Field expedition was conducted 23.6.2026 at 11:54-13:23, under high horsefly pressure.

Present:

• 🕵️‍♀️ Bog Operations Lead (the undersigned)

• 🕵️ Field Assistant — 9-year-old

• 🕵️ Junior Botanist — 6-year-old

• 🕵️ Junior Researcher — 4-year-old

🔎 Operational equipment: magnifying glass, three bananas, coffee thermos.

When the team entered the bog, a naked‑eye observation was immediately made: the cotton‑grass was still in cotton stage. The Junior Researcher, who had been acutely aware of the magnifying glass packed in the backpack, requested permission to use it.

The Junior Botanist also required the magnifying glass immediately for sphagnum species identification, so an entten‑tentten style draw (a traditional Finnish counting rhyme for random selection) was conducted to determine priority of use. Several disagreements were voiced about the draw’s outcome.

At this stage, the Bog Operations Lead required — and proceeded to take — a coffee break.

Horsefly presence was estimated at approximately exactly one hundred individuals, all circling the research team. The Junior Botanist found this extremely aggravating, having come here to examine plants, not insects. She stated: “I wish I were a horsefly so I could bite these horseflies back.”

Cranberries were also observed to still be in bloom. The Bog Operations Lead attempted to photograph them, but was interrupted, as the sounds indicated that the magnifying‑glass turn‑exchange was approaching.

At this point, the Bog Operations Lead observed that a brief additional training session was required, as the magnifying glass does not require direct contact with the eyeball.

At the edge of the quagmire, the species Scheuchzeria palustris was observed — the sole representative of both its genus and its family. Its name was duly learned.

A sundew flower was observed for the first time, causing the research team to momentarily lose composure. All members, including the undersigned, wished to conduct their own investigations on it, despite the flower being small enough to make simultaneous examination impractical. Both the Field Assistant and the undersigned wished to photograph it.

Meanwhile, the Junior Researcher made a feather discovery elsewhere, and during this time the Field Assistant, together with the Junior Botanist, documented the surface of the bog on film.

There was renewed discussion regarding the magnifying‑glass turn. The Bog Operations Lead was informed that the Junior Researcher currently holding it was not making any practical use of it, yet showed no intention of handing it over. The Bog Operations Lead’s attention capacity was severely tested as she attempted to determine who had held it, and for how long.

At this point a field‑ration break was taken, during which the undersigned had a second cup of coffee while the researchers consumed the bananas.

Then two observations were then made simultaneously: a bog‑rosemary gall, which had been specifically sought during the previous visit, and a hercules ant. Unexpectedly, the Junior Botanist displayed an interest in insects and expressed a desire to handle the ant.

The Field Assistant, having observed the initial bog‑rosemary gall, proceeded to identify and locate a second gall specimen — the very objects the team had come to observe. Both samples were deposited between the pages of the Bog Operations Lead’s field journal, where they will most likely remain unnoticed for an extended period.

The most unusual discovery of the day followed. It was made by the Junior Botanist, who noticed two disturbed, parallel tracks on the surface of the sphagnum, aligned like wheel marks (shown in the image above on the left). Despite her young age, she is remarkably knowledgeable about storybooks and recognised at once that they belonged to the Ghost Carriage from one of Tove Jansson’s Moomin storybooks, which the carriage is likewise described as travelling across a bog.

She was entirely confident in her observation and would have preferred to follow the tracks. However, the expedition had been carefully planned, and its funding allocated for a different purpose, so the original plan had to be maintained. The food supplies had already been eaten as well.

The fieldwork was now approaching its final stage. To conclude the successful expedition, the researchers wished to take photographs of their Bog Operations Lead reclining at the edge of the bog, each taking a turn.

The photography session proved lengthy, as every researcher insisted on taking multiple shots. When the subject finally stood up, she discovered that she had been reclining on a European fire‑ant nest. The research team found this exceedingly amusing, but the undersigned disagrees.

In the photograph, however, she is still serenely unaware that negotiations with the ant army have already begun beneath her.

And at the end, a drawing of the Ghost Carriage, made by the Junior Botanist. The numbers show how long the tracks were — something she had very quietly managed to measure. A true researcher, I would say.

Keep this research team’s leadership sane — buy me a coffee.

This may not look dangerous, but if you’re a small insect, you’d better keep your distance. With its glistening droplets and that almost erotic shade of red, it’s stunning — like a piece of art.

Charles Darwin, who had just published On the Origin of Species and brought the theory of evolution into public awareness, became fascinated by a small carnivorous plant growing silently in the bogs: Drosera, the sundew.

He was visiting Sussex in 1860, and noticed insect remains on the sundew’s leaves. He started to perform passionate examinations with sundews, placing insects, ash, and bits of meat on the leaves and watching them curl around their prey. His wife Emma Darwin wrote to a friend: “At present he is treating Drosera just like a living creature, and I suppose he hopes to end in proving it to be an animal.”

From these experiments, Darwin concluded that the sundew is not just a passive plant, but actively gains nutrition from insects — in other words, it functions as a carnivorous plant.

“I care more about Drosera than the origin of all the species in the world.” — Charles Darwin

He wrote the book Insectivorous Plants based on his extensive experiments. When the long project was finally completed, Darwin’s neighbour Ellen Lubbock celebrated the occasion by writing a poem from the insects’ point of view.

We saw that you were watching us,

We felt you were our friend,

And as we, in a general way,

Come to a fearful end,

It suddenly occurred to us

That we would have a look

At what you said about us,

So we crawled upon your book.

We now have buzzed all over it,

And find that, as we feared,

Voracious Plants could tell us

How our friends have disappeared.

Ellen Lubbock, 1875

Three species of sundew grow in Finland, and this round-leaved sundew is the most common. It grows in bogs, fens and marshes throughout the country. It forms a small rosette in the moss. The leaves are pale green, covered in red pin‑like glandular hairs. At the tip of each hair, the plant secretes a clear, sticky substance that works like glue.

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It flowers in June–July with modest white blossoms. The flowers open only in the late morning when the sun shines for a brief moment. After flowering, they develop into seed capsules filled with many light seeds, ready to be carried away by wind or by the movement of bog water.

