More than 40 years ago, the then park ranger Jon Waterman took his first journey to Alaska鈥檚 Noatak River. Captivated by the profusion of wildlife, the rich habitat, and the unfamiliar landscape, he spent years kayaking, packrafting, skiing, dogsledding, and backpacking in Arctic North America鈥攐ften alone for weeks at a time. After three decades away from the Noatak, he returned with his 15-year-old son, Alistair, in 2021 to find a flooded river and a scarcity of the once abundant caribou. The Arctic had warmed nearly four times faster than the rest of the world.

The next year, 2022, Waterman took a last journey to document the changes. The following is excerpted and adapted from his prologue in Into the Thaw: Witnessing Wonder amid the Arctic Climate Crisis (Patagonia Books, November 12).

A former ranger in Rocky Mountain听补苍诲 Denali national parks, Waterman is the author of 17 books, including (National Geographic Books), In the Shadow of Denali, Kayaking the Vermilion Sea, Running Dry, and Arctic Crossing. He has made five films about adventure and wild places.

If you buy through our links, we may earn an affiliate commission. This supports our mission to get more people active and outside. Learn more.

The below is adapted from Into the Thaw: Witnessing Wonder amid the Arctic Climate Crisis.

A Certain Type of Fun, July 10-12, 2022

My hands, thighs, and calves have repeatedly locked up in painful dehydration cramps, undoubtedly caused by our toil with leaden packs in eighty-degree heat up the steep streambed or its slippery, egg-shaped boulders. After my water bottle slid out of an outside pack pocket and disappeared amid one of several waist-deep stream fords or in thick alders yesterday, I carefully slide the bear spray can (looped in a sling around my shoulders) to the side so it doesn鈥檛 get knocked out of its pouch, an action I will come to regret. Now, to slake my thirst, I submerge my head in Kalulutok Creek like a water dog.

Kalulutok Creek would be called a river in most parts of the world. Here in Gates of the Arctic National Park and Preserve, amid the largest span of legislated wilderness in the United States, it鈥檚 just a creek compared to the massive Noatak River that we鈥檙e bound for. But in my mind鈥攁fter we splash-walked packrafts and forded its depths at least 30 times yesterday鈥擪alulutok will always be an ice-cold, wild river.

It drains the Endicott and Schwatka Mountains, which are filled with the most spectacular granite and limestone spires of the entire Brooks Range. One valley to the east of us is sky-lined with sharp, flinty peaks called the Arrigetch, or 鈥渇ingers of the outstretched hand鈥� in I帽upiaq.

As the continent鈥檚 most northerly mountains, the sea-fossil-filled Brooks Range鈥攚ith more than a half-dozen time-worn peaks over 8,000 feet high鈥攊s seen on a map as the last curl of the Rocky Mountains before they stairstep into foothills and coastal plains along the Arctic Ocean. The Brooks Range stretches 200 miles south to north and 700 miles to the east, where it jabs into Canada. Although there are more than 400 named peaks, since the Brooks Range is remote and relatively untraveled, it鈥檚 rare that anyone bothers to climb these mountains. My river-slogger companion, Chris, and I will be exceptions.

We carry a water filter, but it would be silly to use it. We鈥檙e higher and farther north than giardiasis-infected beavers and there is no sign of caribou. The creek is fed from the pure ice of shrunken glaciers above and ancient permafrost in the ground below. In what seems like prodigious heat for the Arctic, the taps here are all wide-open.

Thirty-nine years ago, I decided to learn all I could about life above the Arctic Circle. As a climber, I traded my worship of high mountains for the High Arctic. I felt that unlike the study of crevasse extrication and avalanche avoidance鈥攜ou couldn鈥檛 just read about the Arctic or sign up for courses. You have to go on immersive journeys and figure out how the interlocked parts of the natural world fit together. Along this path, acts of curiosity out on the land and the water can open an earned universe of wonders. But you must spend time in the villages, too, with the kindhearted people of the North to make sure you get it right. And you can鈥檛 call the Arctic 鈥渢he Far North鈥濃�攊t is 鈥渉ome鈥� rather than 鈥渇ar鈥� to the many people who live there.

So, after twoscore of Arctic journeys, in the summer of 2022, I鈥檓 on one more trip. I could not be on such an ambitious trip without all the previous experiences. (The more I learn, it sometimes feels like the less I know about the Arctic.)

But this time the agenda is different. I hope to understand the climate crisis better.

Chris Korbulic and I are here to document it however we can. Since my first trip above the Arctic Circle in 1983, I have seen extraordinary changes in the landscape. Only three days underway and we鈥檝e already flown over a wildfire to access our Walker Lake drop-off point. And yesterday we trudged underneath several bizarre, tear-drop-shaped landslide thaw slumps鈥攁.k.a. thermokarsts鈥攃aused by the permafrost thaw.

In much of Alaska, the Arctic Monitoring and Assessment Programme (AMAP) says that permafrost thaw from 2005 to 2010 has caused the ground to sink more than four inches, and in places to the north of us, twice that. The land collapses as the permafrost below it thaws, like logs pulled out from beneath a woodpile. AMAP believes this will amount to a 鈥渓arge-scale degradation of near-surface permafrost by the end of the twenty-first century.鈥� Roads and buildings and pipelines鈥攁long with hillsides, I帽upiat homes, forests, and even lakes鈥攚ill fall crazily aslant, or get sucked into the ground as if taken by an earthquake.

On this remote wilderness trip, we don鈥檛 expect a picnic鈥攌nown as Type 1 Fun to modern-day adventurers. A journey across the thaw on foot and by packraft for 500-plus miles won鈥檛 resemble a backcountry ski trip or a long weekend backpack on Lower 48 trails. We have planned for Type 2 Fun: an ambitious expedition that will make us suffer and give us the potential to extend ourselves just enough that there will be hours, or even days, that won鈥檛 seem like fun until much later when we鈥檙e back home. Then our short-circuited memories will allow us to plan the next trip as if nothing went wrong on this one. An important part of wilderness mastery is to avoid Type 3 Fun: a wreckage of accidents, injuries, near-starvation, or rescue. We鈥檝e both been on Type 3 Fun trips that we鈥檇 rather forget.

Today, to get Chris, a caffeine connoisseur, to stop, I simply utter, 鈥淐offee?鈥� His face lights up as he throws off his pack and pulls out the stove. I pull out the fuel bottle. Since Chris isn鈥檛 a conversational bon vivant, I鈥檝e learned not to ask too many questions, but a cup of coffee might stimulate a considerate comment or two about the weather. As I fire up the trusty MSR stove with a lighter, we crowd around and toast our hands over the hot windscreen as if it鈥檚 our humble campfire. We鈥檙e cold and wet with sweat and we shiver in the wind. But at least we鈥檙e out of the forest-fire smoke鈥攖his summer more than two million acres have burned in dried-out Alaska.

Today, with the all-day uphill climb and inevitable back-and-forth route decisions through the gorge ahead, we鈥檒l be lucky to trudge even five miles to the lake below the pass. Why, I ask myself, as Chris puts on his pack and shifts into high gear, could we not have simply flown into the headwaters of the Noatak River instead of crossing the Brooks Range to get here? I heave on my pack and wonder how I鈥檒l catch Chris, already far ahead.

Shards of caribou bones and antlers lie on the tundra as ghostly business cards of a bygone migration, greened with mold, and minutely chiseled and mined for calcium by tiny vole teeth. We kick steps across a snowfield, then work our way down a steep, multicolored boulderfield, whorled red and peppered with white quartz unlike any rocks I鈥檝e seen before. As rain shakes out of the sky like Parmesan cheese from a can, we weave in and out of leafy alder thickets while I examine yet another fresh pile of grizzly feces. I stop to pick apart the scat and thumb through stems and leaves and root pieces. This griz appears to be on a vegetarian diet.

鈥淗ey, bear!鈥� We yell the old cautionary refrain again and again until we鈥檙e hoarse. I hold tight to the pepper spray looped over my shoulder to keep it from grabby alder branches.

A half mile farther the route dead-ends so we鈥檙e forced to descend into the gorge again. With Chris 20 yards behind, I plunge step down through a near-vertical slope of alders and play Tarzan for my descent as I hang onto a flexible yet stout branch, and swing down a short cliff into another alder thicket. A branch whacks me in the chest and knocks off the pepper-spray safety plug. When I swing onto the ground, I get caught on another branch that depresses the trigger in an abrupt explosion that shoots straight out from my chest in a surreal orange cloud. Instinctively I hold my breath and close my eyes and continue to shimmy downward, but I know I鈥檓 covered in red-hot pepper spray.

When I run out of breath, I squint, keep my mouth closed, breathe carefully through my nose, and scurry out of the orange capsaicin cloud. Down in a boulderfield that pulses with a stream, I open my mouth, take a deep breath, and yell to Chris that I鈥檓 O.K. as I strip off my shirt and try to wring it out in the stream. I tie the contaminated shirt on the outside of my pack and put on a sweater. My hands prickle with pepper.

Then we鈥檙e off again. As we clamber up steep scree to exit the gorge, my lips, nasal passages, forehead, and thighs burn from the pepper. The pepper spray spreads from my thighs to my crotch like a troop of red ants, but I can hardly remove my pants amid the incoming storm clouds and wind. With the last of the alders below us, we enter the alpine world above the tree line. By the time we reach the lake, the drizzle has become a steady rain. I鈥檓 nauseous and overheated underneath my rain jacket with the red pepper spray that I wish I had saved for an aggressive bear instead of a self-douche. Atop wet tundra that feels like a sponge underfoot, we pitch the Megamid tent with a paddle lashed to a ski pole and guy out the corners with four of the several million surrounding boulders left by the reduction of tectonic litter.

