Tromsø. The Lights, or Homage to Amundsen
Northern lights have always been an obsession of mine, and also a lifelong dream since I was a child. I’ve always known how I’d caption my first proper northern lights experience. I mean, ‘always’ is a bit of an exaggeration, but I’ve definitely known for several years now. There’s this book by Zadie Smith, ‘Swing Time’, where the main character describes an experience that happens to her, which makes her feel suddenly overwhelmed with her surroundings, and she says: ‘Here is the joy I’ve been looking for all my life’.
That quote resonated with me, and made me ask what I’d describe in those terms. I thought it had to be something truly unique. It’s not a quote to be overused: I’d have to borrow it only a handful of times in my whole life, so I’d have to choose carefully what to use it for, especially the first time. In fact, I realised I did know when I’d use it first, because I knew when I’d surely be flooded with that kind of overwhelming joy. I’d first quote those words when I got to see the northern lights for the first time.
Over the years I went on several trips to the North in winter (both before and after reading Smith’s book). Not once, however, did anything happen in the sky. Save for a weak, fleeting glimpse of green cut through the sky of Finnish Lapland, I only invariably encountered overcast skies and/or low aurora activity. It was okay, though: I’d get an aurora view one day, then another, then another one still. If I were lucky, I’d even get one of those mindblowing ones at some point.
Recently I went back to Tromsø on a long weekend trip 11 years after my first visit. The first evening we joined a small group on a drive up north outside of the city. After a couple of unsuccessful stops, we pulled over again, got out of the van, and stood there, looking up. I set up the tripod I’d borrowed from the tour office (first time ever handling a real tripod – not a fan, but there was no choice). We’d only been there for ten minutes or so when the first tenuous ribbon of green light appeared. Then another one, soft but clearly visible up there. Then a third one.
I manoeuvred the tripod, shakily but steadily enough to make decent use of it. I had to tell myself the story of what was happening, or I’m not sure I’d ever believe it: I was looking at the northern lights, and photographing them for the very first time. There were more blades of green lighting up the sky that night. None of them were bright sparks, nor did they take up a lot of space in the sky. They moved in gentle motions, disappearing and reappearing slowly and soundlessly as only they do. It all lasted for over an hour. Then they were gone, and despite more driving and pulling over down the road by the coast, they didn’t show up again.
The next day, after being out at sea the whole day (humpback whales and orcas! But that’s another story), we met up with a Brazilian friend I’d met in Svalbard, who is now living in Tromsø. Just when we were about to leave the coffee place, he and his girlfriend suddenly said: ‘KP index 7! That’s crazy, tonight is going to be crazy’. We parted with them at their bus stop and walked on to our dinner place, further up the main street.
After dinner we got out of the burger place, crossed over, and found ourselves right in front of the giant mural painting with Amundsen’s face in the middle. ‘Amundsen!’, I shouted. ‘I’ll take a photo of-’, but I never did, because right then and there the sky lit up in green. I ran a few steps to the waterfront, tossed my bag to the ground, and started shooting. The lights wouldn’t stop. The aurora didn’t care that there were bright lamp posts getting in the way of dark skies, nor did she care about the bright necklace of lights on the opposite shore, or the bright outline of the cathedral and its unmistakable shape. City lights everywhere, yet I could see the northern lights.
How bright they must be if I can see them so well, I thought. How bright they must look, seen in complete darkness. I don’t have time to go somewhere dark. I do, however, have time to be here, and try not to miss a thing. I’m close to lying on my stomach, almost failing to steady my tripod-less camera against the iron bar by the ice-covered concrete pier. These photos are going to look terrible. But it doesn’t seem to matter, because something so beautiful is happening right now and I’m seeing it all.
A while later, while I was standing by Skansen (Tromsø’s oldest house, which I’d swiftly climbed up to in search of a darker spot), the lights took a break, and so did I. I suddenly realised what had just happened to me. And it felt so overwhelming and so mesmerising that I knew. I knew that, if I were lucky, I’d get more chances to see auroras in the future, that The One had yet to come, because the lights from these two nights in Tromsø had not been it, not yet. But I also knew that that evening by the pier was enough for me to borrow the words I’d been waiting to quote for so long, the very words that sprang back to my mind as I kept frantically shooting up from the ground.
‘Here is the joy I’ve been looking for all my life.’
