No, this is not Canada. It is West Denmark, as high up as one can get. That means a mere 137 meters above sea level. And no, this photo is not from January. It is from late October, when we suddenly had a week of frost and snowfall. Except for on that particular day I am convinced that only the Mols Bjerge microclimate had proper snowfall and it was because we were there, in anything but winter hiking gear.

It was cold. It was wet. It was quiet. We stopped for knapsack lunch at a hikers’ shelter and wished we had brought matches to light a warming fire. The blue tits fluttering around the fireplace probably wished the same. I wished I had brought brandy for my tea.

On the path through a parkland we encountered a woolly cow and her baby. They were dressed for snowfall and frost. I was not. My woolly base layers, fleece gloves, and scarf were still back in Finland (how could it ever snow in Denmark in October?).

When I was not thinking of how cold I was, I could feel the silence creep under my skin. There is enough Finnishness in me to need to feel it from time to time, feel the silence of Nature under my skin. And there is no better time than winter, when even the birds have nothing to say to each other.(Mols Bjerge, Denmark; October 2018)

After wandering through a military area, stumbling into deer hunting ground, and being attacked by baby ticks, a picnic lunch by the beach seemed like a good idea.

A word of newly discovered experience (and warning): people really do add any and all kinds of tracks in Wikiloc. Perhaps the one we followed was an effort to trick foolish random hikers such as ourselves.

(Sondervig, Denmark; October 2018)

The pond in the Brande backs makes me think of Henry David Thoreau’s Walden. Perhaps it was more shaded by forest, but the size and tranquil feel is right.

Like with so much in Denmark, this is not the original, natural state of the environment. Brande’s heather moors and wetland were exploited for peat still just a century or less ago. The people dug such a deep hole that when they stopped working it filled up with water.

I try to not think about how this pond is man-made. Instead I try to think of Thoreau’s words: “Every morning was a cheerful invitation to make my life of equal simplicity, and I may say innocence, with Nature herself.”

(Brande, Denmark; October 2018)

Catching the last of the green before it is gone for the winter. And yes, there are forests in Denmark. Real ones, not just those plantations with one sort of trees planted in endless rows. But (unfortunately) one must go looking for the natural forests. To Silkeborg, for example. Oh, such a gorgeous backyard for the lucky people who live in Silkeborg. And how sad: this is what all of Denmark probably looked like before people got the bright idea to convert it into a flat, open-land agriculture nation.

This castle-hall pine tree forest below is definitely not in a natural state. But it is a plantation at its most beautiful (for the humans though, not the deer and smaller animals who have nowhere to hide). (Silkeborg, Denmark; October 2018)

Fall has arrived in Denmark. A few heathers still flower on the moor in the backs of the town. This moor is scattered with cattle gates and fences, but I never see the animals. Not even horses from the nearby stable.

Jogging down the trail I hit beach sand from time to time, even if I am an hour or more from both the Atlantic Ocean and the Baltic Sea. Jutland, the peninsula of Denmark, is old seafloor turned into moorland. Instead of fish swimming around there are now mainly people walking their dogs. And me in my brand-new trail shoes.

(Brande, Denmark; August 2018)