When an insect lands on a sundew, it gets caught in the sticky secretion as if it were glue. The hairs bend toward it, and the whole leaf slowly curls in, enclosing the insect. The insect slowly suffocates as it is held in place, while the plant begins to digest it with its enzymes. Digestion takes a few days, and after a week or two the leaf uncurls again, and the remaining parts of the insect (mostly the chitin) are left for rain and wind to carry away. It can also survive without catching prey, though it grows weaker.

In traditional use, sundew was applied for cough, asthma, and whooping cough, most commonly as a herbal infusion for drinking. It has also been applied externally to treat corns, warts, scabies, and calluses. The plant contains plumbagin, which has anti‑inflammatory and antimicrobial effects.

Sundew has also been associated with increasing sexual desire, which is why it has been given various Finnish names linked to passion. It was also used in attempts to stimulate heat in cattle. In some traditions, its leaves were used to produce a fermented, yogurt-like dairy product. The plant can also be used to produce a red dye for colouring yarn.

In the secretive world of the bog, the sundew is easy to overlook: small, low, almost hidden in the moss. But once you notice it for the first time, you’ll want to seek it out again. It glistens, waits, and works with slow patience shaped by the bog. A plant, almost an animal — a tiny carnivore shining in the wet light.

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We walked through a beautiful, lush green forest, heading towards a lean-to shelter where we planned to eat our snacks. We stopped to marvel at a beetle, a boggy forest area, and various types of horsetails. My 6yo daughter started last summer to excitedly learn how to tell different horsetails apart, and she’s continuing that this year. She’s quite good at it, and I’m learning more too.

Wood anemones had already been blooming throughout May, and lily of the valley had just pushed up its bright, tightly rolled shoots from the ground.

At the beginning of the hike, the forest was mixed woodland and partly boggy. Sphagnum moss had taken over the wet areas. I had no idea how long this hike was going to take.

The forest gradually turned into a coniferous forest, and before we knew it, we had already arrived at the lean-to shelter. I don’t think I took a single photo of the shelter itself. There was another group there as well. The fire was already lit, and all we had to do was place the food we had prepared at home onto the grill.

My friend made us coffee. He has a habit of making coffee in a pour-over style. He brings coffee beans and a portable coffee grinder. Coffee prepared this way is really good, and it’s a nice change from how I usually make it — either campfire coffee in a pot over an open fire or instant coffee on a gas stove.

With very good hot coffee, I lingered on the cliffs, enjoying my current nature living room. My 9yo son was whittling sticks, the little girls were playing together peacefully, and my friend kept an eye on the food cooking. I felt deep happiness. No rush, we had all day. No chores, since we were far from home.

Throughout our stay, a cuckoo was calling in the distance. It would occasionally pause for a short break of a few tens of seconds, but otherwise it called almost continuously.

Then our food was ready. Grilled vegetables and halloumi tasted so so good.

After eating and enjoying a relaxed break, we continued our journey with the intention of heading back to the parking area. I chose the trail which looked most appealing to me. (Wrong choice!)

Soon I fell behind the others with 6yo, because we were so excited about everything we saw. We stopped to admire a large Sphagnum moss hummock. My 6yo also likes moss, especially Sphagnum.

She also collected and compared different sticks. One was a good sword, one a gun, and another a magic wand.

We caught up with the others and took a short drink break. Walking had made us quite warm. We noticed that even here, the streams had dried up. Nature has been very dry. The water levels in the lakes are low, and the lack of water is also visible here in the forest ditches. We really need some proper rain!

At this point, I fell behind the others. I admired the cliff walls and ferns slowly awakening in the dim light. It felt wonderful to be left alone for a moment, able to simply observe and take photographs. From further ahead, I could hear the children’s excited shouts. I was completely in my own world, feeling like a completely different person. This is yet another good reminder that parents should allow themselves moments alone, even when they don’t feel the need for them.

From the cliff, a steep set of stairs descended into a damp, shaded spruce forest. The ground was covered in decaying wood, and huge bracket fungi grew everywhere.

As I descended, I felt the air grow colder. I could smell wet bark and cold earth. I would probably have continued along the main trail, but I noticed these abandoned, moss-covered stairs off to the side. I absolutely wanted to go and see them more closely, but on the way the interesting mosses kept stopping me every few steps.

There was Rhizomnium punctatum, I think. And I also found Sphagnum wulfianum, which I had not seen before. It made me so excited that I ended up writing about it afterwards.

As I set off again at a brisk pace to catch up with the others, the terrain also began to rise. With that, the greenery returned. The forest seemed to awaken again into brightness, and each new bend in the trail looked more beautiful than the last.

I caught up with the others just before we reached the huge Högberget cliff. At that point, I realized we still had about an hour and a half of walking ahead of us. I had chosen the trail without looking at the map (as I usually do), and we had ended up heading back via a very long route. The time was getting close to children’s bedtime, and I wondered whether the youngest would manage to keep walking. For a moment, I felt a bit despairing.

Then we noticed that the cuckoo we had been listening to even on our way back was sitting in a tree at the top of a cliff. It was still calling, and it felt as if it had been guiding us all day to end up right here, on the highest cliff in the area.

In Finnish, this bird is called käki, and the cuckoo’s call is described as “käki kukkuu.” In Finnish, “kukkuu” means the same as “peekaboo” in English. So to Finnish ears, it was as if the cuckoo had been calling “peekaboo” all day, and now we had finally found it.

It lifted our mood, and we kept going feeling a bit more optimistic.

From the highest point of the cliff, we could see all the way to the city of Vantaa. The contrast was striking: after all, we were in the middle of a quiet and remote national park. I thought it would be quite amazing to spend a night up there in a hammock, sitting in the evening, watching the city lights — and listening to “käki kukkuu”.

Then we started descending again, continuing towards our car. We tried to pick up the pace, which was difficult because the final stretch of the trail was so interesting. Huge boulders, paths covered in roots, and beautiful natural details.

In the end, my worry about the children’s stamina turned out to be unnecessary. The youngest, 4yo, was still running energetically at the end of the trip, and none of my three children had any difficulty managing the walk.

Altogether, we spent five hours on the hike and walked 6 km, most of it on the way back. Everyone fell asleep easily once we got home. Trips like this are a real highlight of my life.

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Distant thunder rumbles somewhere far away, but the lightning never reaches the bog. It feels intimate and cozy here.

