Light and shadow shake hands in the icy cold

(Photos of the diary entry can be found at the end of the text).

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We enjoy the absolute peace and solitude of the remote Steinfjord. Every day, the sun rises later and sets earlier. Since our arrival eight days ago, we have lost 74 minutes of daylight. This means that the polar night is getting closer and closer by around 9 minutes per day. In four weeks’ time, the sun will no longer rise here. We sit at the large panoramic window of our Terra Love while eating breakfast. It’s 8:39 a.m. and still completely dark. As the sun has to climb over the high mountain flank that shields the bay to the east, it doesn’t really get light until 9:30 am. “Shall we go for a ride on the bikes today?” I ask Tanja. “What does the thermometer say?” “Minus five degrees.” “With this wind, it’s going to be pretty frosty,” Tanja thinks. “Probably, but if we don’t set off on an exploration tour soon, it won’t happen this year. The weather forecast has announced storms and it’s getting darker and colder every day,” I argue. “You’re right, if not now, then when. When do you want to leave?” “When the sun has risen over the eastern flank, we cycle to the west coast of the bay. It shines there between 10:00 and 11:00. We should catch that short window of opportunity to take some great pictures,” I suggest. “Provided the sky remains cloudless,” Tanja interjects. “That’s right. According to the weather forecast, we could still be lucky today. It’s definitely going to be very uncomfortable from tomorrow,” I say, studying the weather app on my smartphone.

In a hurry, we slip into two pairs of long johns and a pair of cycling shorts. We put on our thickest socks, which means we barely fit into our shoes. Then we put on a short undershirt, a long woolen shirt, a woolen hoodie, a thick woolen sweater, a thin down jacket and a short-sleeved down vest. A thin woolly hat under your bike helmet should protect your ears and gloves should protect your fingers. At 10:00 a.m. we sit on our bikes and cycle north on a gravel road along the west coast of our bay. An icy cold wind blows down from the mountain flanks into the valley and stirs up the dust on the piste. At this moment, the ball of sunlight rises above the edge of the mountain range and fires its glistening rays into the clouds of dust drifting across the sea. As if touched by magic, they turn orange and form a wonderful contrast to the mountains covered in fresh snow. We pull the brakes on our e-bikes, stop and take photos of the natural spectacle. Then we continue our frosty journey. “My feet hurt from the cold and I can’t feel my thumbs anymore!” exclaims Tanja. “What, already? We’ve only been on the road for 20 minutes.” “I’ve been freezing since we started.” “If we cycle a bit, you’ll get warm,” I reply confidently. “Your word in God’s ear. I don’t want to freeze my toes again,” says Tanja, as she had already suffered first-degree frostbite on all her toes on our last horse trip in Mongolia at minus 35 degrees. Since then, her feet and hands have been particularly sensitive to the cold. Because we didn’t really expect to get caught in winter on this tour, we weren’t equipped accordingly. We’ve put on everything we’ve got, but it’s not enough for a bike trip in sub-zero temperatures and windy conditions. The biggest weaknesses are the lightweight shoes and the gloves, which are far too thin. Nevertheless, we don’t want to break off our tour right at the beginning and cycle on.

On its way west, the sun repeatedly disappears behind high, jagged mountain flanks, which is why it quickly withdraws its rays. When we stop briefly to take a picture in the glorious sunlight, the place is in the shade just a few minutes later. We jump into the saddle and start pedaling to follow the rays. A crazy chase that we will lose in the foreseeable future, as the glowing ball is already approaching the horizon line again. To our right, on the other side of the fjord, we have a view of the imposing Oksen mountain massif. Its pointed gray peaks are lost in the steel-blue sky. On our side of the bay, not far ahead of us, two red-painted huts and a half-ruined barn appear, nestled in frost-marked, knee-high yellow grass. An elderly lady whose husband died a few months ago lives in one of the huts. Tanja has already met them a few times on her walks with Ajaci and has learned that the couple went to sea for decades. She is the cook and her husband is the machine operator. A few years ago, they settled here in absolute seclusion to spend their twilight years together in peace. “Unfortunately, my husband was taken from me far too soon, which is why I now live Mother Souls alone over there on the west side of the fjord,” she said, pointing to the place we were cycling past. I think about how Tanja and I will be when we are old and pray fervently that we may live long in health, happiness and joy.

“Look, there’s a shipwreck!” I shout. While Tanja stays on the track, I climb down to the site of the former disaster and explore the steel skeleton of the ship, glowing red in the last sunlight, with Ajaci. I take a few pictures. “Did it get caught in one of the notorious storms of the North Sea and sink? Or maybe the hull was torn open by one of the many rocks? Did the crew survive or did they drown in the cold waters?” my mind reels. The rough rocks on which the rusty wreck lies are overgrown with slippery algae, which is why I move with great caution. Ajaci, meanwhile, jumps from cliff to cliff until all four of his feet are suddenly torn off and he falls onto his side, howling loudly. “Watch out!” I warn, hurrying to him as quickly as the treacherous ground allows and scanning his body for injuries. “Are you okay?” I ask quietly. “Wouiii,” he replies howling and jumps up wagging his tail as if nothing had happened. So as not to keep Tanja waiting too long, I crawl back up to the slope. As we continue our tour, the shade on our side of the bay gains the upper hand. On the other side of the strait, the jagged, rugged mountain needles of the Oksen massif now shine in red-yellow light. Light and shadow shake hands incessantly on this day. “I’d like to be over there right now,” says Tanja, shivering from the cold. “Should we turn back?” I ask, a little worried. “Yes, I can barely hold the handlebars. My hands feel numb and the pain in my feet is unbearable.” “Okay then, let’s get back to Terra,” I say. The wind now makes it feel like it’s minus ten degrees. My hands are also starting to go numb. We hurry up, switch to turbo mode and let the cranks spin. We hurtle over the rough surface at around 30 km/h. The airstream makes us shiver even more. “Stooop!” shouts Tanja. I apply the brakes. Tanja gets off her bike, circles her arms and tries to get her hands warm. “It’s only a few more kilometers. Let’s cycle quickly to our beach,” I say, so that we don’t end up in the dark. 20 minutes later we are back in our mobile home and warm up with a hot cup of tea. Then I go out into the cold again. Because of the increasing wind, I lay our bikes on the ground. That way I avoid them being blown over by a gust of wind. Then I jump into our heated castle. Tanja has already snuggled into bed while I open one of the Danish beer cans, look out of the window and watch the rapidly approaching darkness…