the group was able to stay warm enough to not die.

“Woah,” I say, looking straight into Torban’s big eyes. He smells sour, like a mountain man. And his face is attractive, save the leathery years added by his work. I look down and notice he’s missing two fingers from the middle knuckle.

“I fell through the ice last winter with a team of twelve dogs,” he explains before I can fully ask again. “Frostbite,” and it’s like he knows what I’m thinking and maybe he knows why I’m here (could you share the secret please?) and then we have a meeting of purpose without needing to share another word. Just a few last sips of coffee.

Rugged mountain man meets arctic cowgirl. He’s into his life pretty deep now. Up to his neck in ice and snow. He says he’ll never go back, because he’s found it, whatever that is. And I like the sound of that challenge. Never go back, or maybe never look back. Catch this like a curveball you never saw coming.

Lights in the Night: Part Two

Above the Arctic Circle

“G’morning! This is Stockholm calling!” It’s Andreas. He’s phoning to check that I’ve arrived safely and to let me know that he’s been in touch with half of Kiruna. And that half of Kiruna is ready to find me and take me skiing, and to their homes, and later for lunch.

“But first,” he says, “my dad wants to take you snowmobiling. And it needs to be before he goes ice fishing with a friend over the weekend,” Andreas explains. “Dad called me this morning to have me translate since Mom is at work. He’s ready as soon as you have some breakfast – deli meat, cheese, and toast (with fish paste). And coffee. ‘Cause you’re going to need to be very awake.”

I hang up with Andreas, and as Anders takes the phone from my hand, his face says everything I need to know. It’s a comic book, and a thousand-page novel, and the exact same grin I saw from his son just days before. It’s a semicircle keyhole to a world of happy thoughts, harmless pranks, and good ol’ fashioned fun.

I’m already dressed, but Anders begins to toss me new clothes, Sara’s I presume, and points to the bedroom. Special windproof ski pants, three pairs of very heavy wool socks, a fleece pullover and a windproof Helly Hansen shell to wear on top.  Plus thick leather, Sami mittens that reach the middle of my forearms (fingers need to work off each other’s heat – in this way, gloves are counterproductive). And a big motorcycle helmet. And a pair of boots that feel more like moon shoes. Like extraterrestrial footwear that is about to help me defy this earth’s hold on everything. Up, up, up and away!

Anders rents a 3x2 meter space in a large warehouse to park his snowmobile. It costs about $260 for a one-year lease. Before mounting the vehicle, he revs its engine in order to pull the traction band and front-runners onto the snow. He motions for me to put the helmet on, pull the face shield down, and climb on behind him. Grab the heated passenger bar. And try not to let go.

In Kiruna, you are never farther than five meters from a snowmobile path. They run parallel to every major road, and operate their own tundra traffic system, with underpasses, stop signs, intersections, and everything. From the warehouse, we ride just a couple of meters and we’re in the woods. The snow is perfect for making our own trail today. And then Anders kicks the engine a little harder, and I’m pulled back into my seat, trying to see, but I’m laughing so hard that it fogs my face shield and I’m dewing my chin and cheeks with drops of spittle. Happy, rabid spittle.

A moment later, Anders pulls off the gas for just a second. He turns halfway around, takes one hand off the handle, and draws a fast circle with his forearm in the air. We are co-stars in a Los Angeles western and Anders’ only line comes easy as pie.

 “Just like Texas!” he yells. Let it all out now, “Yeeeehawwww!”

Oh, I am totally not in Texas. But I am galloping across the wild frontier. And so I think silently to myself, cowgirl let’s go hogwild, and then I think less silently to the world, one arm over my head, “Yeah!” Again. “Yeeeehawwww!”

Woah baby. We’re zipping left and right. I bend my body like a cardboard poster, leaning into the curves so that I don’t fall against this tree or that shrub. So much snow. And in just five minutes I can’t see anything. No sign of civilization. Nothing, except exposed bushes that look like treetops, buried trunks, and yellow stains from the sled dogs. We whiz past an occasional red tag tied around a tree branch to mark the different paths. Then I see a sign. This way to Finland. This way to Norway. And this way to Russia?! It’s true. I’m so far north, that I can look over the edge of the world and almost see you in your kitchen. This way to Kiruna. This way to whatever it is you're looking for.

