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We crossed over the ice-covered Laestadiusvägen, our skis clattering on the road surface; the street lamps were on already. We clambered over the piled-up snow by the side of the road and slunk into the darkness that sloped steeper and steeper down towards the river. We skied in silence past the statue of Lars Levi: he was staring out into the birch trees, his head covered by a cap of snow. Soon the street lamps had faded away behind us, but it wasn’t completely dark even so. Light was reflected by millions of ice crystals, and grew until it seemed to be hovering over the ground. Our eyes slowly became used to it. The slope stretched out in front of us, swishing away down to the river. But it was impossible to ski on as yet, covered knee-deep in soft snow. We turned our skis at right-angles to the slope, and started stamping. Ski-width by ski-width we worked our way down the hill. Compressing the snow, pounding it down with all the weight our young bodies could bring to bear, making a furrow between the masses of snow on either side, all the way down the long slope to the ice-covered river. We worked away, side by side, sweat pouring off us under our clothes. And when we finally got to the river, we turned back again. Stamped our way back over our own tracks, with bull-like obstinacy. Compressed the snow still more, made it as hard and smooth as we possibly could.

And finally we’re standing there. Back where we started, after all that strenuous effort. Our legs are shaking, our lungs heaving; but stretching out below us is the tightly-packed slope. A broad, smooth path, the result of thousand upon thousand stamps with our skis. We stand side by side, Niila and me. Gaze down into the darkness. The slope points us down into a blurred, murky dream world, disappears like a fishing line dropped through a hole in the ice. Vague shadows, silent movements down in the depths. A thin thread plunging down into our dreams. We glance at each other. Then we crouch forward, dig in our bamboo poles. At exactly the same moment we thrust ourselves forward.

We’re off. Glide away. Surge faster and faster through the night. Swishing. The cold burning our cheeks. Two steaming young boys, two newly-cooked black puddings thrown into the freezer. Faster and faster, wilder and wilder. Side by side, mouths open wide, warm holes sucking in the winter. Perfectly stamped, couldn’t be better! Knees flexible, feet firm in tightly laced boots. A roar penetrates our flesh, our speed approaches the impossible, snow flashing, wind howling, everything swirling.

And then it happens. A thunderous explosion rolls over the ice down Tornedalen as far as Peräjävaara and the air is smashed like a mirror. We break through the sound barrier. The sky is as hard and sharp as gravel as we hurtle down through it, side by side, each in our twirling cloud of snow, whirling round and round in powdery bounces, arms outstretched, our ski poles pointing to the sky, at outer space, at our shining stars.