Skiing to Nordkapp

Distance

1050 km

Duration

39 Days

Elevation Gain

31,000m

This trip (again done with Charlie Key) was a continuation of the Hemavan - Abisko ski trip in 2022, in an attempt to reach Nordkapp - the most northerly point of mainland Europe (ok, technically not quite, but close enough for me) at 71°10′21″ N. This trip upped the ante in terms of remoteness, terrain difficulty, distance between resupply points and temperature. We made it successfully after about 4 weeks out on the snow, pulling our pulks.

Here's a little piece I wrote about this trip

We resumed our journey north the following winter, brimming with excitement at what lay ahead, and with a more refined approach. The first obstacle was a 44km lake crossing over the frozen waters of Torneträsk. We immediately faced a severe cross wind, which blew us in gusts over the ice at uncontrollable speed, often dragged our pulks out from behind us. We careered around until dusk, where we found a sheltered nook on the lakeshore, and got settled into tent life once again. After the floorless single wall pyramid tarp of the previous trip, the expedition grade tent felt like a serious upgrade. The following day was spent entirely on the ice, with progress impossible to gauge, except for the gradual advancement towards a huge pressure ridge spanning the entire width of the lake. We skied over vast snow-free stretches where you could unnervingly look down through the crystal-clear ice into the depths below. Everything seemed a step up from the last trip - bigger landscapes, more difficult route finding, and increasingly remote. The first week was dominated by a brutal cold, with the wind chill bringing it down to -36°C. We often skied late into the night to make up time in the short daylight hours, and marvelled as the sky turned from a deep blue to pastel shades of pink and orange, and finally into the splendour of the arctic nights sky. On our final night in Sweden, we were blessed with the most mesmeric display of the aurora borealis. Charlie couldn’t help but laugh as this cynical old curmudgeon was dancing around in the snow, singing to himself in a state of delirious wonder.

We crossed into Finland and battled through high mountains for days in a ferocious headwind. From over 1000m up the views were expansive, with infinite white nothingness spread out in every direction. We plunged down the dangerously steep walls of Reisa canyon which signified we had made it to Norway. The route I had planned was a ski up the frozen river canyon for 30km, but we quickly began to doubt this. Tell-tale signs of thin ice were everywhere, and soon we encountered small pools of open water. We continued cautiously upriver while fluffy fresh snow stuck to the bottom of our skis and pulks, and our speed slowed to a crawl. As dusk was nearing, one of my skis broke through the ice in shallow water, on the only possible route through the now vast stretches of open river. After an entire day of marginal advancement, we made the difficult decision to cut our losses and backtracked to safer ground, exhausted and demoralised.

Over a few arduous days we rerouted back to Finland and headed east via the Käsivarsi Wilderness Area. This vast patchwork of treeless fells, tundra and frozen bogs was only broken by a wire fence which we somehow managed to haul ourselves and our pulks over. The map informed me this was in fact the Norwegian border, which made it my favourite international crossing to date. The increasing number of traditional Sámi lavvu (tipi-like dwellings) and goahti (turf huts) indicated we were approaching Kautokeino - one of Sápmi’s main cultural centres. Once in town we enjoyed a rest day in a little timber cabin rented from a Sámi lady. We were invited round for drinks at the family home where a few of the locals had gathered. It was a thrill hearing Sámi being spoken, and learning about the different regional dialects and customs within Sápmi. We talked long into the night, the laughter and discussion only interrupted by a topping up of glasses and a toasting to shouts of Máistte!

After a slightly groggy start to the day, we had a less arduous 75km ski up the Guovdageaineatnu river, and made it to the place we had long been waiting for - Finnmarksvidda. We relished the opportunity to traverse over Europe’s last great wilderness, and it didn’t disappoint. As soon as we hauled ourselves up onto the vidda (mountain plateau) we were met with the fiercest winds we had experienced so far, making it difficult to stand. We kept close together, and with visibility reduced to zero it was hard to know whether we were going up or down. One moment, we thought we were gliding downhill, but were in fact stationary, and went tumbling to the floor!

We camped on the ice of Iešjávri, the massive lake in the centre of the plateau. It was incredible seeing our tent on the ice, with an infinite white horizon in every direction, and we drifted off to the hypnotic electrical pulsing sounds of the ice shifting underneath us. Two long days of whiteout followed, only broken by a stay in a gamme – a traditional Sámi turf hut – which provided a welcome break from tent life, and marked our departure from the plateau. The first glimpses of the Norwegian fjords were a breathtaking sight after so long in the interior, but if we thought the conditions would improve thereafter, we were gravely mistaken. The Porsanger peninsula proved to be heavy going, not helped by constant whiteouts and a sudden jump in temperatures where we were soaked by heavy rain, and trudged through puddles of melted ice, up to a foot deep. Feeling increasingly worn-out, it was a massive milestone reaching the North Cape Tunnel entrance, which stood like a gaping troll’s mouth on the hillside. It was one of the most surreal experiences of my life, walking down the steady gradient to a depth of -212m under the ocean. Although exhausted at the end of a huge day, we pressed on up and out of the 6km tunnel, occasionally pressing ourselves to the walls as a vehicle whizzed past. The final push to the cape took us up the steepest terrain of the entire trip. After months pouring over maps, this last portion gave me sleepless nights, but the route I chose was the only viable option. I felt my pulk constantly pulling me back down to the fjord as we zig-zagged up the precipitous slope, but we eventually made it up. It was almost dark when we got close to the cape, caught in a mix of exhaustion and excitement of finally reaching our goal. Then before we knew it, we had skied as far as the land would take us, to the end of the European continent. In front of us remained only the arctic ocean, the peaks of Svalbard and polar ice. We stood in silence atop the mighty cliffs taking in what we had just achieved.