REACHING THE RIVER - Minus 32 degrees celsius, and fancy lash extensions

January 5th, my third day in Arctic Norway. Early afternoon. Outside, the world is cloaked in darkness, broken only by the glow of the porch light.

I’m sitting at the table, a small lamp casting a warm circle on my notebook as I work on a chapter. The fire in the furnace crackles steadily, filling the room with its comforting heat. Then my phone rings. It’s Frode. 

“What time shall we heat the elk?” he asks in his thick Norwegian accent.  

I glance at the clock on my laptop and suggest he comes by in an hour. Last night’s dinner—elk marinated in juniper berried, cut up into steaks with potatoes and beans—is sitting in the fridge, and I recall Frode mentioning we should finish it today. 

This morning, I ventured out into the biting cold of -32°C, determined to reach the river. The trek was grueling, cutting through deep snow under the shadows of the forest. It was too cold to pull out my phone for GPS; removing my gloves even for a moment wasn’t worth the risk. I’d learned that earlier when fetching wood from the shed. Just a few seconds of bare skin in that cold is enough to remind you who’s in charge out here. 

The trees begin to thin, and I presume the river ahead. The dense forest gives way to a vast, open expanse—a frozen river blanketed in snow, cradled in its riverbed between hills and jagged mountains. The sky greets me with hues of pink, orange, and blue, a palette I find endlessly mesmerizing and touching in this Arctic stillness. 

Carefully, I step down toward the riverbank, where the snow merges seamlessly with the ice. Somewhere to my right, the sun lingers below the horizon, casting its colors more vividly in that direction. As I approach, I notice the river isn’t entirely frozen there, a dark ribbon of water breaking the snowy monotony. 

Large tracks punctuate the snow along the river's edge, and it doesn’t take long to recognize them. Moose. The stride and the deep imprints leave little doubt. My breath catches for a moment - out here, amidst the silence, the presence of something so grand feels almost sacred.  

I follow the moose tracks, my boots crunching softly against the snow. The tracks wind their way toward the edge of the river, but soon veer off, disappearing back into the woods. I stop and stand still, utterly still, letting the silence wrap around me. It’s not the absence of sound—it’s something more profound, an almost tangible quiet that feels like the heartbeat of the Arctic itself. 

Impulsively, I throw myself onto my back, sprawling on the frozen river. The cold seeps through my layers, but I don’t mind. I stare up at the sky, its colors fading slowly, shifting with the unseen sun’s retreat. My eyes feel strange, a faint tickling at the edges. Blinking, I realize my eyelashes have captured the vapor of my breath, the cold turning it to delicate, thread-thin icicles. 

The Arctic’s idea of eyelash extensions—cuter than anything you’d find in a salon. I can’t help but laugh softly at the absurdity of it, still with my back pressed against the ice and snow on the river, my breath spiraling up into the frigid air like a ghost.