Tarfala: Arctic field notes
Northern Sweden. A remote research station. Glaciers, sudden weather, and the quiet rhythm of fieldwork. This is a single condensed narrative of the trip — the parts that mattered, the parts that surprised me, and the details that still feel vivid.
Arrival: getting to the edge of the map
The journey was a chain of connections that felt increasingly improbable: taxis, train, flights — and finally a helicopter. The last leg rewired your sense of scale. Mountains, water, ice, and distance. Then the station appeared: a small human foothold in a landscape that didn’t need one.
Station life: comfort, competence, and a sauna that felt like magic
I’ve stayed at field stations before, but this one set a new bar: clean, well-equipped, and run with a kind of calm competence that makes difficult days feel manageable. The food was genuinely excellent — the kind you remember when you’re back home, eating something boring at a desk.
And then there was the sauna. After long, wet days, it felt like the station’s unofficial recovery protocol. Heat. Stillness. The sense of being returned to yourself.
Work: the microscopic world hiding in the obvious
Glaciers look simple from a distance: white, blue, grey. Up close, they’re alive with complexity — colour where you don’t expect it, textures that hint at processes you can’t see directly. Some of the most interesting work happens at the tiny scale: samples, analysis, and patience.
- • Time expands. Everything takes longer.
- • “Good enough” beats “perfect” when conditions shift.
- • You learn to trust the method, not your comfort.
- • Wet gear is a constant problem, not a temporary one.
- • Documentation is survival: labels, notes, repeatability.
- • Weather sets the schedule more than you do.
Weather: when the plan is a suggestion
There were days where the forecast sounded like a warning label. Torrential rain, wind that made standing still feel like work, visibility that shrank the world. Those are the days you discover what you packed well — and what you didn’t.
In harsh conditions, “progress” is sometimes just keeping the system stable: keeping samples safe, keeping notes clean, keeping the team moving.
Helicopter day: scale, silence, and an old crash site
One of the most memorable moments was getting out into the wider landscape by helicopter. From the air, the glaciers and lakes look like a different planet — deep blues, ice patterns, and the clean geometry of ridges.
We also stopped near an old plane crash site. It was sobering. There’s a strange emotional contrast between the beauty of the surroundings and the reminder that this environment doesn’t forgive mistakes.
That moment when the helicopter lifts and the ground drops away — and you realise how far from “normal” you are. It’s not fear. It’s clarity.
Leaving: the quiet after the work
At the end, the work turns into lists: samples collected, notes written, kit cleaned and packed. The landscape doesn’t change — you do. You leave with a mixture of exhaustion and gratitude.
Back home, analysis begins, and the field becomes data. But the memories are the other half of the archive: weather, teamwork, the station’s warmth, and that sense of being allowed to stand somewhere extraordinary.
Next: I’ll add photos and captions as I pull the best shots into the site.
The placeholders in this post map directly to image files you can drop into /public/images/tarfala/.