The edge of the bog is a green zone. There the sphagnum is vibrantly lush, and the dwarf shrubs grow tall and healthy. This side of the bog is the one that receives water from narrow, naturally formed channels. This bog hasn’t been ruined by drainage. Here, humans are visitors, not gods. Everything has remained natural.

I walk on the bog carefully. I wouldn’t want to step on the moss at all. It feels like I’m disturbing something, as if the impressions from my steps ruin the whole landscape. I keep glancing back, only to notice that the marks are already beginning to fade. The moss slowly rises back up where I just stepped. So I continue my journey a little more boldly.

I reach an area that’s more forested and filled with cotton grass. The trees here are older than elsewhere on the bog, where they rarely grow thicker than a wrist before falling or rotting upright from the moisture.

And the cotton grasses are at their best. The spent flower stalks look like tender little tufts, swaying out of sync in the wind. I’m sitting on a fallen tree trunk that’s still fresh enough not to crumble under my step, yet old enough that it has already partly sunk into the bog. Moss has grown partly over it, though the thickest part of the trunk is still above the surface, held up by the raised root base. Across the silvery wood surface trail cranberry runners, already carrying pink buds.

My favourite of all bog plants is bog rosemary. There are many reasons for that, but the biggest one is probably the small element of surprise it always carries. Like many other dwarf shrubs, bog rosemary has its own fungal gall — a fungal plant pathogen.

That causes this otherwise inconspicuous green plant to turn into something completely different: all the leaves expand, round out, and turn bright pink. The species responsible is Exobasidium karstenii. Bog rosemary also has another pathogen, Exobasidium sundstroemii, which causes some of the leaves to become pale pink and enlarged.

But right now I don’t see any signs of them yet — only healthy, normal stems putting out fresh growth, and some plants already in bloom.

I’m noticing different kinds of sphagnum mosses. I also came across spiky bog moss (Sphagnum squarrosum). It was growing half‑hidden at the edge of the bog, in the dim light. It has a spiky look to it, almost as if it were covered in frost at a quick glance.

I can hear a cuckoo calling somewhere farther away. I start walking toward the sound, hoping I might see the bird. I’m literally wading through waist‑high Labrador tea. They’re in bloom, and the scent is wonderful.

The vegetation thins out and the sphagnum turns greener and wetter. In a hollow left by an uprooted tree, dark water stands still. I reach a narrow hollow.

From here, the water enters the bog. It doesn’t rush in; it hardly moves at all. The water stands still, and beneath the surface there is only slow absorption. The peat works like a sponge, taking in what it needs in order to stay alive as a bog.

I’d like to follow the hollow and see where it leads, but this isn’t the moment for that. I sit down on a fallen trunk above the still water and take the coffee thermos from my pack. I no longer remember the cuckoo.

I’ve packed sandwiches too, and this would be a good time to eat them. But I’m too caught up in the spell of the bog. As I sip coffee, I slip the sphagnum samples from my pocket between the pages of my field journal so I can later figure out which species they are.

After finishing my coffee, I continue toward the middle of the bog. Out here it’s stark: dry hummocks with wet hollows between them. In Finnish there’s an enormous number of words for all of this. Bogs have been such a deep part of everyday life and language here.

I walk past the bog eye we found a year ago. I still recognize it, even though there are no real landmarks. But the way the hummock curves around the hollow in that particular shape has stayed in my mind. On the surface it looks only slightly wetter than the surrounding moss, but in reality there’s at least a metre and a half of depth beneath it. It’s not a place I want to step. Moving through a bog means being careful and knowing where to put your feet.

Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbles again. Here on the bog it stays calm, as it always does. The sun is out now, and the layer of clouds begins to break, revealing patches of blue sky. It’s time to head back to the cottage. I remember the sandwiches and sit for a moment in the forested spruce mire at the edge of the bog to eat.

The bog remains unchanged, as if I had never been there at all. The peat is already swallowing the traces I left behind, while time drifts onward in its slow, almost suspended way. Tomorrow, everything will be just the same as today.

♡ If you’d like to support my work, you can buy me a coffee.

This is one of my favourite bog plants. Its Finnish name is very simple — suokukka, literally “bog flower”. It grows commonly on acidic bogs and blooms in early summer with pale pink, bell‑shaped flowers.

In English its name is bog rosemary, although it is not related to rosemary. It has been used as a medicinal plant in the past, among other things for arthritis. Bog rosemary is poisonous throughout the plant.

The leaves are leathery, elongated, and greyish on the underside. The leaves overwinter. The root system is extensive, up to two meters long and extending to half a meter deep. The flowers are nodding and bell‑shaped, with colours ranging from almost white to soft pink.

The developer of modern biological classification, Carl von Linné also regarded this plant as something exceptional. When he found it on a bog in Sweden, he named it after the Greek mythological princess Andromeda — chained to a rock by the sea and surrounded by monsters.

He saw the plant as delicate yet tied to the dangers of the bog with its toxins, and even drew an illustration of bog rosemary and the princess merging into one figure. It was one of the few plants he described in such openly emotional terms.

Fungal pathogens

Like many dwarf shrubs, bog rosemary can host its own fungal gall. Exobasidium karstenii can transform the plant completely, turning its normally narrow green leaves into rounded, bright pink ones, while Exobasidium sundstroemii affects only part of the foliage, making some leaves pale pink and enlarged.

Even though the lake itself is quiet, it is not silent. This is the birds’ hour. I often go out paddling in the evening. My paddleboard is always ready, and all I need to do is push it into the water and step onto it.

Let me tell you about one of those evenings.

The air was warm with the softness of evening, resting lightly on the lake. The water was like a mirror — calm, thick and heavy to paddle through. To the right of our cottage shore, the sun was setting. To the left, a sleepy blue hour was unfolding. I headed toward it and left the sunset behind me.

First I saw a lone swan, slowly drifting along the shoreline of the cove a couple of cottages away from ours. On the opposite shore, on a small island, about ten gulls were chattering and screeching. Their noise only made the swan’s solitude stand out more. Some of the gulls were circling above the lake, and I found myself wondering whether they notice the beauty of a sunset — or whether it is as ordinary to them as a white wall is to me.

I reached the tip of the island, and a few swift swallows darted above me. They nest under our dock just like they did last summer, and these could well have been the same birds.

I slipped past the point of the island to its far side in near silence, with only the softest strokes of the paddle. That’s when I heard rustling coming from the island.