When even the trees disappear, Anders speeds up. 90 kph. 100. 110. We reach 115, and I’m heaving with laughter between the “Oh my gosh’s” and the “We’re gonna die’s!” And once we’re in the middle, right in the middle of this white wide-open space, Anders drifts to a stop.

“Ok,” I say. Then I tap Anders on his shoulder and ask, “Now what?” still laughing.

“Now you go,” Anders says with an expression that is amusingly stiff from the cold, like someone has locally anesthetitized his jaw and lips. He pushes himself off his seat and helps me to slide forward. “I wait,” he says. His face, though red and weathered from 55 years in the arctic tundra, sparkles brighter than the snow beneath us, like, go get ‘em girl. Here’s the gas. Here’s the brake.

Nothing to lose, I realize, because Anders has brought me to a place where it’s impossible for me to crash. He has put me on top of a giant, snow-covered lake. You’d never know though, because frozen water and solid ground blend seamlessly together in the arctic. One minute you’re on earth, the next you’re not, and the only way to know is by listening to the trees’ whisper, or absence thereof, around you.

Driving a snowmobile is like managing a wave runner, only much more stable. It’s like handling a car, only much more wobbly. It’s like testing the temperature of anything before you eat it, accelerate just a little, now a little more, and voom! I’m flying (but without the jet fuel), and it feels like an earthquake, and giant waves, and good vibrations. I drive in big circles. On lap three, Anders is far away, out of sight, and I am totally alone at the North Pole. I see sun-stained mountains in the distance and pull the throttle just a little tighter, push myself and this bike, I mean scooter, I mean snow horse just a little harder. And then, in the middle of no man’s land I’m surrounded.

I’m racing the final stretch and they’re all here to cheer me on. My parents are waving their arms like maniacs, screaming and shouting and telling me to go! Go! Go! And my sister is laughing from her belly and her lower back and running and pushing me from behind. And Gabriel is on the megaphone to assure me that I’m almost there. Everyone – the Westerbergs, my friends in Stockholm, my friends from Mexico, they’re all jumping and hoot-hoot hollering with water in case I get thirsty, and blankets in case I get cold. Yes! Two milliseconds pass… and swoosh! I’m crossing the finish line.

Of course – this isn’t the end. Nor is it the beginning. It’s just one more stitch in the pattern, one more patch for today's sewing project. I know I won’t earn any blue ribbons here (thank God elimination charges are irrelevant as well). Because like always, I’m somewhere in the middle. Of an arctic lake. Of something bigger than me that I’ll never really understand. However, it feels like a victory. A small one, but important nonetheless. And Lord, it’s sweet. So, so sweet.

 

 

 

Footnote I: Don’t worry! I didn’t leave Anders behind…

For three hours we weave our way through the arctic forest. And then we’re on another lake. And then I’m the driver, he’s the passenger. And now we’ve reached a place where men are cutting huge blocks of thick blue ice from the river. And then we’re behind a dog sled and Anders tells me, “Go slow now,” (take it down a notch to show your respect for the dogs and keep a safe distance – these huskies are very special).

By the time we finish, my face is swollen and my eyes are puffy. I haven’t even realized, but my temples are stained with tear tracks from the cold wind (I may have forgotten to wear my face shield while driving). I’m exhausted. When I finally step off the snowmobile, my legs start to shake. Like I’ve spent all day galloping on a horse, or skating with rollerblades.

Anders struggles a bit to get snow mobile back into the warehouse. I watch him and understand how the simple freedom of racing through the forest on this machine (catch me if you can!) could keep a person happy despite such wild winters.

I am so grateful for this day. I want to tell Anders. I want to thank him for his time and for helping me to cross the finish line. Also for his big Texas “Yeeeehawwww!” and for helping me create a day, a memory that I will have for the rest of my life. I offer to pay for the gas we used and he lifts both his hands in the air. As he throws his palms down (like, ah! It’s nothing!) he pulls a smile up. And you know what he says? Seriously, I’m dying to tell you… he says:

“You happy?”

