Arriving in Winter Norway – A Journey to My Physical Limits

In mid-January 2026, I deliberately traveled to Norway. Not in summer, not during a transitional season, but in the heart of winter. Several days outdoors, without retreating into heated spaces. No bathroom, no shower, no quick escape into warmth.

Norway was the right place for this: remote enough to take it seriously, yet with infrastructure that provides support in an emergency. My next journey will be far more remote. This one was a checkpoint - photographically and physically.

While setting up the tents, it became clear that winter demands precision. The wind must not enter the tent, zippers behave differently in sub-zero temperatures, movements slow down, hands stiffen more quickly. Small moments of carelessness add up.

At night, I realized how relative even high-quality equipment can be. My sleeping bag was an expedition model designed for exactly these temperatures. Still, I was cold. A first layer was not enough; even with an additional cashmere sweater, it remained cool.

That night made something clear: temperature ratings are based on averages - and the female body reacts to cold differently than the male body. Heat is stored differently, distributed differently. The numbers printed on a label are guidelines, not guarantees.

A heat patch inside the sleeping bag helped a little. More important was the realization that I need to trust my body more than any technical specification.

We were there because of the musk oxen. The snowshoe hikes were part of that journey. Several kilometers through winter landscape, over packed tracks and through deeper snow, carrying camera equipment on my back. It was steadily demanding - not dramatically steep, but physically intense.

I am fortunate that I do not sweat easily. Even during exertion, I stay relatively dry. And yet this was one of the most important lessons of those days: you must not cross that line. Sweating in the cold is not a side effect - it is a risk. Moisture stays in your clothing layers, and it works against you.

The moment you stop, the situation shifts. Even if you still feel warm, the body begins to cool immediately. The thick jacket has to go on before you feel cold - not after. If you miss that moment, the cold settles deep.

Cold means permanently increased energy consumption. The body is constantly working against heat loss, even at rest. In motion, that demand rises further. Muscles remain tense, the organism burns more than you consciously notice. And yet the feeling of hunger remained surprisingly low.

I ate because I knew I had to. Freeze-dried meals worked well - potatoes with red cabbage and goulash, muesli in the morning mixed with melted snow. The energy demand was high, even if my body did not actively signal it.

Drinking required discipline as well. In the cold, the feeling of thirst decreases, even though the body continuously loses fluids through dry air, breathing, and movement. You lose more moisture than you realize. I rarely get headaches and hardly notice dehydration - which meant I had to consciously remind myself to drink regularly.

You do not simply carry water with you - you melt snow, fill thermos flasks, and prepare ahead. And many everyday things stop functioning as usual: toothpaste freezes, creams change consistency, products containing water become unusable.

With each passing day, I grew calmer. The cold remained demanding, but it became predictable.

At the beginning, we were accompanied by sled dogs. While Hannah prepared the team, I watched the dogs. You could sense immediately how much they wanted to run. The energy was there even before we started.

I would have loved to pet them. Some placed their paws on my lap. But we were asked not to touch them before the tour. Not out of distance, but out of practicality. In the days ahead, we would have no opportunity to wash our hands. No sanitary facilities, no running water. Being outdoors like this means thinking ahead about such details.

So I refrained. As difficult as it was.

The snow lay deep that winter in Dovrefjell–Sunndalsfjella National Park National Park. Again and again, the sled got stuck. Hannah had to push, support the dogs, apply strength. It was not a postcard-perfect ride, but real work — for humans and animals alike.

And that was exactly what made it impressive.

On the last evening, before we returned to the lodge, an exceptionally clear winter day came to an end. The sun had been shining all day, the sky cloudless. Then the light disappeared.

At first, the sky changed almost imperceptibly. Then the gray turned green. And that green did not remain alone. Within minutes, color stretched across the entire sky — intense green, red arcs above it, violet edges appearing and fading again. It was movement.

I had seen the Northern Lights before in Iceland. Back then, they were more visible in long-exposure photographs than to the naked eye. Here, it was different. Here, I truly saw them — with my own eyes, in color, not just as a faint glow but as a living spectrum.

This journey was meant to be a test — whether I can handle the cold, whether I can endure several days outdoors.

It became a confirmation. And it became an experience I carry with me. I learned how my body reacts, when I need to act, what I can rely on — and what I cannot. That knowledge will accompany me on my next expeditions.

Musk oxen in the winter vastness.
Sled dogs in the snow.
A sky in motion.

I was prepared for the cold.
Not for how deeply all of it would move me.