I moved toward the sound and tried to stay as quiet as possible, my eyes searching for whatever was making the noise. Then I caught a small glimpse of the rustler, and I knew immediately what bird it was.

It was a great spotted woodpecker, bustling along the island’s shore. It flew from one tree to another and I was able to watch it go about its important business.

At that moment an odd, harsh call sounded behind me — a crane. I turned quickly on my board and caught a glimpse of it as it fled from the gulls with powerful wingbeats. The gulls were clearly driving it away from the area near their nest.

Right after that came the swan’s evening call, carrying clearly from the cove all the way to the far side of the island. From the other direction I heard the pigeon’s low duh-duu sounds, and in that moment I understood that an evening lake truly belongs to the birds.

It was the year 1847. Bryologist Gustav Karl Girgensohn — a researcher of mosses — arrived at an Estonian manor estate because the forests there were old and unexplored. The landowner, von Wulf, allowed him to wander — not because he cared about mosses himself, but because the visit of a scientist sounded refined and important.

Under the spruces the ground stayed damp, even in summer. There, at the edge of shadow and water, Girgensohn leaned over a small hummock and saw a sphagnum moss with more branches than any he had seen before.

Girgensohn named the unusual moss after the landowner, von Wulf: Sphagnum wulfianum.

Sadly, the original site did not survive unchanged. The swampy forests surrounding the manor were drained, built over, and Sphagnum wulfianum no longer grows there at all. I’ve been studying the old maps and scattered notes, trying to understand what the landscape once looked like.

I took a small peatland course some time ago, and that’s where I became fond of this moss. I’d been hoping to come across it ever since. And when I saw it one spring day in the dim spruce forest, I recognised it immediately.

The ground was just as wet, the light just as dim — and there, on the wet ground I found the same species Girgensohn once leaned over.

So lush and green, so firm and softly shaggy. In Finnish it’s called pallopäärahkasammal, literally “round‑headed bogmoss”.

It’s not a very common species here. Sphagnum wulfianum prefers deep shade, steady moisture and old, undisturbed spruce forests — the kind that feel almost closed to the outside world. It doesn’t shout for attention, but once you know what to look for, it’s unmistakable.

There was something grounding about it — the idea that this same moss had caught someone’s eye almost two centuries ago, and here it was again, unchanged, doing exactly what it has always done.

This moss is one of Finland’s responsibility species, one of the species for which Finland carries a special responsibility. It feels fitting that this moss grows here, hidden deep in Finland’s northern forests.

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I made a few small noticings. Nothing big, just small details that made me pause.

fresh blueberry leaves everywhere under my feet. stopped for a moment — everything felt new.

wood-sorrel blooms with delicate flowers.

found this egg on the ground. probably fallen from a nest. a little sad, but that’s nature. something out here will make use of it soon. there’s a viper somewhere nearby, or so i’ve heard.

the common blackbird (Turdus merula) on a big rock, singing like it owns this small patch of forest.

a coal tit (Periparus ater) nest in this hollow. a thin, raspy call from within, and the bird flew in.

these blueberry flowers made me happy, and i tasted a few. maybe these berries will end up in my porridge in late summer.

wood sorrel covering the old bridge over the ditch.

a spiderweb between the trees. easy to miss until a beam of sunlight caught it.

ferns slowly waking up. unfurling like they’re stretching after a long sleep.

It’s not easy to reach. Getting there takes a bit of time and effort. And you need some kind of watercraft. We either row or paddle our way there.

Gliding on the water, I admire my children, who always handle it so well and are so brave and confident.

Then we arrive. The paddleboards are tied to a tree, and the rocky shore receives us firmly and protectively.

So close to the cottage, and yet so far away. Worries are forgotten. As if the waves of the journey had washed them away. All everyday things feel distant. It feels light to be here.

Water has gathered into small pools in the hollows of the rock, and what a joy it is to float tiny boats there. I pour myself a cup of coffee and sit with the feeling of quiet happiness that always finds me when I am here.

And the views are amazing. The island is a lush green world, full of interesting things to explore. The sky and the lake are such a calm blue that it is hard to believe there could be anything else beyond them. Here, everything feels as it should be. People are close, yet there is peace everywhere. Nature is a value in itself, and we as humans are only small within it, moving respectfully in its presence.

And coffee… it tastes best right here. When I pour it into my kuksa, my wooden outdoor cup, and feel its warmth in my fingers. The best part is really the thought itself, not so much the taste. The thought that I can simply be here now, to root myself in this moment. The cup helps me to ground myself. The drink in my cup is like an hourglass, one whose flow I can control myself.

The bracelet my son made rests on my wrist and makes me smile. It was immediately clear to him that my bracelet could say “coffee,” and it suits these moments perfectly.

A boat passes us, and soon the waves follow. They hit the rocky shore, bringing a small sense of tension. As if reminding us: the lake could be wild, unruly, even dangerous. After the waves, the calm lake feels, if possible, even safer.

When everyone has that tiredness on their eyelids that comes from fresh air, we set off on the way back. There is always someone who would like to stay a little longer. I would too.

But sometimes, you have to go back.

Still, I can always find my way back here — by closing my eyes.

In March, people walking on the sea ice in the Gulf of Finland were surprised. The ice was bright red. The sight was almost surreal. However, it was a natural phenomenon. The cause was bladderwrack, and the phenomenon was actually very positive.

Bladderwrack is a species of brown algae with tough, olive‑green fronds. It has a leathery texture and contains air-filled bladders that keep it floating toward the surface. It can live at depths of up to 10 meters, although it is most commonly found at around 2.5 meters.

Bladderwrack once nearly disappeared from the Finnish coast, but its population has since recovered. It shelters young fish and countless small organisms — shrimp, amphipods, isopods, mussels, and sea snails. These, in turn, feed many fish species and coastal birds. Large amounts of bladderwrack washed ashore also play an important role as egg-laying sites for grass snakes.

Bladderwrack is an indicator of the state of underwater nature. That is why the red-colored sea ice, despite its dramatic appearance, was actually a positive sign.

Bladderwrack has always been a resourceful species — a quiet treasure of the shoreline. It has been used for dyeing yarns and fabrics, as fertilizer, for soil improvement, as famine food, and as a traditional remedy. Today, it is also used in cosmetics due to its antioxidant properties and its ability to support collagen production.

