Finland Wilderness Training - Day 5: Falling off a chairlift, going home with Rudolph.

Today we are downhill skiing in Ruka.  As we wind our way along the narrow forest road away from base camp, the snow is deep around us and hangs, in precarious swathes along the tree branches.  We see a break in the clouds and wonder if the weather, at last, is turning.  It lasts for a moment and then the clouds meet once more and the brief ray of sunshine is lost.  It takes about 25 minutes to get to Ruka. The town centre is very small and offers the usual range of ski resort shops and restaurants.  As we step out of the minibus I can see that there is a white-out.  I am not sure whether it’s worth going up but also not sure what I will do in Ruka for 5 hours if I don’t.  A couple of skiers who have just come down give me an update - it’s limited visibility at the top they say, but the snow  conditions are good. First I check the quality of the equipment in the hire shop, the skis are nearly new and the edges are sharp so I decide to take the punt.  It’s the first time I have been on downhill skis for nearly five years and as we walk to the first quad lift my arms are already tired from carrying the skis and so I am glad to clip them onto my boots.  I’ve also forgotten that skiing means having five foot planks stuck to your feet.  I don’t feel at all confident. The evening before my companion had asked me if I could ski and I had said yes, and we chatted about where we had skied and told the usual anecdotes about the successes and failures of various runs we had thrown ourselves down.  I wished now the term ‘double-black diamond’ had not been uttered.  Pushing myself along on the flat I approach the gates, fumbling for my electronic pass and find I cannot stop and clatter into one of the posts.  I smile weakly at my friend.  I don’t feel happy or secure on the chairlift and regret now not doing my boots up tighter.  As we slowly glide upwards I am too nervous to take in the beauty of the countryside around us and appreciate the way the snow sparkles in the sun, which has finally emerged from the clouds.  As we approach the top, the retaining bar slowly raises and wriggling to the edge of my seat I get ready to push myself off.  The chair slows, I am slow to move, the others are faster and in the jostle I lose my balance and fall in a great clumsy heap to the ground.  My companion looks at me with a faint look of pity.  In a moment of clarity, I realize it is for herself, not me.

Because my boot clips are open and I am on a slope I can’t get up and so ensues an embarrassing,  human version of Bambi-on-ice.  I manage to get up at last and bend over to tighten my clips and to gather my composure.  In the meantime my companion checks out our route on the piste-map.  Over there, she points.  I nod and meekly follow in her tracks, glad I have hired a helmet.  It is one of those strange peculiarities of mountain weather that it can be a white-out one minute and glorious sunshine the next.  It can be snowing on one side of the mountain and clear on the other.  As we take our second chairlift, my ski legs slowly start to engage, the mist slowly lifts and when we reach the top the view is stunning.  Not one of those machismo Alpine views which is one huge craggy mountain in front of you and another one beyond it, and another one beyond that.  What surrounded us, here at the top of this mountain in northern Finnish, not far from the Arctic Circle, was a vast expanse of flatland that gently rolled away in all directions, generously scattered with lakes.  The sheer sense of nothing between oneself and, well, whatever was on the horizon felt strangely liberating.  “Let’s have a photo” I say.

My first run down is rubbish.  It’s a blue run which leads into a red.  My balance is poor; my weight distribution from ski to ski on the turns is sloppy.  I am nervous of any kind of speed.  My companion has streaked ahead of me and I see her at a bend, waiting, leaning on the poles she has stuck into the ground. I feel like deadweight.  Drumming up some confidence I push myself into a hard turn just before I reach her and feel the snow spray up in a satisfying arc around me.  “if you want to go on”, I say, “do”.  She shakes her head and smiles.  On the next bit I run through the exercises that are drummed into you time and again at ski school reminding myself.  “Lean into the slope, transfer weight to the down-hill ski, bend the knees, plant your poles”. By the end of the second run that sluggish gray matter that is my brain, is beginning to remember and my body is beginning to respond.  I hum the Blue Danube by Strauss, exactly like I used to in my first few years of skiing and start to feel some rhythm creep in and my body begins to relax.  This time, at the bottom of the slope, I am not far behind.  The village is just below us now and with its traditional Finnish architecture and twinkling Christmas lights I expect to see Santa wander across the square.  My concentration kicks back in as I see my friend take a sharp turn to the left.  I catch a glimpse of a number and a colour as I follow.  So……. we’re taking the black.  She is still down before me, but I take some little solace in the fact she is fifteen years younger.