I fire up the stove and boil the water, and we inhale four portions of freeze-dried pasta inside the tent. We depart from wilderness bear decorum to cook outside and away from the tent because it鈥檚 cold and we鈥檙e tired. Chris immediately heads out with his camera. His eyes are watery from just being within several feet of me.

I鈥檝e been reduced like this before鈥攚ounded and exhausted and temporarily knocked off my game. So, I tell myself that this too will pass, that I鈥檒l get in gear and regain my mojo. That maybe, I can eventually get my shy partner to loosen up and talk. That we will discover an extraordinary new world鈥攖he headwaters of the Noatak River鈥攆rom up on the pass in the morning. And that I will find a way to withstand my transformation into a spicy human burrito.

Snow feels likely tonight. It’s mid-July, yet winter has slid in like a glacier over the Kalulutok Valley.

I am too brain-dead to write in my journal, too physically wiped out and overheated in the wrong places to even think of a simple jaunt through the flowers to see the view that awaits us. I pull down my orange-stained pants and red underwear, grab a cup filled with ice water. I try not to moan as I put in my extra-hot penis and let it go numb.

Type 2 Fun for sure.

Jon Waterman lives in Carbondale, Colorado. An all-round adventurer, he has climbed the famous Cassin Ridge on Denali in winter; soloed the Northwest Passage; sailed to Hawaii picking up microplastics; dogsledded into and up Canada鈥檚 Mount Logan; and run the Colorado River 1,450 miles from source to sea. He is a recipient of the National Endowment for the Arts Literature Fellowship and three grants from the National Geographic Society Expeditions Council. Into the Thaw is available to purchase from Patagonia Books and for pre-order on Amazon for November 19.

For more by this author:

A Former National Park Ranger Reveals His Favorite Wild Places in the U.S.

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Though it is night, the ice surrounding us glitters in the sunshine. Only silence and shades of white surround me as I pace the decks. I am on a tourist ship, parked in the sea ice off the coast of Antarctica, for my work as a naturalist. It is 2 a.m., in January. On one side, glaciers drape the mountains, sliding slowly toward the sea. On the other is the frozen ocean. I can鈥檛 discern the line between ice and sky. Behind our ship, only the jagged break in the floes indicates that humans have come, and disturbed.

The ice is moving, unseen in the stillness. Melting of Antarctic and Greenland ice, as well as glaciers all over the world, is clearly documented. The polar regions are warming faster than any other place on Earth. Climate change is incontrovertible. I have witnessed it. Yet I know my being here, marveling at this icy world, contributes to its melt.

I have seen a lot of ice.

In 1993, I journeyed to Antarctica on a small ship that lurched through frenzied waters, we 50 passengers clutching the walls as we staggered between communal showers and a pot of pasta plonked unceremoniously on the table for dinner. But I was entranced by the beauty of the land outside. For 25 years, I have worked as a guide in Antarctica and the Arctic, and I wrestle with knowing that I should probably stay at home to avoid further contributing to the climate change affecting my beloved frozen world. But is the best way to protect what I love, never to see it again? Other guides and I discuss this dilemma often. We do not know what to do.

As a naturalist-guide, I take people to shore and talk to them about what they are seeing: wildlife, glaciers, habitat, everything. In all the years I have done this, I have believed that only by seeing the great ice expanses, tasting and smelling the salt air, and touching the cold do people learn to care for these places and join the fight to preserve them. Sea ice retreats to higher and higher latitudes, with shrinking populations of bewildered penguins nesting in previously unimaginable places, and humans now reach sites once only imagined.

We visitors used to see Adelie penguins everywhere. On some trips now, we are lucky to spot even one. Last year, on a cruise ship designed for luxury rather than serious exploration, we reached the western side of James Ross Island; 20 years ago, in an icebreaking ship three times more powerful, we could not get within about 80 miles. The ships have changed as well. Now luxury ships prevail, and passengers can enjoy champagne, live music, and butler service. On the first icebreaker I worked on, the beds had seatbelts for rough weather, but the communal area for passengers and crew at the bottom of the stairwell was full of laughter.

that 2023 was the record low for maximum sea ice in Antarctica since continuous recording in this region began. The World Meteorological Organization says the Antarctic Peninsula has experienced a 3-degree C (5.5-degree F) temperature rise in the last 50 years. In February 2020, the highest temperature ever recorded in Antarctica was reported at 18.3 degrees C (65 degrees F). The since 2012 than in previous decades; were the Antarctic ice sheet to melt, global sea levels would rise 58 meters (190 feet). Although there is no danger of all the ice in Antarctica or Greenland melting away in any of our lifetimes, visiting tourists often tell me they want to see the ice before it is gone.

Yet fossil-fuel emissions from travel and human activity accelerate ice melting, trapping all of us who come here to admire these icy realms in a quandary: We further the demise of what we have come to marvel over. When I started as a guide in the late 1990s, approximately 10,000 visitors traveled by ship to Antarctica each year. Now shows over 71,000 in the 2022-23 season.

Staring at the ice around me, I wonder about the people below decks, sleeping soundly through the sunshine of the night. Will they act as ambassadors for these regions? My fellow naturalists and I fervently hope so. We feel conflicted by our presence and the presence of the passengers we guide. We love ice, but we also know that our carbon footprint, which contributes to melting, is greater for flying across the world to reach the ships that burn fossil fuels as they steam towards these ends of the earth. We do our best to educate our passengers about climate change and have them understand what they are witnessing. Sometimes it doesn鈥檛 feel like enough. Would it be better for us to stay home to protect these regions? Yes. Would other guides step in and take our place? Also yes.

A recent described a study of black carbon (essentially soot) in Antarctica resulting from fossil-fuel emissions, and showed that it contributes to the darkening of snow and ice, accelerating melting. More people equals more melt.

In 2022, a group of scientists determined a method for separating natural variability in glacier fluctuations and the to climate change. So far, it has been tested only in computer models, but if it can be applied to actual locations, we could know exactly what human visitation does to this ice. When jagged pieces break and crash into the sea, would tourists shed tears, knowing exactly how much damage they contribute, instead of shouting with joy to see such power?

Most of the ice I have touched is now gone.

My father, Gunter Weller, was a glaciologist who became a climate scientist before the term existed. He introduced me to Antarctica through the six-foot-long black-and-white photo of Adelie penguins that hung on our living-room wall in Fairbanks, Alaska. His voyages to Antarctica in the early 1960s were a bit different from mine. On two separate occasions, a supply ship dropped him off at the research station and picked him up one year later. There he drove a VW beetle with chains on the tires over glaciers to collect weather data, watched the same black-and-white films so often that he and his co-workers took turns reciting the actors鈥� lines, and ate eggs of a disturbing color since fresh supplies also only arrived once a year.

His work looked at the effects of climate change on glaciers, which were clear to him already in the 1970s. He became curious when a scientific station buried long ago by ice and snow on the McCall Glacier in northern Alaska melted out (research he did on this glacier was published in a peer-reviewed paper, 鈥淔ifty Years of McCall Glacier Research鈥�), and he turned his attention toward what melting ice meant for people and the environment. As kids in Alaska, my sisters and I walked along glacial moraines and explored ice caves with our father. We slipped and slid crazily in our old sneakers as we scrambled behind him, trying to keep up.

Over the years, as my father tried to convince the world that climate change was happening, and people ignored his pleas, he developed a strategy for deniers. He never shouted back when people tried to argue. He calmly told them they were welcome to disregard the clear data and statistics if they wished. But surely, he said, they must acknowledge that we humans have put a lot of horrible stuff into the atmosphere. Wouldn鈥檛 the world benefit by reducing that? That usually ended the conversation.

Many people travel to see the natural places on this planet, to glimpse a wild animal in its ferocious splendor, feel the grandeur of vast landscapes, or learn about the world. And yet an analysis in The Scandinavian Journal of Hospitality and Tourism in 2020 of tourists visiting glaciers in Iceland, Canada, New Zealand, and Chile showed that although most guests were aware that this might be the last chance to see these glaciers, few understood that their visits contributed to the demise. Even for the few people who did, the desire to see the destination exceeded concern. The Journal of Sustainable Tourism in 2021 described a from Churchill, Canada, where tourists flock each fall to view polar bears, that indicated that few visitors associate their air travel with greenhouse gas emissions responsible for melting the ice that the polar bears need for survival. Comparing data from 2008 and 2018, the study found that consumption patterns and CO2 production have not changed despite growing awareness of the impacts.

How sad, this conundrum of desire, guilt, and lack of understanding.

Years ago, I did the same thing, climbing Kilimanjaro in Tanzania with my sister, to see ice at the equator before it was gone. As we rose from the tropical zones, we smelled wet soil turned hard with frost, then tasted the tang of ice. My teeth chattered, my face and fingers froze, and we gasped for breath in the thin air. My father would have loved those glaciers, pink in the rising African sun.

On one of my tour ships, ice blocked the way when we tried to reach the northernmost piece of land in the world, Oodaaq Island in northeast Greenland. Since then, new islands have been revealed as ice melts and now, the northernmost land is a rocky islet called 83-42. Another year we got stuck in sea ice in the Northwest Passage, and even our six-engine, 25,000-horsepower icebreaking ship could not move until the currents released us. Some passengers were frustrated, some bored, and some frightened as we watched the icy rubble press high against the side of the ship. After a week, the ice consented to let us through.

In other years, we made it to the North Pole, in a bigger, nuclear-powered icebreaker that smashed and plowed its way through the thinning sea ice. We found open water at the top of the world, a place that should be solid white. The tourists marveled at the vast expanses of ice surrounding that open water, and a reverence for this landscape shone in their eyes. We tasted the icy brine as we plunged into the open water for lightning-quick swims.

