Making tracks in Swedish Lapland
Like a vista from a fantasy novel, clouds magically part to reveal an opening through the wall of rock on the horizon, its symmetry improbable—like some celestial geologic knife has carved an entranceway to a hidden world. As the mountainous scale of the gap becomes apparent, you can’t avert your eyes; it seems entirely surreal.
Yet what you’re seeing is as real as it comes. Looking south from the tiny ski area of Björkliden across Sweden’s Abisko National Park, some 125 miles north of the Arctic Circle, the wind-blown remnants of a retreating storm have uncloaked one end of an enormous U-shaped valley gouged by ancient continental glaciers. Considered the gateway to Sápmi, land of the indigenous Sámi people, the incongruous formation known as Tjuonavagge (Goose Valley) in Sámi—and Lapporten (Lapland Gate) in Swedish—has long been a symbol of this unforgiving but fragile land. Recently, it has also become a waypoint for adventurous skiers willing to make their way north of the 68th parallel.
There’s certainly abundant reason to do so. Not only is the sprawling, heavily glaciated landscape of Swedish Lapland home to spectacular and iconic scenery like Tjuonavagge, but some of Europe’s wildest remaining spaces. In and around these are scattered an eclectic constellation of unique ski experiences, from charmingly authentic ski hills to luxurious lodges and backcountry cabins, from the world’s original ice hotel to more heli-skiing and ski-touring options than can be imagined. Running October to June, the lengthy ski season also spans a celestial shift from northern lights to midnight sun. If that weren’t attraction enough, benchmarks for accommodation and food are far beyond what you’d expect for such an isolated and unpopulated area. Call it adventure skiing in comfort.
Since prehistoric times, the nomadic Sámi herded reindeer across the Arctic, their territory stretching from Norway through Sweden and Finland to western Russia. Today, through a transnational parliament, the Sámi work with the governments of those countries to maintain ease of movement across their traditional lands, minimize encroachment, and preserve a rich culture that remains prominent in regional art and iconography. Though early summer’s midnight sun isn’t often mentioned specifically in Sámi mythology, it sees occasional reference as the sun-god Beaivi. And for visitors, being able to ski long into the night through May and June seems as much a gift from the gods as the land’s long turn away from winter darkness must be for its inhabitants.
The region’s modern history began when iron was discovered in the towns of Kiruna and Gällivare at the end of the 19th century, leading to roads and an influx of workers in need of winter recreation. The Swedish and Norwegian governments collaborated on a rail link through the mountains to transport Sweden’s ore to the ice-free harbor in Narvik, Norway; to this day, a dozen daily trains move thousands of tons to the coast while the families of those who mine the ore continue to recreate on the infrastructure erected to serve their needs.
In Kiruna, the small mining mountain of Luossavaara was shuttered in 1967 and converted into the ski area of Luossabacken, from whose 530-foot summit skiers overlook the town to the east and, looming on the western horizon, Sweden’s highest mountain range, the Kebnekaise Massif. Luossabacken’s three lifts are open for night skiing on weekdays and regular hours on weekends; its four slopes include one of Sweden’s best terrain parks, designed by an Olympic slopestyle-course builder. There’s also a lit cross-country track. In winter, everyone in town gathers at Luossabacken as if it were Kiruna’s living room. Here, while their kids are occupied in race or freeride programs, folks catch up on neighborly news, with no small amount of talk doubtless concerning the huge project, ongoing now for a decade, to move the entire town of Kiruna so the ore body beneath it can be mined. (This enterprise could last five to 10 more years; last time I visited, the town looked completely different from two years prior, with an entirely new downtown in a different location.)
On spring evenings, with the sun waxing toward its solstice acme, Luossabacken is packed, the energy of its young skiers and snowboarders uplifting anyone caught in the vibe. Indeed, the hill’s cold, dark winter mien inspires dedication, producing many notable top-flight athletes who went on to cinematographic notoriety or World Cup heroics—film star Jesper Rönnbäck, progressive freestyler Niklas Karlström, and a litany of snowboarders among them. Many of these luminaries are now parents whose kids represent the next generation of town rippers.
