Beyond the
northern lights
While most head to Sweden’s Luleå for the chance to see the aurora borealis, Swedish Lapland also offers wildlife, wellness and more during the daytime hours
Words Dianne Apen-Sadler
(Graeme Richardson)
Lodge owner Göran Widén licks his fingertip and sticks it into the air as if checking the winds. “You know, the forecast says one thing, we say another,” he says, a knowing grin spreading across his face.
I left the airport just 30 minutes ago, and I’m already asking about our chances of seeing the northern lights. It’s not even dark yet, and won’t be for hours, but I’m not embarrassed to admit my excitement is already peaking. Unoriginal, yes, but point me in the direction of someone who claims they have no interest in seeing the aurora borealis for themselves, and I’ll show you a liar.
My jumping-off point for my quest to see the celestial spectacle is Luleå in Swedish Lapland. The region conjures certain imagery: Snow-covered trees, frozen lakes, and warm log cabins with a roaring fire. Brändön Lodge fits the bill on all accounts, and I soon find myself drawn outside to the shores of the frozen Bothnian Bay, where snowmobiles skate across the ice in the distance. Part of the Luleå Archipelago, Brändön – which means burnt – is one of 1,312 islands, and in the winter months, the best way to get around is by crossing the ice, as I learned that very evening.
While I was initially drawn to Swedish Lapland for a chance to see the nighttime attractions, I soon discovered that there are far more reasons to don your thermals and brave the cold during the daylight hours than I possibly could have realised.
In the winter months, the best way to get around is on the ice (Graeme Richardson)
(Snow) suit up
After an uneventful night (sky-wise, at least – taking to the ice to reach our dinner reservations by snowmobile-pulled sleds is certainly a novelty I won’t tire of), it’s time for us to pull on our snow suits and shoes. Made of plastic, the mini-skis clip onto your boots and are meant to distribute your weight evenly so you don’t sink as you walk. Their main purpose, in my opinion, is in fact to trip me over – going forwards is fine, but manoeuvring with any grace is near-impossible, as I quickly realise when I attempt to climb up to a rock to take a photo and nearly fall on my (thankfully well insulated) behind.
Our guide, Arne, guides us along a path marked by a red cross that denotes a winter walking trail. Moving with far more skill than the rest of our group, he stops along the way to point out common plants, like juniper, lingonberries, Old Man’s Beard – a type of lichen reindeers eat – and Swedish rosemary.
We find a clearing, and put our survival skills to the test having first been shown how to make a fire. The verdict? I have none. I’ve set fires in a stove hearth before, but with a flint instead of matchsticks, I’m useless. Thankfully, someone else in my group of would-be polar Bear Grylls is more competent and we’re able to warm our tea and lingonberry juice out in the wild.
As the afternoon progresses, it becomes clear that I would add absolutely nothing to a post-apocalyptic society beyond archiving our struggles in writing. After switching our snow shoes for ice cleats, we make our way across the frozen bay for a spot of ice fishing. Drilling the hole is no issue, but I’m a bit too squeamish to bait a hook, and after an hour, there are still no nibbles. Arne once again proves why he is the guide and I am not, catching, gutting, and smoking a perch with ease.
I’ve already heard from Göran that spring has come around two weeks earlier than usual, so I ask Arne if he’s noticing the effects of climate change on the region, given he works in nature for much of the year. “Not so much here yet, but I really noticed it when I worked in Svalbard [the archipelago midway between Norway and the North Pole],” he replies.
Climate change is warming the Arctic at three times the rate of the rest of the world, and it’s clear that the only kind of travellers Swedish Lapland wants to attract are responsible ones.
Climate change is warming the Arctic at three times the rate of the rest of the world (Pictured: Arctic Retreat / Credit: Graeme Richardson)
The right kind of travel
While extreme day tripping is a trend that seems inescapable at the moment, it’s not something that will ever reach the Arctic Circle. And not just because luck would have to be seriously on your side to see the geomagnetic jig in one night.
Göran says, “We really promote for our guests to stay longer, because it’s too much flying and really not responsible to stay only two or three nights.”
Göran, and by extension Brändön Lodge, follows Swedish Lapland’s Care for the Arctic agenda. While not a certification or official label, the programme encourages companies to act responsibly to address environmental and social challenges by minimising their footprint, honouring local communities and culture, and just generally being a good employer.
That manifests itself in different ways. There are no plans for expansion beyond the 15 cabins they already operate, and you’ll find information in the cabins about how to act responsibly during your visit. Activities offered put nature front and centre – for example, if you go snowmobiling, the emphasis is put on the fact that it’s two hours spent in nature, the means of transportation is secondary.