“So happy!” I say. Arms spread wide to show just how much.

“Good,” Anders says, shiny as the sun storm I’ll look for tonight. “Then I’m happy too.”

Lights in the Night: Part One

Above the Arctic Circle

I arrive to Kiruna, Sweden – the North Pole – wearing leggings and a pair of pants, wool socks, and waterproof fur boots. On top, I’ve layered an undershirt, a thermal shirt, a sweater (underneath another hooded sweatshirt) and a down winter jacket. And I accessorize with a fleece scarf, a polar-tech hat, and insulated gloves. I feel ridiculous.

Stepping off the train at 11am, I start looking for a blue Volvo. Blue Volvo. “Blue Vooolvooo,” I let it echo in my mouth, smacking my lips against the sunny cold, winding my head left then releasing my gaze to the right. My host family is here. Somewhere. Except I can’t find them, because I’ve never seen them before. I have no idea who they are other than that their names are Sara and Anders Westerberg – friends of a friend of a friend I met in Stockholm. A complicated web of favors best simplified in Swedish by the expression compis compis compis.

I see Sara first. She smiles at me and says, “You look lost.”

“I am,” I confirm, releasing tightness in my shoulders as I pull the corners of my mouth into the best first impression smile I can muster after 22 hours on a train.

“Then you must be Christine,” she says as she pulls off her glove and extends a hand to welcome me to the top of the world at 67°50' N. Her grasp is a mother’s hold. It tells me, “don’t worry Sweetie, we’re here to catch you.” It’s a soft blanket wrapped tightly around my shoulders, the kind that breaks your fall after jumping from a cliff just a few days prior.

**********

Seventy-two hours ago I’m still approaching the edge, getting closer, but as always, I need a little help. I am with friends in Stockholm, and we’re talking about our lists, and checkmarks, and another Sambuca (lists are best managed in this fashion), and important items of business, and “so, Christine, what’s next for you?”

I chew on the question and quickly return it, “Have any of you ever seen the Northern Lights?” It's something I hear a lot about in Scandinavia. They are quiet for a moment and then I notice Andreas’ face. His mouth is curled into the most unique grin, but not quite a smile, more like a dream, like his leg is about to twitch. And his Swedish blue eyes are about to make a joke, but they don’t. They just stay happy, like all the contentment and confidence he’ll ever need is right there under his face.  

“Yeah, I’ve seen ‘em lots of times,” he finally speaks. “My family is from Kiruna. We see them all the time up there, but I’m telling you, it’s a special thing to see. The colors, and the cold, and the whipping snake of lights in the air… it’s sort of like a religious experience you could say.” He explains his version (because I later learn that everyone’s is different) of the perfect climatic conditions for seeing the lights.

“There’s never a guarantee,” he says. “You need clear skies. And not just that. You need cold, a deep and frigid cold to see them [meteorologists explain that it’s not so much the cold itself as it is the fact that cold lessens the humidity in the air, hence clearing possible cloud cover]. And the sun. It has to be angry. The sun must have a storm, and that storm must interact with the earth’s magnetic field. And then you’ll see them.”

I’m not sure if it’s the Sambuca or the grandness of his description that tingles me, but it’s a tingle that tells me I’m ready. It starts repeating itself like a metronome inside of me. I can’t stop it. It’s a constant beat, like I have to see this, or at least I have to try and see this.

“So, how do I get there?” I ask Andreas. And then it begins. We start working together, the whole group of us, on how to get me to Kiruna. Jejja gets on the Internet, and starts researching train trips. Aurora gets us another round of Sambuca (I can’t quite emphasize enough the affection Swedes have for anise flavored treats). And Andreas starts to make a list of friends from his hometown who can take me around once I’m there (turns out, cars don’t always do the trick… you have to combine snow mobiles with sleds and kickers).

The list, or any goal, only ripens when it becomes a team effort – when people find you in the middle of your journey and want to help get you there, wherever that is. It’s one of the sweetest fruits I have learned to harvest from this whole experience. And I hope that when I return, I can plant a whole tree.