The North Pole trips have become more difficult in subsequent years, because finding solid sea ice in which to park the ship is a challenge. A this year projects that under current greenhouse-gas-emission scenarios, the Arctic Ocean will be ice-free in the summer before 2050. That is soon.

At the annual Antarctic Treaty Consultative Meeting (ATCM) in 2023, the governing body of Antarctica made a resolution known as the Helsinki Declaration. They committed to increasing efforts to communicate the global impact of climate change on Antarctica and the need to prevent irreversible changes.

Do I keep guiding at the ends of the Earth?

Susan Adie, a friend and fellow guide who has worked in the polar regions longer than I have, says she believes that if she can help educate the visitors who travel there and get them to care, and enough caring people educate others, perhaps action can be taken, in many ways, to help the Earth. She says, 鈥淚f I just give up and say it鈥檚 a losing battle, then what kind of a human am I?鈥�

Our lives are enriched by ice, made larger and wilder and somehow more precious. To love cold inanimate objects sounds at odds with all that is logical and right in the world, and yet we do.

It may be that this one politician, that one influencer, that one poetic writer who listens to us guides, who sees what we see, whose heart can be pierced by a shard of glittering ice, can make a difference in this confusing, messed-up, beautiful world of ours. Maybe I can reach one more person. Maybe just one more trip.

Kara Weller is a ship-based naturalist who works all over the world, but primarily in the polar regions. Although a snow and ice aficionado, when visiting the outhouse at her plumbing-less cabin in minus-40 degree temperatures she dreams of simple things such as flush toilets. She lives in Fairbanks, Alaska.

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Ever come across an incredible hotel听that stops you mid-scroll and makes you think, Wow, wouldn鈥檛 it be something to stay there?We do, too鈥攁ll the time. Welcome to Friday Fantasy, where we highlight amazing hotels, lodges, cabins, tents, campsites, and other places perched in perfect outdoor settings. Read on for听the intel you need to book an upcoming adventure here. Or at least dream about it.

Why We Love Manshausen

B酶rge Ousland was the first person to cross Antarctica solo and part of the first duo to reach the North Pole during the darkness of winter. Which means he鈥檚 spent a lot of time shivering in a tent, envisioning a cozier place to sleep. In 2010 the legendary explorer turned his dreams into a reality, buying a nearly above the Arctic Circle in the Norwegian Sea鈥檚 Gr酶t酶ya Strait and setting to work creating , a chic, modern, sustainable adventure oasis.

A haven for anglers听since the 1600s, Manshausen Island had one salvageable building, a farmhouse from the 1800s that Ousland renovated into the main lodge. He then built seven austere glass-sided cubes cantilevered over the water. In June he finished two more 鈥渢owers鈥濃�攖wo-story structures, each with听a glass-roofed bedroom that provides jaw-dropping views to the sea, 392-foot Skotstindan mountain to the east, and听the heavens, often lit with the aurora borealis.

Ousland鈥檚 ultimate goal is to make Manshausen 100 percent carbon-neutral. It’s tough to charge solar panels in winter when there are only a few hours of daylight, but he plans to supplement the sun鈥檚 energy with听a windmill that delivers power听back to the grid. His small staff also maintains a garden, fishes for cod and halibut, raises sheep to cut the grass (there are听currently 11 lambs on island), and barters with locals for what the property can’t produce.

Considering that Manshausen (a name derived from mannshaue, or 鈥渕an鈥檚 head,鈥� after a rock resembling a human head that was quarried there) was the dream of a world-renowned explorer, it鈥檚 no surprise that the place offers all manner of rugged day trips (for an extra fee), from expedition-style hiking to sea kayaking, led by experienced staff guides. But Ousland mostly built Manshausen as a place for visitors to听enjoy the scenery. 鈥淢any people just need to fill up their batteries, relax, and connect with nature,鈥� he says.

国产吃瓜黑料 Intel

You, too, can fish. The lodge provides gear and shares beta on where cod, pollack, and halibut are biting. I would opt for a short ride on one of Manshausen鈥檚 private power boats to the mainland to attempt the , a technical climb of 1,998-foot S酶rskottinden peak, followed by a 15-foot rappel to a nearly mile-long traverse of an exposed ridge that ranges in width from 15 to 45 feet. The views to the surrounding mountainous Arctic islands are uninterrupted. I鈥檇 also love to paddle a sea kayak with a guide to their secret coves for a swim. And this being Scandinavia, I鈥檇 spend quality time in the stoked and ready wood-fired sauna to steam away my aches at the end of each day.

Choice Accommodations

Book one of the two new and identical solar-powered twin towers, named after Norway鈥檚 two greatest polar explorers, Fridtjof Nansen and Roald Amundsen. Built on a pier, the towers听appear to be floating on water. In each, the primary bedroom on the second floor is covered by a full glass roof, perfect for viewing the midnight sun during the summer and the stars and northern lights in the fall, winter, and spring. Downstairs is a twin听bed, a full bath, and a sitting room with a floor-to-ceiling glass wall facing the sea. The cozy feeling of hygge here is one of the draws. Or opt for the single-story glass cabins, whose views are also incredible:

Eat and Drink

Hyperlocal cuisine is on full display at the , housed in the main lodge, where a simple yet sophisticated menu includes sea urchins, sandwort, pine shoots, wood sorrel, fish, moose, and elk, most of which is grown, foraged, caught, or harvested on or within close proximity of the island. I鈥檝e been told that the head chef, Ondrej Taldik,听has more range with a beet than perhaps anyone on the planet, serving them fried, baked, rehydrated, crisped, pickled, and fermented.

When to Go

Ousland prefers spring, when the light returns, the weather is calm, and the fishing for halibut is fantastic. But I might prefer fall, with its cooler days and cold nights. The aurora borealis is best viewed September through March, but the resort is closed November to January.

How to Get There

There are direct flights to Oslo from New York, Miami, and Los Angeles. Once there, you鈥檒l hop a 90-minute flight north to the town of Bod酶, on Norwegian or SAS airlines. Head to the ferry terminal (a 15-minute walk or short taxi ride from the airport) and board ; the passage takes 1 hour 20 minutes and leaves daily at 6 P.M. year-round, and twice daily in the summer months. The lodge will pick you up by shuttle boat at Nordskot if they know when you鈥檙e arriving.

Don鈥檛 Miss

If you have time to spend in Bod酶 before heading toward Manshausen, visit, the most powerful tidal stream in the world. A 33-mile drive north of Nordskot will get you to , one of Europe鈥檚 largest coastal fortifications from World War II. It guarded the entrance to Vestfjorden, a 96-mile-long fjord to Narvik, an important route used to ship iron ore from Sweden to Germany. The , 75 miles north of the island in the municipality of Hamar酶y, is a museum dedicated to the life and work of the Nobel Prize鈥搘inning author.

Details

To Book:

Price:听Glass sea cabins are 5,600 Norwegian kroner ($523 as of press time) per night for two people, including breakfast. The new towers are 8,900 kroner ($830) per night for two people, including breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Address: Mannshausen 3
8283 Leinesfjord, Norway

Stephanie Pearson鈥檚 maternal and paternal great-grandparents emigrated from Sweden, but she loves Norway almost as much, especially the cool air, cool people, healthy living, and long coffee breaks. She鈥檚 been there twice, most recently to dog-mush above the Arctic Circle from Troms酶 back to Jukkasj盲rvi, Sweden.听

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Four years ago, during a Zoom work meeting, a colleague who lives in London told me she鈥檇 decided to quit flying on airplanes. She simply couldn鈥檛 stomach the cost to the climate. Due to her decision, she said calmly, she would probably never visit the U.S. again. My heart skipped a beat.

Her choice seemed so extreme. She shared it with me casually in the context of conversation, without a trace of judgment or moralizing. Still, I felt shocked and inexplicably a little defensive鈥攂ut also intrigued. At the time, I traveled by air as often as ten times a year for my work as a journalist and to see family members strewn about the country. I couldn鈥檛 imagine my life without flying.

But my colleague鈥檚 comment lodged in my mind as a beautiful and challenging seed. Over the next few years, it cracked through the concrete of what had been, until then, a completely unexamined belief in my inviolable entitlement to flying. When the pandemic arrived, grounding travelers and shrinking international air travel by 60 percent in 2020, I began to see that significantly reducing air travel鈥攐r even giving it up altogether鈥攚as absolutely possible.

Rare individuals have chosen not to fly for ethical reasons for decades, but in the years leading up to the pandemic, the smattering of outliers coalesced into a movement. It took root most quickly and deeply in Sweden, which in 2017 became the first country in the world to establish a legally binding carbon-neutrality target鈥攁 year before Greta Thunberg began protesting in front of its parliament. In Swedish, the movement became known as flygskam, which translates to 鈥渇light shame,鈥� a term commonly attributed to Swedish singer Staffan Lingberg, who gave up flying in 2017.

The number of people pledging to stop flying grew so much that Swedish air travel declined 5 percent between 2018 and 2019, and the movement strengthened in other parts of Europe as well. In the U.S., the flight-free movement, in the form of groups like Flight Free USA and No Fly Climate Sci, has been slower to spread but is growing. This year, Flight Free USA, for example, is on track to see the largest number of pledges to stop or minimize flying at 436. By comparison, tens of thousands have pledged in Europe over the past four years.

On a collective level, the reasons for minimizing commercial aviation are obvious. In 2018, the industry accounted for of global emissions and has single-handedly contributed to about of observed human-caused climate change to date. If it were a country, it would be the sixth largest polluter in the world. Currently, no aviation technology or mitigation technique exists that could minimize emissions to the extent needed to avert catastrophic warming. (Small and short-distance electric planes are in development; FAA-approved commercial models could be available as early as 2026.)