Yet its deepest work happens where no one sees it. It remains one of the Baltic Sea’s most important foundation species. Somewhere in the slow sway of the Baltic, the bladderwrack keeps doing what it always does, holding the coastline together, its quiet work continuing beneath the waves.

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We spent the whole day on an island in the Gulf of Finland, exploring, fishing, and simply enjoying being there. It was me, my partner, our three children, my father, and his partner. Come along, and I’ll show you the beautiful marine nature of the Baltic Sea awakening in spring.

In this same boat, I have spent many trips from my childhood on these same waters. My father has had this same boat for over 30 years, and many journeys have been made on the Baltic Sea with it. Perhaps it is precisely because of those trips that the islands still fascinate me to this day.

Our 6yo daughter smiled happily for the whole boat trip with sand shovel and bucket on her hands. She was waiting for a sandy beach. On our way, we saw many birds: cormorants, swans, geese, and of course plenty of seagulls. We passed many interesting islands and saw many beautiful smooth rock surface stretching along the shoreline.

We landed on one of these rocky shores. There was hardly any sand at all, which slightly puzzled the 6yo, but the children quickly started playing on the rocks. Water had gathered in the hollows of the rock, and it was fun to scoop it into buckets. It was also nice to dip their hands into the water and feel the slimy surface of the seaweed.

Our 9yo discovered the remains of a great spotted woodpecker under the pine tree, and we gathered its beautiful feathers, feeling sad about the bird’s fate.

My father set up his whitefish fishing rods. A worm is placed on the hook, and it is cast far out into the water. The rod is set upright into a crack in the rock, and a small bell is attached to it to signal when the rod starts to move. This is a fun way to fish, because it doesn’t rule out doing other things while waiting for a catch.

My partner and I went to light a campfire to make coffee. We had a nice moment together, listening to the crackling fire and slowly finishing the sentences left unfinished during the busy day.

After we had all had coffee together, my partner and I went to explore further along the island’s shoreline. We climbed among the rocks, exploring what we could find between them. The sun was really warming there, and we took off our jackets and were just in T-shirts.

We found beautiful pebbles, seaglass and shells, which we collected in our hands. Seaglass is nature’s way of turning waste into beauty. Once sharp, dangerous glass litter, now a treasure shaped by the waves, sand, and sunlight into something smooth and rounded.

I found myself thinking: Somehow, like the seaglass itself, things that were once sharp and difficult can be softened by time, movement, and growth.

The children had moved on to building a miniature world on a mossy area. At this point, the fishing rod rang, and my father caught the first and only whitefish.

We cooked meal over the campfire. While eating, my father began to recall boat trips from 20 years ago. Near this very island, marine research vessel had been anchored for several weeks. After it left, my father and his brother went diving at the site with their own boat to see what might have ended up on the seabed. They found, among other things, several filleting knives and a washing machine. My father shook his head; he could not understand why anyone would throw a washing machine into the sea.

The Baltic Sea is one of the most polluted seas in the world. Its salinity is low due to a large drainage basin and only a narrow connection to the oceans. For the same reason, water exchange is slow, and therefore environmental toxins and nutrients can affect the Baltic Sea for a long time.

It saddens me that our sea is in such poor condition. In the past, people treated the seas with negligence, and all kinds of things were thrown and discharged into them. There is still a lot to be done, but fortunately things are moving in a better direction. It is a pity that problems are often addressed only once the damage has been done, even though the Baltic Sea has shown some signs of recovery.

At the end of the day, we returned to the mainland and lifted the boat out of the water. We were tired, but in a quiet, content kind of way — the kind that comes after a day spent fully outside in the fresh sea air.

I can’t wait to get back on the water again. Our long summer holiday will once again include a lot of time at our summer cottage on the shores of Lake Päijänne, boating, paddling, and admiring Finland’s beautiful nature.

The children immediately sank into play among the fallen tree trunks, and in the roots they built small homes for their little figures. The tree’s roots formed a kind of apartment, with each hollow like its own little room.

We also played battle beam game (Finnish: pukkitaistelu) on the fallen tree trunk, trying to knock each other off. It helps develop balance and is a lot of fun.

While they were playing, I thought about how easy parenting is in the forest. The forest is a safe place to play, full of endless opportunities for inventing imaginative games. They could have played there peacefully all day. I just admired them and their ideas.

As a parent, it delights me to watch them play outdoors, knowing how beneficial it is for children. Walking in the uneven forest terrain and climbing over stumps and roots helps develop their motor skills, and exposure to the forest’s important microbes has been shown to boost immunity.

We admired the beautiful cycle of nature, inspired by the decaying trees. I felt proud as the children were able to explain on their own how fungi and insects decompose the tree, returning its nutrients to the soil.

Children develop a strong connection with nature when they spend a lot of time outdoors. And a child with a strong bond to nature grows up to become an adult who respects and cares for our planet. This is what it truly means to Grow Wild in Forest Soil!

We stopped for a snack break on a windy hill. Our 4yo had chosen this spot for our picnic and was already sitting there so sweetly, on a fallen tree trunk, waiting. For us adults, it wasn’t quite thick enough to sit on comfortably, but that didn’t matter.

My partner had packed Karelian rice pies and a sweet bread loaf. While eating, we counted how many different kinds of moss we could find on the hill. If I remember correctly, the children found six.

Then we reached a gravel road, and my partner and the children made a stream from a big puddle toward the ditch. The water flowed across the road into the ditch, and it was fun to place all kinds of natural materials into the flowing water and watch them float. They could have continued this play for who knows how long.

At the end, we saw a few real signs of spring: a brimstone butterfly, a bustling ant nest, and a caterpillar that had ended up on top of a large, shady ice patch. We helped it move to a slightly sunnier spot.

As we headed home, I felt grateful for these simple moments — the sun, the forest, and the joy in children’s eyes. Spring was truly awakening all around us.

We set off from the cottage and walked across the ice. The sky was an unreal, bright blue. The frost was sharp, and the sun was shining from a completely cloudless sky. The trees were covered with a layer of snow, which made the landscape truly beautiful.

We first headed to Swan Island, where the rock is split, creating a natural window. The children immediately found things to do: they climbed around the island and shook the trees so that snow drifted beautifully down.

There were beautiful icicles under the shoreline rocks, which they collected and played with. They also crawled through the rock window several times. The atmosphere felt very unreal because the world looked so unusual — as if we had landed on a strange new planet.

