I went North

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Day Three: A Pilgrimage to my Childhood
Karesuando - Laksjokha (420 km)

Back in the day, as they say, crossing the Könkämä river, which in its entirety forms the physical border between Sweden and Finland, was one of the more exciting bits of the family car rides, because there was no bridge then. Instead, they had a floating contraption that fit a few cars at a time, on which we had to pull ourselves across using a wire. On the other side of what IS now a bridge, the village on the Finnish side is called Kaaresuvanto, and most of the inhabitants on both sides see the two villages as one. Most of the locals don't primarily identify as Swedish, Finnish or Norwegian anyway, the whole of Lappland ignores borders and is home to a large number of the Sami people.



Once I cross into Finland, I have a choice between the road across Finnmarksvidda (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Finnmarksvidda) or to go east and cross into Norway at Tana Bru. I went for the first option, which would include a good stretch of vidde (plateau), and the two largest (mostly) Sami towns in Norway, Kautokeino and Karasjok.

Finnmarksvidda is ENORMOUS, and a lot of it looks like this:


I always loved going there, and riding my CB1100 into Kautokeino made me quite emotional. My ancestry is not Sami, although my grandmother could speak some, but this is my father's land and I felt I was approaching my spiritual *home*.

This is me, tired, slightly emotional, hot (that's still a wool sweater under the leather), pretending to be a badass on a throne of used tires in Kautokeino.


Stopped for a bite in Karasjok, where I once again meet the E6. The cabin my father built together with his brother, sister, and parents, is now so close I can smell it. I'm not *quite* there, but I'm going to make it, and my plan (which, again, wasn't a 'plan' until just now) was coming together.

I stopped in Sirma for gas and some supplies, and rode the last few kms to where the river Laksjokha runs into the majestic Tana river - the amazing spot where they built our cabin.

I pulled up next to the cabin, which we sold about ten years ago when my uncle lost his mind to dementia. There's nobody home, but it's in use. There are bikes, crocs, outboard motors and all the paraphernalia of those long, narrow Tana river boats. Ashes in the fire pit. I park, get out of my leather, and go down to the river. Normally, I'd never bathe in the Tana river except as part of a sauna ritual, but this isn't normal. It's 30 degrees. I've just come 1,500 km to get here. I submerged myself and cooled off. As I'm having a coffee, this time prepared on my Primus and not from a gas station, the owners come home. I say my name, and I'm welcomed home in a veritable explosion of mutual recognition. This is the girl from the farm a stone's throw over, and I won't claim we hung out *a lot*, but we hung out as kids. We named all our people: How's Kalle? Magnus? How about your father? Yours? It was just wonderful, and I am so happy that she and her husband were the ones to take over the cabin. They've modernised and moved in, and I approve.

Parked here for the night.


This is where I sat with my coffee when they came home. To the left you can just make out where Laksjokha joins Tana. Halfway across the river is an island where reindeer love to go to get away from the mosquitoes, and all the land on the other side of the river is Finland.



My plan, which now is a real plan, is to take my backpack (which I brought for this purpose only) and walk a few kms up the tributary Laksjokha to a magical spot where I have many memories, including catching my first salmon and my first solo night in a tent. I thanked my friends for their hospitality and started walking. It's still hot, and the mosquitoes are (thankfully) lazy. Those annoying little black flies not so much, and although nowhere near the mayhem in Sweden, there are gadflies. Didn't make so much as a dent in my elation. I get to the right spot, where the river calms down a bit after some rapids, a place where there used to be so much salmon. There's not anymore, because of us humans. Overfishing and climate change is so much more devastating in extreme climates, and this is the arctic frontier right here.
This is bad for everybody and everything in the longer and larger perspective, but it didn't really affect my day. I wasn't going to fish, and tbh no fishing means no people at this prime fishing spot. I pitched my tent and sat myself down in one of my most sacred places, and had long conversations in my mind with my ancestors and... Nah. It was less spiritual than that, it was just little old me and a bunch of bugs and birds in nature. Which is very much good enough. I felt at peace, lucky to have had this in my life at all, let alone enough to make it one of "my" places on this planet, and I spent the night there, listening to all the noises nature makes. The calm white noise of the rapids above, the weird gulps and blubbs made by the slow water making eddies and vortices behind rocks, birds I can't identify demanding to get laid NOW, and a bunch of unidentified sounds and noises. Me and the arctic, separated only by a dome of mosquito net.

Go ahead, find a better spot to rest after three days of sixth gear:


(NSFW, depending on your W )


This concludes day three, and now I'm faced with the task of picking a route home.