The Wind's Footsteps

The bus sets me up on a long road opposite an empty gravelled parking area, four hours later than I planned to be here, but there are only two buses from Turku per day and I missed the first one. I pull my orange backpack out of the luggage space, close the lid, and the bus takes off. Leaning my backpack against my knees, I put my phone into one of the pockets attached to the hip belt.
There is no car to see anywhere on the road, not even in the far distance, so I can cross the road easily. A bench with a small roof and a big map attached to the wooden wall is in the middle of the parking lot. Kurjenrahka National Park.
I quickly check if it matches my own foldable map, sitting handily in the outer pocket of my backpack. It mostly is. Some signs marking the facilities available at service areas are different, so I take a photo before I follow the small path leading away from the road and the parking area into the woods.

- -

Most of the path is just two wooden planks lying next to each other to avoid walking on the swamp, soaked with the water from the snow that has just melted. Occasionally, I need to carefully step around a small patch of ice, protected from the shadows until well into April. It is the last reminder of a long winter, now surrounded by awakening trees in bright green foliage, the wind rustling through them.

I halt at a wooden table with two benches sitting next to the lake. The small area on the side of the path is covered in a bed of brown and grey needles. I put my backpack down and take a few steps to the edge of the lake. The cool wind caresses my face, and the water moves towards me in gentle waves. The horizon is lined with trees, dark green in the weakening sun which is not setting until nine.

My stomach rumbles, so I start cooking my dinner – tomato soup with quinoa in a light titanium pot on a trekking stove. Cautious of the wind blowing against the small flame, I put my cooking utensils on the ground, sitting with my back to the lake acting as a human windbreaker.

After having dinner, I check the map. Töykkälä, a wild camping area where I planned to sleep tonight in my borrowed tent, is still more than an hour away. I put my backpack on, adjust the hip belt, and step back on the wooden planks.

Though the sun is not setting yet, it is cooler now and the trees' shadows seem darker than before, circling in on both sides. The chirping of animals and the rustle of leaves grow – the nature reclaiming its habitat for the night. Hearing the light cracking of footsteps, I whirl around but nothing and no one is behind me on the path. I am alone, only accompanied by tenderly teetering trees and hidden animals around me.

I have not seen any humans since I left the bus, and I hope it stays like this when I reach Töykkälä right next to a road and a parking lot. I stop suddenly. Right next to a road. Without a warning, fear is speeding up my spine. All at once, I realise how close I am to civilisation, not proper civilisation, but the kind of in-the-middle-of-nowhere-alone-by-night civilisation, hearing the howling of lonely cars coming towards me, a group of middle-aged men sitting around a campfire, the stink of too much alcohol hanging in the air together with the echo of too loud low laughter.

Sleeping next to a parking lot seems to become scarier with every passing second. I need to sleep somewhere though. It is already late and getting dark.

What can I do?
Why am I even doing this?

Hiking alone. Camping alone. Continuing to walk without enough water. Tiring myself down. My body and my mental capacity. I long for a comfortable bed in my room, cuddling into my warm duvet, only faint noises passing through the closed windows, the door locked.
Instead, I am in the middle of nowhere, but not out in nature enough to feel safe. Why did I not think that through?

Because I want to. Because I can.
I can do it. I just need to calm down.
One step after the other.

I keep walking, my thoughts racing like on a roller-coaster ride.

I could stop here. To get to me, someone would need to walk at least an hour from the parking lot. What can they do to me out here? Images of men dragging me through the forest to their cars, fill my head. Realistically, I would be easy prey at the parking lot, but out here? No one would even know that I am here.

I am not supposed to camp outside of the marked areas though. To protect the wildlife.

I don’t like breaking the rules.

But I am also scared, shaking by the mere thought of scrambling into a shelter only consisting of thin fabric, and after a day of missing a connecting bus, four hours of waiting for the next one, discovering my water filter was broken, throwing up from the chlorinated water I found instead and starting a hike at 6 p.m. only to get lost, my exhaustion and my anxiety win over my conscience.

I stop at a Näkötorni, an observation tower, and walk up the wooden stairs, the weight of my backpack slowing down every step. From the top, I overview a large swamp area which is only a black field against the last light of the set sun. I pitch my tent, tightening the ropes with knots at the wooden planks, praying it will hold.
To brush my teeth, I climb down to stand on the rough rocks next to the observation tower, shivering slightly while watching the orange and red veil vanish under the black skyline. Careful not to spill too much of it, I pour some water over my toothbrush and take a small sip to spit out the remaining toothpaste.

Snuggling in my warm sleeping bag, I try to calm down my breath and ease my mind, I can hear every whisper of the wind caressing through the fresh leaves of the trees. Every rustle of the canvas of my small tent sounds like footsteps in the forest, coming towards me, searching for me, climbing the wooden stairs of the observation tower. My breath quickens and my heart races.

There is no chance of sleep. I am tired. Worn out. Afraid. Alone. Scared of company. Images of men dragging me through the forest to their cars, fill my head.

I sit up, reaching at my backpack next to me, open the top zipper, and take out my little notebook covered with beige Marimekko flowers and a short pencil, hoping for an escape. The echo of the forest faints away slowly while I seek solace in another sphere, becoming part of a story that is not mine but mine entirely. I can control every word, every hint, every notion. I write until my breath slows down, and my heartbeat retreats to the back of my subconsciousness.

