I had never been to Kiruna, Sweden’s northernmost town, but in my mind, it had always been synonymous with mining and the occasional tourist chasing the northern lights. Without the lure of work in the world’s largest underground iron-ore mine, Kiruna might have remained just a tiny Arctic village. Instead, it was a bustling town of over twenty thousand people, its very existence shaped by the mine. They had even relocated the entire town center three kilometers east to accommodate its relentless expansion.
Kiruna wasn’t part of my original plan—it was simply a stop along the way. But it turned out to be a fortuitous one, providing me with the last-minute essentials I knew I’d need for my trek into the Swedish wilderness.
I hadn’t prepared much, nor had I investigated what awaited me. I had grown used to embracing the unknown. I had ample time to think about my choice during the 70-kilometer drive from Kiruna to Nikkaluokta, but instead, my mind wandered to the lives of the miners.
Then, suddenly, the mountains appeared.
You know that feeling when you drive south in Europe, and the Alps suddenly rise before you in all their grandeur? That same awe overtook me as I neared Kebnekaise and its surrounding peaks. I didn’t know which mountain was which or even if Kebnekaise itself was visible, but the direction was unmistakable. My thoughts of mining vanished, replaced by the raw beauty of the landscape.
The large parking lot was packed with cars from Finland, Sweden, Norway, Germany, and, likely, other countries. Yet, there was always room for one more. Nikkaluokta Sarri, the company managing the cabins, restaurant, and parking lot, had already closed for the day. I had arrived late, as had become my habit.
Nineteen kilometers to the mountain station, 9 kilometers up, 9 kilometers down, and 19 kilometers back to the parking lot. Even I understood this would be a challenge. But that’s exactly why I was here: for the challenge. It never crossed my mind to take the boat that would cut the journey by 6 kilometers each way. Besides, the last boat had already departed.
I went over my gear checklist repeatedly: a tent, an outdoor mattress, a pump, no sleeping bag (too much weight), a blanket, extra clothes, snacks, drinks, two phones, and a battery pack. Time seemed to slip away as I struggled to fit everything into my backpack, but eventually, it was time to go. I even remembered to send an SMS to Nikkaluokta Sarri with my car’s plate number and arrival time, planning to pay for parking upon my return.
Of course, a helicopter—a quicker way to cut the distance—arrived in Nikkaluokta just to tease me. The mesmerizing sound of the rotors had always fascinated me. Some hikers loaded their backpacks into the helicopter to ease their journey, but that felt like cheating to me.
The hike towards the mountain station was uneventful, except for the mosquitoes and other flying pests that made the journey somewhat painful. Without insect repellent or protective clothing, I was already a prime target. They became my motivator to keep pace.
The first five kilometers traversed a flat birch forest, then came the lake, Láddjujávri, where the boat departs for those looking to cut the distance. The six-kilometer boat ride took about half an hour, if that. After the lake, the terrain became a bit uneven, but the well-marked trail had been trodden so often that the only real concerns were stumbling or twisting an ankle. It was beautiful, with the trail winding through a valley. In mid-July, everything was green. The view from the boat was likely better, as the lake and Kebnekaise massif were often hidden from the trail. You don’t miss much by taking the boat—except the challenge. If you struggled with this walk, hiking up would be even tougher. But there was something magical about the sun setting behind the mountains. Technically, it didn’t set; it just disappeared—it was still a nightless night.
As I walked toward the mountain station, I passed other hikers. As midnight approached, it grew quieter. I worried about where to pitch my tent, not wanting it to become too late. Occasionally, tents appeared alongside the trail. Two kilometers before the mountain station, I found a spot to call home for the night, with a view of the Kebnekaise massif. I camped on a cliff above a roaring river. What a place! My feet, worn from previous adventures, appreciated the rest as I drifted off, happy and excited for the next part of the challenge.
In the morning, I woke up late again, needing rest after the previous day’s adventures. It was either a helicopter or the sun warming my tent that woke me. It felt like it would be a warm day, so I dressed accordingly: swimming shorts and a UV-protected paddleboard shirt. To be completely honest, I had forgotten the other shorts I was supposed to wear. Who cares about appearances in the mountains anyways? The tent stayed behind.
I had one to two kilometers left to the mountain station. I remember crossing the Darfáljohka suspension bridge, though my memory is a bit blurry. The trail climbed slightly, then entered a birch forest crowded with tents. I was glad I had camped further away.
Determined to reach the summit, I practically ran through the mountain station, pausing only to watch yet another helicopter land. A sign pointed to Kebnekaise and Västra Leden, 9 kilometers. This was it. I set off.
The first part of the trail ascended the slope of Kaipak (772m) and flattened after the initial climb. The view down to the valley and ahead to the Kebnekaise massif was breathtaking.
I met a Finnish woman in her 50s coming from the opposite direction. She explained she wasn’t attempting the climb. I wasn’t sure how far she had made it, but the first part was easy.
I encountered a stream with no way around. Without hiking boots or sticks, I figured shoes off was the best option. The cold water was better than hiking in wet shoes. Another stream required the same maneuver. The goal was to reach the top without anyone passing me—a bold attempt.
About 2.5 kilometers from the mountain station, the trail became more interesting. I looked up at the endless black rock and down at the beautiful river glittering in the sunlight.
