Milano
Duomo
Rive
Fiat 500...the Lucamobile
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Kiruna, Day 3
Abisko is well known for the smörgåsbord of winter activities that brings train-loads of adventure-seekers and nature-lovers two and a half hours north from Kiruna. Here, one can climb sheer faces of a glacier, hike across some of the most rugged mountains and frozen valleys, camp in snow-shelters, do some serious back-country skiing, see the indigenous population—the Sami in their natural state, as well as multi-day dogsled and snowmobile treks; and we couldn’t do any of these things.
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
aftermath
Prologue:
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
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
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Kiruna, Day 2 - Evening
Everything was blue, as if I just wiped out in some gigantic surf and was held under for too long. I didn’t know if anybody else could hear me, but I convinced myself to let the others walk a little ahead in case. The huge vaulted ceiling matched my open maw. My mind flew somewhere else for a moment. I was in wood-trimmed room with books on the walls and a four horse feet sticking up from behind a couch.“Holy shit!”
“There were blanks in that gun! I didn’t even point the gun at him!”
“Holy shit!”
“Maybe he had a heart attack.”
“Holy shit!”
I was back and just met the raised eyebrows of two large framed girls in parkas and Suomi shawls with nametags. They were probably wondering why I was chanting “holy shit” like a deranged monk. I stopped saying it, but I couldn’t stop thinking it. I was in the mother-of-all igloos and was standing between columns made from clear blocks of ice that were each rotated a few degrees so the column looked like a spiral. The others had walked half the length of the room and were standing under a clear chandelier of thinly cut chunks of ice. It didn’t give any light of its own but reflected a thousand shades of blue from a tiny hole above it. Holy shit.
Some things are just plain cool, Samuel L. Jackson cool. One of those things lies about a forty minute bus ride outside of Kiruna in Jukkasjärvi. Built on top of the now frozen Torne River is the Icehotel. And, as its name suggests, it is a hotel made entirely from ice. I had added a visit to this hotel to the list-of-things-to-do-before-I-die a few years back, not coincidentally around the time Die another Day was released, right between “ride a dogsled” (check) and “see the northern lights” (no dice so far).
Originally, the hotel was just part of some Nordic art. I’m guessing there’s not a lot to do in Jukkasjärvi during the long, dark winter other than build things out of ice and snow—so in 1990, the site was chosen because of the clarity of the ice blocks that can be harvested and later turned into sculptures. As the legend goes, some idiot tourists hadn’t made proper plans (This is a literary device known as foreshadowing.) and hadn’t a place to stay the night. They asked the kind, artistic types if they could sleep in their igloo. The nineteenth version of the Icehotel is now both a shelter and quite a legitimate piece of ice-art. Mid-November, four to five thousand metric tons of ice are carefully carved out of the river. It takes 50 artists and an industry of laborers a month to finish the 6000 square meter wonder. But like its miniature cousins in the driveways and front-yards of temperate climate suburbia, the Icehotel is doomed to melt in the spring.
Inside, it was far from melting. The temperature sat just a few degrees above freezing. Coming in from the windswept, frozen river where it was about -15C (+5F), it felt quite fine, actually. Six wings junctioned into the main hall where we were now sliding across the ice benches and slipping across the table under the chandelier, three on each side. There are several rooms that were fairly barren except for the beds and a table or chair. Each was lit from underneath the various and sometimes random pieces of furniture by an orange or dull green light. Some rooms contained as many as six beds. One of the six halls was dedicated to a “deluxe art-suite” and had a sliding door with keycard access rather than the meager curtain. Three of the halls were set aside for “art rooms.” Each room was completely unique and was the design of a single mind.
The first one I walked into was filled with crystals that were anywhere from tiny to chest high. They surrounded the double bed and even came from the ceiling. “Like the home of Superman, no?” said one of the French girls with whom we went on the dogsled trip. I excitedly went to the room across from us, not wanting to wait for the myriad of pictures that Nico likes to take. The next was set up like a labyrinth, barely big enough for me to get through with square shoulders. Then the light was gone. It was just me and my heartbeat for a while. I prepared myself to battle the Minotaur. I slid my bare hand along the smooth walls until I made it back into the hallway. When I finally came out, a thickly accented voice was asking her husband, “Why would the put a switch here, with no light?” I waited next to the doorway in the hall for Jörn and the girls to get bored posing for photos and move to the next room. The couple from earlier had been in the maze long enough to make it about half way. “What’s in that room?” I drew the curtain as Jörn approached. “I think it’s closed,” I said as ushered him down the hall. I hit the light switch as we walked past it, “it’s all dark inside.”