When my eyelids become heavy, begging to stay closed, I shut the notebook and lie down. Eager to slip away into a soothing sleep, I seek to suppress the sound of the footsteps strolling through the night, creeping towards me, surrounding me. Faceless men skulking through the woods, small branches creaking under their ruthless soles.

Lying stiff in my sleeping bag, I do not dare to move, but will myself to blend in with nature, to hide within the walls of my canvas citadel, to breathe.  In. Out. In. More footsteps. There is no way of controlling my rapid gasps for air. Unable to stand the tension any longer, I shoot up and wriggle out of the cage my sleeping bag creates. Calm down. But I don’t. With trembling hands, I fight the zipper of the tent’s entrance next.

Taking a deep breath, I peer out cautiously to confirm what the rational part of me already knows: there are no footsteps, no other humans, only the wind wanders through the forest, and riffles through the canvas of the tent. My own shelter betraying me.


I am not sure, how or when I finally find sleep, only that I wake up from the light creaking of wood: footsteps climbing up the observation tower. My heartbeat speeds up at once, and I start fighting the cocoon of my sleep bag again. I sit up. Breath. This time, I am sure it is not an illusion, the murmur of quiet voices accompanies the footsteps. In. Out. I run my hand through my hair, tousled by sleep – a bizarre attempt to seek comfort.

Somehow, I muster the courage to open the zipper of the tent’s entrance. Maybe it is solely the inability to stay in this maundering stage of suspense. Cleary trapped in a repetition of the night’s events, I poke my head out of the canvas.
An elderly woman with white hair just climbs up the last stair of the observation tower, looking a little bewildered at me and my tent, covering most of the platform.
“Moi,” I try to fill the silence.
“Moi,” she says and more words I do not understand.
“Sorry, I do not speak Finnish,” I respond sheepishly.
She nods and smiles. Behind her, a man her age steps on the platform too.
“Moi.”
“Moi.”
They take a few steps around my tent to have a good look at the already risen morning sun over the swamp, and I duck back in my tent, a little embarrassed but relieved.

--

It is nearly dark when I reach Rantapiha, the beach yard, right at the shore of Lake Savojärvi. From here it is only about 3k to the bus station where my hike started – easy to walk to tomorrow morning before the bus comes around noon.

My steps falter when I see the black car on the side of the gravelled road before me. I bite my lip. Please let it not be – I turn to the left on the lawn where a big green tent is already pitched. Hidden behind a huge tree, a fire has been lit, three people sit around it. The murmur of their deep voices travels towards me. Men.

I take a deep breath, and walk over the lawn, a few metres away from their tent and start to pitch my own, the smoky smell of the campfire drifting towards me. Another restless night waiting for me.

The tent is up within a few minutes and the air is chill, so I summon all my courage, take my stove, my cup, and a teabag with me, and walk over to the fireplace. They greet me with friendly but not over-enthusiastic smiles, telling me they are old friends, scattered all over Finland now, but coming together once a year to camp for the weekend. They do not have much time for it anymore because they have families now – children. Daughters.

We chat for a while about camping and hiking. I drink my tea, and they offer me some of the bread and meat they bake over the fire, adding an aromatic node to the smoke, but I decline, and after a bit, they go back to talk with each other half in Finnish, half in English.

I listen to their quiet voices for a while, leaning against the wooden wall of the campfire place, warming my hands with the cup in my hands, before I say goodbye and return to my tent, too tired to care for missing out on dinner. I close the zipper and cuddle into my sleeping bag. Before I know it, I fall asleep, warm, and cosy, safe from my anxiety and racing thoughts.

The next morning, I wake up with a rumbling stomach. Leaving out dinner after a day of hiking is not a great idea after all. The sun’s light flows through the light green canvas of my tent. I turn to the side, snuggling into my sleeping bag, keeping its warmth a little longer. Outside my tent, I can hear the murmur of deep voices, footsteps and the rustle of a tent being folded together. I sit up yawning, open the zipper of my sleeping bag, and stretch my arms above my head, touching the ceiling’s fabric. A smile forms on my lips, while I look around in the tent for my clothes.

By the time I slip out of my tent, the Finnish guys are nearly done packing all their belongings in the car I saw yesterday.

“Good morning,” one of them greets me.
“Good morning,” I respond smiling before I lean back into the tent to take out my cooking equipment and breakfast.

I walk over to a wooden table with a bench, directly on the shore of the lake, still half in the shadow of the surrounding trees. Sitting down on the half that stands in the sun, I boil some water for my tea and porridge, tasting a bit too much like plastic but it will do.

While I have breakfast, a couple walks towards the lake. Both wear khaki trousers, bright T-shirts, backpacks, and poles. They nod towards me and sit down on the grass a few metres away, having snacks before they continue walking, saying goodbye with a small wave.

I enjoy the sun caressing my bare skin for a little longer before I pack up my tent and start walking again. My steps are light on the soft forest trail on which the sun, shining through the canopy, paints picturesque patterns. As I walk back over the first wooden planks, now the last, a smile forms on my lips. I reach the lake where my journey started. Without water. Without an idea what lay ahead of me.

I take a last photo before I turn to the small path back to the road. Back to civilisation.

On the bus ride back to Turku, I relive the past days in my head while the road becomes busier, more and more cars passing us on the other side of the road, and the wide green landscape gets more and more brown brick freckles.

When the bus stops and I walk down the stairs, stepping on the pavement, the humming and buzzing of cars and the loud chatter of people fill my ears, but in midst of the hustle, I can hear the wind quietly brushing through the trees.

Published: 23.05.2024