A Winter Morning in Eggum Bay, Lofoten Islands

Monday, March 16, 2026

This morning, the half-open window lets the salty air drift in from the sea. I wake slowly to a familiar sound I haven’t heard in months: seagulls wheeling above the beach below the house. Their cries blend with the steady rhythm of waves rolling in and breaking against the dark rocks.

They’re back.

After spending the winter somewhere far to the south, away from these storm-lashed latitudes and endless polar nights, the gulls have returned to the Arctic. From my bed, I imagine their long journeys across the ocean—thousands of kilometers traveled between seasons. Every year they find their way back here, faithful to the cliffs and fjords that shape the Lofoten Islands.

I lie still under the duvet for a while, not quite awake yet. A thin thread of cold air slips through the open window and brushes against my skin, carrying the scent of salt, seaweed, and wet rock—the unmistakable smell of the Arctic coast, one I’ve learned to recognize instantly.

I pull the curtain aside with my fingertips. Below the house, the beach of Eggum lies quiet in the early morning light. Far out on the horizon, a fishing boat moves slowly across the water, leaving a faint white trail behind it. In the stillness of dawn, you can almost imagine the low hum of its engine.

The cod season is in full swing in the Lofoten Islands. Every winter, the skrei—migratory cod from the Barents Sea—travel thousands of kilometers to spawn in these cold waters. And with them come the fishermen. Dozens, sometimes hundreds of boats leave the harbors each morning, carrying on a tradition that has shaped life in these islands for more than a thousand years.

I watch the boat slowly disappear into the distance. In a few hours, the wooden drying racks around the villages will be covered with rows of fish hanging in the cold island wind.

I let the curtain fall back into place and stay under the duvet a little longer, savoring this quiet moment suspended between night and the start of the day.

But the day’s guiding awaits.

I push the covers aside and sit up in bed. The house is still silent. Outside, daylight slowly spreads across Eggum Bay.

Even before coffee, my first instinct is always the same: I check the sky. When you guide sea-kayaking trips in the far north, you quickly learn one thing—every day begins with a silent conversation with the sea and the wind.

I step closer to the window and study the horizon. Clouds drift lazily above the mountains of Vestvågøy, stretched high and thin across the sky. A light offshore breeze nudges them along. The sea below is almost flat, broken only by a few faint ripples.

Good conditions for paddling.

As I watch the clouds above the bay, a movement on the path catches my eye. It’s Ronny, one of the neighbors, walking past the house. He lifts a hand when he sees me at the window. Around here, curtains are rarely drawn. People wave hello even when you’re still wandering around the kitchen in your socks.

Ronny goes to sea too, though not for fishing. He works as a deckhand on scientific vessels that travel across the Arctic. On the evenings when he’s back in the village, he sometimes shows us his photographs — polar bears, Arctic foxes, sea eagles. Images captured at the edge of the world that somehow still feel connected to the landscape outside my window.

An hour later, I walk down the small path that leads to the beach. The cold wind finally wakes me up completely. The village is still quiet. A few chimneys send thin curls of smoke into the air—someone’s coffee already brewing. In a place this small, everyone more or less knows what the others are doing. Fishermen head out early, guides make their way to the shore, and the gulls announce the rest of the day.

Ahead of me, Eggum Bay opens wide, calm and silent in the pale morning light. In the distance, the small islands rise from the dark water like the backs of sleeping whales.

When I reach the beach, I stop for a moment. The night has been generous. A thick blanket of snow covers everything. The sand has vanished beneath a smooth white layer. Even the kayaks, lined up where we left them the day before, are almost buried. Only the tips of their bows poke out of the snow, as if the boats had spent the night hibernating on the shore.

I grab the shovel and start clearing the snow. It’s deep but light, the kind that moves easily with each scoop. With every stroke, it falls away into soft piles on either side. Slowly, I carve a narrow path leading down toward the sea.

As the passage begins to take shape, the kayaks gradually reappear. I brush the snow from the cockpits, and their bright hulls emerge beneath the white powder. The plastic is icy beneath my fingers. One by one, I free them from their snowy blanket, as if gently waking a small fleet that has spent the night asleep on the shore. On the packed snow, the kayaks slide surprisingly easily. I pull the first one behind me, leaving a long, clean trail across the fresh surface.

At the water’s edge, small fragments of ice float on the surface, drifting gently with the swell. They bump into one another with a delicate, glass-like chime. When I push the kayak forward, the hull breaks through the thin skin of ice before settling into the dark water. The translucent shards slowly drift apart around the bow.

