Give or take a few politicians and some pockets of Antarctica, most of our world has moved on from the Ice Age. But up here you’d never know it. As I walk along the jagged coastline, the sky radiates a deep indigo light across an open meadow. A still river of frozen water slices through a yawning white ravine, quilted with pillowy fresh powder. A waterfall, caught in the act, cascades in a sculpture off a sheer precipice. I am struck by how breathtaking Europe must have looked when it was made of ice.
I was last here, in Norway’s Arctic hinterland, 15 years ago. As a university exchange student in the northern city of Tromsø (I was searching for my Norwegian roots as much as I was escaping from a cloying suburban New York upbringing), I came to know these scenes well. It wasn’t an easy year, filled with layered sweaters, mushing to class on cross-country skis through thick snowfall, and popping vitamin D pills to stave off depression from the lack of sunlight. But my memories are also rich with laughter-filled nights drinking cheap red wine and weekends out exploring with two close friends.
Matthias was a deadpan literature student with long hair, and Alva a curvy, carefree girl I had developed a huge (and unrequited) crush on. During one memorable trip, we hopped into Alva’s two-door orange ’70s Opel Kadett C, outfitted with heavy-duty snow chains, and set the compass for east – across the Finnmarksvidda mountain plateau towards the Russian border. In those cost-cutting student days, we ate canned foods and slept in youth hostels and roadside cabins (one time even in the Opel itself).
This winter, I decided to return to northern Norway to revisit those memories and, maybe, rediscover the sense of Arctic wonder that so captivated me as a 19-year-old. The coastal settlement of Alta (four hours’ drive east of Tromsø, or a short flight from Oslo) is the perfect spot to begin an exploration of the north, since the vast plains of the interior begin outside the city – Nordkapp (North Cape), the tippity-top of Europe, is only a three-hour drive away.
Seasonal Affective Disorder, utter darkness, frigid temperatures – these are attributes that don’t exactly scream ‘holiday getaway’ I check into Alta’s riverside Sorrisniva Igloo Hotel, where rooms are kept at around -5ºC and built of ice and snow. Staying in an ice hotel sounds a bit gimmicky, but it’s a good way to avoid the bland Ikea aesthetic of Scandinavian hotel chains. So no Egyptian cotton sheets and mattresses that make you want to move in; instead, my bed’s a block of ice that would send even the hardy Sámi locals scurrying for the comfort of their reindeer-hide teepees. The Igloo Hotel’s annexe houses two outdoor hot tubs, warm toilets and an ice chapel. In its ice bar, I meet a muscular Russian businessman who asks me why in the world I’ve come for a winter holiday in Norway. (‘Wrong season,’ he says. ‘Not exactly Sharm el-Sheikh here.’) Something tells me I’m not meant to ask what business he is conducting in the region.
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Seasonal Affective Disorder, utter darkness, frigid temperatures – these are attributes that don’t exactly scream ‘holiday getaway’. But folk up here have always been good at keeping secrets – a thousand years ago they named Iceland ‘Iceland’ and Greenland ‘Greenland’ with the specific intention of confusing would-be settlers as to the quality of the land. The truth is that Norway was made for the winter, when the graceful, mesmerising countryside beckons with gorgeous blue light, warm camaraderie and umpteen outdoor activities amid a winter playground of glaciers, fjords, forests and frozen lakes.
When I arrive the following day at the Engholm Husky Lodge in the eastern Sámi town of Karasjok (three hours’ inland of Alta), the huskies are yelping and snarling in their pens, and the human ‘mushers’ who lead the pack are rigging, feeding and prepping them for my day-long safari.
‘Are you ready for four-paw drive?’ asks Christel, our guide. And with that, we’re off, thrashing through an otherworldly taiga forest of downy birch and Siberian spruce. Finnmark county is perfect for a ride with ice-white Siberian huskies, who share their home with brown bears, muskrats, lynx and elks.
The only sound to break the eerie silence of the North is the swish-swish of the sled’s runners breaking the clumps of snow and the excited panting from the pack. When our group pulls over for a snack, a nuclear family of Norwegians trudges by us on their skis towards a hytte, one of several hundred simple wooden cabins spread about the countryside for holiday rental.
In the evening, while the dogs are outside chomping on bones, I sit down to a meat and potatoes dish of sautéed reindeer, thinly sliced in a thick cream sauce. Dining on Rudolph may not be the first thing you tell your kids about when you get home, but semi-wild reindeer have been a fundamental part of local life here for centuries: skin and fur are used for clothing and blankets; antlers are fashioned into handicrafts and housewares. Free to roam the northern plateaus in large herds, reindeer produce a fine-textured, flavourful meat that is much leaner than that of farmed animals.
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Based in the husky lodge, I spend the next few days exploring the countryside using snowshoes, snowmobiles and skis. Though there are only a few hours of daylight at this time of year, it is the height of the ‘blue season’, when an iridescent cobalt hue engulfs the world, so that even your waking moments feel dreamlike.
And once the heavens darken, the elusive Aurora Borealis, or Northern Lights, put on their show – bright, fiery tapestries of hazel, green and amber light that flicker and stretch across the heavens for a few seconds or even minutes. During the Opel trips, we would wait patiently each night in the car for a glimpse, but never managed to see them. This time I’m luckier.
The Aurora are created by the collision of solar particle emissions with the Earth’s atmosphere, but Scandinavian people long considered them a warning of oncoming punishment or plague. Local Sámi, generally more optimistic, believed they were the souls of departed brethren waving down at the earth.
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During one of my last evenings, I take a walk out along the Alta fjord, where I wait for the Aurora to appear. And wait. For well over an hour, the sky remains dark and motionless. When the Northern Lights finally do come out, it’s well past midnight.
For one minute, the undulating ribbons twist in a burst of lustrous colour before quickly fading away for good. The air is cold, but not paralysingly so, and the adrenaline has given me a head rush, warming the exposed skin of my face. There is a sliver of moonlight, and I can see the creviced glacial landscape glistening as water lightly laps against the shore. The wind flutters at my ears, and in the distance I can hear the faint ‘Oouuooutt oooouuuutt’ of a pack of reindeer, still awake. The Russian was right. Not exactly Sharm el-Sheikh.
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SAS (0871 226 7760, www.flysas.co.uk) flies from Heathrow to Alta, via Oslo, from £269. Sorrisniva Igloo Hotel (00 47 78 433378, www.sorrisniva.no) is open mid-January to mid-April; doubles from £440, B&B, including morning sauna and transfers. Gargia Fjellstue (00 47 78 433351, www.gargia-fjellstue.no) is a mountain lodge near Alta with cosy huts and local food; doubles from £123, B&B.
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Engholm Husky (00 47 91 586625, www.engholm.no) offers a range of husky safaris, from £143pp for a day trip, £953 for a five-day break. Activities Abroad (01670 789991, www.activitiesabroad.com) has a six-night trip, taking in both Karasjok and Sorrisniva Igloo Hotel, from £2,675pp, full board, including Heathrow flights and husky dog-sledding.
Further information
Visit www.visitnorway.co.uk.