On the social side of things, Göran wants to ensure the lodge is connected to the local community, with many young people living nearby finding their first jobs here in the kitchen, or as guides. But the lodge also supports retirees, with a number of ladies contributing as cleaners, or by creating local products for visitors to buy in the souvenir shop, and some activities are offered in partnership with the local Sámi community.
The Sámi people have been reindeer herders for centuries (Shutterstock)
Real-life reindeer
While I am well beyond an age where I might still believe in Santa Claus, meeting real-life reindeer gave my inner child a lot of joy. Local reindeer herder Jon-Anders introduced us to a few of his herd in a paddock next to the lodge just before we headed further north. He points out Lulu, Evie, Jerry and Steve, who are keeping a healthy distance from us, as well as Scaredy Pants, who, ironically, is one of the only ones brave enough – or greedy enough – to be bribed into saying hello.
“We’re the only indigenous people in Europe,” Jon-Anders tells us. “Not in the sense that we were here first in any way, but that we are the only ones still living our traditional lifestyle.”
The Sámi people, who traditionally live in Sápmi, an area that covers swathes of northern Sweden, Norway, Finland and Russia’s Kola Peninsula, have been reindeer herders for centuries, relying on them for food, clothing and transport. Many Sámi now supplement their income by working in tourism, letting travellers such as myself meet the Christmas-coded creatures and ask how accurate Frozen’s depiction of reindeer herders really is (generally amusing, if not quite true to life).
Dressed in gákti, the traditional folk costume, Jon-Anders explains that the pattern and colours decorating the collar and sleeves say that he is from Arjeplog, while the knot on the belt says whether or not he is married, depending on what side it is tied. There’s only one topic that’s not on the table – the size of his herd, as it’s the equivalent of rather rudely asking someone how wealthy they are.
Working in tourism isn’t just about supplementing income, it’s also an opportunity to educate visitors about the difficult history of persecution the Sámi people have faced, and are still facing today.
In a bid to assimilate the Sámi into society, children were sent to boarding schools up until the 1960s, forced to speak Swedish and punished for using their own languages or following their own religion. The State Institute for Racial Biology was set up in 1922 with a focus on eugenics, with Sámi stripped naked for photographs and graves robbed for skeletons in the name of research. The results of that research led to the forced sterilisation of up to 60,000 people in the country who were deemed ‘feeble-minded’ or ‘antisocial’, including many Sámi.
“Tourism growing within the Sámi community is a good thing, because we get to spread a lot of information. I think there’s probably about 60% of the Swedish population who don’t know anything about the Sámis at all. Over 12 years of school, we learn half a page – that’s it,” Jon-Anders says. “Sometimes we feel like we’re just monkeys in a cage, but we also know that we can use this opportunity to send out a message and tell people how it actually is.”
The persecution of the Sámis isn’t just in the recent past – it’s very much in the present.
Two days later, we stopped at Kaatis Reindeers, a farm and camp in Överkalix. Owner Anna-Lena Kaati welcomed us into her lávvu, or tent hut, before telling us how she came to reindeer herding later in life. “My father didn’t want to have reindeer like his father, he just wanted to be a normal Swedish boy. He never told anyone he was Sámi – because of his job, and to prevent us from being bullied,” she said.
While tourism is introducing both domestic and international tourists to Sámi history, discrimination is still rife. Just months before our visit, three reindeer were brutally killed outside Umeå. The attack was believed to be related to Sámi opposition to the World Rally Championship being moved northwards and into herding territory.
She notes, “I feel now like I have a purpose to spread information about what’s happening, and maybe we can make a difference. Still today, it’s bad for the Sámi.”
Back in 2021, the Swedish government announced it was setting up a truth commission to review the history of racist policies against the Sámi and its effect on the Indigenous community. It has until the end of December this year to finish the review, with the aim of using the testimonies as the basis for its reconciliation process.
Legally, rights are moving forward. Socially, there’s still a long way to go.
The sauna ritual at Arctic Bath involves eight minutes in the sauna followed by a dip in the cold waters of the Lule River below (Håkan Stenlund)
Heating up
Having met reindeers, snowshoed through the forest, tried (and failed at) ice fishing, and tasted lingonberry in every form (fresh from the shrub, heated in a tea, chilled in a juice, turned into a jam), my immersion in Swedish culture took a far sweatier turn: The sauna.
