Travel: Northern Lights

McDonald's, huskies, and the most incredible sight you'll ever see

There I stood at the bottom of a large, steep slope of snow, with contraptions like tennis rackets on my feet, and padded out in multiple layers of clothing that made bending my limbs somewhat tough. The plan, as I quickly discovered, was for me and the rest of the group to climb the slope. So I tried. And again. And then again. But all I could manage was three steps up, before the tennis rackets – with me attached – slid back down to the bottom. And before you judge me, know this: Out of a group of ten (more men than women) only one of us made it up the hill. And he was our Norwegian Sami guide. 

There is nothing like group bonding when you all look like inflated blue Michelin men, rendering it impossible to distinguish between sexes, let alone individuals. Add to this a running race in snowshoes and husky mushing – and it’s a trip you won’t forget in a hurry.

I had come to northern Norway for snow-related escapades and the kaleidoscopic Aurora Borealis – or Northern Lights. I wasn’t prepared for the stunning landscapes, days that never got light, and my newly discovered love of thermal gear. I had made the short flight from Stansted to Tromso, spending one day and a night in this unusual town, home to the world’s northernmost university, and the northernmost Mcdonalds.   Tromso is remote, quiet and friendly – in a slightly unhinged way. But then the lack of light (followed by the lack of dark) would affect the mind in peculiar ways.

Isolation

After Tromso I headed to the area of Lyngsfjord and, with very little introduction, found myself sitting in a natural hot tub (a large bath next to a fire) in the middle of snow covered mountains with a group of people I’d just met. The cold air and the backdrop was a breathtaking combination. The mountains were like bearded faces, with bare trees surviving like stubble until about half way up, and then conditions got too harsh for anything to grow. I was overnighting in the Vollan Guesthouse, which, if you were looking for a romantic Nordic bolt-hole, would be a disaster, but if you need a bed to sleep in for the night, and don’t mind the aesthetic of a truck-stop, it’s perfect. From there I took the short drive out to mountains every day where the activities took place, and where it feels utterly isolated. 

Whether it was the whiteness of the landscape, the endless hours of dusk or the hip flask of whisky that was concealed on layer four of my clothing, I quickly fell under Norway’s spell. For three days I was out in remote snow, thriving on winter activities and learning from my Sami guide and his delightful family. After the morning’s activities the group would gather in the fire-lit Sami lavvo (like a tepee) to eat local cuisine – hot broths and stews, and my first taste of  reindeer. After lunch I would sit in the cold air, hypnotised by the dawn that bled into dusk, waiting for darkness to fall and the Aurora Borealis to make their appearance. By about 3pm it was dark, but we were told that it takes some time before the Northern Lights come out to play. After a slightly odd game of snowball rugby in the dark, and several tackles that could have been disastrous were it not for many, many layers, we mellowed with a glass of wine and quietly began to watch the night sky. Aurora Borealis or not, the stars alone were a stunning sight. But slowly, strange white clouds began moving vertically upward through the sky. This was the Northern Lights, we were told, and it was beautiful –  but I wanted more. I wanted dancing electric green lights – I wanted to see what Joanna Lumley saw.

Huskies

The following day, my mind was firmly off the Northern Lights, for I was going to be in command of six huskies, a sledge and one human passenger. As we approached the husky station, I could see at least 40 dogs tethered up. The sound was deafening – a cacophony of barking and howling. These animals are certainly more wolf than dog.  Their piercing blue eyes give them an ethereal beauty. But my God do they smell. I was convinced that this activity would be bound up in health and safety regulations – helmets, instructions, guides, waivers… but no. All I was told was to tread down on the large pedal at the back of the sled to slow the huskies down.

And that was it.  As I took my position behind the sled and my co-pilot took his seat inside the sled, the crescendo of howling made my heart begin to race. At our leader’s command the dogs were released and we set off at pace. Within moments we were racing through an enormous white valley, the pink sky fixed in a state of dawn. It was impossibly beautiful and a lot of fun. Being a good car driver (of course), I was also a very good husky driver, managing corners, slopes and never allowing my dogs to get up the bottom of the sledge in front (I apply the same principle when driving). There were some other not so good drivers, who provided fantastic entertainment for the rest of us. There was the Scottish lad that drove his sled into a tree, giving the passenger whiplash and losing a husky. Then there was the woman who flipped her sled (and the bloke inside) on its side.  Another got his sledge stuck on a little upward slope.  It all made for excellent viewing from the back of the pack.  

We were out with the huskies for almost three hours, with pit-stops to rest dogs and
commanders. As I quickly found out, if the dogs begin to tire, the driver has to jump off the back of the sledge and simultaneously run and push the sled to get the huskies going again. Running through snow, and pushing a sled with someone sitting inside it is exhausting. Thankfully a large pot of lamb stew was awaiting our return. It was just the fuel we needed. That night from camp the Northern Lights came out a little brighter and greener than the night before. But I knew we were seeing just the tip of the iceberg, just the beginning of the show. And it is like a show – you can’t help but imagine that behind the mountains is a large generator beaming forth a batman-style light into the night.

The following day was the snow walk – and this is where I was first introduced to snow shoes. They are essentially tennis rackets, designed to stop you from sinking into the snow with each step. The snow walk was physically hard work but amazingly informative. Learning about Sami culture and survival techniques such as how to forage for food and build a shelter in the snow if you get stranded in the dark.  Thankfully something would have had to have gone seriously wrong for 10 of us to have ended up carving out snow dens for the night. Our day was rounded off with a snow-shoe race. It’s about as elegant and easy as a sack race. I must have been with a particularly aggressive group of people as only one person actually made it across the finish line. The rest of us had been bundled, tripped and thrown to the ground – more Sumo than Sami – and despite two snoods and a scarf, bits of snow still found their way down the back of my neck.

Aurora Borealis

That evening – my last evening out in the remote mountains, the Lights began to flicker like they had the night before, hinting at their extravagance. With a cup of creamy salmon soup in hand to warm me, I resiliently waited in the open air, on a mound of snow. The time ticked past and still the Lights teased me. The Aurora Borealis is the emperor of the night sky – and for hundreds of years mortals have bowed in its presence.

I was returned to the Vollan guesthouse – glowing with the brilliance of the last few days, but disappointed not to have seen the Lights as I had imagined. Back in my room – which resembled a sauna and was parallel to a deserted petrol station – I packed, showered and began to count the quite astonishing number of bruises I had collected over the last few days. Just as I was settling in to bed, there was sudden commotion in the hallway, doors being banged and voices loudly whispering. Immediately I thought ‘burglary’, and my enthusiasm for a bit of drama (combined with an obvious lack of respect for my life) saw me throw myself out of my door in my pyjamas. The couple staying in the room next-door were standing by the entrance – she looked at me and beamed. “The Northern Lights,” she said, pointing outside. I grabbed my boots, hat and duvet, and ran out into the cold night.   And there they were: Huge luminous green paint strokes of light, illuminating and twisting over the mountains. And there I stood: In the forecourt of a petrol station, in the middle of the night, wrapped in a duvet, watching the most extraordinary natural spectacle I had ever witnessed.

www.visitnorway.co.uk/mynorthernlights