Later, at the reindeer farm we visit, we are sitting in a large hut around an open fire eating reindeer sausages which are delicious. It feels slightly discourteous, though, given we have just finished being introduced to their mates.  They are an edgy lot these reindeer and might I say it, slightly difficult to predict.  You get the sense they might pretend to be domesticated when it suits, but really, they pretty much do what they want.  They are big beasts, with thick wiry pelts and antlers that are, well, deterring to say the least.  There are 250,000 reindeers in this region of Finland which is home to a lot fewer people – only 15,000 in fact.  The reindeers roam, but they are not wild, each one of them has a small pattern clipped into its ear to show who owns it. They all run together over the winter and then the farmers work together to find them and bring each of their herds in for breeding and slaughter.  As I sit there, chewing contentedly in the darkness, lit only by the flicker of the flames, I run my hands across the reindeer pelt I am sitting on. I had been thinking about what souvenir to take back from Finland, and now I know.

Finland Wilderness Training, Day 4, part 2 - me or the ice wall?

I find if I swear sufficiently profanely somehow it provides me with enough strength to lodge my ice-axe into the ice wall sufficiently far enough to drag myself another few inches towards the top.  I have been on the wall so long that all the blood has drained from my arms and I find myself relying more and more on the belay line.  Below me my buddy calls up in encouragement.  As the going gets harder and my swearing gets worse, the instructor laughs even more.  “You’ll make a real ice-climber yet he says”.  The crampons which I eventually got to clip onto my boots but only after some help are supposed to give me the purchase in the ice to allow me to stride up the wall using the strength in my legs and relying on the ice-axe only as a balancing tool.  It doesn’t quite work that way.  Daylight has gone and the scratches on the plastic safety visor of my helmet refract the artificial light which shines above me and makes it even more difficult.  The ice-wall is about 30 feet high; I am about two thirds of the way up and am exhausted.  My hands have gotten so cold that I can’t grip the ice-axe properly and no matter how hard I kick I can’t get the spikes on the crampons to stay in the ice.  I lose my grip and find myself falling, luckily feeling the belay respond and the rope tighten to stop me.  I signal that I want to come down.  As I slowly walk backwards down the wall I wonder how on earth I will manage the three hundred foot Lhotse face ice wall on Everest.   It’s a sobering thought.  

I belay my buddy for nearly an hour, she too is struggling but I really want her to succeed and get to the top, as much for my own motivation as hers.  She wants to come down but I won’t let her.  I shout at her to keep going, giving her as much support as I can on the line without actually pulling her up physically myself.  I have already decided to have another go and her success will bring out the bloody-minded stubbornness that I know I will need the next time around.  She briefly rests, and then in a final push hits the wooden ridge at the top. When she gets down her face is lit up with triumph and I hope I will get to feel like that too.  Swopping the harness and checking the clips I survey the wall and chose my route up.  “Right, you bastard thing, you’re mine” I think.  Swinging my axe I embed it into the face of the wall so hard once I get up to it I struggle to get it out.  Pulling back my foot I hammer it into the ice in a suitable spot and taking the weight on the spikes lever myself up.  I realize this is all about a state of mind. It’s me or the wall and this time I do not doubt that I am going to win.   Working my way up I pound into the ice which flies in every direction and I move so quickly the belay line keeps going slack.  I get to the top in 20 minutes and wrapping my arm around one of the wooden posts I hang there, catching my breath.  Looking down I get a big thumbs up from the instructor and a broad smile.  I feel crazily happy and hang in the moment trying to commit the feeling to memory and to secure it for a little bit longer.   When I get down the instructor shakes my hand and congratulates me for persevering. I take off my harness and go and quietly sit, in contemplation about the small differences which can mean success or failure.

Later as I walk to the sauna I feel the soreness beginning in my shoulders and legs.  At dinner I, like everyone else who got to the top of the wall, get a commerative t-shirt.  I will take it with me, to Everest.

Find the ice-climbing photos on the gallery.

