TraceysTrek

There had been much discussion about the ice dipping long before we even left the UK. The WhatsApp chat had swung between bravado and mild hysteria, with a sprinkling of “absolutely not” from some quarters. Once we arrived in Finland, the chatter only intensified.

This afternoon was the moment.

Anton, our ever-calm guide, assured us it was a perfectly normal activity in Finland. In fact, in Finland it’s practically routine — sauna followed by icy plunge. Simple.

Being British (and, let’s be honest, a little prudish), we opted to keep our swimming costumes on rather than fully embrace the Finnish tradition of nudity. Small steps.

The adrenaline from our morning of dog sledding was still coursing through us. Faces still rosy. Energy still high. The instructions were straightforward: twenty minutes in the sauna to get thoroughly warm before venturing out.

We did as we were told.

But the sauna wasn’t peaceful. It buzzed with anticipation. Those who had dipped before spoke with enthusiasm; the rest of us oscillated between eagerness and anxiety. There was nervous hilarity in the air. I decided that if I was here, I really ought to give it a go.

So out I stepped from the sauna, bathing suit on, hat firmly in place (I’d heard open water swimmers wear them to retain heat — seemed sensible), towel wrapped around me, fleece over the top. The contrast when we emerged into the sub-zero afternoon was breathtaking. The air felt sharp and metallic.

I suspect the anticipation kept us warm as we crunched across the snow towards the frozen lake. I was grateful for my water shoes — the ground was unforgiving — as we approached what looked like a metal manhole cover set into the ice.

Anton, wearing nothing but swimming trunks (clearly made of sterner stuff), lifted the hatch to reveal a black void in the frozen lake. The water looked thick and slushy at the surface. A wooden ladder rested inside, someone required to hold it steady.

He climbed down confidently, explaining as he went. “Breathe normally. Go slowly. When your feet touch the bottom, the water will be about chest height. You’ll get a shock reaction — just breathe steadily.” Then he ducked under, calmly narrating the sensation as if he were describing a warm bath.

This was normal for him.

Then it was our turn.

One by one, people descended. Brave souls — or perhaps just keen to get it over with. Their faces shifted as they went deeper. There were expletives. Sharp intakes of breath. Quick exits declaring, “That is SO cold!”

And then it was me. I stepped to the edge. I shed my towel and fleece but kept my hat.

There’s a strange silence just before you go in. A held breath. A final chance to change your mind.

As I approached the ladder, Karen announced, “This is Tracey who treks — and now it’s Tracey who submerges.”

I laughed, heart pounding.

Down I went.

The ladder was slippery and wobbly. I concentrated on placing each foot carefully. The cold crept upwards — feet, ankles, calves, thighs, waist. I braced for the dramatic gasp I’d been warned about.

It didn’t come.

My feet found the bottom. The water was chest high. Right, I thought, now you have to bend your knees.

A few steady breaths. Slow breath in. Slow breath out. Trying not to fight it. Trying to accept that this was the choice I had made. Then I dipped.

The water reached my shoulders. It was cold — of course it was — but not the violent shock I had imagined. It was strangely peaceful — suspended between freezing water and frozen sky. I attempted to count to ten but suspect I made it to six before standing up again.

I had done it.

Joy and relief surged through me as I climbed back up the ladder grinning. Six seconds. Not the heroic endurance I’d envisaged, but I was delighted. My skin was bright red, goose pimples everywhere. I patted myself dry (apparently better than rubbing), wrapped up, and strangely didn’t feel too cold at all.

Lisa had opted not to dip initially but had become chief support officer — holding towels, steadying ladders, encouraging everyone to “breathe, breathe!” and wrapping us up like victorious athletes. She even sacrificed her warm jacket for others. What a complete star she is.

After more of the group had taken their turns, we shuffled back up the bank to the sauna, dripping and exhilarated, comparing experiences in the warmth.

The buzz was infectious.

So infectious, in fact, that Lisa decided she would try after all.

Karen and I, clearly excellent friends, decided to support her by taking a second dip.

I thought it incredibly brave of Lisa. In truth, I think she was more concerned about the shaky ladder than the icy water. She climbed down cautiously, reached thigh depth, emitted a series of colourful expletives, and promptly climbed back out. Karen and I tried — unsuccessfully — not to laugh.

Round two for me: no hat this time. I descended with more confidence but still only managed about six seconds. Perhaps the first attempt’s adrenaline had shielded me. Nevertheless, I was proud to have gone again.

Plunging into an ice hole isn’t brave in a heroic way. It’s brave in a small, stubborn way. It’s choosing discomfort. Choosing to stay. Choosing to discover that you can sit with something that feels unbearable — and not break.

Back to the sauna. Back to warmth. Showers. Then dinner.

Anton was delighted — a 100% participation rate, with several of us dipping twice. It felt almost ritualistic. A strange rite of passage. Something about voluntarily stepping into a frozen lake bonds a group in a way polite conversation never quite can.

Dinner conversation revolved entirely around two things: fantastic dog sledding and our icy submersion. The energy in the room was as high as it had been all day.

Another hot night in the lodge followed. Apparently my snoring tested Teresa’s patience.

I received a poke.

Ice dipping, it seems, was not the only shock of the day.