On the moon

I parked my car in the quiet courtyard of Hotel Äkäskero. I felt a little guilty, because I did see a sign announcing that parking is prohibited for people other than hotel residents. However, there are no residents there now. The hotel is dark and only one outside light is on at the end of the building. I get out of the car and feel the first impression of the atmosphere. As I put my skis on, I adjust my eyes to the darkness around me. I have a headlamp but I don't want to use it now.

The moon is a little above the forest line and casts long shadows on Lake Pekanjärvi in ​​front of the hotel. I'm skiing through the hotel's deserted yard and the crunch of skis on the icy yard echoes off the wall. I still feel like I'm somehow in an unauthorized forest, in a private area, in someone else's yard. I feel better when I get to the shelter of the forest and the forest that borders Lake Pekanjärvi. I stop for the first time and listen. The moon has risen higher and illuminates Äkäskero and the barn by the lake. I ski from the front of the barn and watch how a thick layer of snow presses down on the building and hoarfrost crystals bead on the surface of the old logs. Time could be stopped for that view; some hundred years ago, the barn looked exactly the same under the light of the full moon. And not necessarily this particular barn, but some barn somewhere on the edge of a similar hill, with a similar spruce forest behind it. Hay has been fetched from there by horse or reindeer. I ski some distance from the barn and take pictures of the human and nature setting of the past.

I continue my journey following the terrain between Äkäskero and Mustakero. In one of the small meadows, there is a small spruce shaped by cannon snow, which has taken the form of some medieval dancing court lady; two dried branches like hands spread to the sides, and the staples have shaped the dancer into a long skirt-like skirt, which pleats beautifully as if due to a spinning motion. Moonlight and dark shadows make the vision come alive.

At the time of filming, I always calm down and feel my heart rate drop. I place the camera on the tripod and adjust the exposure readings and look at the view through the viewfinder, with the slope and dark trees in the background. I climb the kero so high that the peaks of Pallas start to split behind Mustakero. Small dots of light can be seen from the houses on the banks of Äkäsjärvi and Jerisjärvi. The full moon illuminates Pallas and shadows the beautiful landscapes in front of it. I concentrate on absorbing that dull yellow-hued aura into my visual memory.

After filming my time, I load the camera equipment into my backpack and start the return journey. I calculate the slope for short distances at a time. The shadows of the trees change the landscape treacherously and I can't know what slopes my skis can dive into. I keep my pace quiet and descend the slope to a slope, changing direction in between. You didn't notice the tightening of the frost in the fells, but lower down you start to feel it on your cheeks and in your breathing.

I'm prepared for the disappointment when the pictures taken on the moonlight open up on the screen terminal. That's why I've tried to remember the shades so that I can even approximately find them in image processing. However, the disappointment seems to come from the fact that I can't transfer my emotional states to photos, they don't fit in them. That feeling of loneliness under the open winter sky, that grateful little fearful happiness, momentary like being in a dream

– the beautiful illusion of snow and moonlight.

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