Janne Aikio, longtime local freestyle coach and proprietor of Luossabacken’s restaurant café, remains the only alumnus who can claim a cover of Powder magazine on his résumé—a dream come true for any hinterland skier. Quarterpipe hits were unheard of among skiers when an image of Aikio suspended 20 feet above one appeared in a 1996 issue, shot during a ski-bumming sojourn in the legendary ski area of Riksgränsen, a couple hours north. For many Luossabacken skiers and riders, spending a season at Riksgränsen remains a ritual to this day.
With its customs shed and roundhouse, the Sweden-Norway iron railway’s border post—Riksgränsen—became a busy middle-of-nowhere with a handful of inhabitants. Enough that in 1952, a ski lift was installed which, followed by more lifts, cabins and a hotel, made it the world’s northernmost ski resort—a title held to this day. With 1,200 feet of vertical, Riksgränsen isn’t huge, but its draw as a de facto Arctic destination and its outsized global impact are significant.
Despite not opening until February each year, when light returns to the land, Riksgränsen became instrumental in the development of Swedish skiing from the 1970s to 1990s, and continues to host the Scandinavian Big Mountain Championships—world’s longest-running freeskiing event, now in its 33rd year. The treeless alpine terrain is steep and playful, made more so by heaps of snow, storms that deposit 60 inches at a time, and ferocious Arctic winds that form natural gullies and lips all over the mountain; the pistes are well-maintained, but with 360-degree skiing off the top, most people ski off-piste. Views toward the Norwegian coast might tempt you to ski neighboring Narvik, a short drive or train ride away, with a view of the ocean between your tips. Almost improbably for a small-town ski area far above the Arctic Circle, Narvik will host the FIS Alpine World Ski Championships in 2029.
Just south of Riksgränsen is the even wilder Nuolja–Abisko ski area, where the Swedish Tourist Federation (STF) Abisko Turistsation provides great food and access to a mountain whimsically referred to as Sweden’s La Grave. Tenuous comparison to the legendary French freeride Mecca holds for two reasons: a single dilapidated 1960s chairlift that takes 20 minutes to get skiers to the top, and no grooming whatsoever. Regular-style pistes cut through the lower trees, but the higher you ascend into the alpine the more the mountain’s 1,640-foot vertical reveals steep chutes and long canyons. It’s well worth a day of skiing when local heli-ski operations are shuttered by weather or if you’re road tripping Lapland ski experiences—the best way to do so as mobility allows for weather-watching and last-minute decisions.
While skiing can be good here, there are relatively few takers, and Nuolja–Abisko makes most of its money from northern-lights tourism. As one of the world’s premier places to reliably catch the aurora borealis, late fall and winter see tourists bundle up for the dark ride to the top, where they’ll find viewing areas and a little café at the Aurora Sky Station, which also happens to be a great place to start ski-touring missions in spring.
The summit also offers a sweeping view over massive glacial Lake Torneträsk, home to ice-fishing, snowmobiling, cross-country skiing and ski-sailing. Past the lake in the distance at Jukkasjärvi, sits the world-famous (and much-copied) Icehotel. Inside this unique structure are an Icebar, Ice Rooms, individually sculpted Art Suites, and even an Ice Church (where, presumably, one prays for warmth). Not only can you stay the night layered up in reindeer skins, but over cocktails learn the fascinating process behind the annual design and creation of this ephemeral architectural wonder.
While small, traditional ski areas like Riksgränsen, Nuolja–Abisko and Björkliden are the literal opposite of luxury ski resorts like St. Moritz or Deer Valley, a unique form of northern luxury (think candles, Scando design and more reindeer skins) is to be found at all.
