The snow is deeper than I’ve ever seen it here. Trees are thick with frosting and we whoomph along like yetis. At lunch in Norrsvedjebodarna, we immediately start melting snow. In winters like this there’s no running water and dehydrated meals plus cold dry air means you’re losing moisture all day. So when you stop, you melt. 

 Due to the forecast, the plans have changed. Instead of camping at exposed and remote Tärnättvattnen, we’ll spend both nights at Kälsviken, an inlet of the Gulf of Bothnia. It’s my favourite campsite anyway, and this also means our bags will be lighter for the second day. We arrive mid-afternoon. Normally this is a moment I savour: tent up, tea made, relaxing with the view. This year? There’s no lingering.  

First: stomp down the snow into a platform. Then pitch the tent and hope the snow pegs hold. Gloves off for dexterity, gloves on before your fingers sting or get stuck to the metal poles. It’s slow and awkward. As soon as my tent is up and my bed is made, I head straight to the fire. 

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Feet are the next priority. Wet and cold feet are a bad combination: no-one wants chilblains, frostbite or blisters out here. Around the fire, we rotate boots and socks, balancing them close enough to dry but not close enough to melt. As I drink a hot chocolate made with smokey fire water, tales circulate of someone who destroyed his Hanwag boots right here. I manage to blister my Nalgene trying to stop it freezing. 

The cold affects everything we have with us. The stoves struggle – even with winter gas. My toothpaste is frozen, and the wet wipes belonging to my hiking buddy Dave have become icy tiles. Feeling a little feral, we finally leave the campsite and have the forest to ourselves.  

The air is so cold the inside of my nostrils freeze, but the climb from Naskebodarna warms us up. The High Coast, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, has the highest coastline in the world and from the top, islands and inlets merge into one frozen landscape. At lunch at Tarnattvattnen, I toast some of my frozen bread on the fire while Dave tries to thaw the squeezy cheese in a tube. Nothing is safe from the cold here.   

We continue towards Slåttdalskrevan – a deep and imposing gorge – passing candy cane trees dripping with snow. On one steep section, I abandon dignity and crawl on hands and knees, jamming my snowshoe claws in the snow hoping they hold. At the top of Slåttdalsberget, we catch golden hour light before the wind chases us back to camp. 

Friday night is the Woolpower Dip where volunteers jump through a 40cm hole cut in the ice before warming up in fresh merino layers courtesy of Östersund-based Woolpower. Having done it in 2019, I can confirm it requires a certain amount of madness. One year there was no ice at all and participants had to run straight into open water – a sobering reminder of the volatility of the world’s climate these days. 

This year there’s plenty of ice, but what’s missing is whisky. Normally hip flasks are pulled from down jackets as adventure stories are swapped round the fire. This time we’ve been told to leave them at basecamp. Alcohol in these temperatures can make you feel warmer than you are and impairs your judgement – not ideal at -30. So we settle for a hot chocolate instead. 

The second night is the coldest I’ve ever spent in a tent. It’s a careful balance between breathing and keeping my face covered. My layering system and double mat combo – foam plus insulated inflatable – keep me pretty toasty. In the morning, condensation from my breath has frozen on my sleeping bag. Over my morning tea, I dry it out by the fire.  ​