Finland Wilderness Training, New Year's Day, part 2 - furry friends and off-road in the snow

My team is made up of five dogs each tied, via its harness, to a central line which runs back to the sled.  They make up a two, one, two formation with the brightest ones at the front and the grunts at the back.    A bit like a rugby team really.  The dogs are tied to the central line with blue plastic string in what looks like an incredibly complicated system but I come to realize how ingenious it. The aim when maneuvering the sled is to keep the lines to the dogs taut so that they can feel the weight they are pulling and this keeps the sled at a nice, controlled distance behind them.  Allow the line to slack and catch up with dogs and the sled can overtake them.  This isn’t good for the dogs whom can end up in a tangled heap being pulled sideways or backwards and not good for the driver who losing control of the sled usually ends up hugging a tree.  Injuries follow.  The way the dogs are tied looks complicated but in fact allows the dogs to rotate in their harnesses or to hop over the top of the string when they have to.  Which, as I get to grips with the correct level of braking is fairly often. Never have I seen dogs running at speed on three legs. 

Running the sled and distributing my weight correctly as we take the corners doesn’t take too long to master.  On steep downward slopes the dogs run faster and there’s a decision to be made between pressing the brake and instead letting the dogs have their heads and feeling adrenaline streak around your system.  On upward slopes you get off and push.  But now, we are rushing out of the trees and are suddenly in the open, the snow lies deep on each side of the narrow track and the dogs, warm already, snatch mouthfuls of snow as they run. With the line of the route running out into the distance there’s time to relax a bit and just enjoy the ride.

The wind is bitingly cold on the narrow line of exposed skin between my scarf and my hat and my feet are chilled despite the two pairs of socks and insulated boots.  My eyes narrow as my vision is obscured by tiny ice crystals which slam into my face as I am propelled forward into gathering darkness.  Behind the hill to my left the sun is beginning to set and throws an orange glow across the sky.   All I can hear is the music-like rush of the runners across the snow and the sound of the dog’s feet as they run.  I feel entirely at home.

We make a long steady curve at the halfway point and head back.  It’s dark enough now to need a head-torch and there is a precarious moment when I lift one hand to find the switch and the dogs, nearing a corner, decide to take the most direct route.  I find myself and the sled in two and a half feet of virgin snow.  The dogs stop, the sleds stops and both the sled and I begin to gently tip.  But I’ve not lost control of my sled and team yet and I don’t intend to start now so I transfer all my weight to the left runner and stick my right foot in the deep snow and, I know it isn’t cool, but I yell “mush” to the dogs .  They surge forward, we rock and pitch, I manage to regain my balance and then we break through the lip and are back onto the track. The dogs don’t slow down to check the state of their driver, they are on the homeward stretch and the pace has picked up again. And as we streak off I look back and see the destruction I have wrought.  The dog team behind me does the very same thing.   

It is the third and last run of the day for these dogs who will have belted around the track a total of sixty kilometers.  We see lights in the distance through the trees and hit camp but the guide doesn’t stop which confuses me slightly.  The smell of something heating on the fire tantalizes my olfactory senses as I whip by the tent which is almost close enough to touch.  Out on a frozen lake just beyond the trees we make a wide loop and for the first time I see the convoy in full and then a moment later we are back in the clearing, stood hard on the brakes waiting for someone to rope up the sled.  Forced to stop, the dogs jump and pitch for a moment and then settle quietly down in the snow.  I expect at heart, glad of a rest.  Inside the teepee I am still buzzing from the experience and my hands are  shaking as I take the cup of gluwein.  The drink is warm and scented with spices and holding it carefully I sink onto the comfort of the bench, wrap myself in reindeer skins and think about the last few hours.  I know I want to do this again. 

See the husky driving photos on the gallery.

Finland Wilderness Training - New Year's Day, part 1.

At 08:20 my alarm goes off and at nine o’clock I am still prone and moderately anaesthetized by the two shots of tar schnapps I had last night.  Once again I am glad of the instruction not to wash in the mornings which I am finding increasingly appealing. No washing and no make-up makes for a very easy life and when I see my reflection in the mirror over the sink in the tiny wet room I hardly recognize myself which is strangely liberating.  In fact, I look a bit like Tilda Swinton.

The husky drive isn’t until this afternoon but I start to think about what I might need and so spend a few minutes pottering around and organizing my kit.  By the time I have finished my bed is covered and so is most of the floor.  I can’t believe I will really need this many layers and so I select some to wear and stick the others in my backpack.  As I walk across camp I notice that the sky seems brighter and the view to the other side of the lake is clearer.