Abisko Mountain Lodge, just down the road from the town of Abisko, is the base from which legendary globe-trotting skiers Stefan and Pia Palm run their ski-touring and heli-ski franchise, Heli Ski Guides Sweden, from March to May each year. The lodge is typically booked out for northern-lights tourism until heli-ski season begins in the spring-winter crossover period known as vårvinter. Food is first class (slow-cooked moose, anyone?), and contra the dining room’s airy Nordic chic is a lounge of soft couches and plush chairs where guests relax after a memorable ski day with Stefan’s coterie of powder-sniffing pilots and guides.
One advantage of heli-skiing in Abisko is that this is the only operation based there, while nearby Riksgränsen has several outfits that often vie for the same terrain. Nevertheless, if luxury is your thing, Riksgränsen is the place to kick it up a notch at the exquisite 14-room heli-ski/ski-touring base of Niehku Mountain Villa, an innovative, award-winning property built around the ruins of the old stone roundhouse and featuring Michelin-level food under Chef Ragnar Martinson. Founder and head guide Johan “Jossi” Lindblom grew up in Sweden’s north and has been on the scene in Riksgränsen since his days as a young ski bum.
Even some of the most remote mountain cabins in Swedish Lapland boast front-country charm. Take Låktatjåkkastugan, the country’s highest mountain station at 4,000 feet. A rustic, cozy affair accessed only by ski-touring, it sleeps 18 and features fantastic three-course dinners, Sweden’s highest bar, and world-renowned waffles with lingonberries, cloudberries and Västerbotten cheese (so popular with backcountry trippers that the waffle list now exceeds the food menu). Surrounded by large mountains and small glaciers, here is a base for ski tours to 5,000-foot peaks that yield 3,300-foot runs to valleys from where you tour right back up to the hut.
But if backcountry is truly your thing, there’s one place in Swedish Lapland that can’t be missed: Kebnekaise.
An hour west of Kiruna, across slowly wrinkling land, lies a string of villages with tongue-twisting Sámi names. Between each, cabins with moss-covered roofs huddle in a leafless birch forest, secrets bared by winter’s revealing hand. When a large lake looms, boathouses join the parade. Where the lake meets a river in a wide alluvial valley, the road ends at Nikkaluokta.
A large A-frame next to a frozen parking lot is the staging area for snowmobiles ferrying people and supplies the final 12 miles to STF Kebnekaise Mountain Station, a 218-bed facility set below the eponymous massif. A Sámi family—once famous for its Farmer’s Almanac-style weather predictions made each spring on national TV—operates the transport. Inside, walls are hung with colorful portraits of Sámi elders. Living portraits unto themselves, silver-haired matriarchs shuffle between serving coffee, manning the cash register, staffing the gift shop, and leaning out the front door to shout instructions to snowmobile drivers.
Eventually, you find yourself huddled on a bench-fitted sled behind a snowmobile, following a trail as twisted as the surrounding birch until you exit the woods to cross a barely frozen lake and skirt bogs and streams swelling with meltwater. The landscape screams Pleistocene—as if the ice sheets that carved these mountains retreated only days before—yet the peaks remain large enough for serious skiing, with Kebnekaise topping out over 6,500 feet. The Swedish Haute Route, a weeklong tour that includes the easily accessed Tarfala and Nallo huts, also starts here.
The “station” anchoring Sweden’s vaunted mountain hut system is more hotel than hostel. A large dining hall in which smorgasbord breakfasts, lunches and more formal dinners are served backstops a smart, bright common area of fireplaces and comfortable chairs whose focal point is a hand-crafted wooden ice axe commemorating the winner of the annual Keb Classic—a ski-mountaineering race in which teams tour and ski some of Sweden finest backcountry.
Before you know it, it’s long after dinner and you, too, are climbing the slope behind the lodge, after an hour or so to sit contemplatively with the golden rays of Beaivi swimming in the snow around you. Gazing out and across this magical land, you’ll think of all the places you skied and know one thing: though you can’t see the towering spectre of Tjuonavagge from here, you have surely passed through its gate.
Written by Leslie Anthony
Photography by Mattias Fredriksson
