The Finnish Woods

The wind blows smoothly over the quilted fields of Pertteli. The blue-green oats shivered loosely, the yellow ripened hops shone brightly like a spring buck. The tubular wheat beat upon each other as the summer rains came drifting in from the Baltic. Passing through the fields on our way to the summer cottage, the sky gradually grayed as a new bought of showers came to quench the ever-thirsty fields.

After entering a small side road into the fields, the scenery changed into the hardy Finnish forests. The birch, pine, and spruce stood hardily up, protecting the undergrowth of wild strawberries, blueberries, and the soon to be lingonberries. We drove up-rock at first, climbing steadily before dipping back down towards the seashore cottage.

While Paavo, my host father, readied the sauna, Maija, my host mother, brought me on a trek through the forest for some blueberry picking. We climbed back up the rock to get the grand view of the inlet that led to the sea. All along the way we stopped to pick the tiny blueberries, smaller than the store bought ones we see in North America, but sweet and delicious nonetheless. There are actually two kinds, one similar to what we are used to, and another darker one that is blacker and ruddier. I guess that the second one is what the Finnish have named blueberries after, mustikka (musta = black). Heading up the rock slowly, Maija continued to teach me the names of all the types of moss and growth around us, the bear's moss (karhun sammal), the prickly juniper that you know from trying to grab a handful only to be stung by its sharp tiny needles, unlike the softer spruce that is soft and gives way to one's hold on it.

After that stroll the sauna was lit and ready for use. Throwing a few scoops of water to moisten the air, the temperature seemingly rises immediately, a welcome stuffiness in comparison to the cool Finnish summer air. The steam smells fragrantly of the freshly burned birch. It's seven o'clock at night, and the sun shines stongly after the showers pass. Now that we have been sufficiently warmed by the sauna, we walk down the stone steps that lead to a little dock. Unable to walk steadily into the creamy green colored sea, I plunge directly into the 20 degree (Celsius) water. The shock is great, but after a little movement, the cold passes into a light warmth almost. Treading water and making my way around the dock, I take a couple of swallows of the sea water. The mixed solution is a light saltiness that has a thick flavor, and I spit it out as I accustom myself to swimming. This is done three times in order to reap the benefits of saunaing, though one can feel free to continue for as long as you wish.

Lethargic from the constant shocks of cool and heat, we sit down to a beer and a lonkero (gin long drink). The lazy wind shuffles by, cooling the last rewarming in the sauna. We chat sporadically, giving some time to listen to the quiet as well. Looking out from the sauna porch, the leaves rustle quietly, and wafts of birch and pine drift past. The sea is calm, and only randomly do we hear the singing of some guys on the opposite shore, singing their drinking songs that come timely.

Maija calls us over for dinner eventually, and we sit down to the typical fare of potatoes, Finnish rye bread, cheese, salads, and meatballs (the Finnish kind of course, though how they differ from Swedish ones I've never ventured to think about). Full and sated, my stomach calls me to sleep, lulling me to take a nap before we head to the local pub for some dancing and fun when my host sister, Kirsi, her husband, Jarno, and their neighbors come over in their motorboat to pick us up.

After some good old happy dancing, they eat some makkara (Finnish sausage) from a stand outside the pub, and we head on back in the boat. It's about 1 am, and the sky is still in its twilight phase. The summer nights are no match for the Arctic summer sun. Happy and tired, I drift off to sleep in the room next to the sauna. It is nicely warmed, and as my mind wanders off, the last memory before the morning comes is a draft of birch and the quiet of the Finnish woods.