Cold Play

A quiet winter night somewhere in Telemark — just me, a glowing tent, and the river breathing beside me while the forest held its silence. The cold was sharp, the world was still, and everything felt beautifully untouched.

I seek the presence of nature whenever my life needs recalibrating, because the outdoors has a way of silencing the noise inside me in a way nothing else can.

Whether it’s a snowy forest, a frozen river, or some quiet corner of the wilderness, being outside resets my nervous system—clarity returns, calmness settles, and peace becomes something I can actually feel in my body.

But there’s also a thrill to it, an excitement that comes from the unpredictability of weather, terrain, and wild landscapes that never behave the same way twice.

Immersing myself in something this powerful demands alertness and humility, and living in that heightened state gives me a dopamine rush no screen could ever compete with. And yes, I’m guilty of scrolling socials now and then, but nothing rewires my mind as completely as cold air, solitude, firelight, and the raw honesty of being alone outdoors.

Somewhere in Telemark — A Winter Night That Woke Me Up Again

Early on Thursday morning — and I’m not talking about 9:00 a.m. — I mean 3:00 a.m.
I couldn’t sleep.
Hormones?
Last night’s caffeine?
Or my father’s sarcastic wisdom echoing in my head:
“Troubled souls have a hard time falling asleep!”

Busted or innocent? Hard to say.

But my mind was moving fast — fast enough that staying in bed felt pointless.
And honestly? If my thoughts had been any slower, I wouldn’t have ended up inhaling cold air inside a tent in Vinje, watching my coffee lose heat by the second.

April Alfarnes walking deeper into Telemark’s snowy forest, carrying everything she needs on her back. A quiet trail, a cold morning, and that familiar winter stillness that feels like therapy.

At 4:00 a.m., I finally surrendered:
I packed my gear.

Not elegantly.
Not strategically.
Just impulsively — the way my best adventures usually start.

I wanted snow.
Forest.
A frozen world.
Something that could match the speed of my thoughts.

I debated between skiing or camping.
To avoid wasting time, I packed for both.

My first plan was aiming toward Gaustabanen — maybe ski Gaustatoppen if the weather was friendly.

But the sky looked like a washed-out watercolor: cloudy, snowing lightly, no contrast.
I’m terrible at skiing in flat light where the ground vanishes into one endless sheet of white.

So I dropped altitude and followed instinct instead of a plan.

Somewhere in Telemark — I told myself — nature will decide for me.

April Alfarnes warming up a Telemark morning the classic way — wrapped in a sleeping bag beside a frozen river, waiting for the stove to bring heat back into her hands. Winter camping at its purest.

Why Beauty Is the Bruise I Choose

A quiet winter moment in Telemark, as April Alfarnes enjoys a mug of hot chocolate topped with whipped cream while looking out over a frozen river framed by heavy icicles. The cold air, the pale sunrise, and the stillness of the landscape turn this small sip into a warm ritual — a reminder of why winter adventures feel both intimate and profoundly alive.

A few years ago, I obsessed over National Geographic landscapes.
Not the touristy ones.
The ones that looked earned — where you could feel the hardship behind the frame.

I didn’t want to just admire that world.
I wanted to experience it:
the discomfort, the grit, the risk, the reward.

Because as I’ve written before:

Beauty is my vulnerability, my soft bruise, my reason for living.

To witness beauty, to create it, to merge with it — that’s my oxygen.

Hunting for the Perfect Campsite

April Alfarnes celebrates a bright winter morning at her riverside campsite in Telemark, standing beside her tent with the fresh snow and quiet forest behind her.

I parked not far from a trailhead in Vinje.
The pine forest looked heavy — thick branches weighed down by fresh snowfall.

Wind was low.
Temperature around –7°C to –10°C.
Comfortable cold — especially when you’re wrapped in down from head to toe.
My feet were warm inside wool socks and layered soles.
My body felt toasty.
My mind felt alive.

I walked only a few hundred meters — no hero backpacking today (my back still acts like a diva).
But enough to find what I wanted:

A riverbank.
An opening.
A dramatic frame for my photos.
Close enough to the forest in case the wind decided to act up.

As I walked, I could already picture the shots —
the angles, the light, the props.
My inner child was jumping.

April Alfarnes set up her winter campsite on a quiet riverbank in Telemark, surrounded by untouched snow and a calm, glass-clear stream.