**********

And now the Westerberg’s are laughing at my outfit. I assume it’s because they think I’m a marshmallow. Wrong. Instead they tell me that it was a nice attempt, but that it’s simply not enough…  and that I’ll never survive.

“Survive?!” I’m not driving but I slam on the breaks. Negative 13° C, down to -14°, -15°, down, down, down.

“Don’t worry, be happy!” Anders says, and wins my affection in an instant. I learn to understand Anders’ actions more than his words throughout my time in Kiruna. Understandably, I mean, who uses English on top of the world? You either speak Finnish, because you can almost hike to Finland from here, or Sami, the language of Sweden’s Inuit. Anders speaks fluent Hollywood, using movie lines or song titles to lead me through our conversational scavenger hunt.

Two minutes from the train station, I step inside the Westerberg’s cozy flat. A two-bedroom, one-bathroom family apartment. The walls in the living room are painted a soft, winter blue. The kitchen is covered in small floral wallpaper. And the front entryway is a morning yellow with linoleum wood floors. Sara shows me my room, Andreas’ childhood bed, and hands me an extra key to the house. She tells me that I’m welcome to come and go as I please and that they are happy to have me with them for a few days.

“Help yourself to all of the food in the refrigerator,” she leads me to the kitchen and opens the cupboards to show me where everything is. “Anders and I like to order pizza every Thursday evening. We’d love for you to have some with us. Are you hungry? How about something to drink?" Sara offers me a Swedish Falcon beer and serves herself a Toborg from Denmark.

We fold our individual pizzas in half and stuff them with soured cabbage (not quite as vinegary as sauerkraut, but not as sweet as coleslaw), and top it with a sort of dill cream dressing. And just like this, they fold me into their home and graciously pull me into their weekend family ritual – a total stranger from nowhere, just a compis compis compis.

After dinner, Sara tells me we’re going for a ride. “Sit in the front seat of the Volvo so you can see more,” she directs. “Anders will drive. We want to show you Kiruna, and help you to start looking for the lights.” They take me to the Stadshuset, City Hall, and then point out the town’s first building, erected by Scandinavian settlers teamed up with local Sami tribesman. Then they sneak me into the largest wooden building in all of Europe, Kiruna’s city church where Sara works on the cleaning staff’s early morning shift during the week. They mention important street names – often using words from the Sami language or titles of key Sami figures.

The name Kiruna (pop. 18,190) actually comes from the Sami language and means ptarmigan or snow chicken – a white bird native to northern, arctic areas. This bird is also depicted on Kiruna’s city arms, together with the sign for iron, symbolizing the region’s main source of industry and economic growth. Kiruna’s iron ore mine is visible from almost anywhere in the city and the rumble of dynamite excavations shake a wide and frightening kilometer radius from 1:30 to 2:00am every morning. Due to these heavy excavation techniques, Kiruna will be located somewhere else, a few kilometers away, within 20 years due to unexpected and quickening mine subsidence risks.

Kiruna's sub-arctic climate brings short, cool summers and long, cold winters. Sara tells me that it often snows in June and that the region’s midnight sun (days when the sun actually never sets) lasts from the end of May through mid-July. “We suffer for it though,” she explains, “during the polar night, when the sun doesn’t rise except for a few hours of twilight during December and January.”

Anders stops the car and turns off the lights. We are on top of a hill overlooking the entire town. “Bad light,” Anders evaluates slowly, after a moment of searching for signs of an aurora borealis. “We keep trying,” and they take me to another hill, but this one is darker.  The Westerbergs say this has been a bad year for seeing the lights. “It hasn’t been cold enough,” they explain, and I wonder if global warming’s hotheaded power extends even to heaven, to the sun storm on top of the world.

Once in bed, I wake up every 20 minutes all night long, and roll over to look out the window. Clouds have tiptoed across the deep navy arctic skies that were clear just a couple of hours ago. No aurora borealis tonight I muse, silent and alone. But maybe tomorrow, I think, if I’m lucky, they’ll come and dance their swivel whip across my evening eye.