Each room was seemed to get more and more spectacular. I was absolutely sure that this one was my favorite though. It had backlit pipes and faucets made from ice that led to a crystalline conveyor belt, complete with gears and rollers. The next room was even better. “No, this one is my favorite.” It was subdivided by an archway, under which was the bed. The left side was done in smooth snow-like finish the right was clear and slick ice, made to look like tiles but with cascades of still water, flowing from roof to floor.
The next room was a tree trunk. We climbed around it, some of the massive boughs as stairs and in the top was a double bed. I plopped down and stared at the ceiling. The others were coming up the tree now. “Uh, Zack, this one is your favorite, right?” I admitted so with a smile and everyone laughed. I counted five. “You can have more than one favorite, you know.”
With the rooms toured and well photographed it was time to hit the bar. I was first up the passageway, as I was almost all day, being too excited to wait for the Latin/Gallic pace. I had been waiting for this moment for a long time. There was a short girl with black hair behind the bar and an enormous fur cap, “Varsågod?” I resisted the temptation to order a Vodka Martini, S.N.S. and asked for something she felt like making. I was lucky because I was treated to mango-fruit-something-something infused Vodka that Absolute had shipped to the Icebar recently and was available nowhere else (or so the legend goes). Mixed with several colored juices and brandies, the potion was poured into an ice glass. I waited for the others to get the same thing and we clanked our ice-blocks. "Skål!"
Also, there's an ice church where you go to ask God why you are here...and others are in Miami.
Oh good, I was looking all over the hotel for somewhere to chill my Don P. to proper 59 degrees Fahrenheit. Up until now, I hadn't seen anywhere and had thought this hotel a bit low-brow for my tastes. Thank god.
A question I have had about the Icehotel is, "How can you sleep on a block of ice?" Well, the memory-foam mattress that are advertised to TV, you know, the Swedish Sleep System--those help alot. On top of that, there are reindeer furs and a sleeping bag. It's probably the most comfortable bed I've ever not slept on.
110 Kronor each ($12.46)
Monday, February 23, 2009
Kiruna, Day 2 - Morning
I was starting to get a hang of getting dressed. The first time it took me the better part of a half-hour and now I was down to under 20 minutes. I forgot the deodorant though, which meant I had to do it twice this morning. I was usually the first of the three out the door, but my ego bruised when I met Nico and Jörn outside shuffling their feet and making apologies on my behalf to the Swedish man in blue overalls and matching hat. He was supposed to pick us up at 10:00. My wrist said 9:55. “…damn Swedes,” I began, “I mean,” raising my voice for the next part, “I’m sorry, I had to lock up.” A quick looking over of the three of us and we were led to the idling VW. “Two upfront. One in the back.” My index finger of my ungloved hand went automatically to my nose. I turned, grinned at the other contestants and was met with quizzical looks. Even though I had explained this process to them at least twice each, the Europeans were slow to catch on. The last person who touches his nose had to take the least pleasant option. This holds true in many circumstances, not just for getting “shotgun,” another concept that I was alone in following. “Nevermind,” I said and opened the sliding door to the van, intent on martyrdom. There were five people looking at me and probably wondering why I was pointing at my face. I wasn’t expecting anybody, you see. In the back seat was a father and two cookie-cutter blonde kids about five and seven. In the middle seat, with the one available seat for me were two girls, about our age, who wind-chimed “Hallo!” then “Hej!” This further added to my embarrassment.
The morning sparkled. The sun was unobstructed by clouds and the sky was blue. After spending the winter in Stockholm I found myself squinting southward and thinking, “Oh yeah, that’s what it looks like.” It added to my excitement. We were driven down the E10 to a home with an entire pack of sled-dogs caged separately behind it. They were howling madly by the time we got out of the van. They must have enjoyed the weather too. The place was also busy with people. Getting out of another van and taking a ludicrous amount of pictures were two graying couples with French accents.
We were led into the “gear room” and amidst giggles and grunts began recreating ourselves in the tiny wooden shed. An overall here, a helmet here. Where are the liners to these mittens? Will I need to switch boots? So on and so forth. I found a particularly good hat, one that looked exactly like Genghis Kahn’s and an olive drab flight suit. Perfect. Outside, sweaty and nearly exhausted from the ordeal I introduced myself. The girls were speaking French with the old couples and that settled the question of their origin. The blond trio, from Denmark, was visiting ‘mom’ who was working as a doctor this winter in Kiruna.
Handshakes and hello’s were interrupted because the employees drafted us to grab a dog and lead it up the hill. I thought that it would be like leading a man to the electric chair. Rousted from sleeping in, and then dragged out of the warm doghouse into the ½ meter of snow, I imagined the dogs would be less-than-enthused. My life-long experience with the ever-lazy and always timid Great Danes led me to believe all dogs were inherently slothenly. Not the case. They dragged us up the hill and would have probably tied themselves to the sled if they had only the opposable thumb to do it. I felt less guilty then, knowing it wasn’t just this evolutionary divide that kept me from the pulling end of the machine. At the top was a wooden sled that resembled a tree fort I had built at age 12. The construction was sound, but the rusty nails and reindeer skins that covered it spread doubt. Before I had time to arrange my myriad of mittens and hats we were seated and speeding away.