“I don’t know what’s worse, this or childbirth,” my companion pants at me. She’s speaking from recent experience. I’m just trying to stay conscious, and starting to feel like I’ve made a terrible mistake. I finally understand how Icarus felt, flying too close to the sun.
Overconfidence, coming from my love of hot yoga classes and previous sauna experiences in Germany, sent me straight to the top bench. Sven the ‘sauna master’ at Arctic Bath had warned us about the hot spots, and as he wafts yet another blast of heat my way using a giant red fan, making my skin feel like it’s boiling, I regret not heeding his advice.
Our torture comes to an end, only for a new pain to begin. Eight minutes in the 80C sauna are followed by a freezing cold dip in the river below (shaped like a doughnut, you can access the river below through Arctic Bath’s centre) – lesson firmly learnt, I listen to Sven this time, staying in the waters for under a minute. The ritual doesn’t end there: We complete the torture twice more, the only difference being the scent of the sauna (menthol, then blueberry tea, then hay) and my tolerance for the ice bath (45 seconds, then a minute, then 90 seconds).
The torture is temporary, and the feeling afterwards is more than worth it. Whatever the science behind it (and there are plenty espousing the benefits of sauna-ing right now), all I know is to trust in Sven. He’s the sauna master for a reason, after all.
While the aurora forecast wasn’t looking good for our trip, the geomagnetic jig made an appearance for us two nights in a row (Graeme Richardson)
This is what we came for
While our days were jam-packed with activities that could leave any traveller exhausted, excitement over potentially seeing the northern lights trumped the call of my pillow.
In the days prior to flying, I clocked more hours on various aurora forecast websites and apps than Facebook. And… it wasn’t looking good. There are 27-day geomagnetic activity forecasts and three-day forecasts, with the former relying on the fact that the sun’s geomagnetic storms tend to last several months and reach the same levels in 27-day cycles, and the latter looking at solar winds leaving the sun, which takes around three days to reach the earth. No matter which one I looked at, the Kp (Planetarische Kennziffer, or Planetary Index) number was low, meaning our chances of seeing the sky dance in a multitude of colours were slim.
Each night, I convinced myself that the northern lights were right there, if only the clouds would part for a moment. But it wasn’t until we were having dinner at Aurora Safari Camp that an actual expert – Abdul – spotted the beginnings of a show. Desserts were abandoned, coats and cameras were grabbed, and we all ran down to the ice-covered Lake Degerselet for an unobstructed view.
“I won’t bother asking if you want to be woken up in the night for the northern lights,” Abdul says, looking down at me. I’m lying flat on the ice so I don’t have to crane my neck up to see them, the risk of catching a cold from melting snow be damned.
I feel incredibly lucky to be seeing the northern lights for myself, and no photo can do justice to the display going on in front of me. The next night, the display is even stronger – among the top five that winter season – and I don’t want to tear my eyes away. I ask Abdul if he ever grows tired of them, and the answer is a resounding no: He once stayed up and watched them for seven hours. I think I’d do the same.
After a while, others head for their rooms, but I have a better idea. At the centre of the frozen lake, Aurora Safari Camp has a sauna – complete with a dug out for an ice dip. This time around, I’m on the top bench so I can look out the window where the display continues above, rather than punishing myself in the heat. I even last longer on my ice dips, and I half want to attribute it to the power of the northern lights, rather than acclimatisation.
Either way, I think I’ve discovered the best way to tick off this bucket list item.
Need to know
When to go
While the aurora borealis happens year-round, you need clear, dark skies to see it. Generally, the best time to visit is between September and late March – but there are never any guarantees with the northern lights.
Getting there and around
Scandinavian Airlines (flysas.com) offer flights between London Heathrow and Luleå Airport via Stockholm. The journey takes between five and six hours.
Where to stay
For a classic, cosy lodge experience, book a room at Brändön Lodge (theaurorazone.com/brandon-lodge). Aurora Safari Camp (aurorasafaricamps.com) offers a glamping experience by the Lake Degerselet (which is also where you’ll find the aforementioned lake sauna with ice dip) while Arctic Retreat (theaurorazone.com/arctic-retreat) is perfect for those looking for a luxury, boutique escape.
You can also book to stay at the architecturally spectacular Treehotel (theaurorazone.com/the-treehotel), known for its unique rooms such as the UFO and the mirror cube.
The trip
The author travelled with the support of The Aurora Zone (theaurorazone.com) and Swedish Lapland (swedishlapland.com).
Aurora Safari Camp (Håkan Stenlund)