I pitched my tent while there was still daylight.
And yes, I over-secured it like a paranoid engineer:
eight one-foot metallic snow pegs buried deep, topped with rocks and more snow.

“If Samaya advertises this tent for Himalayan expeditions, Telemark should be kindergarten.”
I pep-talked myself, and my nervous system believed it.

Nature always calms me.
Solitude makes sense here — in the bosom of mountains, rivers, and silence.
In the city, solitude feels like performing.
Pretending.
Surviving.
Adapting.

But out here?

Solitude feels like wealth.

A rich life with no audience.

April Alfarnes created a warm glow around her tent in Telemark, using candlelight to soften the deep winter darkness of the forest at night.

The First Night — Firelight and Quiet Thoughts

April Alfarnes warmed herself by a bonfire in Telemark, watching the flames throw gold against the blue winter night while the river moved quietly beside her.

Night came fast.
Cold forced me to move, so I made a fire — hello, natural heater and free lighting for photography.

No cooking that night.
I had a matpakke: focaccia sandwich, full-fat dressing, and warm water.
A survival queen.

Inside my tent in Telemark — a small warm universe lit by a lantern, my Mammut winter sleeping bag, and the simple joy of food after hours in the snow. This is the part of camping people forget to romanticize: comfort earned the hard way, when a focaccia sandwich feels like a Michelin meal and solitude tastes like peace.

I remembered winter camping at –25°C last year without enough food —
never again.
Calories are king.

I read a bit, checked my phone (yes, I only camp where there’s signal — I’m adventurous, not stupid), turned on soft music…

And eventually, despite the excitement,
my breathing slowed
and sleep took me.

Morning — A Diorama Made of Ice

The next morning felt unreal.

No wind.
No sound.
Everything frozen in perfect stillness, like the world paused overnight.

It was just me and the river having a conversation — and honestly, I think it understood me better than most humans do.

Coffee came first.
Then exploring.

I ate light — no alcohol, no junk — staying alert because I was alone and no one was watching my back.

But now…
the juicy part.

The Steak Scene — Every Camper’s Secret Fantasy

A ribeye searing in butter, garlic, and rosemary over an open fire in Telemark — my personal definition of wilderness luxury. There’s something primal and grounding about cooking real food outdoors, especially when the world around you is frozen and silent. This was my reward meal, my dopamine hit, my “yes, this is why I come out here” moment.

For years I’ve seen outdoor adventurers cook proper food on real fire: steaks, eggs, sizzling pans.
It looked like paradise.

So today was my turn.

I threw a marinated ribeye onto a buttered pan, and it sang.
The sizzle, the smell —
my stomach responded like it was watching a forbidden film.

Full food porn.
Climax guaranteed.

The Slow Rhythm of Wilderness

Camping slows everything down:

Pitching the tent
Collecting wood
Boiling water
Cooking
Cleaning
Packing

Or maybe I’m the one moving slow because I like it.

After brunch, I took a second coffee and explored the nearby hills — letting the warmth of movement melt my meal.

Packing, however, is the worst part:
cold gear, wet utensils, frozen fingers.

I didn’t wash anything in the river — I’m not sacrificing my warm gloves for that.

My trick?
Music.
Music makes the irritation disappear.

Usually, I like to associate winter camping with a winter bath — a dramatic little ritual of stripping naked and plunging into icy water, especially when my tent is technically pitched on the riverbank. But this time? My bravery stayed at home.

The logistics alone were discouraging: everything would get wet, everything would get colder, and the idea of hiking around afterward with numb feet felt more irritating than spiritual. So I skipped the baptism-by-ice and simply accepted the fate of feeling “unwashed.”

Adaptability, after all, is one of my superpowers — I can go from fully sanitized and shampooed to “no bathing for days” without complaint. High heels and silk skirts, down pants and muddy boots… I’ve done all the seasons of womanhood.

April Alfarnes standing above a frozen river valley in Telemark, catching the sunrise as she snaps a playful winter selfie. The goggles, the frost, the altitude — all part of her way of meeting the world head-on. This is the energy I chase in winter: clarity, grit, and the kind of landscape that reminds you you’re alive.

Eventually everything was packed back into my bag, and I sat down for one last inhale of this quiet world.

One long, full, grateful breath.

Am I the only one who feels so deeply moved by this?
I hope not.

But if you don’t know this feeling…
maybe ignorance really is bliss.

Still — I wouldn’t trade this ache for anything.