The mountain station sat about 650 meters above sea level. The trail followed the Kittelbäcken river upstream from 850 meters to 1150 meters over the course of a kilometer. This ascent was steep but manageable for anyone in decent shape. The terrain sloped dangerously towards the river at times, but careful steps avoided trouble. Loose rocks were always a hazard.
I had no idea what lay ahead or whether I was looking at Kebnekaise. The sun warmed my neck, but I was protected with sunscreen, sunglasses, and a cap. I must have looked like a fool in my swimming shorts.
As I watched people struggling around Kitteldalen, the valley where the next ascent begins, I finally understood what the Finnish lady meant earlier. Many have dreamed of climbing Kebnekaise, but not everyone succeeds on their first attempt. It’s not as easy as it seems, yet not impossible. At this point, I had no clue about the challenges ahead, but I realized that even in perfect weather, not everyone would make it to the top today. However, with the right attitude, mindset, and gear, I believed it was doable for most.
The thought of needing proper hiking shoes crossed my mind, and at Kitteldalen, I regretted only having sneakers. The river flowed heavily, and there seemed to be no way to jump across on rocks. But what could be a more beautiful place for this? I was surrounded by some of Sweden’s highest mountains: Tuolpagorni (1662m), Vierramvare (1706m), and Kebnetjåkka (1765m). A bridge spanned Kittelbäcken, but to reach it, I waded carefully through the stream. Thankfully, the water wasn’t too deep, and my shorts sufficed.
After crossing the bridge, the trail continued relatively easily, but the ascent grew steeper. It climbed straight up for about a kilometer from around 1150 meters to 1450 meters. There were even stairs in one small section, built by Sherpas from Nepal between 2017-2019. I recalled reading that this was the point where one needed to consider whether continuing was wise. Somewhere around here, I met two Finnish ladies. It was their second trip to Kebnekaise. We chatted about life, and they offered me a hiking stick, as it could get more challenging soon. I seriously considered their offer but decided not to take it. They had planned this trip for a year. Here, I also made new friends: a group of Swedes ascending for the first time. There were a few struggling hikers, and I doubted whether they would make it all the way.
After the first kilometer in the small valley between Tuolpagorni and Vierramvare, the trail took a right turn towards the top of Vierramvare. This part was more challenging, and I entered a state of performance—one step at a time. Of course, everyone has doubts when attempting something like this for the first time. Is it worth it? What if I twist my ankle? How will I get down? But excitement and the challenge always win.
The mental and physical test of descending only to ascend again was even harder. Some boulders were massive. The descent from Vierramvare to Kaffedalen dropped about 200 meters. From there, the actual climb towards Kebnekaise’s south top began. Another 2 kilometers to the top, and the finish line felt out of sight—just rocks and boulders everywhere.
Around halfway up the final climb, with only a kilometer left, the view opened to the right, revealing the full glory of the Björlings Glacier. The climb became easier toward the end.
At the top, the 360-degree view was breathtaking. The slopes down were steep—one misstep and it would be the end. Feeling sweaty and cautious, I decided to descend very slowly. Coming down was much harder and scarier than going up. I had wanted to take more photos, but the realization of what a gust of wind could do kept me moving.
I felt obligated to warn the next climbers, as I had been warned. A group of Norwegians arrived, recording a time almost an hour faster than mine—just crazy. They wanted photos, so I obliged.
The view from the top was surreal, almost unbelievable—how could such mountain views exist in the same country as Smygehuk, Sweden’s southernmost point? Two entirely contrasting extremes, yet each offering its own unique charm in its own way.
Eventually, it was time to head back down. Descending is usually faster than ascending, but I wasn’t in a hurry. The very top had shocked me slightly, so the priority was safety. Along the way, I met some of the hikers I had passed, but not all. Some had wisely turned around when it didn’t feel right. The mountain wasn’t going anywhere—it would be there for the next attempt.
Back at the mountain station, I bought a few chocolate bars and noticed the place was filled with people in their 20s and 30s. If there were a Love Island, this looked like the start of Love Mountain. Grateful for having camped further away, I chuckled at the thought.
Exhausted but ready for the 19-kilometer walk back, I accepted that I wouldn’t make it to Nikkaluokta in time to pay for parking. I’d do it in the morning. So, I decided to spend the night in the same spot. If only I could find it. I wandered back and forth for 45 minutes before finally locating my tent. I guess I was tired after all.
In my tent, I searched for accidents around Kebnekaise, and my fears were confirmed. There had been fatalities, even in summer, when people slid down hundreds of meters to their death. It made me realize how lucky I had been with perfect weather. It would be another challenge in poor conditions or winter. Suddenly, I felt cold. A shower would have been nice, and with no sleeping bag, I regretted my choices. I shivered as the sun disappeared behind the mountains.
The next morning, I started the 19-kilometer walk back. It rained occasionally, and the warmth from yesterday was gone. I looked back at the mountains, now covered in clouds, knowing it would be a while before I returned—if ever. Maybe the helicopter next time; I had nothing left to prove, except perhaps Östra Leden and the North top. Both are good reasons to come back.
At my car, the rain came down in full force, reminding me of my desperate need for a shower. A swim in the nearby lake seemed like a good idea, but nature offered me a river stream first. A dip in the stream had never felt so good.