At the same time, a relatively small group of people, including me, are living large on the backs of the masses. One found that only about 11 percent of the world鈥檚 population flew in 2018. And a startling of the world鈥檚 population causes 50 percent of the emissions from commercial aviation. While emissions depending on the distance traveled, the efficiency of your ground-transportation method, and the number of people in your vehicle, flying is almost always the most carbon-intensive mode of transportation mile for mile. Simply traveling less and traveling shorter distances are surefire ways to minimize emissions.

But individually, giving up flying can be hard. Surrounded by millions of others who aren鈥檛 adjusting their own behaviors, do my choices matter? Is it worth what seems like a huge personal sacrifice, when I am just one lonely person taking a stand?

Not long after my colleague鈥檚 comment, I broached the topic with a close loved one who has solar panels on his house and drives an electric car. I thought we could have a substantive discussion, but his response was simple: 鈥淚鈥檓 not going to stop flying,鈥� he said testily. End of conversation.

This shutdown, as well as my own reluctance, made me even more curious. What did we really think we were losing? On a subconscious level, do those of us who fly believe we have the right to pollute more than others, simply by virtue of being accustomed to it? And able to afford it? I was also moved by my colleague鈥檚 matter-of-fact attitude. Although her choice seemed radical to me at the time, she didn鈥檛 seem perturbed. She wasn鈥檛 standing atop some mountain of haughty saviorism. She even seemed quietly peaceful about it. I wondered about what seemed to be an unseen reward, some hidden gain, about not flying that I couldn鈥檛 understand from the paradigm in which I dwelled.

鈥淎t first, I didn鈥檛 want to be confined like that,鈥� Liz says. Yet as she took in the news of the escalating effects of climate change, an almost debilitating climate-despair grew, and her wanderlust began to feel too big, somehow out of balance with the world as she understood it. She wasn鈥檛 quite sure how it would go to fly so little. Alternative transportation isn鈥檛 as simple in the U.S., where long-distance ground infrastructure lags behind that of Europe. Last year, when Liz came to visit me and other friends in Colorado, she rode the train from her home in Virginia. It took 53 hours. (A comparable trip in Europe, from Madrid to Berlin, would take half the time.)

Recently, I鈥檝e begun talking with others who have renounced flying or drastically minimized their air travel. For each person, the choice sprung from a visceral experience that they couldn鈥檛 ignore. Eric Holthaus, a meteorologist and author of The Future Earth: A Radical Vision for What鈥檚 Possible in the Age of Warming, was boarding a plane at the San Francisco airport in 2013 when, reflecting on the latest dire Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change report, he had a panic attack. He vowed to make that flight his last.

Daniel Fahey, a Lonely Planet travel writer based in England, saw a graph representing carbon emissions over the past 10,000 years, with an almost vertical line illustrating emissions in the past century, and felt queasy. His last flight was in 2018. Kim Cobb, a climate scientist and director of the Institute at Brown for Environment and Society, was filled with grief when a coral reef she鈥檇 studied for 18 years almost entirely died off during a monthslong marine-warming event in 2016. Flying home over the Pacific from Korea the next year, staring down at the vast ocean, she thought, Really, Kim? 鈥淚 just remember this pit in my stomach, realizing that I don鈥檛 know how many more times I can do this,鈥� she says of her international flight.

Kim started walking her kids to school every day, biking to and from work in Atlanta and, later, in Providence, Rhode Island, and, between 2017 and 2019, she reduced her plane travel from 150,000 miles per year to zero, transforming her life in the process. Still, sometimes life presents challenges: she chose to fly once, last September, to her brother鈥檚 wedding in Denver because a train trip would have necessitated taking her kids out of their new school for a week.

In 2021, I experienced my own climate gut punch. 国产吃瓜黑料 offered me an opportunity to travel to the Arctic for the winter solstice, a bucket-list trip I鈥檇 dreamed about for nearly a decade that was finally materializing. But to travel so far (7,000 miles round-trip), with so many resulting carbon emissions, and to a place especially sensitive to the ravages of global warming, felt irresponsible and tone-deaf. Yet it was hard to deny a longing that felt much deeper than simply wanting an escape or an adventure. I thought hard about it and ultimately decided to go.

Lodging in an off-grid retreat center 63 miles north of the Arctic Circle in the Brooks Range of Alaska, I watched northern lights tango across the sky, cross-country-skied as polar dawn melted into polar dusk, and immersed myself in the crystalline stillness of a place that slumbers without any direct sunlight for more than a month. Those mountains, tundras, and boreal forests continue to haunt my dreams, and memories of the land鈥檚 beauty and fragility inspire my work.

But during my time there, the temperature shot upward more than 60 degrees over the course of about 24 hours, from minus 35 to a preposterous 28 degrees, an Arctic-winter heat wave that echoed broader temperature shifts and catastrophic changes debilitating the region. The cognitive dissonance of loving a place so much while also contributing directly to its demise was almost physically painful.

Flying home, a subtle tension suffused my body, as if I could feel the misalignment between my choices and my hope and concern for the world. I wanted to forget about it, ignore it, or rationalize my way out. I bought to mitigate my travel for that entire year, but it felt like a cheap apology. (According to one to the European Commission, the vast majority of offset programs don鈥檛 reduce emissions.) I wasn鈥檛 sure my relationship with flying would ever be the same.

Still, voluntarily not flying while friends take holidays in far-flung places feels like nothing but a gaping and pointless loss. And while it takes a certain amount of privilege to be able to fly, it could potentially take an even greater degree of privilege to travel and not fly, given the time and expense involved. Those who have chosen to fly less or not at all say there are trade-offs.

My friend Liz declined an offer to go on a camping trip with a group of her favorite people because it would have necessitated a flight, and she has opted to do a professional training program online instead of in person. For a time, meteorologist Eric Holthaus took long train trips for work, which put a strain on his family life, and he declined his dream job at the Weather Channel because it would have required too much travel. Climate scientist Kim Cobb recognizes that if she hadn鈥檛 already been well established in her career, there would have been profound opportunity costs.

There is also an emotional risk to being an outlier. Liz has found that her choice has sometimes made people so uncomfortable that they鈥檝e ridiculed her or immediately dismissed the idea. Many of Holthaus鈥檚 friends have responded with disbelief. 鈥淚t鈥檚 amazing how much travel is baked into middle-class, upper-middle-class culture,鈥� he says. 鈥淚t鈥檚 an identity, and I wasn鈥檛 really expecting it to be that hard to break. But with that has come a chance to examine all of that privilege of having traveled and being cultured as a status symbol. It’s not really that uncommon to not fly. It’s just in our bubble that it feels unthinkable.鈥�

Holthaus also, however, delights in the benefits of slow travel, in which people travel more slowly and conscientiously rather than and quickly and superficially. He realized he had both more money and more time to spend outside on his vacations, and they felt more special and intentional. Daniel Fahey, the travel writer who once thought nothing of jetting from London to Beijing for a weekend, has found the challenge and novelty of traveling plane-free invigorating. 鈥淲hen you鈥檙e traveling slow, you鈥檙e not numb to everything else,鈥� he says. 鈥淵ou鈥檙e more alive to stuff. If I fly across the country and watch a movie for an hour and a half, I鈥檝e been disengaged from my environment.鈥� There鈥檚 also an intrinsic value to feeling aligned with your conscience, he says.

Liz spoke of the ineffable rewards of minimizing flying, how traveling more slowly felt less wrenching on her body and less transactional. Cobb feels more connected to her community and family鈥攁nd she鈥檚 in better shape because she makes time to bike to work now.

I recently learned of a Buddhist teaching that speaks to this debate: a wise person always trades a lesser happiness for a greater happiness. I wondered if flying less could be the greater happiness because it鈥檚 simply a more harmonious and peaceful way of being in the world. 鈥淚t鈥檚 a satisfaction with doing less, with having less, with living in deeper harmony,鈥� Liz explained. 鈥淚 do feel like I鈥檓 respecting the earth more with these choices.鈥�

Tourism can be a great force for destruction but also a force for tremendous social good, for travelers and hosts. I certainly wouldn鈥檛 advise people to stop traveling. I am grateful for innumerable wonderful travel experiences that have entertained, delighted, and expanded my understanding of this planet and its inhabitants, human and otherwise, and deepened my empathy.

But there have also been ways that I have traveled, largely in haste and frequently aboard a plane, that have encouraged a sort of objectification of those places, as if they were products or trophies. When I plop in from out of the sky, my comprehension of a new land and its people is often decontextualized from the living fabric of the earth and my place in it. Could I have even more meaningful and adventurous travel experiences, with greater positive impacts for the places I visited, if I approached travel in a different way? Like opting for longer and more sporadic overland journeys instead of shorter trips with long-haul flights?

Last fall, my husband and I had a couple of flexible weeks and were considering a trip together, possibly to Central America. I looked into flights to Costa Rica and Belize. We could have afforded to go, but something felt empty about it, jet-setting off to a remote beach or rainforest. It felt too easy and on some level unrealistic. We decided not to go abroad and instead each took shorter trips closer to home.

I drove south a few hours from my home in Colorado, to a remote area of New Mexico. A storm arrived and blanketed the desert with snow, and I hiked through the silent sage and junipers as the sun reemerged. An owl swooped out of the dark in front of my car one evening, and an elk herd passed right before me. On my way home, cresting the Continental Divide at dawn, I passed through a forest of ponderosas perfectly encapsulated in a million faceted crystals of frost鈥攊n all of my travels to many dozens of countries, it was among the most beautiful things I have ever seen.

But I also recognized an internal shift. Instead of feeling a sense of harried entitlement that can sometimes come with the busyness of long-haul trips, and the way I have shoehorned them into my very full life, I felt a sense of humility and a deeper appreciation of what the earth was offering me through no apparent merit of my own. Internally, it was undoubtedly trading a lesser happiness for a greater happiness.