Then we arrived at our familiar destination, Mother’s Day Island, where we lit a fire and enjoyed the scenery.

I can’t wait for spring, when we can come here by water as before: paddling, rowing, or with my son’s small boat. Here is an autumn post from the same island:

For many people, a familiar place in nature becomes a source of safety and calm. The place can also be something very simple, like a bench in a nearby park or a bird feeder in your own yard. The best part is that you can return there just by closing your eyes and imagining it.

This island is that place for me. When life feels busy and stressful, and I don’t have time to go outside, I take a few minutes for myself and imagine that I am on the island.

I imagine the journey: sometimes I paddle, sometimes I walk across the ice. On the island, I sit here by the fire pit or on the rock on the shoreline and watch my children playing. They are in the safest place in the world: with me, on the cozy island, under the bluest sky.

By the fire, the sharp bite of the frost felt a little less harsh for a while. A hot drink and the crackling fire brought that comforting outdoor feeling that makes winter trips like this worth it.

We grilled some food and made hot chocolate and coffee. Despite the strong frost, no one felt cold.

Places like this slowly become part of you. No matter the season, the island is always waiting.

Inspired by the song lyrics “Päivänsäde ja menninkäinen” by Reino Helismaa (1949), this tale follows its light into the night.

The Last Sunbeam and the Goblin

The sun had set behind the forest, and the last golden rays shimmered beyond the trees. The final sunbeam still lingered among the trunks, daydreaming after the others had gone.

She had not hurried, but dawdled instead. She caressed the moss, balanced along a tree fallen by the storm, and paused to admire a spider’s web where the evening moisture gathered into tiny drops.

The goblin had just awakened in his cave and crept out into the dusky forest. The quiet of the night suited him. In the darkness, small things grew large: the scent of moss, the snap of a twig beneath his feet, the low whispers of the night wind in the treetops.

But that was not the only reason. The goblin’s eyes were sensitive to light. Had he left his cave during the day, he would have been blinded.

So he had learned to live alone, in his own company, in the dark. The forest was his home — but only at night. By the time dawn arrived, he would already have returned to his cave.

As the goblin walked on, he suddenly sensed that something was different from usual. The dusk had not yet settled over the forest. The last sunbeam stood before him, beautiful and bright. The sunbeam gazed at him in wonder, her head slightly tilted, at this strange figure she had never encountered before.

But the goblin felt something stir within him. Like night moths fluttering inside him. The world filled with color, and wandering through the forest gained meaning. He felt a longing — a desire to take the sunbeam with him. He lifted his hand toward the light and stepped closer. The sunbeam felt the goblin’s touch. It felt gentle.

“Hi,” said the goblin boldly.

“Hi,” replied the sunbeam, questioningly.

“I’ve never seen anything like you before. Even though my eyes tingle, you are wonderful.”

The sunbeam smiled, and the smile was beautiful; it made the goblin feel certain of himself. Suddenly, everything felt full of meaning, and nothing felt more important than bringing the sunbeam into his world, into the darkness, to dwell together forever.

”Come, with me. I will take you to my cave, where the darkness is gentle, and you’ll be safe by my side. I will make you happy.”

The sunbeam closed her eyes for a moment and whimpered: “Oh, I can’t. I cannot live in the dark. I must leave very soon.”

The goblin’s eyes went dim. A wave of sorrow washed over him “Don’t go.”

“I have to. If I don’t leave now, I will die.”

The goblin lifted his hand once more, and the sunbeam responded to the touch. She lingered warmly on the goblin’s skin, climbing gently to caress his tangled hair and rough beard. The goblin closed his eyes, and a bitter tear rolled down his cheek.

When he opened them, the last sunbeam was gone. The forest had grown twilight; soon it would be fully dark. The goblin’s eyes now filled with tears.

So the sunbeam was gone, yet the goblin still wanders through the night forest, lost in his thoughts. Even now, he remembers the sunbeam — her warmth and brightness, her beauty. But he cannot understand how anyone could live only in the daylight, while another could live only in darkness.

And though the sunbeam has vanished, her light lingers softly in the goblin’s heart forever.

The original song was composed and written by Reino Helismaa, and performed by Tapio Rautavaara in 1949. Over the years, the song has been performed by many different artists.

If you want to hear a beautiful version of this song, here’s a link: [link]

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The lake was completely frozen, beneath a blanket of snow. The ice was making mournful sounds, like it was stretching and groaning under the weight of the winter, sending long, low ululations across the silent, snow-covered expanse.

The snow crunched beneath our feet as we set off walking along the forest path. The moon hung high in the sky, illuminating the sparkling snow with its bright glow.

Whenever I look at the stars, I can’t help but think of all those who gazed at the same stars long ago. Back when the world had no electric lights, no factories, no cities. When people lived in the forest and made their lives from it. They must have looked at the stars very often, as it was one of the few moving pictures besides the changing landscapes and weather.

At that time, patterns began to emerge in the sky. Back then, no one yet fully understood what those bright lights were. People noticed that the same patterns appeared in the sky according to the yearly cycle. They began to look for familiar shapes, such as the bear, the hunter, the goat…

We saw many constellations on our night walk. In the photo above, Orion is visible in the center, just above the top of the spruce. Orion’s Belt consists of the three stars in a straight line, and the row of stars below them forms Orion’s Sword. In the upper right corner of the image, the star cluster is the Pleiades, also known as the Seven Sisters — in Japan called Subaru, which is where the car brand gets its name and logo.

In many cultures, the lower part of the constellation Orion — below Orion’s Belt — has been seen as a weapon or tool. In Finnish folklore, this part of Orion is called the ‘Kaleva’s Sword,’ a reference to the heroic figures and ancient stories of Finland’s national epic Kalevala.

The snow muffled the world, making everything feel quiet and distant, as if time itself had slowed down. But it was not truly silent. The ice’s lament could be heard from the lake, beyond the trees. It was like the northern wind or the whisper of the aurora, mysterious and far beyond human understanding. From a distance, it sounded more like singing.

I was thinking: How small we are in the universe, and yet how heavy our lives can feel. And yet, here on this tiny planet, every life is vast from the inside. A single moment — a hand in yours, the crisp air of a winter forest, the quiet before night settles — can hold more meaning than entire galaxies.

Returning to the cabin never felt so comforting. The fire crackled in the fireplace, and it was warm inside, even though it was -20°C outside.

