The Kungsleden has been a dream of mine since I began deep diving into the world of bushcraft in my mid-30s. Many of my interests trace back to the Sami, the nomadic indigenous people of Sweden and other parts of Northern Europe. The Kungsleden, or “The King’s Trail” is a 460+km walking trek that spans from the northern tip of Sweden’s Lapland region in Abisko and through four national parks, Abisko, Stora Sjöfallet, Sarek, and Pieljekaise, and ending in the small town of Hemavan.
For me, this trail seemed like the ultimate pilgrimage as you trek through the Arctic Circle, Sami lands, mountainous terrains, lake crossings, and dense forests. One can not discredit that this region remains very much untouched by man and belongs to the moose, wolves, wolverines, foxes, lynx, and bears that inhabit its landscape. Reindeer are still herded by the Sami and it's important to note that it is disrespectful to interfere with the tribes, their villages, and their herding.
I was initially planning to set foot on this trail in 2020 when I was living in The Netherlands, but Covid restrictions and trepidation got the best of me. With some continued training in wilderness survival and an opportunity to travel overseas to speak at a festival in 2023, I finally felt prepared to pursue it. I planned my gear according to the challenges one could face and brought additional items aside from my traditional packing list. Extra thermals, plenty of food, a fixed blade knife, a Garmin inReach, a stainless steel canteen, and a map and compass were some of these extras. I was boasting with excitement and bursting with butterflies as every expedition comes with unforeseen challenges. I think the part of this journey I was so fearful of, other than the frigid Arctic temperatures or the potential for a moose trampling through my camp, were the several lakes one must row across being mindful of wind, underwater obstacles, and the chore of towing an additional boat for fellow hikers to use. There really is only one way I have been able to talk fear out of taking control and that is to trust your training, believe in the possibility of a transformative adventure, and "ripping the Band-Aid off" by taking the first step.
The first leg from Abisko to Nikkaluokta was gentle in parts with picture-perfect birch forests and well-marked paths loaded with foot traffic as this section is a common holiday for Swedish Tourists wanting to ascend the country’s highest peak, Kebnekaise. But quite frankly, this section was also brutal when it came to the glacier crossings at Tjäktja, the gale-force winds bulldozing through the vast mountain passes, UV rays stronger than laser beams and never setting as it was the land of the midnight sun, and an unforgiving rocky terrain that made one prefer to walk in mud compared to the sharp boulders beneath.
On Day 3, in Sälka, the winds were so bad that tenants at this shelter were urging hikers not to continue to Singi as it was deemed too dangerous. I took their advice and sought refuge in one of their bungalows where other travelers from around the world and I played card games by candlelight sharing battle stories from previous expeditions and huddled around my Garmin to tune in to neighboring lightning strikes. That night, someone hung their rain jacket a bit too close to the wood stove and it was set ablaze and the fire quickly spread to the roof and neighboring walls. Luckily, the pots of water available for dish-washing were near and the fire was no longer a threat. This moment only proves that you never know when a mistake could become a menace.
The following section, Nikkaluokta to Saltoluokta, was when fellow hikers and shelters became scarce and the journey deeper into the Laplands transitioned to solitude. Out on the trail, I am consistently mystified by deep connections with the wilderness and the human soul. It's where the boundary between us and the wild becomes thin and nature becomes a mirror allowing one to have a closer look at what lies within.
They say trauma is stored in the body and parts of our primitive brain, and it's through regulation and rhythm that we can release the energy imprinted on us from these catastrophes; but I’ve never been one for repetitive methods like yoga or dance to help release the grip that grief can have. It’s body movement from hiking that has helped break these obstructions and witnessing powerful healing rhythms in nature that have allowed me to be released. During this summer I was still suffering an insurmountable amount of grief from the loss of my mother and from individuals affecting my outlook on who I was inside. I was riddled with sorrow, anxiety, doubt, and insecurities about myself and also my pursuit in a career change, one that I hoped would help others. Who was I to send others on a path to healing, when I struggled to do the same for myself? Was I even capable of moving forward from these griefs?