I鈥檇 like to say that I鈥檓 vowing to quit flying entirely, but because our closest family members live 15 hours away by car, that may not be realistic. My husband and I already have two obligations that necessitate flying this year. However, it is feasible to reduce our flying to one flight trip per year, and I intend to do that in 2024. It will take some imagination, ingenuity, time, and planning ahead. I recognize that the privileges of having traveled the world previously and having a flexible job and some disposable income make this choice easier than it may be for some. But there are others making this choice, and it occurred to me that minimizing flying, in and of itself, is an adventure. It鈥檚 not about living within some rigid ideal but probing the forward edge of social change.

In the relationship between individual, cultural, and systemic change, you never know exactly how your part will affect the whole. But when I started to think in a real way about limiting my flying, I noticed that my paralysis and resignation around climate change loosened. I began to feel a sense of energy and agency, even hope, however small. People everywhere, in every time, have to step into a future way of being that they can鈥檛 currently imagine. Why not me? Why not you?

Kate Siber is a correspondent for 国产吃瓜黑料 magazine and the author of two children鈥檚 books. Her work has also appeared in Men鈥檚 Journal, The New York Times Magazine, and various National Geographic publications. Her next trip鈥攂y electric car鈥攚ill be to Canyonlands National Park in Utah.

The post Should I Stop Flying? It’s a Difficult Decision to Make. appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

Witnessing the Aurora Borealis can feel like you鈥檙e glimpsing another world. For some people, that鈥檚 exactly what鈥檚 happening. Photographer Hugo Sanchez captured his first images of the spectacle accidentally, when he was taking shots of a meteor shower. But soon he became hooked, and then, when his young son died, the dancing lights took on a whole new meaning. In this replay of one our favorite episodes from our archives, we hear the story of a man who found a sense of purpose in the wintertime sky.

The post The Real Magic We See in the Northern Lights appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

About eight years ago, I stepped through the unlocked door of a 1915 cabin-turned-chapel in Wiseman, Alaska, an Arctic settlement of about a dozen people roughly seven hours north of Fairbanks. In the dim light, the pastor鈥檚 log was open on the makeshift pulpit for anyone to read, and I quickly lost myself in pages of lilting cursive.

It was September, the Arctic tundra glowed with electric reds and rusts, and every day the snow line crept down the stone pyramids of the Brooks Range. The pastor, who had lived in Wiseman for decades, described the inexorable march of darkness as a force both terrifying and beautiful. She spoke of chopping wood, preserving berries, and squeezing the joy out of every moment of daylight before a winter in which, for more than a month, the sun never rises above the horizon.

The notion of such sustained darkness in a remote corner of the planet unnerved me. Residents of the Arctic tell stories of people losing their minds in the black of polar night. But I also felt strangely curious鈥攁nd drawn to return one day.

For years, I tried to manufacture a good excuse to travel to the great north in the depths of winter, but it never worked out. It鈥檚 not exactly easy to get to at any time of year and services like hotels and transport are few. (During my previous trip, I had been on my way to report on polar bears farther north.) But last summer, a friend forwarded me an email about a tiny off-grid six-person retreat center that had just opened outside of Wiseman. The owners were hosting a week-long trip that included yoga and exploring the Arctic wild with skis, snowshoes, and dogsleds, and the dates fell right on the winter solstice.

I couldn鈥檛 resist signing up for the retreat, but I had hesitations. I鈥檓 not exactly a cold-resistant creature: I鈥檝e suffered from hypothermia multiple times and frostbite that turned my feet white and wooden. I鈥檓 generally dressed in a sweater and jeans when my friends are wearing shorts and flip flops. Even at much more temperate latitudes, seasonal affective disorder runs in my family. I also contemplated the wisdom of traveling during a pandemic, and the carbon emissions of flying long distances. If rationality won, I wouldn鈥檛 have gone. And yet, some powerful urge that I can鈥檛 quite explain compelled me to commit. Perhaps it was the pull of long-gestating curiosity or some gut-level instinct, but that鈥檚 how I found myself on a plane to Fairbanks on one of the darkest, coldest days of December.

When I arrived in the central Alaskan city, it was early afternoon, the sun already grazed the horizon, and the temperature was 37 degrees below zero. In cold that deep, snow stays fluffy, and everything sparkles as if scrubbed. Even the air itself seems pristine. Soon after arriving, I tugged my snowpants over my jeans, donned both my down jacket and an insulated parka, and pulled on my warmest hat for a short walk. The cold blew through it all in seconds. My eyelashes froze and my nose hairs crinkled. The liquid on my eyeballs felt like it was turning to slush. Even the slightest breeze lacerated my cheeks, and my mind felt tight with a barely concealed panic. I grew up in Boston, and I was still shocked by the cold鈥檚 staggering punch. I had never felt anything like it, and the next day I鈥檇 be traveling seven hours north by car.

The area around Wiseman, Alaska, has been traveled for thousands of years by groups including the Gwich鈥檌n, Koyukon, and Inupiat. It鈥檚 a spare and beautiful land of shocking extremes鈥攏ot exactly a practical spot to build a retreat center, even a small one. Mollie and Sean Busby, the founders of , know this intimately. The couple鈥攁 36-year-old yoga instructor and a 38-year-old pro snowboarder鈥攈ave spent the last few years negotiating the rigors and hazards of the Arctic and developing friendships in the community, a necessity in a place where people are few and the margins of survival have sharp edges. Their property lies beyond the reach of roads, on a limestone bench on a mountainside a one-mile hike or snowmachine ride from the end of the road in Wiseman. In the winter, they fetch water from a chipped-out hole in the Koyukuk River and heat their cabins and two communal domes with wood-burning and Swedish oil stoves, sometimes both at the same time. Nine sled dogs live in trim dog houses in the middle of their compound and yip and howl with glee when humans approach. Sometimes the wolf packs that haunt the area howl back. About an hour north, the continent鈥檚 forests peter out into tundra that stretches straight to the Arctic Sea.

Mercifully, the temperature actually rose as Mollie drove four of us north on the Dalton Highway in a Suburban loaded to the ceiling with supplies, groceries and dog food. The winds screamed across the road, obscuring it with skeins of shifting snow, but Mollie, a hardy down-to-earth Wisconsinite, seemed unfazed. 鈥淚t鈥檚 worse in summer,鈥� she said casually, fiddling with the radio dial. 鈥淐ars catch air off the frost heaves.鈥�

As we wound farther north, the sky brightened without even a trace of hurry, and the boreal forests appeared in foggy grayscale. The three other participants, a wilderness therapist from Vermont, an emotional-intelligence educator from Massachusetts and a biological anthropologist from Texas, all of us women in our thirties and forties, simmered into a reverent silence. There aren鈥檛 a lot of signs of human beings between Fairbanks and Wiseman except two lonely truck stops and glimpses of the Alaska Pipeline, for which the road was originally constructed. But natural wonders abound, from a solitary moose or caribou ambling the highway to eerie tracts of snow ghosts, stunted black spruce trees encased in rime ice that appear figure-like, as if monks in prayer.

A week before we arrived, the Busbys dug themselves out of nearly four feet of snow, the area鈥檚 deepest 24-hour snowfall in half a century. It took days for them to create enough friction to heat the bottomless fluff so that it would pack down into trails. After arriving at the end of the road (in the dark, of course) we pulled on our cold-weather gear and headlamps and hiked to Arctic Hive鈥檚 encampment. When we arrived, string lights hung between the trees, illuminating everything in a surreal, romantic glow. Footpaths formed miniature slot canyons made of snow. The dogs鈥� joyful howls rung through the forest. Perhaps it was the muffle of snowy darkness or the cold or the sheer remove from daily life, but it felt like we had passed through a gate into a different plane.

Between November 30 and January 9, the residents of Wiseman, Alaska, do not see the sun. They lose about 12 to 15 minutes of light each day until the solstice and then gain it back just as quickly. The future always looks scarier from the confines of imagination, and polar night was not so unnerving once I was in it. It was actually brighter than I anticipated鈥攍ocals like to say that on the winter solstice, there are still five hours when it鈥檚 light enough that you can鈥檛 see the stars.

Perhaps by the grace of my own temporariness, the darkness felt benevolent. Over the course of a week, long slow dawns bled into long luxuriant dusks. Storm clouds lingered for days, swaddling the land in a moody dimness that made the forests and tundra appear soft-focus like a dream. Clock time began to feel less relevant without the familiar reference points of day. In my blond-wood cabin, with the Swedish oil stove murmuring, I slept like a teenager, waking only briefly and folding myself back into the embrace of night.

But the land and conditions also continually reminded us of their wildness and indifference. I marveled at how quickly my feet traced the edge of dangerous numbness; there isn鈥檛 much room for miscalculation. One day, in the precious hours of gloaming, we hiked up a nearby river canyon on snowshoes, sinking into knee-deep powder, tromping over minty blue glacial ice and clambering up frozen waterfalls. At times, flowing water thundered under the ice, spooking us all. The wind raged down the canyon鈥檚 hallways, stacked with a million delicate layers of limestone, only to relent into stillness around a bend. Later, we discovered that a local subsistence hunter had just trapped an enormous wolverine not far from where we turned around.

The area鈥檚 waterways have mercurial rhythms and sometimes river water escapes and flows over the ice, creating a layer of overflow topped by newly formed panes. 鈥淥K, I鈥檓 just going to commit,鈥� Sean said one day as we stood in our snowshoes, feeling unnerved as we contemplated the loose floating shards. (Luckily, we only sank in about six inches.)