We settled on a sheepskin in front of the fire and fell asleep, while the ice howled through the night and the stars twinkled in the sky until the first light of dawn.

First, let’s walk across the ice to Mother’s Day Island, a little wooded haven in the waters off our cottage. It’s a regular spot for our trips with the children — the same island we skied to a few weeks ago. Even in winter, it feels wonderfully hygge, a cozy living room in the middle of the icy lake.

The cold forces me offline. With two layers of gloves — woolen mittens underneath and leather gloves on top — I don’t feel like looking at my phone or reacting to its vibrations. It’s great, because the cold deepens my sense of presence and pulls my attention fully to where I am. But I still want to capture moments. To take photos, I zoom with my nose if needed and press the side button, which works even through the gloves.

Dressing warmly is a skill. During winter, you learn what combinations work and what don’t. Right now, for example, I need three layers of wool socks under my iconic Finnish Kuoma winter boots. I wore the same kind of shoes as a child, and now my own children wear them too.

Underneath, I have a wool base layer, then an inner clothing layer, and on top, my winter outerwear. In such extreme cold, I always wear two thick sweaters underneath. My insulated winter jacket and pants are preferably a bit roomy rather than tight, so that air can circulate between the layers. The trapped air creates an insulating layer that keeps me warm.

The amount of light has increased dramatically. Just a month ago, it got dark by 3 pm, but now there’s still light until 5 pm. It feels surprisingly long. Now it’s easy to get outside twice during daylight. These photos were taken at 1 pm.

Just a few days ago, on January 17th, the polar night ended in northern Finland, and the sun rose for the first time in two months. There, in Nuorgam, each day during polar night is like our brief blue hour in the afternoon down south. The blue is incredible, and the snow, moon, and northern lights illuminate the landscape.

Here in southern Finland, there is no polar night, only the gentle rhythm of shortening and lengthening days. First the days shorten toward the end of the year, and then slowly, almost imperceptibly, days start to grow again

Here is a short video capturing the mood of the first island.
[zoom the screen to make it full screen]

The shoreline rocks are glazed in bright ice, and on one large icy boulder, the grasses sparkle like crystal. Behind it, the island filter sunlight through its trees onto the frozen lake.

The ice lets out a few sharp cracks — perhaps new cracks form somewhere under the snow. Let’s continue toward the next, smaller island.

Swan Island is a tiny island made from a single rock. The rock is split in the middle, and from the crevice opens a window with a lake view, framed by a young pine. That rocky window is like real art — like a natural installation, made by Earth.

In summer, we rowed here and the children crawled through the gap (link to the post). Now they wouldn’t fit, all bundled up in thick winter clothes.

Surprisingly, it feels quite warm now, even when I briefly take a glove off. Movement helps keep warm, and walking briskly from one island to another warmed my body.

This island is mostly covered with pines. They look incredibly beautiful as the low sun casts its light between the trunks. Somewhere far off on the shore, a woodpecker taps softly. It’s the only sound you can hear besides your own breath and the crunch of snow. The world has fallen silent.

Did you enjoy this lake walk? I did, very much! I don’t mind the cold when I’m dressed warmly enough. Out in the freezing air, it can be just as comfortable as indoors. And the best feeling is coming back inside after fresh outdoor air — feeling energized and full of life!

The half-moon hangs above like a quiet witness, not asking anything. You sense you’ve stepped into a place that exists only while you’re passing through it. The World of Dreams.

We were there. When we descended into the valley formed by the rolling fields, we stepped straight into the mist. I felt the mist around me, even felt it as I breathed. The dry winter cold had turned damp, and we looked at everything through the gray veil of fog.

5yo said it first: “ Is this dream?” And indeed it was! We waded in the fog, we breathed it, we filled our lungs with it. And the split moon watched as if it had always known we would pass this way.

We trudged through the white snow. It was dry, powdered frost, like white, light sand — dream sand. The moon hung split in half. I began to wonder — maybe the moon itself is the source of the dream sand, and the Sandman has grated it here, scattering it over the world while we slept, while we wandered.

Then we suddenly felt a rush! The gates of the dream world were about to close, and we had to reach them before that happened. Mist curled around our ankles as we ran, the snow crunching under our feet, and the half-moon watched silently above, as if urging us onward.

Behind us remained silence, and our traces in the snow. The footprints led home. The blue hour began. The moon stayed.

The world of dreams remained folded into the edges of the mist and the frost, a quiet place that waited patiently for the next wanderer.

This post is part of the Enchanted Stories section. Let your coffee freeze over as you click it to enter more imaginative worlds!

First, my partner and 9yo went walking out onto the ice to drill a few holes and check that the ice was thick enough. Currents can be tricky. The ice, however, was about 20 cm thick at each test hole.

The younger kids skied on the cottage shore while we adults were still packing. So 3yo didn’t have the energy to ski by the time we left. That was fine — she got to sit in the pulk (a Nordic sled for carrying children and gear) on a sheepskin and enjoy the scenery.

In the morning, I had been worrying that we probably wouldn’t see any sun all day. The sky and snow were the same shade of gray. Yet, once we got properly moving, my mood changed. The day was, in its own way, really beautiful and special.

5yo skied quickly at first and couldn’t wait for the rest of us, but once we caught up to her, the situation reversed: we had to wait for her. She kept stopping to reflect on how we had been paddleboarding in the same spots during the summer.

I completely understand — it feels amazing to think that I was in the same spot on the water with soft waves around me in the summer, and now I was standing in the same place on a hard surface on skis.

We reached the shore of the island. On our right was small Moss Island, where we’ve taken small trips throughout the summer, both in my son’s boat and on paddleboards. But we turned left, behind a larger island.

Our plan was to reach the rocky spot and fire pit on the far side, where we had stayed overnight and taken day trips in the summer. We’ve named the island Mother’s Day Island because we first visited it on Mother’s Day. That time, we made a cake there and explored the island.

We stopped to admire the icicles formed under a large shoreline rock. I literally ran aground on my skis. A few rocks were just barely above the ice surface, hidden under the snow. I skied straight into them and fell.

From the other side of the island, a beautiful, eerie sight revealed itself. Little Swan Island rose like a quiet sentinel against the endless white. Like the last place on earth, untouched and still. The final stop for humankind, a place where those who leave pause for a moment of rest before continuing their journey into eternity.