This was fast. Way fast. As fast as a dog can run, perhaps faster because they weren’t simply following the lead dogs, they were racing each other. Six pairs of dogs tore us through a frozen forest. The dogsled is organized with lead dog(s) in the front. The next row are the swing dogs. They are more-or-less to help the whole bunch follow the lead. If just the lead turned, the rest would probably assume they were headed off to the woods for a piss. At the very back are the wheel dogs who physically turn the sled. The rest, called the team dogs do the hard labor. The whole process is really quite complex, more so than the four-strokes in the snowmobiles that took off earlier. To add to the difficulty, the dogs often fight as evidence from their scared snouts. Constant attention is required, especially at rest, when the dogs want to run the most.
I had the fortune, as a result of my self-imposed back seat ride earlier, of being in the front of the sled. Jörn was sandwiched warmly between me and Nico, whose back was to the driver, the same man from earlier. The Swedish man, who still hasn’t introduced himself called out commands to the dogs. The dogs are controlled by this set of words only, no reigns or shock collars, or cracking whips. After plunging over some serious dips, causing the weighted sled to become airborne a few times, we hit the frozen lakes. After about ten minutes I began to freeze. My exposed face took the brunt of it. I noticed ice in the corners of my eyes too. That was quite painful. I heard a long string of vocal commands. It was really complex. Not just the simple “Gee” (right) or “Haw” (left) from earlier. I imagined something like, “okay, ten more meters forward, and then after the fallen tree, make a swooping left. Once past the bridge, take the hairpin right easy. How’s the family by-the-way, that canine kibble alright last night?” It turned out he was just on the phone with the other sled team. It was about this time that I tried to extract my camera.
After about a half-hour’s ride we parked at a tee-pee. Colorful snowmobiles were parked out front as well. Coffee and cakes were served. I took in the sunlight and the scenery as the second sled pulled up. We all huddled close to the fire, and dusted the ice from ourselves and the dogs.
Now, here is a detailed description of every layer of winter clothing. If you aren't feeling a little warm by the end of this, you aren't human.
Top:
polyester/titanium weave base layer
polartech fleece 3mm
dual layer polartech/nylon-lined jacket (4-5mm)
2-layer down pocketed/weathershell ski jacket
Legs:
silk-weight capilene base layer
polartech fleece 3mm
single layer snowboarding pants
Feet:
2 pairs of wool socks
gore-tex snow boots.
Hands:
neoprene/polyester glove liners
snowboarding gloves
wool mitten liners (over gloves)
weatherproof burlap mittens
Head:
wool beanie
polyester scarf
helmet with 2cm neoprene padding and plexiglas windscreen
overalls, down pocketed and weatherproof that were provided by the sled company
After warming up as best we could, it was time to change fuel sources. Kibbles and bits took off with the Danish family and the French. That left us with four steaming snowmobiles. They are easy to drive, but it takes some getting used to. Snowmobiles tend to feel skittish, even at slow speeds, but they are stable enough to hit about 80 kph without getting any speed wobbles. They are terribly noisy and give off a choking cloud of exhaust—much like the dogs. We took the shorter route home, which took us around a ridge, offering a bold view over the landscape. As the road turned towards town, we saw the ironworks and the mountain straight ahead.
Somehow the dogs beat us back. They must have had lunch on their minds. Heading towards the changing room, I had trouble walking from a solid morning of excitement. Nico and I exchanged some high-fives and some caveman noises that most males make when they combine gasoline fumes and testosterone. On the way to the changing room I caught the eyes of my middle-seat companions. We exchanged a sideways glance and a smile that is usually preceded by an inside joke. I didn’t have to say, “That was the most awesome thing I have ever done.” She didn’t have to say, “Yeah, me too.”
"high" noon
Nico, no. 24 and no. 37
The morning sparkled. The sun was unobstructed by clouds and the sky was blue. After spending the winter in Stockholm I found myself squinting southward and thinking, “Oh yeah, that’s what it looks like.” It added to my excitement. We were driven down the E10 to a home with an entire pack of sled-dogs caged separately behind it. They were howling madly by the time we got out of the van. They must have enjoyed the weather too. The place was also busy with people. Getting out of another van and taking a ludicrous amount of pictures were two graying couples with French accents.
We were led into the “gear room” and amidst giggles and grunts began recreating ourselves in the tiny wooden shed. An overall here, a helmet here. Where are the liners to these mittens? Will I need to switch boots? So on and so forth. I found a particularly good hat, one that looked exactly like Genghis Kahn’s and an olive drab flight suit. Perfect. Outside, sweaty and nearly exhausted from the ordeal I introduced myself. The girls were speaking French with the old couples and that settled the question of their origin. The blond trio, from Denmark, was visiting ‘mom’ who was working as a doctor this winter in Kiruna.
