I was lying on a flat wooden bench in the only building in eyesight. It was a small widowed shack, only slightly bigger than some closets back home. Outside the sign read Abisko Tourist Station. I guess the meager stack of trail maps and pamphlets for some “truly amazing” activities that were previously listed earned this train station that title. I tried to get back to a level of consciousness that was able to cope with the situation. I could hear Nico and Jörn discussing over an unfolded map the best way to wait the ten hours for the train back to Kiruna. It had only been a few moments ago that I was blissfully asleep on the train and unaware of any sort of being screwed. I had been awaken to the squeal of train brakes and the obnoxious giggles of a group of Japanese girls who were taking turns posing with me sleeping in the background. I would have been angry or embarrassed, or both, but I was simply too exhausted to be irritated. Now we had something to really be pissed about. We were stuck in the tiny train station and had been too tired to plan anything last night—thus ensuring that we were too late for ice-climbing, too late for back-country skiing, and too late for pretty much anything besides lying on a bench. There was a radiator under the bench and it was really warm. I felt myself falling back asleep.
The previous night, after playing a game of cards and having some hot drinks, we bid farewell to our new friends, whose names we only just learned over the fruity drinks at the Icebar. Lulu and Florine told us to send them an SMS after we were done. Q: What else could we pile onto our already overfilled day? A: Tearing around the woods after dark in snowmobiles in search of a clear place to see the northern lights.
Henrick, the son of the nearly mute dogsled leader was equally silent as we moved at a quick pace around the snow-filled roads leading back towards the dogsled launching point. We dressed again in the same borrowed gear and I heard him say that we should put on an extra jacket tonight, “It will be less freezing that way.” Less freezing was a great way to describe the advantages of putting on a Michelin Man suit at this latitude. For two hours we banked curves and sped across frozen lakes and rivers until we reached a clearing. We parked, engines and lights cut, looking up at a smooth layer of clouds. At least the snowmobiling was a blast. When we got back we optioned for a quick beer and some sleep over trying any sort of partying or rendezvous.
Still, I was running on only a few hours of sleep for the third night in a row. Back in the “tourist office” I was in my happy place; there was a rolling brook and chirping birds and sunshine. A gentle voice was asking me if I needed another beer. “What,” someone familiar asked. I sat up and looked about. “Yes, what,” asked Nico and Jörn in tandem. The only thing that was real was the sunshine—and that little thread connecting the two realities was enough. I…we…were determined to have a good time today. “Where did those Japanese people go?” I didn’t want revenge or anything, I just guessed that they had done some planning and probably, if we followed their footprints, we could track down some form of civilization and by extension some salvation.
I was partially right. Their tracks led us straight to the “Abisko Tourist Office.” Not a bus-stop, but a multi-story number with a restaurant and staffed information desk. Bingo, or almost. They politely told us that we were too late to sign up for any of the aforementioned activities. There was, however, a ski rental. Oh sweet salvation! Again, a false hope, as they didn’t have any snowboards whatsoever. I dropped some snowboarding buzzwords I had picked up to the scruffy bro with the beanie at the counter. Once he heard I was an American he hit me back with some typical industry jargon. “Oh yeah, nah sorry bro but we don’t have any snowboards. Did you want to go backcountry or do the pistes (euro for slopes)?” Apparently the Swedes have seen enough snowboarding videos that they assumed all American snowboarders were Shaun White protégés. I let that assumption ride. After explaining my situation, I learned there was a resort in the next town over, Björkliden, with some sick runs and a rental shop. But unfortunately the next train was eight hours and the next bus was Monday. “No,” he said, “nobody with a car is going that way until dark.” Nico and Jörn couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t just strap some boots and get some skiis. After all, that’s what they were doing. How could I explain? It was like hitting a classic Buxton lighthouse at first light with nothing that floats except a boogie-board—no way.
I walked around the parking lot and found nothing but abandoned cars an idling bus. Grand theft Volvo seemed a bit extreme, but I was going to have a session even if it meant I had to walk eight kilometers through knee-deep snow. I started out; there was only one road, so I just had to pick the correct direction. North looked that way. About ten steps out Nico and Jörn caught up with me. The shop didn’t have any ski boots that fit them and they were now in the same boat I was. Perhaps my idea wasn’t so insane.
Abisko is home to 84 people. Well, probably 85 by now since Sofia was due any day now. It’s a collection of small, mostly red buildings, that sit next to massive white ice-desert that is the Torneträsk. It’s a 320 square kilometer lake that in the warmer months drains south-east further into Sweden and is the source of the water that ultimately becomes ice blocks for the hotel. The town is one of the many stops along the Malmbanan, also known as the “ore rail.” This follows the E10 from Luleå on the Gulf of Bothnia, to the Norweigian port town of Narvik and is, if you were paying attention to the earlier part of this—I didn’t know there would be a quiz—the main artery for the iron industry in Sweden. Eight kilometers up the tracks towards Norway lies the even smaller town of Björkliden, whose population depends on density of parked cars or stranded hitchhikers.
