After yesterday’s thrills of dog sledding and ice dipping, we wondered how anything could possibly compare. We needn’t have worried. Today’s adventure across a frozen lake and deep into the forest delivered in every way.
Our overnight bags had been transported ahead of us, so we set off lightly loaded with just daypacks and a sense of anticipation. First task: mastering snowshoes. Under the patient guidance of Anton, we wrestled with straps and buckles. They may look like oversized tennis racquets, but modern snowshoes are clever bits of kit — lightweight aluminium frames with metal crampons underneath, designed to spread your weight and stop you plunging knee-deep into soft snow.
Fully kitted out and armed with poles, we paused for a group photo before setting off in convoy. We passed the sauna and yesterday’s ice hole, then crossed the vast white expanse of the frozen lake.
It wasn’t long before Anton stopped and casually announced we were leaving the established trail to make our own route uphill through fresh, deep snow. We laughed at first, assuming it was one of his jokes. It wasn’t.
The trees were heavy with snow, each branch iced thickly like a Christmas cake. Anton zigzagged between trunks, carving hairpin bends into the hillside. We followed in single file, lifting our wide snowshoes carefully around each turn, trying not to tangle them. Climbing generated instant warmth — despite the cold air, we were soon puffing and peeling off layers. Hidden branches beneath the snow caught at our shoes, and any misjudged bump against a tree sent a cascade of powder tumbling down onto whoever stood below.
At the summit we paused, breathless but triumphant. Behind us stretched the neat ribbon of compacted snow marking our effort. Ahead lay a spectacular panorama of frozen lake and forest.
Traversing the ridge, Anton pointed out the scars left by a devastating hurricane some years ago — swathes of felled trees and open areas where dense woodland once stood. He explained how the surviving trees twist toward the sun, creating subtle spirals in their trunks and growth rings. Even in winter’s stillness, the forest felt alive with stories.
The descent was gentler but still required care, zigzagging once more until we reached our lunch shelter.
A fire crackled in a simple wooden structure with plank benches. Mushroom soup, sandwiches and tea never tasted so good. There was even a composting toilet nearby — luxury by wilderness standards. Spirits were high, and conversation flowed easily.
Then it was back out across the forest and over a frozen bog. At the front, the path maker had the hardest task, sinking thigh-deep into fresh powder with each step. Anton kindly rotated volunteers into the lead so everyone could experience forging the trail.
The silence was extraordinary. The only sounds were the swish of fabric, the rhythmic plant and pull of poles, and the soft creak of compacting snow. I lost concentration for a split second — and suddenly I was face down in a drift, my snowshoes hopelessly tangled. Getting up was far harder than falling; with no leverage from your oversized footwear, it requires slow determination and plenty of puffing. I was first down, but certainly not the last.
Soon Phil, now leading, toppled backwards — unknowingly onto Nicci, who disappeared beneath him in the snow. It took him a moment to realise he was sitting on her, and the more he struggled, the deeper they both sank. Laughter echoed through the trees as Anton immortalised the moment on camera. Teresa later collided with a snow-laden branch and received an impressive shower for her trouble.
Eventually, the wilderness cabin came into view: an old farmhouse, charming but decidedly rustic. No running water, no electricity, and composting toilets affectionately nicknamed “the coffins.”
Inside, it was bitterly cold — somehow colder than outdoors. We layered up and set to work lighting fires in the main room and bedrooms. Kettles were boiled, snacks produced, beds assembled, candles lit. I gave out a few massages to those suffering from the efforts and stunt manoeuvres of our adventure.
Meanwhile, a few brave souls trekked a few hundred metres to prepare the sauna, hauling water from beneath the frozen lake by chopping through thick ice.
Anton enthusiastically embraced the traditional Finnish approach to sauna — considerably more traditional than some of us were prepared for. Phil joined him in solidarity. Teresa received an unexpected eyeful during the proceedings and decided timing was everything when it came to her turn. A few others decided to take in the sauna after dinner.
By evening we were exhausted. The women squeezed into rooms of six, stacked into three bunks, while the men occupied bunks in the main room. Our bedroom became steadily hotter as Emma, our diligent fire warden, added “just a couple more logs.” It was, in hindsight, a grave error. Those of us on the top bunks endured tropical conditions. I never used my bedding; instead, I lay in my knickers, fanning myself with discarded clothing and wondering how it was possible to be both frozen and roasted within the same 24 hours.
From carving fresh tracks through silent forest to surviving a nuclear bunkhouse sauna, it was another unforgettable Arctic day — proof that adventure has many layers, just like our clothing.
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