Abisko from Kvikkjokk is more than a 400 km drive by car, taking at least 5 hours one way. In Kiruna, I bought orange marmalade and coffee milk, which will be part of my morning ritual throughout the journey. Kiruna exudes the scent of the Arctic—everything is bright, snowy, and clear. Almost in the city, you'll find the world's largest iron mine. Due to safety reasons, the city centre now needs relocation, a process underway since the 2000s. We're pressed for time as Santa still needs to get back to Torvi and Trond by evening; they're left guarding our Kvikkjokk cabin. The landscapes along the way from Kiruna are breathtaking—frozen water bodies and silent mountains on the horizon. We've arrived at Abisko. Small tourist groups—German and French youngsters at the mountain station's parking lot—are returning from midday walks. I pack my belongings onto the sled, trying to do it neither too quickly nor too slowly, maintaining a sort of predetermined rhythm. I know that everything 'starts' when the snowhook is pulled from the snow, and so it goes. The temperature hovers around zero, the snow is heavy, but sticking to the track makes the drive easy. The dogs have finally started running; the drive had stressed them, and now they can release their energy, pulling with great effort. My plan for today is minimal—to reach the STF cabin twelve kilometres away, where I intend to spend the night and adjust to the new conditions. From there, my further decisions and plans will unfold; I don't yet know how. The path is pleasant; gradually, I begin to read into the map. There are plenty of snowmobile trails, and it's crucial to make the right turns on time—that's not just for me to understand but also for Tomi, who chooses his directions regardless of commands. The wind starts to rise, and I remember the weather forecast with clouds and wind, though I'm not entirely sure what it means. Quickly, I notice the gusts becoming a storm, and Tomi refuses to move forth, decisively turning back. I agree, but then where, which way? Slowly, we reach some closed Sámi  huts, serving as a small wind shelter.

I don't even know how long I stood there, with one question in mind—how long will this last and what scale could it reach? As darkness falls, I realize I must camp right there. The rest is fragmented consciousness; I don't really remember how I pitched the tent. I remember I couldn't get the stove to work at all, even in quite a skillfully set wind shelter. Everything blew in the air, and even igniting the matches was a test of patience. Thoughts of 'the shit is real' constantly knock on my mind, but at the same moment, I wipe them away because with such an attitude, it's impossible to make things better. I send my location to Santa on Garmin, without any hints that might cause worry, and I fall asleep."

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