During an 8-day winter cross-country ski tour through Sarek National Park, the wildest Arctic valleys of Scandinavia, we were hit by one of the strongest storms recorded in the area at that time of year, forcing us to spend nearly three full days in our Hilleberg tents, battling wind gusts of up to 45m/s. Although this trip was at the beginning of April, in these parts of Northern Sweden, this is still deep midwinter, and temperatures of down to -25°C and colder are to be expected. This storm, however, was incredibly mild, hovering around 0c, which made the situation all the more challenging. Heavy, wet snow that threatened to crush the tents, us getting wet within seconds of being outside to shovel off the snow, and the big snow wall that we built to protect us from the winds kept melting and collapsing. What initially began as a tour aimed at witnessing a fascinating landscape and bringing home some pretty photography, quickly became the story of a spectacular, dangerous event, in a unique part of wild Scandinavia.

Prior to this expedition, I had already visited the Arctic several times, from Greenland to Svalbard, drawn by the vast, pristine landscapes less visited. Sarek National Park, sitting just above the Arctic Circle in the Swedish Lapland, had long been on my mind, after I first saw an image of the stunning Rapa Valley Delta, a kaleidoscope of weaving rivers and colours. Failing to plan an autumnal trek to this region for a few years in a row, it was by complete chance that I discovered a winter ski-crossing tour, and very shortly I had signed up. The plan was always to bring my photographic equipment with me, however, appreciating that there would be others on the tour, I aimed to be respectful of the group’s time, and didn’t initially expect to return with the images that I did. Once we were surrounded by the glacial valleys composed of several 2000m peaks, all perfectly blanketed in snow, I knew that Sarek was indeed a special place, and understood that its beauty had to be truthfully portrayed, capturing the identity of the Arctic winter.

The conditions we faced were certainly extremely challenging - during the peak of the storm, during which wind gusts reached speeds of up to 45m/s, it was incredibly dangerous to be outside of our tents, as losing footing and potentially sight of the tents could have had disastrous results. Nevertheless, at times we had to go outside to clear the tents from snow build-up - too much weight would have eventually collapsed the tents. During this period, the few photos I managed to capture were from the relative safety of our tent, peaking my lens through a small opening in the door. 17 hours later, the storm started to subside, and although cold, and mildly unsettling, I was able to be outside, within eyesight of our tents, and start exploring the landscape around us anew.

Prior to the storm, our days in Sarek were fairly comfortable - wind was minimal, skies were generally clear, and the sun was strong. This allowed me to see the landscape as a whole, focussing on the edge between mountain ridge and sky and the shapes of the valleys. However, as the winds picked up and the rumbling storm engulfed us, the world turned to white, and rare breaks in the sky revealed very particular frames of the landscape, during which I had to act quickly to capture what Mother Nature had allowed me to see in that moment. After the storm had passed, the landscape was reborn: in some places, heavy snow drifts had perfectly blanketed what had been bare patches previously, in others - the snow was swept away to reveal the bare ice and its fascinating patterns underneath. In just the few days surrounding the storm, we saw such an incredible variety of conditions, showing how alive the landscape is.

When an entire landscape is reduced to shapes and shades of whites, greys, and the occasional blues of the sky, it is the light that guides the eye, and ultimately the camera. At 67 degrees North, the sun never rises high, resulting in dramatic light conditions year-round. Paired with the pristine whites of the landscapes, and the blistering winds dazzling the air with fine snow and ice particles, we witnessed some truly interesting plays of light and shadow. 

These conditions created an almost otherworldly landscape that this series hopefully brings to life, raising awareness and enticing viewers to learn more about our planet's distant regions.

As a photographer, I seek to show the beauty and diversity of landscapes in parts of our world that few travel to. However, the danger that this type of photography poses is that it may sometimes not tell the full story, or can be manipulated to tell one that skews from the truth. As much as I hope that my work truthfully shows the landscapes I encounter, I do not want it to leave the impression that it is an easy, accessible feat to most. Venturing into remote, mostly untouched landscapes such as Sarek requires special knowledge, planning, and care. Additionally, a key principle to responsible tourism in the wilderness is to ‘leave no trace’. To an extent, this is easier in the winter, as the entire time we were traversing on snow; any physical marks on the ground we left will have literally melted away. Everything we brought to Sarek ,we left with. Any holes we dug, we filled back with snow, to leave the landscape as close to how we found it as possible. Lastly, we had prior permission from the local Sami reindeer herders active in the area, who had reviewed our plans and approved our crossing.

Our traverse of Sarek National Park and our collective experience of the storm showed us that not only are we as humans quite adaptable to harsh conditions, but so is nature: our guides have extensive experience of polar expeditions and said that this storm was not only quite atypical for this time of year, it was one of the strongest they have ever experienced, during any time of year. Sarek, other wild places like it, and indeed our entire planet, have endured countless scores of change, and will remain long after we’re gone. That is not to say we should not do what we can to minimise our impact on our environment, but I believe that as long as people understand the dangers of the landscape, the consequences of their actions within, and act respectfully, the wilderness is a beautiful place to be a part of.

Two photographers whose work never ceases to amaze me are Marc Adamus and William Patino. Marc Adamus has dedicated years of his life to exploring some of the least seen, let alone photographed, landscapes of our planet, and his pioneering editing style brings the emotion of those vistas straight to our homes. William Patino is a prime example of a photographer that knows the landscapes of his country and how to capture them extremely well, and has a stunning portfolio ranging from the smallest micro scenes to the grandest vistas New Zealand has to offer. Much is to be learned from their approach to photography.