The intensity of the cold itself makes for unique considerations. Touching anything metal, even a zipper, feels like it burns, and frozen supplies and equipment can easily shatter. 鈥淥ne time we had the vacuum outside,鈥� Mollie says. 鈥淚 felt like I just looked at it and all of the sudden one of the hoses broke.鈥� Simply to run a mile to their truck, the Busbys carry an emergency beacon if they鈥檙e alone. And living in polar night, residents of the Arctic have to be especially attentive to the risks of cabin fever. Some locals take copious doses of vitamin D. 鈥淎nd no matter what the temperature is,鈥� Sean says, 鈥測ou have to get outside everyday.鈥�

It鈥檚 hard to imagine anyone would move to or stay in such an extreme place without some heartfelt need or purpose. Sean has always found solace in the mountains but even more so after his older brother died suddenly from a brown recluse spider bite when Sean was 16. After snowboard expeditions to all seven continents, for whatever reason, he and Mollie felt most deeply drawn to the high north. Looking at maps, they found Wiseman at an appealing latitude with the gift of skiable mountains. Sean also has several autoimmune disorders, including a photosensitive form of lupus that, in Montana, where the couple previously lived, discouraged him from going outside when the sun was shining. In the Arctic, even in summer, the UV light is low. 鈥淭his is my happy place,鈥� he told me. 鈥淭o see people鈥檚 reaction to the environment up here is just the best feeling. You see that they get what you get. Something clicks. Something becomes tangible. I would say that a lot of our focus has been trying to create something tangible that people can then bring home with them to be better advocates of our natural spaces.鈥�

Being off-grid, Arctic Hive is not fancy鈥擨 didn鈥檛 take a shower for a week and sat upon the iciest outhouse seat of my life. But in contrast to the merciless conditions, the snug indoor spaces felt decadent. Being physically comfortable allowed me to absorb the singular beauty of the place in ways I may not have otherwise. And luckily, the schedule was casual. We went dogsledding in the twilight beneath gigantic peaks and cross-country skied through forests so silent that when I stopped, all I could hear was the sound of my own heartbeat. With harnesses, we hooked up the sled dogs and went skijoring through the crystalline black, dodging willows and ducking under spruce boughs. We crossed fresh lynx tracks twice. In the mornings, Mollie led us in long, leisurely sessions of yoga in the cozy dome with both stoves firing. 国产吃瓜黑料 the window panes, the silhouettes of the trees emerged from the navy cover of night slowly, almost imperceptibly, over hours.

Mollie told me one evening that people often ask her and Sean what they miss about life in a more moderate clime, and she chuckles at the assumption of lack. 鈥淭his was a choice,鈥� she says. 鈥淚 don鈥檛 miss anything.鈥�

On the winter solstice, the Alaskan Arctic is a place of potent liminality. It felt like the edge of the world. I gravitated to being alone, dawdling on our hikes back to the Hive, soaking in the strange rhythms of light and dark and gazing up at the sky鈥檚 ever-shifting morphology of blues. In the middle of the night, I watched as the moon traveled unfamiliar trajectories across the sky, and in the sumptuous warmth of the yoga dome one evening, after everyone else had left, in the gleam of a dozen flickering candles, I sat and listened to the wind for hours. More than I can ever remember, I felt a simple but unmistakable sense of belonging that I am rarely still enough to discern. Since I returned, when the walls of daily life feel like they鈥檙e closing in, remembering that sense of connection to this vast, wild planet has been a salve, a source of perspective, and a motivator.

Naturally, I wasn鈥檛 blind to the way a place this remote is affected by the environmental crises we all face, crises that often weigh on my mind and inform many, if not most, of the decisions I make. In some ways, the effects of climate change are even more extreme in the Arctic. While I was there, the temperature shot up to an almost unheard-of 28 degrees and then boomeranged 65 degrees back down in 24 hours. One local, Jack Reakoff, who has lived here since the seventies, told us stories of bizarre weather events that caused mass die-offs of moose and dall sheep in the last few years. I felt the grief of these unignorable truths. But it also felt like mourning or despairing were incomplete ways of relating to a place this spectacular.

One night, I wandered out of my cabin, wrapped in a sleeping bag I had brought just in case, and watched slack-jawed as the northern lights whirled across the dome overhead like a luminous river. After many days, the formidable peaks of the Brooks Range finally disrobed from their mantle of clouds and shone resplendent in the moonlight. Standing all alone in the snow, I felt like I had landed in a forgotten kingdom. It occurred to me that none of us can ever truly live up to the gift of simply existing on a planet of such outrageous magnificence. Maybe the celebration is every bit as necessary as the grief.

The post I Spent the Winter Solstice in One of the Darkest Places on Earth appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

You don鈥檛 need to be a meteorologist to know that the weather in the Arctic鈥攖he northernmost region on the planet鈥攎ostly alternates between cold and bitterly cold. With an average winter temperature of negative 30 degrees, the Arctic has a well-deserved reputation as a proving ground for explorers who want to test themselves against the planet鈥檚 harshest conditions. If you can make it above the 66 degrees 30 minutes north latitude, you can make it anywhere.听

An untrained eye might see these areas of Greenland, Canada, Alaska, Russia, and Scandinavia as barren and empty, but to adventure lovers the Arctic is one of the last great frontiers. 贵箩盲濒濒谤盲惫别苍, a Swedish company established in 1960, has been outfitting Arctic explorers for decades, and it takes everyday adventurers on an annual expedition called 贵箩盲濒濒谤盲惫别苍 Polar, an event where ordinary folks can join 贵箩盲濒濒谤盲惫别苍 explorers on a one-of-a-kind polar expedition in northern Scandinavia.

鈥淓xpertise grows from experience,鈥� says Carl H氓rd af Segerstad, 贵箩盲濒濒谤盲惫别苍鈥檚 global event manager. 鈥淥ur founder, 脜ke Nordin, realized rather quickly that more experiences leads to better products. We鈥檝e carried on this legacy to invite people to nature, both for the sake of being in nature and to continue to develop products that enable experiences in nature, even if the conditions are cold and hostile.鈥�

The 贵箩盲濒濒谤盲惫别苍 team knows a thing or two about dressing for cold climates. Follow their advice, and you can stay warm whether you鈥檙e heading to the Arctic or a wintry trail in your backyard.

Start With a Warm Foundation

When it鈥檚 20 below, you need maximum performance from your base and midlayers. And once you have those key pieces dialed, they鈥檒l provide the foundation for a versatile system.

No matter the activity, a base layer goes on first to wick sweat away. Grab the and pair them with the . Both are made with a technical and soft merino-wool blend that is durable and easy to clean. Wool, the original performance fabric, is still the best: it鈥檚 inherently temperature-regulating, moisture-wicking, odor-resistant, and insulative even when wet. 鈥淚t鈥檚 a fantastic fiber for outdoor pursuits, and it鈥檚 natural and renewable,鈥� says H氓rd af Segerstad. 鈥淚t can be developed for different layering solutions and was the natural choice before we started producing from plastic materials.鈥� With strategically placed varied knitting patterns, both garments provide warmth, flexibility, and ventilation in all the right places.

When it comes to midlayers, you want a high level of insulation combined with breathability. The is crafted from a functional synthetic-and-wool-blend fleece that balances both needs. The hoodie features two zippered hand pockets and a zippered chest pocket鈥攑erfect for storing your phone (and a power bank to keep it charged even in extreme cold). Its slim-fitting hood traps heat to keep your head warm but isn鈥檛 too bulky to accommodate additional accessories.

Choose Activity-Specific Outerwear

You鈥檝e got your base layer and midlayer dialed. Now, when deciding what to wear for each activity, consider the forecast and level of physical effort required.

Dog Sledding

Traveling by dogsled is an incredible way to move through a snowy landscape. It鈥檚 fast and fun, but it requires careful layering. Consider this: sled dogs can run between ten and 20 miles per hour, and that extra windchill will make you feel significantly colder. For example, if it鈥檚 minus 20 degrees and there鈥檚 a ten-mph wind, it will actually.

That kind of cold requires an outer layer like the . The 90 percent goose-down, midlength jacket is a classic 1974 贵箩盲濒濒谤盲惫别苍 design that extends below the hips for added warmth without restricting your movement. Because the coat is also wind-resistant, thanks to the polyamide exterior fabric, it鈥檚 the ideal outer layer for days when you鈥檙e fighting the windchill. 鈥淲e were inspired by the legendary Iditarod, the dogsled expedition through Alaska, to test 贵箩盲濒濒谤盲惫别苍 under these conditions,鈥� says H氓rd af Segerstad. 鈥淎t 贵箩盲濒濒谤盲惫别苍 Polar, amateur mushers from around the world were invited to experience the Nordic Arctic tundra over a demanding route in a very remote and exposed environment.鈥�

Whether you鈥檙e flying behind a pack of dogs or just out on a windy day, it鈥檚 critical to protect your skin. Put on the to cover up as much as possible around your face and neck. The balaclava鈥檚 wool-polyester blend keeps you warm even in wet conditions and wicks away moisture from your mouth and nose. Top it with the , an insulated, wind- and water-resistant hat with a brim for added protection from sun and precipitation.

Self-Propelled Travel

Whether you鈥檙e pulling a sled in the Arctic or simply out traveling on skis, snowshoeing, climbing, or trekking, you鈥檒l generate body heat, so you need to layer appropriately. In cold weather, you want to avoid sweating so the moisture doesn鈥檛 soak your clothes and freeze when you stop moving. To accomplish this, swap the Woolmesh Sweater base layer for the , which is made of terry knit that helps you stay dry even when you鈥檙e working hard. The smooth finish on the exterior helps reduce friction against other layers when you鈥檙e active. Add the , made with a light wool blend that adds just-right warmth when you鈥檙e on the move. On a windy or snowy day, you鈥檒l need the and . These breathable and durable layers are waterproof and made partially from recycled polyester. The stretchy material and articulated design let you move without restriction.

