AN IMPRESSION OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN
As we left the Abisko Tourist Hotel, the solitary birch tree which
stood as sentinel opposite the main entrance and garden of the
hotel swayed and rustled in the wind, and fitful gleams of sunshine
percolated through the grey clouds in the direction of Pålnoviken,
while the genial manageress wished us God-speed.
It was half-past eight, and we estimated that we would reach the
summit of Mount Njulja in about three and a quarter hours, that is to
say, just in time to view the midnight sun, assuming the sky cleared
sufficiently to enable us to see it. And walking down the path which
branches off to the right, as you turn your back to the hotel and Lake
Torne Träsk, we soon reached and crossed the first level crossing
over the railway, which leads to the mountain. It was not too warm to
allow of strenuous walking, and not too cool to prevent the dew of
perspiration from becoming perceptible, but unlike my friend Mr. L——,
who was accompanying me, I had no spikes to my shoes, a circumstance
which proved a considerable handicap.
The path which we now followed wound up the mountain slope, through
a wood which at this season of the year was a perfect dream of wild
flowers, and to my astonishment I noticed, in addition to the wild
geranium, several varieties of Alpine flora which I had never expected
to find in Lapland, such as the primula (primrose) and the deep blue
_Gentiana carinata_, as well as a fascinating pink flower to
which I was unable to find a name. After nearly an hour’s strenuous
going, during which the birch and juniper bushes became gradually more
and more stunted, we came across several snow-drifts which delayed
us considerably, the track that we followed proving so insecure that
I began to stumble repeatedly, and on at least two occasions to find
myself up to my waist in snow. On reaching a certain point where there
was a clear view of the valley and lake in all its widening expanse, we
stopped a moment to enjoy the view, but suddenly perceiving at least
two other ridges beyond the one immediately above us, decided to
complete the climb before taking any further rest.
[Illustration: VIEW FROM TOURIST STATION, SALTOLUOKTA, LAPLAND]
“We must hurry,” I said. “We are not even half-way.”
“How high is Njulja?”
“Just over 4000 feet.”
“What is the time?”
“A quarter past ten.”
Feeling that all our labour would be wasted if we were not in time, we
set out once again over difficult ground which in spite of its arid and
troublous character was not without a certain grandeur, while we felt
a magic quality in the atmosphere which drew us on and exhilarated.
It became a race with the clock, in which, owing to certain muscles
which I had strained in the snow-drifts, and the lack of proper
paraphernalia, which caused me usually to be yards behind my friend, we
should logically have been marked out from the first as second-best,
yet we trudged on undaunted, the thought of the successive ridges
remaining to be climbed so dominating our pedestrian world that we made
no endeavour to talk. I shall never forget that climb, nor the effort
which I made to disregard the strain which with almost every fresh step
became gradually more painful, nor finally how, after a period of time
which, though only three hours, seemed more like six, my friend, who
was ahead, climbed the last ridge and waved his arm towards me to tell
me we had reached the summit. More quickly then, and with a spurt of
almost uncanny energy, I rushed forward to where he stood, a tall slim
figure silhouetted against the sky, and stumbling forward reached the
highest point of the mountain. Never shall I forget the radiant glory
of the vision which gradually began to unfold itself before my eyes,
and how magically it seemed to dispel all recollection of the fatigue
and strain which I had undergone.
Before me, and encompassing not only Lake Torne Träsk to the north and
west but also the Abisko valley to the south, were range after range
of serrated snow-topped mountains which the clearness and mystery of
the Swedish air were surrounding with a veil that was almost luminous,
while above, pure clarity, illimitable, boundless, soared; with in the
west over Pålnoviken, long bars of grey clouds tipped with gold which
the night breeze was chasing northward. Suddenly, as if in answer to
my hidden prayer, a spray of crimson light shot swiftly from behind a
cloud to the west and glittered through the air. It transformed every
peak and headland into a glimpse of fairyland and illumined the lake
with a shimmering band of gold, while the distant peak of Kebnekaise
began to glow like a pyramid of frosted silver. Speechless I gazed
spellbound at a sunset which, rivalling the most beautiful southern
twilights which I have seen, in the glow and variety of colour that it
displayed, afforded even greater pleasure in that, unlike any other,
its changing tones did not pass rapidly into darkness, but lasted
many hours without any real diminution of splendour. Purple and mauve
and even blood-red was the sky, with here and there an island of
rosy-tinted cloud which appeared to be floating in the empyrean; and
as these colours slowly faded or changed to every variation of blue,
the midnight sun continued to creep along the mountain crests which lay
to the north-west, and the lake to turn to glittering silver wherever
it was not shot with gold. It was like the gradual unveiling of a dim
enchanted region where colours were softer and less troubled than a
moment’s thought, and the air of so choice and rare a quality that
one felt strangely invigorated by it. And only the sudden stirring of
a chilly northern wind which swept along the brow of the mountain
recalled me to reality. We then remembered that we were cold and weary,
that I had strained a leg muscle, and accordingly that steep as had
been the ascent, the descent would probably prove even more arduous.
And having accepted and drunk a cup of very warming coffee which two
friendly Swedes, who had also accomplished the climb, insisted on
forcing on us, we set our faces once more towards the valley and began
the descent.
[Illustration: STORA SJÖFALLET, GREAT LAKE FALLS, SALTOLUOKTA]
What I suffered on the journey back to Abisko words cannot adequately
describe, for whereas the thought of what I had set out to accomplish
when starting out to climb Njulja had enabled me to put up with some
very real discomfort, not even the enticing prospect of the comfortable
bed awaiting me on my return sufficed to make me overlook the very
excruciating pain which my leg occasioned for the greater part of our
crawl home. I say crawl, for our progress, from being fairly brisk as
we started out, soon degenerated into a veritable shamble, while we
were continually obliged to halt in order to rest my foot. I shall
never forget, however, the glory of the view that opened before us
when we reached the last ridge before entering the wood which covers
the lower slope of the mountain, or the vivid contrast that was
presented between the dazzling snow and mountain-tops now coloured
blood-red by the sun, and the green clusters of white-stemmed birch and
juniper and brawling rivulets whose babbling as they hurtled down to
the lake, and the piping of a solitary bird, were the only perceptible
sounds. Like the memory of the supreme moment during which the midnight
sun first pierced the clouds above Pålnoviken, it is one of those
recollections which the mind always conjures up whenever it would evoke
beauty.