The lake of Särna in a late February evening; the town remains discreetly sheltered along the opposite shore, already wrapped in the shadows. It’s been a warm February, the warmest in the five years of our life here: a worthy conclusion of a temperate winter following a very mild autumn.
The beginning of March is the entrance into Gidádálvve (springwinter), one of the eight seasons of Sami people: daylight has increased almost by magic, both in duration and intensity; the sun shines high and the temperature range between day and night is important. To the point that solar energy succeeds in raising a thick evening fog on a lake still solidly frozen, which will remain so until the end of April.
That very energy has fueled for hours that thermal on the hill over there, and it still has the strength to climb on its vertical, condensing into an atmosphere colder and colder as the sun goes down.
The little cloud suddenly appears, catching fire with the last light. Few minutes, just enough to take a picture and contemplate the scene, before the shape of the mount Fulufjället to the west makes both dissolving in the twilight to come.

Trollsjön is a small lake not far from Särna; its name means "Magic Lake", and I don't know the origin. Maybe some local legend, some encounter with animals in a distant past which has been confused with a display of arcane powers, or who knows what else (well, now I'm curious: I'll ask in the village). Actually, there is nothing different from the average of the Swedish forest lakes: surrounded by the saw-toothed silhouette of the taiga which reflects in it, patiently passes its six months of frost (like all of us, however), to offer itself as a cradle of life for birds and insects which thrive in its waters during the short summer .
I get there by chance, a few nights ago, while a cloudy day is leaving room for a few minutes to the low sun, just when I arrive; the perfect mirror surface is swept by a sudden bright light, despite the late hour. While I am taking pictures, immersed in a total silence, the piercing whine of a Black-throated Diver explodes from the center of the lake, leaving an echo pushing toward the walls of trees as ripples of a stone thrown into water, and then vanish. A magical moment: the lake kept the promise hidden in its name.

Roe deer is widespread in the forest areas; the graceful animals come to the villages at night, especially in winter, and therefore they are a quite familiar presence. Nevertheless, it is not common to spot them: in general you must be pleased to find their footprints left in the snowy gardens. People here make hay and specific feed (sold in the town) available to help them overcoming the coldest times, but I'm beginning to think that it doesn't only depend on the generosity and love for animals typical of Swedes, but also on the attempt to protect those who, in a few months, will become desired game animals. As much as it may seem strange, especially to a vegetarian like me, here the two things go hand in hand.