Unwinding at Camp

Enjoying camp comforts in the latter half of the day when temperatures drop and you鈥檙e not moving much can often feel like its own kind of expedition. After a long day in the elements, swap your daytime footwear for the . Stay warm head to toe with your favorite down jacket topped with the , a heavy-duty wind-resistant cap with a thick synthetic fur lining and ear flaps that can be secured with a chin buckle.

Explore the Arctic with 贵箩盲濒濒谤盲惫别苍

Stoked on the idea of an Arctic adventure? Who isn鈥檛? Put your layering know-how to the test on the 贵箩盲濒濒谤盲惫别苍 Polar鈥攁n event where ordinary folks can join 贵箩盲濒濒谤盲惫别苍 explorers on a one-of-a-kind polar expedition in northern Scandinavia. Participants will travel over 185 miles via dogsled from Signaldalen to V盲kk盲r盲j盲rvi, among beautiful mountains along an old Sami trade route and across Europe鈥檚 largest area of permafrost. 鈥淭hey get to learn how to dress, how to sleep, how to cook, and how to make shelter,鈥� says H氓rd af Segerstad. 鈥淓ach participant also learns the intricate interdependency between themselves and the sled dogs as each musher, teamed up with six dogs on their own sled, is completely dependent on the dogs to make their way through the wilderness.鈥�

These trips are just one place where 贵箩盲濒濒谤盲惫别苍 puts its clothes and equipment to the ultimate test in extreme winter environments, so you can be ready for anything. .

In 1960, 脜ke Nordin founded in his basement in the town of 脰rnsk枚ldsvik in northern Sweden. Today the company鈥檚 timeless, functional and durable outdoor equipment that can be found in over 70 countries. 贵箩盲濒濒谤盲惫别苍鈥檚 product range comprises outdoor clothing and accessories for men and women as well as backpacks, tents and sleeping bags. As a company, 贵箩盲濒濒谤盲惫别苍 makes every effort to act responsibly towards people, wildlife and the environment.

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The other day I searched for Alfred Lansing鈥檚 1959 book in my local library鈥檚 database. I live in the Yukon, in northern Canada, and usually when I search for a decades-old book in the library鈥檚 extensive Arctic and Antarctic collections, I find what I need. But this time, every copy of Endurance was already checked out. Ernest Shackleton鈥檚 sunken ship, Endurance, had just been located 10,000 feet down on the floor of the Weddell Sea, and Lansing鈥檚 classic is the definitive tale of of the extraordinary events听that followed the 1915 sinking: Shackleton and his crew, over the course of two years, fought their way through Antarctica and made it back home. I guess I shouldn鈥檛 have been surprised that the book was in high demand.

Luckily for those of us who are fired up about the discovery of the Endurance shipwreck, there is plenty to read and watch to slake our thirst for polar adventure and suffering. The last decade alone has seen the publication of a flurry of books about lesser known expeditions to the poles: Andrea Pitzer鈥檚 tells the story of a 16th-century voyage to the high Russian Arctic that became a yearlong battle for survival, while , from 国产吃瓜黑料 alum Hampton Sides, and , by Julian Sancton, both New York Times bestsellers, recount tragically unsuccessful 19th-century attempts at being the first to the North and South Poles, respectively. A little older, but still underrated, is , by the late David Roberts鈥攖hink Touching the Void but set in 1913 Antarctica.

We rounded up our favorite true and fictional accounts of polar adventure and disaster. Pour yourself a hot beverage, and dive in.

Endurance, Alfred Lansing

Lansing鈥檚 book about how Shackleton and his men survived the loss of the Endurance听remains a classic for a reason: working in the 1950s, the author was able to interview many of the surviving crewmen, and he was given access to nearly every written diary that made it off the ice. More than 60 years after its publication, is a bridge to a different era. It remains worth a read鈥攊f you can get your hands on a copy. (For a more recent account of Shackleton鈥檚 expedition, check out Caroline Alexander鈥檚 1998 bestseller .)

The Terror (AMC, season one)

Book after book has been written about the lost Franklin expedition: two British navy ships, HMS Erebus and HMS Terror, and more than 120 men, vanished during a search for the Northwest Passage in the late 1840s. For polar-history buffs, the story is a well-beaten path. But season one of AMC鈥檚 The Terror (now ), based on of the same name, takes a hard turn away from the usual approach. Instead of depicting what was most likely a slow, painful collapse into starvation and scurvy, the show鈥檚 creators inflict a supernatural doom on Franklin and his men. The Arctic they move through is ominous and hostile, and they are stalked by a violent force that they can鈥檛 understand. The result is a gripping period piece turned horror story, fabulously acted and frighteningly told.

Ice Ghosts, Paul Watson

Journalist Paul Watson was on board the vessel that located one of the two lost Franklin ships, Erebus, off the coast of King William Island in 2014. (The Terror was also found nearby, two years later.) revisits the doomed expedition and its disappearance in the 1840s, but it also brings the narrative up to the present, telling the story of the Parks Canada divers, the marine archaeologists, and the Inuit knowledge-keepers who put the pieces of the Arctic鈥檚 most famous puzzle together and found the ships after more than 160 years of failed searches.

Great Circle, Maggie Shipstead

Maggie Shipstead鈥檚 celebrated novel is not strictly about the polar regions. tells the story of a fictional female pilot, Marian Graves, and her attempt to circumnavigate the globe, by plane, from north to south. Graves vanishes off the coast of Antarctica on the final leg of her journey, and the novel pivots between two timelines: her (fascinating, eventful, sometimes grim) life leading up to that moment, and the story of Hadley Baxter, a recently disgraced Hollywood starlet who has been cast to play Graves in a present-day biopic. The narrative is vivid, enriched by real-life details from the histories of aviation and exploration, and by Shipstead鈥檚 own travels to Greenland and Antarctica. The book also has something to say about our fascination with the people who vanish into the planet鈥檚 wildest places and the limits of what we can know about their deaths, or their lives.

The Last Viking, Stephen R. Bown

Non-Canadians may have missed this compelling recent biography of Roald Amundsen, the Norwegian explorer who in the early 20th century bagged nearly every major remaining polar prize. Amundsen led the first team of European explorers to sail the Northwest Passage, traversing the North American Arctic from east to west, before heading to Antarctica to beat Robert Falcon Scott to the South Pole. (Bown also suggests that Amundsen may have been the first to truly reach the North Pole.) His exploits changed polar exploration, cementing a shift away from the ponderous siege-style tactics favored by British military expeditions and toward a lighter, nimbler approach, and in his later years he was also an early adopter of aircraft for polar travel. portrays him as, in a way, the first modern explorer: forever cash-strapped, dependent on publicity and sponsorship, and skilled at navigating not only sea ice but the tensions that arise when exploration becomes your business.

Against the Ice (Netflix)

This year, Netflix brought us Against the Ice, a re-creation of the marooning of Danish explorer Ejnar Mikkelsen in 1909 after he set out with six men to determine whether Greenland was a singular landmass and therefore Denmark鈥檚 dominion. While Mikkelsen and his engineer were scouting for records of a previous,听doomed Greenland expedition, the rest of the crew jumped on a passing fishing boat and headed home. The two were left to fend off blizzards, polar bears, and isolation-induced hallucinations while they awaited rescue. The film was shot on location in Iceland and Greenland, and it compellingly captures the brutal conditions and loneliness of a polar expedition.

The post Our Favorite Books and TV Shows About Polar Exploration (and Disaster) appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

Winter has already arrived in听, an Arctic survival film starring Game of Thrones actor Nikolaj Coster-Waldau.听(You might recognize him as the infamous Kingslayer .) The movie, streaming on Netflix, is based Danish explorer (Coster-Waldau),听who in 1909听embarked听on a voyage with a six-person crew to听determine whether Greenland was a singular land mass, in the process solidifying Denmark鈥檚 dominion over the island. But Mikkelsen鈥檚 adventure turns desperate when his crew leaves on a fishing boat while he鈥檚 still out on the ice during a scouting mission, leaving him marooned in the bitter tundra alongside engineer Iver Iversen (Peaky Blinders鈥� Joe Cole).听The two men faced听blistering conditions and hungry wildlife for almost 28 months.

Coster-Waldau, 51, also faced the elements while shooting Against the Ice in Greenland and Iceland. 鈥淲e insisted from the beginning: we have to shoot everything on camera, on location in the Arctic,” he says. 听The Danish actor, who also co-wrote and co-produced the film, has visited the island for decades鈥攈is wife is originally from Greenland鈥攕o he knew how dramatic the landscapes and elements can be there.

We talked with the actor about acting in subzero temperatures, sparring with a stand-in polar bear, and working alongside a fleet of sled dogs.

国产吃瓜黑料: There鈥檚 no green screen in this film鈥攜ou鈥檙e actually in Greenland and Iceland. How did filming on location affect your performance?

Nikolaj Coster-Waldau: Nature is powerful when you鈥檙e there鈥攊t has almost a will of its own. But of course there were days when we got a lot more than we bargained for, and we had some storms that were ferocious. What鈥檚 so exciting is that the weather you see the film is what we really were experiencing. When the characters are struggling against the wind and in a snowstorm, we were really in a snowstorm during filming. There are a couple of shots where an hour after we got those shots, we all had to be evacuated from this glacier in Iceland because it was too dangerous. There was a guy in a van鈥攁 video assist guy鈥攁nd suddenly rocks flew through the windows because the wind was so powerful. It was insane, but we kept shooting until that point. We shot in negative 18 degrees Fahrenheit. It was really cold. You can see that in the faces and the beards, the way you talk. It affects your performance and makes it all about wanting to be as authentic as possible.