We reached the fire pit on Mother’s Day Island. We climbed from the ice onto the land, and my partner immediately started building a fire. The fire spot is simple, just a few stones around it. The kids watched with curiosity as he used a fire steel to start the fire.

We had hot chocolate (of course, it’s a must for a winter ski trip!), meatballs, Karelian pasties and cinnamon rolls. We made cowboy coffee, which is made with just water, coffee, and a coffee pot over a campfire. You can start it as soon as the fire is lit, even directly on the burning logs or you can hang it with a thick stick.

Cowboy coffee tastes like pure magic. You know how everything somehow tastes better outdoors? This isn’t just that. The landscape and the weather add their own special flavors to the coffee. It never tastes the same twice, and sometimes it’s so good that when you remember the trip, that particular cup of coffee comes to mind as well.

Cowboy coffee

I don’t measure anything myself. I let the water boil and then add the coffee grounds — better a bit too much than too little. I put the pot back on the fire, and once it boils, I take it off.

The coffee needs to be shocked by tapping the pot. You can do this however you like. I usually tap the pot gently against a rock or a piece of wood. Then we wait a moment for the grounds to settle at the bottom. You can pour a little out before filling your cup, so the grounds left in the spout don’t end up in the coffee.

We returned along the other side of the island. 5yo moved along quite slowly, and 3yo fell asleep in the pulk. 9yo could have easily skied a much longer distance.

On the horizon, three rounded stretches of the mainland were visible. Each one was wrapped in fog to a different degree — the farthest barely visible, the middle one a little clearer, and the closest standing out the most. Taking pictures in this kind of weather was an experience of its own. The photos could be almost completely white, except for the dark outline of the shoreline.

At the end, there’s also a photo of some ice fishers, who turned out to be the only other people on the ice besides us.

They say a picture is worth a thousand words. This last one seems to have lost them somewhere in the snow.

Thank you for skiing along! ♡

We are lucky to live close to the forest. We can get there by crossing the field. At the edge of the forest, there is a large, steep rock that we sled down. We took sleds and sliders with us and set off as a whole family.

First, we crossed the nearby park to reach the field. In this ditch, the children have often floated their little boats, wading through the muddy bottom. Now the ditch was completely frozen, and the kids enjoyed running across the ice and listening to the faint sound of water flowing beneath the thick ice.

At the edge of the field, there were many beautiful winter stalks covered in frost. I believe this is fireweed. After the feathery seeds leave in late summer, delicate curls remain, and the frost, together with the sun, gives them a natural sparkling finish.
I filmed a short video — hopefully it captures at least a bit of that sparkle. ⭒₊˚.

After crossing the field, we arrived at a rock slope where the forest begins. My son rode it on a snowboard. The youngest one went down on sleds.

The rock has been a popular sledding spot in our village in the past, and my own grandfather even did ski jumps there. Back then, they built a ski jump tower at the top of the rock, and about halfway down the slope there was a wooden jump. I wouldn’t join in such wild activities myself!

This time, my 5yo and I left the rest of the family to sled down the hill — my partner leading the charge — and slipped away, just the two of us, to explore the edge of the forest. She’s a true little nature lover. She adores plants, mushrooms, and all those tiny details in nature that I also love to examine up close. She’s always happy to head outdoors with me, no matter where we go or how long we stay.

I like this stage when there’s plenty of snow, but it doesn’t yet cover all the vegetation. We explored animal tracks. It was fun to notice the mouse and hare tracks crossing each other. 5yo, of course, thought they had walked there at the same time, probably greeting each other.

We saw the bracket fungi we had seen before in this familiar forest, now covered in snow. They were delightful sight, and looked good enough to eat. Like little cakes. Especially this one was funny in 5yo’s eyes, with its little holes on the underside.

We crossed the frozen ditch and came upon the swing. This swing is mysterious— perhaps forest spirits left it here. Sometimes it sways gently as we approach, as if an elf had just been playing on it, then vanished at the sound of our footsteps. We thought we glimpsed tiny tracks on the ground, and after swinging for a while, we quietly followed them into the forest.

The forest looked enchanting. The blueberry sprigs still stood upright and fresh in the snow, delicate against the frost. Sunlight filtered through the trees, making the snow sparkle, and everywhere seemed bathed in warmth.

Snow clung to the branches, outlining every twig and creating tiny crystalline patterns that caught the light like miniature jewels.

Time felt suspended here — each step on the soft snow echoed in the quiet, and the distant, faint laughter of the others seemed to belong to another world, far away. The forest felt both alive and timeless, a place where even the bitterest cold could not take away its magic.

We reached a large rock where a puddle forms on top. 5yo climbed up to check if the puddle had frozen — and sure enough, it had!

Between the rocks, soft moss grew on stone wall, and frost had spun tiny, delicate icy feathers across it. Or perhaps an icy little bird had flitted its wings there so furiously that it left traces of its sparkling plumage behind.

Then it was time to head back home. The sledders were already ready to leave, and I told 5yo that we needed to return to the others and go home. She said she didn’t want to. “I want to stay here in the forest with you forever, Mom.” My heart, though a little frosted in this bitter cold, melted. I promised we would come back again soon. I took this photo of our hands to keep this moment with me forever. ♥

The frost-covered winter stalks stood along the edge of the field, welcoming the first sunrise of the year wrapped in their icy coats. The streets were empty. It felt like we were the only people awake. The snow creaked under our feet. Even the ditch that usually flows fast had frozen completely solid. The world had frozen still.

The frost had formed tiny feather-like crystals. I photographed them with numb fingers. Year after year, the same thing amazes me: how nature can be so beautiful and ever-changing, full of surprises.

Even in the coldest mornings, even under layers of ice and snow, there is always something new to notice. Even still, I sometimes forget, and I don’t feel like going outside. This year, I want to pay more attention to those small wonders. To let the quiet moments shape my days, and find joy in the simple rhythm of the world around me.

My new year won’t include promises or lifestyle changes. It will arrive quietly, the way light does on a frozen morning. One day following another, almost unnoticed. The cycle of the year is far more essential than artificial calendar periods.

I hope this year takes us slowly, gently, and closer to what truly matters — to quiet mornings, to walks in frost-covered fields, to noticing the small wonders that often go unseen.
May it remind us to pause, to breathe, and to appreciate the world as it is. ♡

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