In Ylläs, the year is made up of eight seasons. Each has its own rhythm, its own light, its own special thing. In this series, we journey through the year one fellrich moment at a time.
I wake up early and, as I pull on my wool socks, I open the blinds. Light snowflakes drift gently from the sky. A thin layer of fresh, soft snow has already settled on the wooden deck, and the evergreen trees are dusted with white.
I smile to myself. I’ve been waiting for this.
Not because the snow immediately unlocks great winter adventures. There are no ski tracks yet, no deep snowdrifts, no perfect downhill conditions. But that is not what the first snowfall is about. It is about the feeling it brings. A promise of what is to come. I open the back door and snap a photo of my bare feet against the snowy ground.
After breakfast, I pull on my jacket and step outside. The snow crunches softly beneath my boots. The air feels different from yesterday. As if the sounds have been muted and the landscape, now veiled in white, has become somehow calmer.
I walk to the edge of the yard and notice I’m not the only one outside. At the neighboring cabin, someone is brushing snow off the steps with a smile on their face. Farther away, I can hear children playing excitedly in the snow. There is something about the first snowfall that makes people act the same way year after year.
I follow a familiar path from the village toward the fell. The trail stands out as a bright white ribbon among the dwarf shrubs. A stream still flows freely, and the last stubborn leaves of autumn tremble on the branches of the mountain birches. They cling on with what seems like their final strength, even as winter steadily approaches.
As I continue walking, I find myself stopping more often than usual. I look at the landscape as if seeing it for the first time. Then I realize the snowfall has slowly eased, and the promised sunshine might just be on its way. This could turn into a truly beautiful day, I think.
Higher up on the fell, the wind sweeps snowflakes across the ground. The sun tries to break through the clouds, making the fresh patches of snow sparkle for brief moments. I stand quietly, taking it all in, and think about how quickly time passes. It feels like only yesterday we were admiring the colors of autumn.
Winter rarely arrives overnight. It sneaks in quietly, snowflake by snowflake. The first snowfall feels like winter’s first greeting.
Standing there, I realize that the true richness of this place is not found only in grand adventures. It lives in small moments, like opening the blinds in the morning and discovering that the world has changed overnight. A familiar, irresistible feeling follows: I simply have to get outside.