It’s only about 35 minutes in the minibus to where we pick up our husky teams and quite soon we turn down a narrow road which leads to a small clearing in the pine trees where the minibus stops.  There is an open sided teepee where a log fire glimmers in the fading light and the smell of mulled berry juice drifts across to us.  The teams of dogs are already tied into their harnesses which in turn are tied into the sleds which are each securely tied to a tree.  No anchor and the dogs would be off.   Right now, between runs, they are lying or sitting and generally chilling, both figuratively and literally.  But at the sight of us something seems to switch in the heads and they rise to their feet and begin to pull.  Like I said, good job they are anchored.

I am directed to my sled and told to stand on the back balancing myself one foot on each narrow runner.  My feet feel cramped in two pairs of socks and in two pairs of gloves it’s difficult to wrap my hands securely around the handle.  The husky guides begin to move down the line to their sleds at the front and the back of the convoy and the dogs,  anticipating the run, leap to their feet and bound forward straining at their tack.  Just this movement throws me off balance and I feel a foot slip from the runner.  The rope tied to the tree strains.  I am second in line and directly behind the guide.  “Put both feet on the brake” she says, “and hold-on”. The brake is a rudimentary hard plastic flap that spans the runners and attaches to a series of metal teeth which when the brake is depressed bite into the snow and slow or stop the sled.  As I put both of my feet on the brake the rope for my sled is unleashed from the tree and the dogs, yowling loudly, surge forward and head off.  If I bend at the waist and lean my weight completely over the handle and pull upwards with both hands at the same time, I can just about put enough weight on the brake to slow the team down.  I practice slowing and stopping a few times to get a sense of control and are slightly perturbed by the fact that when I do this, the dogs, still running, turn around and look at me. “What the hell are you doing” their expression clearly conveys.

We are racing down the track a few minutes later, hugged by trees so covered in snow they look like sculptures and I feel like I am in Narnia. I also wonder if I have whiplash.

See the husky photos on the gallery 

Finland Wilderness Training, Day 2, Part 2 - New Years Eve and contemplation of the year ahead

It’s a very simple existence at base camp.  There is typically only one organized activity a day and the rest of the time is reserved for individually practicing the skills we have learnt or taking advantage of the wellness facilities of hot tub and sauna which this week are surprisingly underutilized. During my daily pilgrimage across camp from cabin to spa only once or twice do I have company.   Once I have grappled with the heavily insulated cover a few times I work out a way to manhandle it from the top of the hot tub without losing more than one nail or taking a hard clout on the leg. Then I slip off my clothes down to my swimsuit and can instantly feel the freezing air begin to cling to the moisture on my skin. Hopping up the couple of steps to the rim I balance on the edge and swing my legs over and slip slowly into the steaming water taking my time and enjoying the sensation of heat slowly working its way up my body. With my head leant against the wooden rim I enjoy the peace and the tranquility and lie gazing into the darkness of the trees, watching the vapor slowly rise.  It drifts, drawn gently into the chilly darkness, until it disappears like some arctic ghost.

This morning we walked to the mill, a two story wooden cabin perched upon a corner of the river on one of the more difficult sections of the summer whitewater rafting course (see images ten and eleven on the gallery).   The wood has weathered to a dull grayness over the years and some of the people that have visited have carved their names deep into its planks.  I trace my fingers in the grooves where Liisa and Jouke and Hanna have left their marks and for a moment I stand and wonder about them and where they are now.  The cabin is still used as a boffy in the summer and I can imagine how different the place must look without its cloak of snow which softens and anonymises the surrounding features.  As I walk back to the camp I run my hands across the bark of the trees and stand for a moment, alone.  Despite the sound of the rushing water of the river behind me, it feels strangely still.