What was the biggest challenge鈥攎ental or physical鈥攐f filming this movie?听

I think that if I had to pick one, there鈥檚 the scene with the polar bear, which wasn鈥檛 a polar bear but this guy who was throwing me around. That was probably the toughest moment of the movie. There鈥檚 CGI, but to shoot it we had to have a stand-in to throw me. He was wearing a helmet with a polar bear head. He was a former Icelandic Olympian, the judo heavyweight champion of Iceland. Big guy, very strong. He was throwing me around, and after five, six, seven takes, I had to stop because I felt sick. I had a slight concussion from that experience.

Do you have a favorite survival movie or book? 听

I like stories about explorers going to unknown land and just breaking new ground. I think my favorite movie of that kind is The Right Stuff. I love that movie, about these guys exploring the limits of aviation. And then, of course, Free Solo听from a couple years ago.

Your character in the film is drawn to extremes. Are there any extremes you gravitate toward?听

I do a lot of mountain biking. I love when we鈥檙e in Greenland to go on hikes. We sometimes will take the tent with us and go off for a few days. I鈥檝e never done anything like these guys鈥攖his is so extreme. I don鈥檛 have to feel that I鈥檓 about to die to enjoy it. I don鈥檛 need to BASE-jump. That鈥檚 not my thing.

What was it like to work with your furry castmates, the sled dogs?听

Those dogs are so powerful. To see the hunters in Greenland with the dogs is incredible: how precise they are with the whip鈥攖he whip is never hurting the dogs, it鈥檚 just making a little sound next to them to go left, right, stop. This is a way of transportation that has been used for so long,听补苍诲 it鈥檚 still used in northwestern Greenland because it鈥檚 the best, the safest, the most economical way of traveling. And it鈥檚 with animals! The dogs were great鈥攁nd they didn鈥檛 charge you for overtime.

This interview has been edited for length and clarity.

The post In ‘Against the Ice,’ Actor Nikolaj Coster-Waldau Is Not in King鈥檚 Landing Anymore appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

Cecilia Blomdahl stands in the entryway of her cabin, panning the camera to reveal a body of water glittering with light from the midnight sun. In the distance, you can just make out the seven glaciers she can听 from her living room. In typical fashion, Blomdahl begins the with a friendly introduction: 鈥淢y name is Cecilia, and I live on Svalbard, an island close to the North Pole,鈥� she says with the practiced air of someone who spent years working in the hospitality industry. She sprinkles in bits of trivia about the听Arctic鈥檚 long days听as an electronic track by Kina Beats plays in the background.

Blomdahl, a self-taught photographer and videographer, has lived on the Norwegian archipelago of Svalbard for the past five years. Since her ,听in听October, she鈥檚 gained a million followers and 15 million likes on the app, reeling in viewers with everything from drone footage of the tundra鈥檚 expanse to explanatory videos about life in the Arctic.

For viewers who鈥檝e spent a year in quarantine, Blomdahl鈥檚 TikToks don鈥檛 just offer an escape to a world unaffected by COVID-19 (Svalbard is one of the that鈥檚 never had a reported case) or a soothing antidote to . They also offer a surprising sense of familiarity, allowing us to virtually slip into the lifestyle of someone who has made the most of her time in an isolated environment, one that鈥檚听not altogether different from the social isolation we were all听plunged into during the pandemic.

Originally from Sweden, Blomdahl spent part of her youth in Ireland, and has since lived all over the world while听going to school听补苍诲 working at luxury hotels. She moved to Svalbard in 2015 with her then听partner, intending听to head the听reservations department at a restaurant for just a few months, but she soon fell in love with the island. With its lack of visa requirements, Svalbard鈥攍ong a hub for Arctic exploration, coal mining, and research鈥攈as drawn an international population of residents who stay anywhere between several听months and several decades. They鈥檙e a group of folks who are perhaps more daring, self-reliant, and up for a good challenge than most. When Blomdahl and her partner broke up and he moved away, she stayed for the work-life balance, community, and sense of adventure that the island afforded.

Now听Blomdahl works part-time at a clothing store and lives with her current partner, whom she met at her first job on Svalbard. Because housing is hard to find, they bought a cabin without running water just outside Longyearbyen, the world鈥檚 northernmost settlement, with a population of 2,368.

Though she鈥檚 had an 听for years, she began focusing on building her social media presence after moving to Svalbard. A听self-proclaimed techie, Blomdahl became interested in photography when she picked up a drone in 2017 and was instantly mesmerized by the aerial view of the island. 鈥淚t鈥檚 like a live-version听video game,鈥� she says.

She bought a camera and taught herself photography, posting her initial attempts at capturing the northern lights on Instagram. Her work听slowly gained traction, but it didn鈥檛 really take off until she started a TikTok account听last fall. One of her听first posts, about what she sees on a during the polar night, went viral. 鈥淪he realized that when she was on Svalbard, she had a kind of niche,鈥� says her younger sister, Camille. 鈥淪he took it to the next level with the drones.鈥�

Since then, Blomdahl has captured viewers鈥� attention with tours of the tundra, where we听 at sights like the aurora borealis and the set deep within the permafrost, preserving over a million seed samples for future generations. She documents seals, reindeer, and a population of that outnumber human inhabitants on Svalbard.

Blomdahl expected that most viewers would crave this adventurous content but听was initially surprised at the number of followers asking about her everyday life. A quick scroll through the comments section on a TikTok about reveals a chorus of sentiments like 鈥淚 can鈥檛 imagine living without Amazon Prime!鈥� Many viewers don鈥檛 care as much about snowmobiling or glacier hikes. What they want to know is whether she goes to the movie theater or what she eats.

So Blomdahl delivers with behind-the-scenes footage. We how she layers up with expedition pants, thermals, and a firearm ( in Svalbard as protection from polar bears) to walk her gloriously fluffy Finnish Lapphund, Grim, in a snowstorm. We accompany her to the local supermarket to stock up on groceries with exorbitant prices (an avocado is $4). She where she grabs a snack (a taco truck) and what color she鈥檚 selected for her latest manicure (orange).

I stumbled across Blomdahl鈥檚 profile over the winter. Back then听she鈥檇 only posted a handful of videos, which I promptly scrolled through, leaving me sitting on the couch in a cramped New York City apartment, a world away from indoor dining and outdoor adventures, pondering why I was so intrigued by her work.

Blomdahl believes her videos are popular because they鈥檙e presented in watchable packages. She spends time finding music that fits the听vibe and sticks to a format she established early on: many videos start with slow-motion nature footage and include a montage in the middle. 鈥淚 want to be a positive corner on the internet,鈥� she says. 鈥淚 have gotten a lot of feedback from people saying that my videos help with their anxiety听补苍诲 that they find them super peaceful to watch.鈥�

She also suspects her videos are attractive because they鈥檙e different from what you might expect鈥攕he鈥檚 just a regular person living in an unusual place. She听offers听us familiar points of entry into an exciting world by showing how she decorates her cabin with fairy lights or makes her morning cup of coffee. She models the allure of a self-structured lifestyle.

Remember the era of sourdough bread starters? Cottage core? Foraging? Homesteading? These hobbies that cropped up during the pandemic were all about creating meaning through self-reliance when so much, including routines providing structure and socialization, had been听taken away. When Blomdahl started making TikTok videos听in 2020, they seemed perfectly timed for our听new DIY age. She says that being able to do things herself鈥攚hether it鈥檚 speeding around on her turbo snowmobile, hiking in the mountains with a shotgun on her back, or fishing in the summer鈥攇ives her a sense of accomplishment. 鈥淚t just empowers me,鈥� she says. 鈥淚 feel so free, and I feel so able.鈥� By inviting viewers into this world, Blomdahl makes a meaningful life in an isolated environment look easy, normalizing a lifestyle that to many seems extreme.

Of course, living in the Arctic comes with its听fair share of challenges, and I asked Blomdahl about that over a Zoom call. She says she takes vitamin supplements and has a strict sleeping schedule to maintain a sense of normalcy during the polar night, which lasts 24 hours a day for two and a half听months. But it also doesn鈥檛 hurt that she鈥檚 had the privilege of opting in to this lifestyle, where she sees her sacrifices as a worthwhile trade-off for the incredible views.

For those of us听who haven鈥檛 had that freedom of choice recently, Blomdahl听has some听takeaways as a person听who鈥檚 lived in relative isolation for a few years. While听enduring the polar night might not seem like the most relatable experience, it鈥檚听a season that forces you to actively consider how you spend your time and find meaningful moments. 鈥淚t kind of makes you focus on different things that you wouldn鈥檛 normally,鈥� she says. Blomdahl has learned to focus on what each extreme season has to offer and put her happiness into small things, like starting her day with a cup of coffee.

While in quarantine last winter, I found myself lighting candles and hanging听lights in every corner of the apartment. Watching Blomdahl鈥檚 videos allowed me to live vicariously through someone who had successfully found the joyful moments that I hoped to emulate in my own space. She ultimately teaches us to take the time to find joy and adventure in the mundane听when possible, whether by cooking for a loved one, spending virtual time with friends, or transforming your living room into a sacred space.

Perhaps surprisingly, polar night has become听Blomdahl鈥檚 favorite time of year. This extreme circumstances create a unifying sense of community throughout the village, she says, which encourages social activities like art festivals and snowmobiling. It鈥檚 not unlike the way living through the singular experience of the pandemic and watching those close to us weather monumental challenges may have strengthened relationships between family members, partners, or friends in a .

鈥淚 would say the whole village,听it feels like we are one in this, because we all go through this polar night together,鈥� says Blomdahl. 鈥淚t鈥檚 just so private in a weird way. It鈥檚 like our own little universe.鈥� By sharing this microcosm on TikTok, she welcomes听us into that fold, allowing us to become an extension of a听community that previously might have seemed a world away.

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