Trapped in a small cabin near Tromsø, Norway, I can only look out in horror as torrential rain and storm-force winds scour metres of snow from the surrounding mountains. Later that day, on a planning call with my colleague Lisa, we both stare in mute astonishment at the webcam images from Senja, Norway’s second-largest island, situated inside the Arctic Circle. We should be gazing at steep mountains clothed in their winter raiment. Instead, we’re faced with green hillsides and rocky crags. It’s the last week in February, and Senja’s mountains look like they’re about to bloom with late spring flowers.
All the locals with whom I’ve spoken are stunned and worried. Not only is this unseasonal, but this amount of rain, coupled with above zero temperatures and high winds are a recipe for extreme avalanche risk. Unfortunately, all around the world, communities are experiencing ‘once every hundred years’ climate events on a yearly basis.
In two weeks, the rest of the team is supposed to fly out to Norway for our backcountry skiing and cold-water surfing journey. We will have to pray for better conditions, a heavy dump of snow in the next fortnight, and some consistent weather to hopefully consolidate the snowpack. It’s also time to break out plans B, C, D… and discuss options.
In the outdoors, we’re taught to adapt to nature, to change our plans to suit the conditions. However, at some point in the near future, the time may come when we can no longer adapt to what is happening with our climate, and nature may well decide that the devastation wrought upon humanity is karmic.
As if to drive home the unpredictability of current weather patterns, the following morning I wake to find my car almost completely enveloped in snow. In that period of time, more than a metre has fallen. Checking local avalanche forecasts, the risk level has shot up to 5 on many slopes. A few days later, the risk has decreased enough that I can drive down through narrow valleys to Finland to pick up some of the team’s gear.
Every few kilometres, the scenery, and vistas change. Granite faces like stone sentinels guard the entrance to deep gorges and glacial peaks. It’s no wonder Norse gods and goddesses seem intimidating, fierce, yet can open their arms to embrace those of stout courage. It takes determination, planning, and solid preparation to venture into these mountains at any time, let alone in winter.
It seems like no time at all has passed before we’re assembled in Tromsø airport, in sleet and rain, heading into the dark night, on our way to Senja. Initially the going is smooth, but as we cross the bridge onto the island, the tone of the weather changes. We’re now driving into the teeth of a storm, wind-whipped snow crystals dropping the visibility to less than a hundred metres. The GPS on our phones shows we’re only 40km from our cabin, but it’s another 90 minutes of tense driving before we make it.
Shoulders sag with tiredness, but we have to unpack the car, otherwise it’s possible the ski and board bags will be saturated and frozen solid come morning.
Any hint of tiredness melts away the following morning as we feast our eyes on the views from our kitchen. Though the skies are dark blue-black with more snow on the way, there’s a wonderful stark beauty to this area, as though the land is painted in monochrome. The peaks are thinly veiled in white, with some sections outlined in black, too steep to hold snow. Beneath the mountain spurs, at the edge of our vision, lines of white break the blackness of the sea. Already I can see Kate and Ben struggling with decisions… to surf, or ride the mountains on their new split-boards.
Over the next week many plans are made and altered, adapting to the weather gods. Camera gear gets saturated; climbing skins, damp with moisture, hang on lines in the tent, drying overnight, sometimes necessitating a return to the cabin for proper down time, battery charging and to soak in a hot shower. The surf break, slightly elusive, seems to ebb and flow separate from the tide tables. All of these are minor problems compared to the elation of being able to play in this magnificent wilderness.
Nearing the end of the trip, pre-dawn, I drive the team to the start point of a day-long tour. There is elation tempered with muscular aches after 6 days of hard exercise, yet I can sense the joy for one more day in the mountains. Later afternoon, and with dinner already prepped, I get the call for a pick-up. Damp, hungry, and exhausted they may be, but happiness radiates from each of them.
Serves 4
Serves 4
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