Kungsleden – A Ruthless, Icy Trail Beyond the Arctic Circlet

I took my dog to her homeland to spend a month trekking through an icy desert and living in a tent in minus thirty-degree cold.

It wasn't my first time visiting the far north with a malamute, but every time the story repeats itself—I'm marching through snow, losing feeling in my fingers from the frost, my meal in a mess tin solidifies minutes after being taken off the burner, a snowstorm rages just beyond the thin tent walls, and I zip up my sleeping bag tightly to survive another night in extreme temperatures. I've owned malamutes for two decades, and for ten years I've taken them to the Arctic, because my choice of breed was no accident. Like them, I love winter, the endless horizon, where signs of human presence are rare. Instead, animals keep me company—sometimes they approach out of curiosity, other times they simply turn their heads toward us, more often diving into the snow or leaving just tracks in the white fluff, usually disappearing seconds later in gusts of wind.

With years of practice and experience built during previous winter expeditions, I took on another demanding project. It's worth knowing that years ago I discovered my body has an unusual ability to adapt to cold and fatigue in polar conditions. I don’t know the medical reasons for this, but as a survival instructor, I can say that the key to enduring and accomplishing the unimaginable lies in the mind. For this reason, in recent years, I’ve begun replacing some modern equipment with gear from the previous century. I study what works, what I can change, or simply—how to manage with this old gear rather than the modern, standard-issue kit I’d become used to. It's not about historical reenactment, but rather inspiration and testing what kind of challenges hikers faced a hundred years ago.

The expedition plan was simple: ski with fifty-year-old wooden sleds across Kungsleden, Sweden’s Royal Trail, which stretches for 450 kilometers (though some say it reaches up to 850), accompanied by my canine partner, who would also pull her own sled. Sleep in a tipi tent (not the typical tunnel tent used in polar expeditions), march in wool instead of down, and sleep on reindeer fur instead of a foam mat. I also prepared several kilograms of pemmican, dried beef, breakfast mixes, and a complete diet supplemented by freeze-dried meals.

I chose northern Sweden and the Royal Trail because it’s extremely demanding and runs through varied terrain. Mountains, valleys, tundra, taiga, plateaus, rivers, and lakes that turn into roads in winter allow for a broad range of experiences and testing equipment in different conditions. Since this was the first Arctic, multi-week winter expedition for Inari, my two-year-old Alaskan malamute, I also considered that the trail crosses a paved road every hundred kilometers or so—allowing us to adjust the length of our journey.

A winter expedition with a dog is no simple task. Prior experience is invaluable, helping you anticipate what lies ahead and prepare for the extra challenges a four-legged companion brings.

We began our trek on February 19 in the village of Nikkaluokta, despite the initial plan to start in Abisko. Sometimes unexpected factors force logistical changes. After twenty kilometers, we reached the Kebnekaise mountain station. The next morning, leaving this safe base, we knew we were entering wild, hostile territory. The tourist season wouldn’t start for another two weeks, meaning huts would be closed and the number of hikers minimal. For me—perfect! Most polar expeditions by Polish and foreign travelers happen in spring-like conditions. March, April, even May are the norm. The weather is pleasant: sun, gentle wind, bearable temperatures that sometimes rise above zero during the day. But I prefer winter trekking. February is ideal—the snow surface is frozen, daytime temperatures often drop below minus 30, and the nights… it’s hard to describe what happens then with the wind and temperature.

It’s tough to march in such cold; it’s different when the temperature drops below thirty at night, and you’re already in a tent and sleeping bag. From minus twenty onward, every action demands full concentration. Your muscles behave differently, your reactions slow down, and your thoughts constantly revolve around the cold and the pain it brings. Such a journey is painful—worth remembering.