The population had grown by three because we were absolutely classifiable as stranded hitchhikers. A gold Volvo 240DL passed, the same model that my parents used in the aftermath of Hurricane Hugo to shuttle water, drywall, and relief supplies around the remains of Mount Pleasant twenty years ago. Perhaps some sort of automotive-cross generational karma was still lingering about me because the station wagon threw on the brakes and reversed down the E10 back towards us. A young Swedish couple with skis on the roof opened the back door for us.
We geared up and were standing in the lift lines at 1300. Not bad, a half day of boarding in one of the most surreal mountain ranges. The conditions were great at the base. There was about 90cm of snow, mostly chopped and groomed, but enough room on both sides of powder make you feel like you were doing some back-country. The place was mostly deserted save a few, mostly locals like the couple who gave us a ride who were up to make the most of the cloudless day.
I was shredding like the IRS was parked out front. After so much trouble just to salvage something out of this day, I felt it was my job to carve the place like a Christmas ham. And carve I did. Years of punishment and self-abuse while strapped into a snowboard were paying off. For a few runs, I was untouchable. With my confidence at peak, I motioned to the summit over my shoulder to Nico. “Are you ready for the real surf?”
We left Jörn behind, as it was his first time in skis and took the longest T-bar lift I have ever been on. Each time it reached a crest I thought for sure this was the top there would be another equal or greater height to climb.
The sun was still painting the ridges across the Torneträsk when we hit the top of the lift. It was a breathtaking view and was fittingly difficult to breathe because of the freezing air. At temperatures that low it’s really hard to tell if it’s just -10 or -20 or even colder because the painful burning sensation is the same, it just happens quicker. I later found out it was about -20C with wind-chill down to -45C (-49F). The wind had also blown all the fine powder away and I was looking down on some treacherous, rock-laden territory. “There’s only one way down,” I shouted over the wind but more to myself than Nico.
It seemed like an hour before we got back to the top of the slope we had been on earlier. We met up with Jörn, who had gotten a message from Florine and Lulu. They had booked a table for five at joint back in Kiruna. Reservations were for 7. It was quarter to four, and there were two trains: one at 4 and one at 9.
While I was riding the T-bar back up to the summit I thought of the many times I have put off things in favor of a good session. I was reminded of my senior prom; I was still knocking sand off my feet and hadn’t taken a shower when I picked up my date. Folly Beach was going off, and I didn’t really like to dance anyway. She thought differently, but then again, most women do. It hit me about half way up the lift—today was Valentine’s Day. I groaned audibly and made a glove-face union.
It was an unforgettable session. All my confidence had protected me for the most part. It led me astray the third time I tore down the Låktatjåkka as I tried to go off-piste and ended up spilling into some rocks which were cruelly hidden under a micro-layer of ice. The lifts stopped running an hour later and we had two hours to kill before the next train. We grabbed some overpriced resort buffet and head down the mountain on foot. We waited on the steps of what was a three-purpose building: house, town’s grocery store, and train station. Somewhere a dog team was barking but that was drowned out by the approach and noisy halt of a string of hopper cars topped off with iron. In the sky was a rainbow-shaped band, just a lighter shade from the surrounding darkness to be noticeable. If that was the Aurora Borealis, I was disappointed; but it was hard to be disappointed about anything after today.
Later that night we met up with the girls. They seemed a little miffed. We were in the middle of the parking lot in Kiruna center. I was apologizing when Florine screamed and pointed up. I knew what it was—the northern lights. I couldn’t get any decent photographs of them and I don’t think I can really describe it here either. You kind of just have to see them for yourself.
Kiruna train station
our twice-in-a-lifetime Volvo savior
the small cluster of building at the bottom is where the piste ends
from 1340 m
aftermathPrologue:
Day four was fairly uneventful. Everything was closed. We met up with some tourists at the abandoned tourist office who where in the same situation and happened to be waiting on the same plane back to Stockholm. I had been out since the sun came up and I really wanted to crawl somewhere and fall asleep, but we had already checked out. The Irish guy in the group we just met suggested we go to the nearest pub, “an’ get right pissed” until our flight. We did.
Further Reading:
Kiruna wiki
LKAB wiki
Malmbanan wiki
Kiruna Tourism
Abisko
Bjorkliden
Some great pictures from Julien's trip:
Postcards from Lapland
Photo and text: Zachary Johnson
Photos: Nicolás Gutiérrez Vázquez, Julien Falcy, Anna Lucie Werquin
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