The afternoon is free time and there are several options, one is to walk the Little Bear Trial which is a 12 kilometer sub trail of the much longer 80 kilometer Karhunkierros (Bear's Ring) Trail or to go snow-shoeing across the frozen lake or cross –country skiing.  There is the option too, of just settling in to read a book.  One of the features of Basecamp is that there is no internet access or Wi-Fi so there is consequently no temptation to sit in front of a screen for the afternoon though it would have made writing up this blog much more ‘in the moment’.  With a smart-phone one is not entirely insulated from the wider world and the signal here, out in the middle of a national park and only 25 kilometers south of the Arctic Circle is better than the one I get at home.  One of my only criticisms about Basecamp is its lack of an informal social area.  There are no sofas to collapse on in front of the fire and no easy chairs to curl up in and watch the snow falling outside.  The only gathering area is the dining room which has a long row of tables either side of a central block where the food and hot drinks are served.  People meet here to chat or play board games but it lacks the kind of layout that would make socializing between meals much easier.

Lunch is ready when we get back from the mill.  It is nearly always soup and there are always two options; one which is gluten and diary free and the other for people with a common or garden digestive system like me.  The food is straight forward but consistently good and it’s been very easy to grow accustomed to and begin to enjoy the traditional dense black bread that is served alongside the more convention white sliced.   After a few hours out in the cold, coming into the warm of the dining room is like being embraced by a lover – cheeks tingle and flush as the blood rushes quickly to your head. 

The light begins to fade at 2.15 in the afternoon but it doesn’t stop a sledging competition. The sledges are erratic and difficult to control but this just adds to the laughter as one after another we attempt the down-hill course.  The snow sprays up into your face and into your mouth and down your sleeves and at the bottom it’s usual to end up in a heap beneath the sledge in a tangle of arms and legs.  Trudging back up the slope, dragging our sledges behind us we spur the others on.  As I wait in line for my turn I remember it is New Year’s Eve and that tomorrow a whole new year begins.    

We are thrown out of the restaurant as they set up for the NYE dinner because chef has prepared a special meal and they are paying more attention than usual to setting up the tables.   Instead we stand in reception and talk about what we’ve done that day and what we have planned for the next.  The bar is open and the drinks list is interesting.  Having not had alcohol for three days since my travel sickness episode I figure NYE is as good a time as any to get back off the wagon.  I opt, firstly, for a long drink so I have a Long Drink.  That’s right - this refreshing aperitif made of sparkling grape juice and gin is called somewhat unimaginatively, if precisely, Long Drink.  It was created as an official drink of the Helsinki Olympic Games of 1952 and so, in an effort at a bit of entente cordiale, I try a couple and mentally award it a gold medal.  I’ve read about Tar Schnapps, another Finnish specialty, but decide to attempt it post dinner.  I get the feeling that Tar Schnapps might be the spirit version of the three minute knock-out in boxing.

Dinner is cheery and full of chatter but we have finished by eight o’clock and midnight seems very far away.  I lean back in my chair and close my eyes which feel dry and gritty and realize I am very tired.  For a moment I feel depressed and contemplate going to bed and not worrying about making midnight and seeing the New Year in.    There is no background music and nobody has brought a dock for their iPods.  I turn on data roaming and locate a version of Auld Lang Syne on You Tube so at least we will have something to play at the crucial moment.  Ten minutes before midnight we begin to layer up in coats and hats and scarves and turn out onto the large balcony at the back of the building.  There is a group of about thirty of us in total and we stand there watching our breath in the air and stamping our feet and clapping our hands to keep warm. Across the lake in the small village beyond, some fireworks go off.  We watch them streaking up into the darkness and shattering into cascades of silver and gold, and red and blue and then hear the delayed bang as the sound travels over the lake to where we stand. The staff come out to join us and we are all then on the balcony counting down to midnight, some in Finnish, most in English, one in Swedish and as the hour strikes we cheer and then work our way around each other and hug and offer good wishes for the year ahead.  It is dark and the air is crisp and in the background fireworks continue to light up the sky in which feels like an homage to the missing Northern Lights.  As I linger on after everyone has retreated back into the warmth I lean on the balcony, gazing out into the darkness and sip my Tar Schnapps thinking about New Year’s Eve a year ago. I feel like I am looking at time through the wrong end of a telescope and everything seems so small and so far away but somehow it still seems to be having an impact.  I feel a bit like Janus looking both forward and backward at the same time.  But there is no point in dwelling and instead I focus my thoughts on the next twelve months, the submission of my doctoral thesis and my 50^th birthday.  There will be a very special holiday and hopefully a move to Cambridge.  All in all it has to be a better year than the last one.