For a moment, I stop and look out toward the horizon. The cold air stings my cheeks, but the sea is calm, and the clouds above the mountains suggest a promising weather window.

In a few minutes, the first clients will arrive on the beach. We’ll pull on our dry suits, tighten our life jackets, and slide the kayaks into these Arctic waters. Then we’ll paddle out among the rocks and the small islands that shelter the bay.

But for now, I linger a little longer.

The snow-covered beach. The silent sea. The kayaks waiting to depart. The day can begin.

One by one, the clients start to arrive, bundled in thick jackets, their cheeks already reddened by the Arctic wind. Today’s group is a small mix of Europe and Asia: two Germans, two Austrians, four French, and three Chinese travelers. Some have kayaked before; others are holding a paddle for the very first time. But they all share the same curious expression—the look of people who sense they’re about to experience something a little out of the ordinary.

We spend a few minutes getting ready. Dry suits rustle softly in the stillness of the bay, life jackets are tightened, paddles passed from hand to hand. Behind us, the mountains remain motionless, dusted with snow.

Then it’s time to launch.

One by one, the kayaks slide down the trench I carved through the snow. Their bows break the thin crust of ice along the shoreline. The clients climb in carefully, a little hesitant at first.

Then the first paddles dip into the water.

Within minutes, we leave the beach of Eggum behind us. The bay opens wide ahead, and the small rocky islands begin to draw closer. We have barely paddled a few hundred meters when a vast shadow suddenly glides over us.

A white-tailed sea eagle.

Its enormous wings cut silently through the wind. It circles above the group for a few seconds before drifting down toward the surface of the water, so low it almost seems to skim the sea. The clients look up in astonishment. A few stop paddling entirely, watching the bird pass slowly over the kayaks.

We keep paddling between the small islands. The farther we move from the harbor, the quieter the landscape becomes. Mountains rise on every side, and the water is so clear we can see long strands of brown seaweed swaying gently beneath the surface.

The sea is calm, but the ice keeps us on our toes.

In some places, the water is covered with tiny floating crystals that look almost like a kind of marine slush. The paddles glide through them with a soft, muffled sound. But a few meters farther on, the surface turns into a solid sheet of ice. There we have to stop, lift our paddles, and gently strike the surface to break a path forward.

The ice cracks apart and drifts slowly away from the kayaks. The clients burst into laughter, delighted by this unexpected game with the ice.

A little farther on, I signal for the group to stop.

On the snow covering one of the small islets, a set of tracks zigzags down toward the water. Otter tracks. They’re easy to recognize: a series of small paw prints mixed with long sliding marks in the snow, where the animal has clearly slid downhill on its belly.

We drift quietly for a few minutes.

Then suddenly, a ripple on the water catches our attention. An otter appears just a few dozen meters away. It dives, disappears, and resurfaces a few seconds later with a silver fish clamped in its jaws. The clients almost stop breathing. The animal swims for another moment before vanishing behind the rocks.

We resume paddling between the islands.

About halfway through the route, we pull the kayaks closer together and form a small raft in the middle of the bay. Paddles rest across the decks while the boats gently steady themselves against one another. The sea is calm, and the silence is almost complete.I pull a thermos from my dry bag and begin pouring drinks — coffee for some, hot chocolate for others. Cups are passed from kayak to kayak as everyone enjoys the warmth rising into the cold air. Surrounded by snow-covered islands, we linger there for a few quiet minutes, savoring the stillness of the moment.

That’s when an unusual sound breaks the silence — a strange, laughing call echoing across the cold air.

The clients look at me in surprise. Not humans. On a snow-covered rock, two ptarmigans move slowly across the slope. These small northern birds are perfectly adapted to the Arctic winter. In the colder months, their feathers turn completely white, making them almost invisible against the snow. Only their dark eyes and small black beaks give them away. Their calls sound like a soft, almost mischievous laugh bouncing off the rocks. Suddenly, one of them takes off, flying clumsily across the bay before disappearing behind the neighboring island. We watch the scene in silence, suspended for a moment in this small wild theater.

When we finally turn back toward the harbor, the light has already shifted on the mountains. Paddles dip into the water in a steady rhythm as the kayaks glide once more toward Eggum Bay.

As we approach the village, the sky fills with gulls. They circle above the harbor, crying loudly, drawn by the activity of the fishing boats. The cod season is in full swing, and the birds know the fishermen will soon return with their catch. When the fish are hung on the tall wooden drying racks to cure in the cold island wind, there will always be a few scraps left behind.

The kayaks eventually glide back onto the beach.

In moments like these, I’m reminded how lucky I am to call this part of the Arctic my workplace.