Day 7: Pajala to Töre | 140km
My camp spot for the night hadn’t been the most beautiful. I’d struggled to find a suitable place, stopping first by a stunning lake, only to be put off by the abandoned buildings nearby and two riderless motorcycles parked outside. Something about it just didn’t sit right, so I ended up settling for a patch of ground right next to the road, tucking my tent behind one of those giant silage bales covered in white plastic. Relieved to have survived another night without any bear encounters (still feeling like a real possibility), I packed up and set off.
It was another sunny, gorgeous day, and in stark contrast to how I’d felt in Norway, I was genuinely happy to be on this bikepacking trip. It had been a few days since my last shower, so my goal for the day was to reach Töre, where there was a campsite right by the water. The thought of heading toward the coast, toward an ocean I at least knew a little, filled me with a quiet excitement.
Around lunchtime, I finally passed a sign marking the Arctic Circle. To me, the Arctic Circle had always felt like the edge of the world (until I went to the North Cape), so the fact that I’d spent a week biking and still hadn’t reached it was mind-blowing. I snapped a few photos of the sticker-covered sign, and suddenly, a wave of accomplishment washed over me. For the first time, I felt like I was making real progress. The first few days had dragged, and seeing how little ground I’d covered on the map had been demoralizing. But now, watching those few centimeters appear on my phone screen, I could feel that I was moving forward, one pedal stroke at a time.
Traveling by bicycle really makes you appreciate the distance between places. Even slight detours can add hours of extra pedaling, so while I try to keep an open mind about straying from my route, it’s hard knowing my legs will pay the price for my curiosity. And since I’m completely reliant on those legs, especially after what happened in Norway, their protests often win out over my wandering mind.
Though I was heading toward summer, the days were growing slightly shorter as I moved away from the midnight sun. It still never fully set, so it didn’t disrupt my riding, but the fading light was a welcome change. I arrived late at the campsite in Töre. The first thing I did was pitch my tent, then I made a beeline for the shower. Since it was so late, I had the place to myself. I stood under the water for a good fifteen minutes, watching the brown streaks swirl down my body, slowly turning clearer. Every late spring, when the weather in Sweden invites you outside into the garden, my grandmother always says the same thing at the same time of year: how nice it is to wash up after a day spent in the dirt. She says seeing the grime come off makes it feel like she’s done a proper day’s work. I get it. Though I was exhausted, there was something deeply satisfying about watching myself actually get clean. It’s not something most people experience daily. We shower to stay clean, not because we’re dirty (or at least, just sweaty). But I’d put in not one, but many good days’ worth of work. So after cooking up a double portion of spicy noodles with peanut butter, I happily crawled back into my 1.5 square meter tent, now my home, and drifted into a deep sleep.