This trip has helped revive my elementary math skills.  Weather is a constant topic of conversation; and when you are the sole Americans in your party, that conversation is largely in C vs. F.  So, here’s the formula – take what they say in C, multiply it by 9, divide it by 5, then subtract (in the case of a Swedish winter discussion) that number from 32.  So, for example, if you’re told it’s -2C, don’t get scared until you do the math.  That works out to be 28F – cold but not crazy.  On the other hand, if you look at the dash of the van taking you for an outing and it says -25C, do the math and get scared; that’s -13F! 

Before we left Washington, I was watching the weather in Sweden. Surprisingly, the week before our departure, the temps in Stockholm closely tracked those in DC (40sF) and Skelleftea (pronounced Shel-lef-ti-oh) was consistently in the high 20s F.  Where was the frigid Swedish winter?  Apparently, it was on Christmas holiday.  But it came home gradually during our visit.  And, on January 2, our last day of activities in Lapland, it showed us what it could really do.

The day started with the same hearty breakfast selection of smoked salmon, moose tongue, and reindeer.  I’ll note that everyone really works hard to accommodate vegetarians (largely via eggs and dairy – vegans need not apply). After breakfast, we loaded into the van and headed to Jenny’s – she’s the owner of Lapland Adventures. We’d all been a bit confused by Jenny’s ‘adventure’ offering – described as walking with sled dogs.  We pictured taking a few happy fluffers out for a tromp. Only when we got there were we told the full details which involve a waist harness, snowshoes, and your own howling sled dog.  I got Milo – a real chunker (insulting?).  Apparently, Milo likes to lead, so I was first out of the chute and on to the 4-kilometer trail that winds over the tundra.  Soon, Kurt was passing me on the right tied to Dora (who looked like a wolf), and Paulina on my left with Cheyenne.  This gave Milo some anxiety and I had to turn on the gas.  Soon, we were all pulling off gloves and scarves and opening the air vents in our parkas.  Don’t for a second think that because you’re being towed, this isn’t work.  When you aren’t speedwalking in snowshoes, you’re in a sumo squat fighting to keep from being pulled face first into a snowbank.  Cesar Milano would not approve but great fun.

Then it was lunch and back to the stugas to change out of sweaty layers.  We were picked up again at twilight – 3PM – and taken to the farm for our final ride.  I was wearing about half the clothes I’d brought to Sweden under my quilted riding jumpsuit, two pairs of gloves inside mittens and chemical heating pads under and over my toes in insulated riding boots.

Catching my black Icelandic pony in the utterly dark paddock and taking off all those gloves to tack up made me question the wisdom of this endeavor. This was not dispelled by the first canter through the moonless forest.  But then we broke out from the forest to find the Northern lights swirling over our heads.  All my concerns and even my sense of the cold evaporated as we sat quite literally frozen to our amazing little Icelandics and watched the celestial show.