In Sarek you choose the place to camp yourself — there are no STF huts, there are no designated tent fields, there are no signposts. A good night begins still before dusk, when you walk calmly, look around and slowly read the terrain. A decision taken in a hurry, already in the dark, usually costs a sleepless night, a wet sleeping bag or a torn-down tent.
How I read the terrain before pitching the tent
The first rule I keep to rather firmly says: never in a small valley. In a hollow cold air and rainwater gather, and the difference in temperature between the bottom of a valley and a small plateau a few metres higher can be surprising. So I look for a gentle rise, a dry rise or a stone shelf above a stream — something that sticks out at least a little above its surroundings.
The second rule is the right distance from water. So commands the ethic of the national park and so suggests common sense. I leave the watering place to the animals, I avoid the damp that creeps up from the lake after dark, and I do not spoil the view for anyone who comes here after me.
I also look at the vegetation, because it tells about the ground more than any map. Bilberry, lichens and low heather are a sign that it is dry, hard, that you can pitch. Cottongrass with its white tufts and sedges mean a peat bog, so I go further, even if it looks friendly underfoot. Bright green moss in turn is a sponge full of water — it is enough to stand on it to find out, so better avoid it from afar.
A hand pressed to the ground does not lie either. If water comes out under the pressure — this is not a place for the night, however beautiful the landscape around may be.
The wind decides about everything
In Sarek winds from the west and the north-west dominate, but in the valleys they turn along the relief of the terrain, and it happens that they blow from a completely different direction. So before I drive in the first peg, I stand for a moment, listen and check from where the breeze is actually coming. The entrance of the tent I always turn with its back to the wind, because I do not want the first serious gust to fly straight inside together with the rain.
I look for a natural shelter: a rock wall, a larger boulder, a small fold of the terrain. A warning though — I do not camp under single trees, because that is a ready lightning rod, nor under crumbling walls from which stones fall. Shelter is not everything that fits under it.
All the guy lines I tighten right away, even if the evening is completely calm. The weather in Sarek changes fast, and an untightened tent is a tent that turns into a kite at night. In moss and scree the pegs do not hold, so I weight them with stones — and I treat this as a standard, not as an emergency solution at the last minute.
Dry means safe
Damp is the greatest enemy of a camp in Arctic terrain. It presses in from below, condenses from above, sneaks through the fabric and can turn a warm sleeping bag into a wet rag in one night. A ground sheet under the tent, this whole footprint, is not a luxury, but a protection of the floor against stones and ground water.
I leave the ventilation open even in the rain. A closed tent produces quite a lot of water vapour through the night — in the morning you will find it condensed on the walls and on the sleeping bag. Better a gentle draught than a wet down bag on which you have to sleep another night.
Wet things stay in the vestibule, never in the sleeping compartment. Boots I put with the soles up, so that they do not pick up dew. The backpack I cover with a rain cover even when the sky is clear — in Sarek it will not stay clear for long anyway.
Leave no trace — the ethics of camping in Sarek
Sarek is a national park where the no-trace principle applies: after your night there should be no sign that anyone slept here. This is not a philosophy, just very concrete behaviours, which after some time become a habit.
I do not dig drainage ditches around the tent — that is the old school, which destroys the turf for long years. I do not use stones from Sami cairns or from existing piles, because that is their place, not mine. The toilet I do far from water, far from paths, the paper I carry out in a sealed bag, and lately I use a travel bidet. Food and toothpaste sleep in a sack moved away from the tent — brown bears in Sarek do exist, although they rarely come close, and it is really not worth tempting them just to find out whether they will come. Reindeer I bypass with a wide arc; their trampled tracks in the moss you will recognise by straight, parallel corridors, and it is better not to camp on them.
In the morning, before leaving, I take three steps back and look at the place of the night. If it can be seen that someone slept here, I stay a moment longer and fix what I can.
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