My heart was in so much pain and I had a difficult time terminating my permission that allowed myself to be hurt and others to hurt me. It’s out on the trail I could release these emotions safely with no judgements, and nature had a strange way of listening. Sometimes I would cry to release some of this stored trauma, and then it would rain. It was as if the universe was telling me to let it out. And when I did, it gifted magnificent sights of rainbows and the clarity to look closer at all the rhythms flowing outside and in; the streams, the wind, my heartbeat, and my breath. With every inhale I would breathe in possibility, and every exhale blockages and doubts. With every tear, I felt a little bit lighter and ready to be filled with the messages nature was waiting to share.
The next two sections, from Saltoluokta to Ammarnäs, were demanding for those attempting The Kungsleden’s seemingly endless reach. This long and remote stretch required hikers to be vigilant with their surroundings. Resources for fire were slim, lake crossings were abundant and needed to be planned with caution, mosquitoes traveled in clouds ready to blood drain, and GPS signals were weak and rare. I had to carefully navigate by terrain association and would sometimes need to triangulate my position with a map and compass. When resources for fire were near, like birch bark, fatwood, or spruce resin; fire was still difficult in the everlasting damp conditions. The best way for me to make lakeside fires was by making feather sticks with my LT Wright and shredding my plastic meal bags for an accelerated tinder. The importance of self-reliance was not to be understated, but every obstacle enlivened my spirit knowing that I could rely on the skills I have developed.
Long stretches of birch forests and sunshine, the abundance of blueberries and cloudberries, the expansive tundra, virescent moss-covered valleys, towering mountain summits, endless bridges crossing rushing rivers, and the occasional curious grouse visiting outside my tent walls made the experience completely surreal and became rewards to the hardships endured and healed my heart.
One day before figuring out where I was going to set up camp and build the evening’s fire, a larger visitor made their presence known. I could feel heavy stomping vibrations through the dirt, knowing something was near before even seeing it. I thought for sure this was my moment to see a moose, but instead, a rogue reindeer, one that left the herd, bust out of the brush and hopped onto the boulder I was just planning my route on. Aggravated that I was in his territory, he snorted repeatedly as I backed away slowly through the trees nearby. Later I set up camp along a river and as I was collecting water I could sense movement in my peripheral vision. Low and behold, he was back. He seemed less bothered than before and we were now in a shared space. He walked up to my tent, curious about my wool socks airing out to dry and sniffed around my belongings before proceeding to urinate on my tent and then wandering back into the woodline. I took this as him granting me permission to stay but clearly advertising he was king and I was lucky to be allowed to stay.
The final leg of the trail, from Ammarnäs to Hemavan, is the southernmost part of the trail rich in lush lichen growths and dancing crane congregations. The conditions were beyond boggy as the muddy meadows could swallow you whole. Despite having passed the Arctic Circle line and entering warmer weather, the heavens opened unleashing torrential rain on the travelers making their final sprint to the trail’s finish.
On the final day, I ascended one final steep summit before lowering into Hemavan’s valley and was met with freezing temperatures and precipitation. The risk for hypothermia was high with constant rainfall and hail. My ego told me to push on to the end to maybe meet the possibility of a warm bed and bragging rights for having finished the trail earlier than expected, but my survival training course corrected my stubbornness when my teeth began violently chattering and finger dexterity worsening. I knew my core temperature was rapidly dropping. Instincts kicked in and I set up my tent immediately, peeled away many soaked layers, and curled next to a bottle of hot water in my canteen. I laid there waiting to unthaw, nibbled on the last bit of my reindeer meat, and after warming up slept in solitude one last time before reaching the trail’s end the following morning.
Having completed The Kungsleden was bittersweet. I was exhausted physically having hiked nonstop for 21 days carrying upwards of 50 pounds of gear; I was exhausted mentally as moments of doubts and memories of trauma were slowly squeezed from my brain, but my soul body was elated and enlivened with the joy of curiosity and a newfound love flowing through all parts of me. Solo hiking the trail was more than a test in endurance and skills, but it was a path inward that fostered forgiveness around the loss of my mother, compassion for the least expected of individuals, and resilience that gave me my confidence back. It was an experience that broke the boundaries between myself and the natural world, for I wasn’t just a part of it, I embodied it. I hope to carry this narrative and medicine forever.
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