Before the tourist season opens, Kungsleden is much more pleasant to hike, though February’s weather differs greatly from March or April. You can’t rely on nature’s mercy. On March 1, when I descended to Abisko and saw crowds pouring out of buses, I was relieved that I was no longer on that most popular stretch of the trail. I decided to return to Nikkaluokta and, this time, head south rather than north, continuing along the royal path. The first forty kilometers reminded me why I prefer frost and snowstorms over dozens of people with light backpacks on skis, dragging snowmobiles with their gear behind them. Their journey would be from hut to hut, backed by large tour companies offering Arctic adventures. Perhaps I wouldn’t have minded so much if Inari didn’t love people—wanting to greet everyone, forgetting she’s tethered to a sled by a bamboo shaft, tangling her paws and nearly breaking the shaft every time, trying to turn back toward the next whistling tourist. A nightmare! Luckily, most people were heading north to Abisko, while only a few independent hikers went south.

Throughout the journey, Inari and I took our time. We pulled the sleds at our own pace, building a new kind of partnership. We spent most nights in the tent, but during critical moments—when electronics ran out of power (the solar panel couldn’t keep up due to the lack of sunny days)—we used huts. Once, we even had to evacuate to an emergency shelter because a raging blizzard would’ve destroyed the tent. The wind howled so loudly in the shelter that we didn’t sleep a wink that night.

Early on, I had a moment of deep doubt. Certain events made me question myself, my mission, and I felt I had taken on too big a challenge this time. Severely limited gear, the dog’s first expedition, daily blizzards! I wanted to turn back and stop suffering. That day I decided to stay in a hut. Technically closed before the season, but emergency spaces were available. It was just me and a German couple. Not their first time up north. They surrounded me with calm and support. Though we didn’t share a common language, the seventy-year-old man tried to motivate me, reminding me I was in the right place and should continue, to remember the joy this gives me. If not for his support, I might have quit—or continued with heavy emotions.

Many tourists, seeing my clothes and old wooden sleds with reindeer fur, mistook me for a Sámi, the Indigenous people of northern Europe. Locals, on learning what I was doing, my experience and cautious approach, patted me on the shoulder with respect and wished me well, saying I "belonged to these lands." It wasn’t the first time I’d heard such words from Sámi or others from polar regions—there’s a certain spirit of Arctic nomadism that lives in me.

Two days before the end of our journey, we came face to face with the icy grim reaper. What saved us was Inari’s alertness. I’m used to crossing frozen lakes in winter—it’s the road for people and snowmobiles. Although this lake had no marked poles to show the safe path, sled dog teams and snowmobiles passed us. Near the end, we stopped for a meal. Suddenly Inari sniffed the ice, then began snorting at it. Malamutes don’t bark—they talk and make a range of sounds. I recognized that sound! She only makes it when she senses real danger. She backed up a few steps—and then we heard a massive crack, followed by a faint movement in the ice. We looked at each other—I pointed to the right shore and shouted, “Go!” Within minutes, we were safely on solid ground.

I’m used to solo trekking—it’s my favorite. When my previous dog companion, Kadlook, passed away, I didn’t expect I’d ever form such a strong bond with another like him. I forgot that our connection was built on hundreds of nights in a tent and thousands of kilometers traveled together. After this adventure, my bond with Inari changed and deepened. Dangerous experiences shape us, and it’s the same for dogs. Life on the trail teaches intuitive communication—not just words or gestures. We both knew our roles, what was coming, the rhythm of the day. We felt each other's fatigue and supported one another.

I can proudly say I belong to the small percentage of polar explorers with such extensive and varied experience in logistically and technically difficult expeditions. I crossed nearly 4,000 meters of elevation over a relatively short distance, as the trail constantly winds through valleys and hills. I’m grateful to have covered 260 kilometers with my malamute companion along a substantial part of the Royal Trail in northern Sweden. I discovered how unconventional gear performs under harsh, prolonged conditions. I lived through an unforgettable adventure, spent a month in a place I love—though it’s a painful, absurd love. I proved to myself that the goal I’ve pursued for years is increasingly within reach. And it's worth sticking to the path—to harness our body’s capabilities, to grow, teach, and pass on that knowledge to others. Because ultimately, preparation and awareness are the most important things we take into the most difficult journeys.

Author: Krzysztof Lewicki