Handshakes and hello’s were interrupted because the employees drafted us to grab a dog and lead it up the hill. I thought that it would be like leading a man to the electric chair. Rousted from sleeping in, and then dragged out of the warm doghouse into the ½ meter of snow, I imagined the dogs would be less-than-enthused. My life-long experience with the ever-lazy and always timid Great Danes led me to believe all dogs were inherently slothenly. Not the case. They dragged us up the hill and would have probably tied themselves to the sled if they had only the opposable thumb to do it. I felt less guilty then, knowing it wasn’t just this evolutionary divide that kept me from the pulling end of the machine. At the top was a wooden sled that resembled a tree fort I had built at age 12. The construction was sound, but the rusty nails and reindeer skins that covered it spread doubt. Before I had time to arrange my myriad of mittens and hats we were seated and speeding away.
This was fast. Way fast. As fast as a dog can run, perhaps faster because they weren’t simply following the lead dogs, they were racing each other. Six pairs of dogs tore us through a frozen forest. The dogsled is organized with lead dog(s) in the front. The next row are the swing dogs. They are more-or-less to help the whole bunch follow the lead. If just the lead turned, the rest would probably assume they were headed off to the woods for a piss. At the very back are the wheel dogs who physically turn the sled. The rest, called the team dogs do the hard labor. The whole process is really quite complex, more so than the four-strokes in the snowmobiles that took off earlier. To add to the difficulty, the dogs often fight as evidence from their scared snouts. Constant attention is required, especially at rest, when the dogs want to run the most.
I had the fortune, as a result of my self-imposed back seat ride earlier, of being in the front of the sled. Jörn was sandwiched warmly between me and Nico, whose back was to the driver, the same man from earlier. The Swedish man, who still hasn’t introduced himself called out commands to the dogs. The dogs are controlled by this set of words only, no reigns or shock collars, or cracking whips. After plunging over some serious dips, causing the weighted sled to become airborne a few times, we hit the frozen lakes. After about ten minutes I began to freeze. My exposed face took the brunt of it. I noticed ice in the corners of my eyes too. That was quite painful. I heard a long string of vocal commands. It was really complex. Not just the simple “Gee” (right) or “Haw” (left) from earlier. I imagined something like, “okay, ten more meters forward, and then after the fallen tree, make a swooping left. Once past the bridge, take the hairpin right easy. How’s the family by-the-way, that canine kibble alright last night?” It turned out he was just on the phone with the other sled team. It was about this time that I tried to extract my camera.
After about a half-hour’s ride we parked at a tee-pee. Colorful snowmobiles were parked out front as well. Coffee and cakes were served. I took in the sunlight and the scenery as the second sled pulled up. We all huddled close to the fire, and dusted the ice from ourselves and the dogs.
Now, here is a detailed description of every layer of winter clothing. If you aren't feeling a little warm by the end of this, you aren't human.
Top:
polyester/titanium weave base layer
polartech fleece 3mm
dual layer polartech/nylon-lined jacket (4-5mm)
2-layer down pocketed/weathershell ski jacket
Legs:
silk-weight capilene base layer
polartech fleece 3mm
single layer snowboarding pants
Feet:
2 pairs of wool socks
gore-tex snow boots.
Hands:
neoprene/polyester glove liners
snowboarding gloves
wool mitten liners (over gloves)
weatherproof burlap mittens
Head:
wool beanie
polyester scarf
helmet with 2cm neoprene padding and plexiglas windscreen
overalls, down pocketed and weatherproof that were provided by the sled company
After warming up as best we could, it was time to change fuel sources. Kibbles and bits took off with the Danish family and the French. That left us with four steaming snowmobiles. They are easy to drive, but it takes some getting used to. Snowmobiles tend to feel skittish, even at slow speeds, but they are stable enough to hit about 80 kph without getting any speed wobbles. They are terribly noisy and give off a choking cloud of exhaust—much like the dogs. We took the shorter route home, which took us around a ridge, offering a bold view over the landscape. As the road turned towards town, we saw the ironworks and the mountain straight ahead.
Somehow the dogs beat us back. They must have had lunch on their minds. Heading towards the changing room, I had trouble walking from a solid morning of excitement. Nico and I exchanged some high-fives and some caveman noises that most males make when they combine gasoline fumes and testosterone. On the way to the changing room I caught the eyes of my middle-seat companions. We exchanged a sideways glance and a smile that is usually preceded by an inside joke. I didn’t have to say, “That was the most awesome thing I have ever done.” She didn’t have to say, “Yeah, me too.”
"high" noon
Nico, no. 24 and no. 37
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